The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets Read Online Free PDF

sticks to the roof of her mouth.
    Finally, he looks up. He meets her staring eyes, then his slide higher and he flinches. It is as if he has forgotten that he wrote whatever he wrote – the word ‘bitch’ – on her forehead, and is unhappy to have to recall the incident. ‘Okay, you can wash it off now,’ he mutters, sounding embarrassed. She wonders if it is obvious that she has wet herself, tries to remember what trousers she is wearing.
    â€˜Look…,’ he begins. It sounds as if he might be about to say something conciliatory. She cannot help him. She is mute with shock and fear. In fact, she can’t imagine ever speaking again.
    Sol Barber sighs and, without saying another word, descends the stairs slowly and heavily. A few minutes later she hears the front door close – not quite a slam, but an unequivocal thud. He has gone. She is alone in the house.
    Now she is truly terrified. She could look at the word if she wanted to. She has the rest of her life to deal with, and she can’t; it is too much for her. Even the smallest decision is too much. What did he write? She could find out, by turning round.
    She runs to the bathroom, twists the hot and cold taps and splashes water on her face. She squirts liquid soap into one hand and massages it into her forehead, rubbing and rubbing until her skin hurts. Then more soap and more water. The word, phrase or sentence cannot possibly have survived such a frenzied attack.
    Eventually, feeling as if she might vomit, she stands in front of the bathroom mirror. Relief floods her when she sees that there is no trace of the orange lipstick left on her forehead, only red, chafed skin. Now she will never know, she will remain blissfully ignorant; it is no longer an issue. It was ‘bitch’, anyway, in all probability.
    She stands back from the mirror to see more of herself. Her trousers are black, thick; they reveal nothing. She winces with relief. Shaking convulsively, she returns to her bedroom and winces again when she spots the large, dark, sodden patch on the carpet in front of the mirror. It is the approximate shape of France. He must have noticed.
    Crying, she takes off all her clothes and puts them in a plastic bag. She twists the neck of the bag and ties it in a knot. Then she has a shower, puts on clean clothes and takes the plastic bag downstairs to the outside bin. I have been assaulted , she thinks. She considers reporting Sol Barber to the police, but knows she never will. She is too afraid of what he might do to her. There would have to be a court case. She imagines him smirking in the witness box, telling a room fullof strangers that she pissed herself, saying aloud the word that he wrote on her face.
    She spends the rest of the day bawling like a newborn baby, trying to work out if it is feasible for her to avoid Sol Barber for the rest of her life. She knows only one person who knows him: her friend Olga, for whom Sol made and fitted a wardrobe earlier in the year. It was Olga who recommended Sol to her, as a skilled and reliable worker. She must avoid Olga too, in case the subject of Sol comes up.
    She must get on with her life. She hardly knows him. He is only a joiner. A violent, vindictive joiner. He’s the unfortunate one, not her.

    Two months pass. In flavour and pitch, they have a lot in common with the forty minutes she spent in her bedroom with her back against the mirror, branded with her own lipstick, while Sol Barber was downstairs rubbing at the oil stains on the carpet. She cannot think properly. She barely eats or sleeps. She is afraid all the time. She feels humiliated all the time. She has lost her grip on herself, all her substance. She feels a crippling loneliness, as if she has floated away and noone has cared enough to follow her. Worst of all is her growing suspicion that she deserved what he did to her. She patronised him and, in doing so, invited him to destroy her.
    She spends her days and