Best Kept Secret

16





‘CAN YOU SET the whole thing up?’ asked Giles.

‘Yes, sir, just leave it to me.’

‘I’d like to get it over with as quickly as possible.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Such a sordid business. I only wish there was a more civilized way of doing these things.’

‘It’s the law that needs changing, Sir Giles, and frankly that’s more your department than mine.’

Giles knew the man was right, and undoubtedly the law would change in time, but Virginia had made it clear she couldn’t wait. After months of not making any contact with him, she’d rung him out of the blue to tell him why she wanted a divorce. She didn’t need to spell out what was expected of him.

‘Thank you, Bunny, I knew you could be relied on,’ she’d said before putting the phone down.

‘When will I hear from you?’ Giles asked.

‘By the end of the week,’ the man replied, before downing his half pint. He rose, gave a slight bow and limped away.



Giles was wearing a large red carnation in his buttonhole so she couldn’t miss him. He glanced at every female under the age of thirty who walked in his direction. None of them even gave him a glance, until a prim young woman came to a halt by his side.

‘Mr Brown?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Giles replied.

‘My name is Miss Holt. I’m from the agency.’

Without another word, she linked her arm in his and led him along the platform like a guide dog until they reached a first-class carriage. Once they had taken their seats opposite each other, Giles wasn’t altogether sure what he was meant to do next. As it was a Friday evening, every other seat was taken long before the train pulled out of the station. Miss Holt didn’t say a word on the entire journey.

When the train pulled into Brighton, she was among the first to get off. Giles handed two tickets to the collector at the barrier and followed her towards the taxi rank. It was clear to Giles that Miss Holt had done this several times before. It was only when they were seated in the back of the taxi that she spoke again, and not to him.

‘Grand Hotel.’

On their arrival at the hotel, Giles checked in, registering as Mr and Mrs Brown.

‘Room thirty-one, sir,’ said the receptionist. He looked as if he was about to wink, but only smiled and said, ‘Have a good night, sir.’

A porter carried their cases up to the third floor. It wasn’t until after he’d collected his tip and left that she spoke again.

‘My name is Angela Holt,’ she said, sitting upright on the end of the bed.

Giles remained standing, and looked at a woman he couldn’t have been less likely to spend a dirty weekend in Brighton with. ‘Can you guide me through the procedure?’ he asked.

‘Certainly, Sir Giles,’ said Miss Holt, as if he’d asked her to take dictation. ‘At eight o’clock, we’ll go downstairs and have dinner. I’ve booked a table in the centre of the room, in the hope that someone might recognize you. After dinner, we’ll return to the bedroom. I will remain fully dressed at all times, but you can get undressed in the bathroom, where you will put on your pyjamas and dressing gown. At ten o’clock, I will go and sleep on the bed and you will sleep on the couch. At two a.m., you will phone down to the front desk and order a bottle of vintage champagne, half a pint of Guinness and a round of ham sandwiches. When the night porter delivers your order, you will say that you asked for Marmite and tomato sandwiches, and tell him to bring the correct order immediately. When he returns, you will thank him and give him a five-pound note.’

‘Why such a large tip?’ asked Giles.

‘Because if this should come to court, the night porter will undoubtedly be called to give evidence, and we need to be sure he won’t have forgotten you.’

‘I understand.’

‘In the morning, we will have breakfast together, and when you check out you must pay the bill by cheque, so it can be easily traced. As we leave the hotel, you will embrace me and kiss me several times. You will then get into a taxi and wave goodbye.’

‘Why several times?’

‘Because we need to be sure that your wife’s private detective gets an easily identifiable photograph of us together. Do you have any further questions, Sir Giles, before we go down to dinner?’

‘Yes, Miss Holt. May I ask how often you do this?’

‘You are my third gentleman this week, and the agency has already booked me for a couple of jobs for next week.’

‘This is madness. Our divorce laws are frankly barbaric. The government ought to draft new legislation as soon as possible.’

‘I hope not,’ said Miss Holt, ‘because if you were to do that, Sir Giles, I’d be out of a job.’





ALEX FISHER





1954–1955