The Terrible Privacy of Maxwell Sim by Jonathan Coe
‘You never know,’ said Lindsay, ‘something might fall into your lap.’
‘I don’t believe in miracles.’
‘Neither do I. But people get lucky breaks sometimes.’ She bit off the flesh from the other half of her lemon slice, and put the rind back in her glass. ‘Did Trevor not tell you I was coming along tonight?’
‘No. I suppose I should have guessed something was up when he said we were meeting here. Normally we go to the pub.’
I was glad that we hadn’t gone to the pub, I must say. This place was much nicer. We were in the lounge bar of the Park Inn Hotel, where the seats were soft and deep, the décor was calming, there were no crowds, and smooth, jazzy music oozed out of the speaker system at a volume almost outside the range of human hearing. It was characterless and impersonal here, but in a good way, if you see what I mean.
‘What makes you think that something’s up?’ said Lindsay.
‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong,’ I said, ‘but I just get the feeling that all this is leading up to something, and I don’t quite know what.’
‘What it’s leading to,’ said Lindsay, leaning forward slightly, and lowering her voice to a near-whisper, ‘is almost certainly up to you.’
Her gaze met mine for a brief, charged moment. I was still trying to think of a suitable reply when her mobile rang. She glanced at the screen.
‘My husband,’ she said. ‘Excuse me for a minute, will you?’
She stood up to take the call and wandered over to the other side of the room. I heard her say, ‘Hello, honey, how’s tricks?’, and then Trevor came over with the drinks.
‘One pint of Carlsberg for your good self,’ he said. ‘They serve it good and cold here, I must say. Cheers.’ We both took long draughts, and then he asked me about my Australian trip, and we talked about that for a while. ‘It’s done you good, I reckon,’ Trevor told me. ‘You’re looking much better than I thought you would.’
I was grateful to him for saying this, but before I’d had the chance to thank him he had changed the subject.
‘What do you think of Lindsay, then?’ he asked.
‘She seems very nice.’
‘She’s more than that. She’s fantastic. The best in the business.’
I nodded, but after a moment or two felt compelled to ask: ‘The best what in the business, exactly?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? Lindsay’s our PR Officer. She reports to me, as Head of Marketing and Strategy, and runs all our campaigns. And her latest –’ Trevor actually put down his glass of lager now, and looked to the left and right, as if there might be industrial spies from a rival company seated at the adjacent tables ‘– her latest is an absolute beauty. A copper-bottomed, one hundred per cent corker. It’s going to send us … up there.’ He raised his hand towards the ceiling, apparently meaning to signify an ascent into the stratosphere.
‘Sorry about that, chaps,’ Lindsay now said, returning to our table. ‘Spot of bother with the other half. Pissed off that I’m not there to cook his dinner for him, even though I already told him I was coming here tonight. Haven’t managed to drag him beyond the caveman stage yet, unfortunately.’
‘I was just telling Max,’ Trevor said, ‘that you have come up with an absolute peach of a campaign for the IP 009.’
‘The IP 009?’ I queried.
Trevor picked up the toothbrush from the table. ‘This gorgeous specimen here,’ he cooed, regarding it lovingly. ‘Number nine in our Interproximal range, and the undisputed jewel in the crown of the Guest catalogue.’
The design of the handle and the texture of the wood reminded me of the first brush Trevor had shown me, although this was clearly a superior version. ‘Is it made by the same people?’ I asked.
‘Actually, no,’ he said. ‘This is an import from Switzerland. Unfortunately this is beyond the range of any British manufacturer at the moment. They could probably manage the handle, but this –’ he indicated the detachable head ‘– is where the real genius lies. You can put on three different brushes: one for ordinary cleaning, one for routine interdental work, and this one, which we are claiming is the longest and most far-reaching interproximal brush currently available in the UK. Fifteen millimetres of flexible but hard-wearing nylon-polyester blend, engineered by Swiss craftsmen with incredible skill so that it can rotate on three different fulcrums to any angle you care to mention. This brush will reach anywhere in your mouth – absolutely anywhere – without you having to contort and gurn in front of the mirror. It will even get plaque out from the gingival crevice between the second and third upper molars, which as anyone involved in dentistry will tell you is the Holy Grail of oral hygiene. We are hugely proud of this product, and this is why we’re going to launch it next month, with a massive fanfare, at the British Dental Trade Association Showcase at the NEC. For which purpose, Lindsay here has come up with a wonderful new slogan, which sums up not only this product, but the whole ethos of Guest Toothbrushes, in a phrase which is simple, elegant and to the point. Lindsay?’ He glanced across at her expectantly, and jerked his head. ‘Go on. Tell him.’
Lindsay smiled modestly. ‘It’s nothing special, really. Only Trevor seems to be quite taken with it. OK, here goes.’ She closed her eyes, and took a breath. ‘WE REACH FURTHEST.’
There was a short silence, while this phrase was allowed to hang in the air. We all sat there for a while, savouring it, as if it were a fine wine which released its secrets on to our palettes only gradually.
‘That’s … good,’ I said at last. ‘I like that. That has a certain … Well, I don’t quite know what.’
‘Je ne sais quoi?’ suggested Trevor.
‘Yes – that’s it.’
‘There’s more,’ Trevor said. ‘You don’t know the half of it yet. Lindsay’s playing her cards far too close to her chest. Come on, Lindsay, tell him about the campaign. Tell him about your masterstroke.’
‘OK.’
Lindsay reached into her handbag and took out an impossibly compact and glossy white notebook computer. Within seconds of her touching the spacebar it had shimmered into life, and she was on the first page of a PowerPoint presentation. The illustration appeared to show a map of the British Isles.
‘Now the thing is, Max, we already have a great product here, and we already have a powerful slogan. In a slightly more relaxed economic environment, that would usually be enough. But the way things are at the moment, we have to try a little bit harder. That’s my job, essentially: that’s what a PR person does. You’ve got to get hold of the package, which could be as dull as an old tin box, and you’ve got to dress it up, make it a bit Christmassy, so that it appears attractive.’
‘Find a gimmick, you mean.’
‘Well …’ Lindsay looked doubtful. ‘I don’t really care for that word.’
‘Me neither,’ said Trevor.
‘What I was looking for,’ said Lindsay, ‘was a way of taking that phrase – “We Reach Furthest” – and getting even more mileage out of it. Pushing it as far as it would go. Let’s face it, oral hygiene is a hard sell. What we have here is an amazing toothbrush – a revolutionary toothbrush – but it’s not easy to get people to see it that way. For most people, a toothbrush is a toothbrush is a toothbrush. It’s an object. A useful object, definitely. But still – people aren’t interested in objects. If you want to sell something, you have to dramatize it. You have to turn it into a story. What’s more, if what you’re trying to sell is the best of its kind, you have to give it the best kind of story. You have to do it justice. Now, what do you think is the best kind of story, Max?’
I wasn’t expecting this. ‘Boy meets girl?’ I said, hopefully.
‘Not bad. That’s certainly one of the best. But try to think of something a bit more archetypal than that. Think of the Odyssey. Think of King Arthur and the Holy Grail. Think of Lord of the Rings.’
Now I was stuck. I hadn’t read the Odyssey or Lord of the Rings, and King Arthur and the Holy Grail made me think
‘The quest,’ Lindsay said at last, when it became clear that I didn’t know the answer. ‘The journey. The voyage of discovery.’ She pointed at the screen of her laptop, indicating, in turn, four red crosses that had been marked at various points on the edges of her map. ‘Do you know what these are, Max? These are the four extreme inhabited points of the United Kingdom. The settlements that are further north, south, east and west than any others. Here we are – look! Unst, in the Shetland Islands, to the north of Scotland. St Agnes, one of the Scilly Isles, off the coast of Cornwall. Manger Beg, in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. And Lowestoft, at the very eastern tip of Suffolk in England. We’ve done our research and we’ve established that none of our rivals, none of the big corporations, have managed to get a foothold in those places. Some of them, yes – but not all four. But supposing we did? Supposing we were able to claim, at next month’s showcase, that we were the only company whose products were on sale in each of those locations? Do you know what that would give us the right to say?’
Trevor and Lindsay both looked at me, leaning forward in their chairs, breathless with anticipation. I glanced from one to the other. Simultaneously, their mouths started to form the first word, the beginning of the slogan they were willing me to pronounce. It looked like a ‘w’ sound.
‘“W … W … We … ?”’ I began, interrogatively, and when they both responded with an eager nod, my confidence mounted and I was able to complete the phrase: ‘“We reach furthest!”’
Trevor sat back and spread his hands, with the proudest of smiles beaming from his fleshy, good-natured face. ‘Simple, isn’t it? Simple, but beautiful. The IP 009 reaches furthest, and the company itself reaches furthest. Product and distributor working together in perfect synergy.’
He began to tell me more about the campaign that they had in mind. A team of four salesmen would set off in their cars, at noon on the same Monday morning, from the company’s office in Reading. They would each take with them a box full of samples, and a digital video camera, so that they could keep video diaries of their journeys. They would set off in four different directions, each heading for one of the extreme points of the United Kingdom. There would be a prize for the first salesman to arrive back at the office after reaching his destination (although this was really a foregone conclusion, since Lowestoft was so much closer than the others) but essentially they would be encouraged to take as long as they wanted, within reason. The company had allowed for five nights’ hotel expenses, and the real object was to make the video diaries as interesting as possible: when the sales team returned, their footage would be cut together in time for the Dental Trade Association fair and made into a twenty-minute film to be looped continuously on a video monitor at the Guest Toothbrushes stand.
‘Sounds fantastic,’ I agreed.
‘It will be,’ said Trevor. ‘It’s going to blow people away. Can you imagine the impact of that film? A radical breakthrough in toothbrush design, coupled with breathtaking shots of the British countryside at its wildest and most remote. I’m creaming my trousers just thinking about it. The only thing is … We still have one problem. We’re a man short.’
He looked at me, and at last the penny started to drop.
‘Guest Toothbrushes,’ Lindsay explained, ‘is a small organization. That’s Alan’s vision, and that’s how he wants to keep it. There are just ten of us, and there’s only one man on the sales team.’
‘David Webster’s his name,’ said Trevor. ‘Excellent guy. First rate rep. He’s going to do the Northern Ireland leg for us.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Well, a couple of us are going to muck in. I’ll be going down to the Scillies, and our accounts honcho will be heading off to Lowestoft for a couple of days. But as far as Shetland is concerned, we need to buy someone in for the week. Someone with sales experience, obviously, and someone who isn’t working at the moment. Which is why, Maxwell, my old chum –’ (He laid a friendly hand on my knee) ‘– my thoughts turned immediately to you.’
I looked from Trevor to Lindsay, and back again to Trevor. His eyes were eager and appealing, like a spaniel puppy begging to be taken for a walk. Lindsay’s eyes, cobalt blue, were trained on me more steadily; behind their unmoving lucidity I felt I could detect something else, something keener and more urgent; a real hunger – a desperate hunger, it seemed – for my agreement and cooperation. I could not unravel the complex of motives behind this gaze, but still, there was something fearsomely compelling about it.
‘I don’t have a very reliable car,’ I said.
Trevor laughed. A relaxed laugh, as if relieved that this was the only obstacle. ‘We’re hiring four cars, especially for the occasion. Four identical black Toyota Priuses. Have you ever driven one?’
I shook my head.
‘Beautiful cars, Max. Beautiful. A pleasure to drive.’
‘The Toyota Prius,’ Lindsay added, more earnestly, ‘sits perfectly with the ethos we’re trying to promote at Guest. It’s a hybrid vehicle, which means that it runs on a combination of unleaded petrol and electric power, and the two power sources are permanently kept in the most efficient relationship by an onboard computer. It’s sleek, modern and radically innovative. And fantastic for the environment, of course.’
‘Just like our toothbrushes,’ said Trevor. ‘In fact you could say that the Prius is almost a sort of … toothbrush on wheels. Don’t you think, Lindsay?’
Lindsay thought about this. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘No, you’re right. Scrub that idea.’ He laid his hand on my knee again. ‘So, Max, what do you think?’
‘I don’t know, Trev … It’s been so long since I went on the road. When were you thinking of?’
‘We kick off a week on Monday. And we’ll pay you a flat fee of 1K, which when you look at it pro rata is pretty bloody generous. You’re not working at the shop these days, are you?’
‘I haven’t been in for a few months, no.’
‘Well then! What’s to stop you?’
What, indeed, was to stop me? I told Trevor and Lindsay that I would sleep on it, but really there was no need to sleep on it. In any case, I hadn’t got over the jet lag yet, and I wasn’t sleeping much at night anyway. That night I lay awake and I thought about Poppy, and the fact that I would be seeing her again in a couple of days’ time, but I also found myself thinking about Lindsay Ashworth’s pale blue eyes and slender arms, and then I started thinking about random things like her description of the Toyota Prius as sleek, modern and radically innovative, and I wondered why that phrase seemed curiously familiar. I didn’t think too much about the proposal itself, though, because I had already made up my mind. The next morning I called Trevor from Starbucks on my mobile, and told him that I was in. The delight and relief in his voice were a pleasure to hear. And even I couldn’t suppress a little shiver of excitement at the thought that, two weeks from now, I would be on a ferry to the Shetland Isles.
10
Friday began on a note of high spirits and rare optimism. It ended in bitter disappointment.
I had arranged to meet the Occupational Health Officer at 10.30. I took the train from Watford Junction at 8.19 and arrived at London Euston seven minutes late, at 8.49. I took this train because Trevor was coming into central London today as well, and had suggested meeting for breakfast.
We met at a branch of Caffè Nero on Wigmore Street. I had a breakfast panini filled with eggs, bacon and mushroom. When I asked for this panini, the guy behind the counter, who was Italian, told me that ‘panini’ was a plural word and if I was only going to ask for one, I should ask for a ‘panino’. He seemed very insistent about this but I thought there was something slightly disturbed about him so I took no notice.
While we were eating our paninis, Trevor told me something interesting, which had a direct bearing on my meeting with the Occupational Health Officer.
There was something I should know, he said, about the cu
Everything was just getting better and better.
I mulled over this news as I walked the few hundred yards towards the department store which had, until six months ago, been my regular place of work. The sun had finally put in an appearance and today it didn’t seem too fanciful to hope that spring might be around the corner. I could feel a new lightness in my step, which I did not associate with this part of the world at all. Not that I particularly minded seeing the Occupational Health Officer, a pleasant, mild-mannered lady who never treated me with anything other than sympathy and kindness. We’d had three meetings before this, the first one being some time in mid-August last year. A few weeks before that, Caroline had left home, taking Lucy with her. It had been coming for a long time, I suppose, but still – the shock of it, the awful knowledge that my worst fear – the one thing I’d been dreading most in all the world – had actually come to pass … Well, it flattened me completely, before very long. I struggled on for a week or two and then, one morning, I woke up and thought about getting out of bed and going into work and my body literally refused to move. It was that same feeling I described to you before: like that horror film I’d seen when I was a child, with the man trapped in a room and the ceiling bearing down on him relentlessly. I spent the whole of that day in bed, not getting out till about seven in the evening if I remember rightly, when I was desperate to have something to eat and relieve myself. And then I stayed home for most of that week, mainly in bed, sometimes slumped in front of the TV, and not dragging myself into work until Friday afternoon, when my supervisor called me into her office and asked what was going on and sent me straight down to see Helen, the Occupational Health Officer, for the first time. Not long after that I was seeing my GP and by the early autumn I was on all sorts of pills but none of it did anything to help. I couldn’t see the point any more, couldn’t see any way forward. Of course it was the departure of Caroline and Lucy that had triggered it but soon it had reached the stage where everything depressed me. Absolutely everything. The world seemed to be on the point of economic collapse and the newspapers were full of apocalyptic headlines saying that the banks were about to crumble, we would all lose our money and it would be the end of Western civilization as we knew it. I had no idea whether this was true or not, or what I should do about it. Like everybody else I knew, I had a big mortgage, massive credit card debts and no savings. Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? Nobody seemed able to tell me. So I just stared all day at the TV news, not understanding any of it except for the prevailing mood of anxiety and despair which everyone seemed to be trying to put across, and gradually fell prey to a sort of unfocused panic which fitted in all too easily with my general inertia. The prospect of returning to work receded further and further into the distance. Helen, the Occupational Health Officer, referred me to a psychiatrist, who interviewed me for a couple of hours and then came up with his diagnosis: I was depressed. I thanked him for his opinion, he sent his bill in to the department store, and I went back home. Weeks passed, and then months. I didn’t start to come out of it until I checked my emails one day and saw that there was one from Expedia, reminding me that my trip to Sydney was only a few weeks away. I hadn’t even known that I was supposed to be going to Sydney. As I said, Caroline had booked the trip for me just before leaving. In my current state I must say that the prospect of flying to Australia held precious little appeal; but Helen was convinced that it would do me good, and encouraged me to go through with it. So I flew to Sydney and saw my father, and everything else you know. Or at least, everything that I’ve chosen to tell you.