Free The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets by Sophie Hannah Page A

reason he had always taken pains to ensure that he never became the boss of anybody, never put himself in a position where he had a team of staff to manage. Nora was evidently deluded about her own capabilities. Forher to have applied for the job of division manager was as absurd as if Miffy Bunny were to make a bid to replace Orla Guerin as the BBC’s Middle East correspondent.
    Don’t worry about having sent Nathan to my office,
    Tom typed.
    He obviously interpreted, with relative ease, the big sign I’d cellotaped to my door, explaining that I’d be working from home all day and giving several phone numbers where I could be reached. He contacted me immediately and easily, so there was no problem there. Could I just take this opportunity to clarify something? I am unsure of your policy with regard to working from home. Would you a) prefer me not to work from home, but always to work in the office, b) prefer me to ask your permission in the event of my wishing to work from home, or c) simply like me to inform you of the days on which I’ll be working at home? No doubt I’ve mislaid the communication you sent to all staff in which the guidelines were clearly laid out – I’m so sorry for this uncharacteristic carelessness on my part. And, sorry also to create extra work, but could you possibly send it again? I hope I don’t sound too pedantic wittering on about efficient dissemination of information. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found it’s all too easy to slip up when you’re hazy about what is expected of you. Hope you’re making the most of this lovely weather we’re having!
    All the best, Tom
    (cc: Gillian Bate, Imrana Kabir, Johnny Eyebrows)
    Tom chuckled. Johnny was a drug dealer who hung around the precinct centre in town. Tom bought a bag of grass from him every now and again. He re-read what he’d written and frowned. Nora would, of course, know that he was taking the piss, but would she do anything about it? Would Gillian, or Imrana, have the guts to demand to know who Johnny Eyebrows was?
    Tom decided that one of the three women was bound to, though he wasn’t sure which. But questions would be asked, once it was noted that there was no Phelps Corcoran Cummings employee by the name of John Eyebrows. Tom fantasised about how he might reply. ‘Oh, yes, didn’t I mention it? Johnny’s a friend of mine, an artist. He’s doing a big installation at the moment on the theme of the language of business, and he’s asked me to get him copies of some non-confidential correspondence…’ Tom’s blood fizzed with glee. He could do it; he could pull it off. All he had to do was say it solemnly, and nobody would be able to prove that his intentions were mocking, anarchic and disrespectful. The worst they could do was ask him, crossly, not to pass on any more Phelps Corcoran Cummings memos to Johnny. In which case he could offer the honest mistake line of defence and promise never to do it again.
    Tom sent the letter to Nora, Gillian and Imrana. He did not bother to print out a copy for Johnny Eyebrows, for he was as certain as he could be that Johnny would not appreciate the brilliance of the whole scheme. It didn’t matter; Tom appreciated it enough for both of them. His whole body pinged with adrenaline. He spent most of the day humming while he worked and, at five thirty, found that he was less keen than usual to leave the building. The offices of Phelps Corcoran Cummings were no longer merely the site of his suffering; they were the glistening white arena in which he showed a few people a thing or two, people who might say, ‘I never thought that mousy Tom Foyers had it in him.’
    There was another reason why he wasn’t keen to leave work, a reason unconnected to his job. At seven o’clock he was due to drink wine and eat cheese with three strangers who had, on the telephone yesterday and this