On Monday, as another week of unemployment loomed and my funds continued to drain away, I went along to the local library, intending to skim through newspapers for any kind of job that might be worth pursuing. But as often happens, my attention got diverted and I found myself looking instead through a stack of recently returned fiction. I make a habit of peering inside the front cover of each book to see how often it's been taken out. Frequent borrowings usually mean a good read.
I'd just put one book back and was reaching for another when it was snatched away by a gloved hand. I looked up and saw a white-haired gentleman with a walking stick who bore the distinguished air of a retired army officer.
"My dear, I do apologise," he began graciously.
"It's all right," I smiled, "I'm only browsing. Actually I came in to look for a job, but then I got side-tracked."
"Ah! Would that be a librarian's job, or are you here purely for information?"
"Anything," I said. "Things are getting desperate. I've a heavy mortgage to keep up and I have to feed myself. It's several weeks since I got paid."
He laughed. "My dear girl! My bread hasn't been properly buttered since August of last year, but there's always a demand for volunteer work. One needs a warm, caring nature, of course - and I must say you look the friendly type, unlike those obnoxious youngsters who seem to find the elderly offensive and even go so far as to attack us in the belief we're no longer entitled to human rights. So many young people these days spare little thought for those of us at the far end of life - yet they'll surely find themselves there one day. It is quite sobering to wake up one morning and realise you've become eligible for the attentions of Age Concern."
"People often say you're as young as you feel," I remarked in a glib attempt to lighten his gloom.
"Until all of a sudden you're OLD as you feel! I've nothing against these Darby and Joan Clubs, but not all of us care to be surrounded by fellow geriatrics indulging in mindless sing-alongs. Personally I much prefer the company of smart, intelligent young ladies such as yourself. No offence intended, but I don't see any wedding ring."
I shook my head. "Independent and pig-headed, that's me."
"Nevertheless you are getting something out of life, I hope? That's most important, you know - the fulfilment of our individual needs."
Bells rang! Staring closely into his eyes I saw a familiar glint.
"Fancy another night on my settee?" I asked in a crisp whisper.
For a brief instant he looked mildly concerned. Then he laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and told me I was a consistently high-scorer.
"Really? And what particular test did I pass this time?"
"Several. You opened up friendly conversation with a total stranger."
I said I thought he had started it, but he disagreed.
"I merely voiced a formal apology, my dear, very distant and proper. I have it here on tape," he added, tapping his coat pocket. "No, it was you who undertook the social ice-breaking."
"But you're not old," I protested. "Why all this nonsense about caring for the elderly?"
"To gauge your reaction. We cater for all ages, you see. Our talk might have led to deeper explorations, but you rumbled me ahead of time - a point worth considering. Still, it shows a keen eye and a lively mind. Cindy was most impressed."
"Cindy? Ah! You mean, at the café in Chiswick?"
"I won't say where, my dear, and I won't say when. But you have had several encounters. If you failed to recognise her, that's all to the good."
I thought back. Earlier a woman had stopped me in the Broadway, claiming she was conducting a survey into reading habits, asking what papers I bought, and had I thought of subscribing to Forum Magazine? I remembered W.P.C. Mitchell too - all of them the same height and build as myself.
"I wonder how effective you'd be in a role-play?" my friend suggested. "It's an avenue we can explore in due course. Care to give it a try?"
"Why not, if it means getting a job - though I'm still not clear what this is all in aid of."
"In a word, my dear, diplomacy. Oiling the wheels of society. We defend Britain's image abroad by rescuing industrial leaders and politicians before they suffer damaging breakdowns or err from the golden path. Every boiler needs a safety valve, every circuit a fuse, but no-one wants to hear a prolonged hiss of steam - it wakes not only neighbours but alerts the gutter press, whilst blown fuses result in very prominent power cuts. No, there are better ways of alleviating stress, and I wish a few more leading figures would avail themselves of our services. Far be it from me to mention names, but I'm sure you've read about certain indiscretions recently. It doesn't do our country any good, you know."
I felt bound to agree, and told him I was ready for the next stage.
"Patience, Jennifer - we can't afford to rush this. Haste leads to injudicious and precipitate action. Your next move needs careful planning and I don't propose rocking the boat solely to placate your impetuosity. Your enthusiasm I like, but you have one or two serious flaws which need to be ironed out. Over-eagerness makes me jumpy, so be patient, and in a few week's time I'll promise you a decision."
I remained ultra-vigilant as I waited for my next encounter, resolved not to be taken in by any further disguises.
But late on Thursday a very different confrontation took place, one that gave me serious cause for concern.
"We're looking for a Miss Bewley," said a man in dark suit who came to my door with a female colleague. "Do you happen to know if she's in?"
I asked who was enquiring, and the girl smiled reassuringly.
"Relax," she said, "we're not from the police, but this is a delicate subject - do you mind if we come in? I take it you are Jennifer Bewley?"
"I'd still like to know what this is about," I hesitated, clutching both sides of the door-frame, determined to hold my ground.
"Does the name Intimate Breaks mean anything to you?"
That was enough. Anxious to pass every test imaginable, I ushered them into my living room and offered them coffee.
"Not for me, thanks," said the man, adopting a stiff stance and subjecting me to an unsettling stare. "Miss Bewley, I gather you've recently been approached by members of an organisation calling themselves Intimate Breaks. I don't propose to divulge our sources, but I feel we must warn you. Take my advice and steer well clear of any involvement. Naturally we don't need to know what particular fetish or practice you're into, but..."
"None at all," I was quick to assure him. "Look, you've got this all wrong. Why does everyone assume the worst about me?"
"Nevertheless, I urge you to think most carefully."
"Jennifer," the girl intervened with a toothy smile. "Perhaps we should put our cards on the table? Cliff and I are free-lance journalists. Understand, we mean you no harm and we'd like to be totally frank, but this is a touchy subject, so please - your discretion is vital. I hope to hell we can trust you. You'll appreciate, sleaze makes big news these days, and we're working on a major exposé covering a wide range of immoral practices involving some very senior civil servants - faces you see every day on television and in the press too - even one or two members of the House of Lords. There's every chance we're about to uncover a monumental scandal of national proportions. This is awkward, Cliff - we simply don't know who we can trust these days."
"Not always," he agreed. "Personally, I'd phrase it the other way and call it a national scandal of monumental proportions. And it's WHOM we can trust, dear, not WHO! But the point is, Jennifer, we're talking big here - very big."
"And you say you're journalists?" I repeated, barely able to keep a straight face.
"Essentially free-lance," he insisted with some pride. "You see, there are various kinds of reporter - those whose job it is to ferret out mucky tittle-tattle to keep their editors sweet - and others such as myself and Diane here. For us, the story is paramount. We fund our own research and finalise the piece, then offer it to the highest bidder, which in this case is..."
"Steady!" Diane interrupted him. "Better not give chapter and verse, eh. Getting down to nuts and bolts, Jennifer, we're aiming to unearth all we can about Intimate Breaks, but we find their set-up so damn' water-tight it's a job to get a foot in the door."
Cliff frowned disapprovingly. "I applaud your use of DAM with WATER-TIGHT, my love, but not the mixed metaphors. By now Miss Bewley will have deduced which of us is the writer and which the side-kick."
"Take no notice of him," said Diane. "Side-kick indeed! I do ninety percent of the slog while he slaves over a hot word-processor. But seriously, Jennifer, we need all the help we can get. It's not that we actually condemn what goes on in Intimate Breaks, but with national security at stake we feel the public has a right to know. So - bottom line - can you help us? Did anyone give you a clue as to where this outfit is located, or perhaps a phone number? We managed to acquire one of their glossy brochures - I'd best not say how - but it contains nothing to help our enquiries. I mean - if I were a kinky Secretary of State needing certain services, how the hell would I know who or WHOM to approach? To use one of Cliff's metaphors, we're simply looking for the end of a piece of string."
Seeing my hesitation, Cliff delved into an inner pocket and produced a fat wallet which he opened with an adroit flick of his thumb.
"We're prepared to pay handsomely for any help," he said, "in fact, I could make you an advance right now. We were hoping you might agree to work your way into their organisation, then give us an exclusive interview. To put matters into perspective, Jennifer, you needn't worry about any mortgage you may have here. And don't imagine free-lance journalists can't fund big stories. We both faired very handsomely on something you may have read a few months ago, concerning an estranged member of a very important family."
"In fact," added Diane, "I tried to persuade him we could retire on the proceeds, but this guy's got journalism in his blood and the infection can't be cured with mere wealth."
Cliff's eyes shone. "It's our adrenaline, you see - the smug satisfaction of seeing commuters on the morning Piccadilly, all deeply engrossed in something Diane and I have put together. There's nothing like it."
I conceded it must feel very gratifying, but said I didn't see how I could help.
"You don't happen to know of a phone number?" he asked, his eyes expressing hope more than suspicion. "Anything you'd be willing to share with us, for say, five grand?" He tapped his wallet and gave a dry laugh. "I'm serious. We deal in plain bank notes - nothing the Inland Revenue can get their sticky hands on, though we suspect quite a few tax collectors lurk among I.B.'s grubby clients. I'm told the fees are colossal, yet they pay their slaves a mere pittance."
He broke off and turned to Diane who picked up her cue as if everything were neatly rehearsed.
"We interviewed one poor girl," she said, "who spent five months there and said it was worse than working for a common pimp. That's why we'd hate to see a decent girl like you getting mixed up with that lot. I urge you, Jennifer, please listen to what I'm saying. It's vile, what they do down there - depraved and obscene, expecting their poor slaves to perform all kinds of degrading services for those fat Ministers of State. The thought turns my stomach."
"We could run as high as seven grand," said Cliff. "Any tit-bit that might give us a positive lead."
Moments earlier he'd talked of paying off my mortgage, but even seven thousand pounds would have given my morale a tremendous boost. My visitors seemed genuinely concerned for my welfare, yet I'd now become conditioned to suspect everyone who crossed my path.
"This wouldn't be a gag?" I grinned.
I saw no smiles in return.
"A gag?" echoed the man dryly. "You mean you're unwilling to help? Ah, and I had such high hopes when I rang your bell just now. I guess we weren't sufficiently convincing. Never mind - we tried! Thanks for your time, Miss Bewley. Sorry to call at this hour, but ours is always a long day."
Cliff paused by the door.
"Look," he said wearily, "I'll be honest - we know you must have phoned someone in their organisation. They invariably leave potential victims with a number to contact. Cards on the table, eh? I'll hand you ten thousand in cash, here and now, if you let me have that phone number."
"You feel safe," I challenged him, "wandering around Ealing at night with that amount in cash?"
"Actually I do carry a small gun," he replied, "not that I'd dream of using it to persuade you."
Diane gazed at me with soulful eyes and shivered.
"Please, Jennifer! Don't get sucked in. Remember what I said."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Very sorry."
I watched them safely to the corner before I closed the door.
"Gotcha!" I cried, skipping triumphantly back to my kitchen to fill the kettle. Fancy thinking they could buy me! Trying to undermine my principles with a few thousand pounds! And talk about inconsistency! Asking me one minute to worm my way in, the next urging me to keep well clear. I was certain I'd just passed another test with flying colours.
I poured myself a cup of tea and was about to sit and relax when the phone rang.
"Jennifer?" said a familiar hypnotic voice. "Sorry if I woke you - I trust you're alone? No strangers in your hallway tonight?"
I laughed. "No, not if you discount two bogus reporters. They've just this minute left, empty-handed and none the wiser, as no doubt you already know."
I heard a deep sigh. "You too, eh? And they came this evening? What did they say?"
"Plenty. They tried pumping me for all I was worth, bribing me with thousands to give away your phone number, but you'd have been proud of me. I told them nothing."
"Sure, but what lies did they tell you about our organisation? Look, I hate to sound alarmist, but Cindy tells me four other contenders have already backed out suddenly with no explanation. I don't know what these clowns are up to, Jennifer, but they're doing us no good at all. Nearly every recruit I've interviewed this month has changed her mind within hours of those two turning up. Trust me, Jennifer, they are talking nonsense. Please don't say you're thinking of letting me down too - you seem such promising material."
I thanked him for his concern, adding that I hadn't found them in any way objectionable.
"There was a man named Cliff," I explained, "and a girl, his wife I imagine, called Diane. They seemed genuine enough - though I didn't like the idea of him bringing a gun into my house."
"Diane, you say? That's helpful - the name, I mean. But guns? That is bad! We had a recent recruit called Diane who defected after five months' training. How much did you say she offered you?"
"Plenty, but I still wasn't going to tell them anything."
"Look, Jennifer - this is important. There's a good chance they may be back. Do you happen to possess any kind of tape recorder? If so, hide it somewhere in your room and start recording the moment you hear anyone at your front door. We need first-hand evidence as to what these clowns are up to. Hopefully they'll provide enough clues to help us track them down."
I told him I had a VCR and a CD player, but nothing for recording live conversations.
"Damn! Never mind then - try to remember exactly what they say. And you've still got my number. Please phone at once if they come again."
I assured him I had no intention of opening my front door to any more strangers, especially ones who might be armed.
"Wise. Meanwhile," he concluded, "we'd better put your case on hold for a while. Don't expect to hear from me till at least the end of April."
Now I really was confused. Who was working for whom? Had I just blown the offer of ten thousand pounds for the sake of one lousy phone number? I sat alone with my tea and my thoughts.
Sending in fake reporters to test me was pointless when I knew so little. Yet if they were genuine, what were they trying to tell me? And why did HE, my man in brown, sound more concerned about what they might have SAID than the secrets I could have given away? Was his phone number really so important?
Then an even bigger question dawned. Who was it who had just phoned, my original lino-man, or Cliff disguising his voice? My caller had mentioned Cindy's name. Did that prove authenticity, or did they already know about her? Was Diane truly a defector?
All I wanted in life was peace and quiet, with the prospect of finding myself a pleasant job, yet my suspicions were now giving way to alarm. What kind of mire was I getting sucked into?
On my sideboard I saw the pamphlet with Cindy's phone number. It had been there all the time, though neither of my visitors had apparently spotted it. If it was so secret, why had my lino-man entrusted it to a comparative stranger - unless he'd made a grave tactical error?
I drew the line at actually swallowing the pamphlet, but I did the next best thing - I wrote each digit discreetly on the wall in various parts of my flat, then flushed the torn fragments down the loo. Afterwards I dialled the number again, just to prove I'd remembered it correctly.
"Cindy?" I said as a female voice answered. "It's Jennifer here. I need your advice. This evening I had a couple of armed visitors claiming to be reporters. I know you people like to test us by turning up in all sorts of disguises, but unless I check this out I shan't be able to sleep tonight. Did you send two bogus reporters here? I need to know."
She hesitated, as if seeking approval before she spoke.
"That's not for me to say."
"That means you did. And did someone who knows my kitchen phone here a few minutes ago?"
"Yes, my dear, he certainly did that."
I didn't know whether to feel relieved, disappointed or frightened.
"Thanks," I said calmly. "I just wondered, that's all. It's getting more and more difficult to know whom to trust these days."
"I think," said Cindy, choosing her words carefully, "maybe we could sort this out more effectively by meeting face to face. Are you free this weekend? I could come tonight if you're really worried."
It was already half past ten. I assured her I had no commitments in the foreseeable future, and added lightly:
"I am alone right now - though it is getting pretty late."
"Not for us," she laughed. "We work all hours. It makes no difference - tonight or tomorrow morning. I can be there by eleven if that's convenient."
Thinking she meant the morning, I said I looked forward to her visit. But after putting down the phone, I still had doubts. Had I just got myself into even deeper trouble by siding with the wrong crowd?
Barely five minutes later, the phone rang again.
"Miss Bewley?" said a strong Scottish voice. "Sorry to call so late. You probably don't know me, but I understand you're seeking a job as a waitress. Do I have the right person?"
"I'm the ideal person," I quipped, amused at my caller's persistence. "And I suppose now you'd like me to trot along for a midnight interview?"
"Actually I'd prefer tomorrow morning if possible, some time before nine. Just a preliminary chat, you understand - no promises, but I always treat my interviewees to a free breakfast. We're situated along the A315 just west of Hammersmith."
I took full details and promised to be there by eight-thirty. I then prepared for bed and was already in my pyjamas when the door bell rang. Checking first through the front window, I saw a strange woman standing half way down the path.
"Sorry for the late hour," she called softly, "but I decided it was best if we clarified matters tonight."
I certainly didn't recognise her from any previous encounters, but I was half-expecting Cindy, so I let her in.
"First things first," she announced briskly, going straight to the phone. Without a word she lifted the receiver, pressed a button and listened for a few seconds before putting it back on its rest.
"Oh dear," she turned to admonish me. "Bad girl! Whatever we decide, Jennifer, take a tip for the future. Always dial another number after making any sensitive phone-call. Those tell-tale redial buttons get more people into trouble than unprotected sex."
"I have a question," I said. "Assuming you are Cindy, how do I know I can trust you? I've had visits from all sorts of people recently, some claiming they were police, others carrying guns. I've been for strange interviews too, in fact I've just been summoned to one tomorrow morning. Naturally I assume it's all part of your testing programme - but how long's this going on for? And how the hell am I supposed to know who's genuine and who isn't?"
Cindy smiled. "It's sad, isn't it. The wheels of politics get so greasy, you end up doubting your own grandmother's home-made ice-cream. But don't you see? We're bound to vet newcomers by whatever means we can - and we all go through it. Even Bernie and I were subjected to the most rigorous tests before they took us on."
"Bernie?" I queried.
She blushed. "Sorry - slip of the tongue - my husband actually - your original contact. Anyway, it seems that your suitability has now been approved, and you're scheduled for your first visit to Fairyland. It's short notice, I know, but you did say you were free this weekend, so I took the plunge and booked your transport for tomorrow evening. If all goes well you'll be back here by early Monday morning. But please - don't bother to pack a suitcase. Everything you need will be provided on arrival. We ask only that you make yourself ready for when our man calls at eight. His other passengers won't want to be kept waiting."
She handed me a tiny twist of silver foil containing two small pills, and added nervously:
"I don't know if you ever get travel-sick, but I invariably do, so I recommend you take both of these at seven, a full hour before you're due to leave."
I thanked her and put the pills on the sideboard.
"Just explain something," I said. "First Bernie comes to persuade me I ought to join Intimate Breaks. Then tonight I get two people trying to convince me I shouldn't. And don't kid me they were only after your phone number - if that's all they'd wanted they could have used the redial button same as you. So what's the big idea? You said all along you hoped I'd join, so why try to put me off? I don't see the point of this evening's test."
"You weren't meant to. Oh dear, they said you were a smart girl."
Cindy perched herself on the arm of the settee, and took hold of my hand. "Jennifer, it's really very simple. We need hostesses we can trust, girls who'll remain loyal to our principles and who won't breach our security. By the same token no-one wants recruits who are easily dissuaded. In order to test you, we had to sow seeds of doubt in your mind. If they'd taken root, believe me, you'd never have heard from any of us again. But it seems you've come through with flying colours, and you're now set to visit our showpiece tomorrow evening. So, enjoy it. Just remember to take your pills at seven."
I heard my clock strike every quarter-hour until three a.m. Even if I had been certain of my latest visitor's identity, I could easily have failed my ultimate test over the redial button. What if Cindy's pills contained a lethal dose of cyanide, intended to silence me for ever?
I wanted till dawn, then dialled Cindy's number and began to outline my fears.
She snorted. "My God, girl, you're too thorough for your own good. Please, don't ring this number again, especially not at this hour. Buy fresh pills if you must, and flush mine down the toilet unless you think they'll poison every fish in the Thames, in which case I suggest you plant them among your neighbour's roses. Oh dear! What a pity you've become so suspicious."
I tried to assure her I never suffered from car-sickness.
"Nevertheless," she insisted, "I urge you to take what we provide, and not some cheap alternative. There's other forms of transport which can make people feel very ill besides cars, so don't say you haven't been warned. You could be in for quite a bumpy ride, and we certainly can't afford to have our girls reporting sick the moment they arrive."
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