“I’m not surprised.” Connor raises his eyebrows. “Quite a day yesterday.”
“Absolutely.” I nod and take a sip of coffee. “So. We’re … going to live together!”
“If you’re still on for it?”
“Of course! Of course I am!” I smile brightly.
I feel as though I’ve turned into a grown-up overnight. I’m moving in with my boyfriend! Finally my life is going the way it should!
“I’ll have to give Andrew notice.…” Connor gestures toward the wall, on the other side of which is his flatmate’s room.
“And I’ll have to tell Lissy and Jemima.”
“And we’ll have to find the right place. And you’ll have to promise to keep it tidy.” He gives me a teasing grin.
“I like that!” I feign outrage. “You’re the one with fifty million CDs!”
“That’s different!”
“How is it different, may I ask?” I plant my hand on my hip, like someone in a sitcom, and Connor laughs.
There’s a pause, as though we’ve both run out of steam, and we both take a sip of coffee.
“So, anyway,” says Connor after a while, “I should get going.” Connor is attending a course on computers this weekend. “I’m sorry I’ll miss your parents,” he adds.
And he really is. I mean, as if he weren’t already the perfect boyfriend, he actually enjoys visiting my parents.
“That’s OK,” I say benevolently. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, and I forgot to tell you!” Connor reaches into his briefcase and pulls out an envelope. “Guess what I’ve got tickets for.”
“Ooh!” I say excitedly. “Um …” I’m about to say “Paris!”
“The jazz festival!” Connor beams. “The Dennisson Quartet! It’s their last concert of the year. Remember we heard them at Ronnie Scott’s?”
For a moment I can’t quite speak.
“Wow!” I manage at last. “The … Dennisson Quartet! I do remember!”
They played clarinets. On and on and on, for about two hours, without even taking a breath—
“I knew you’d be thrilled!” Connor touches my arm affectionately.
“Oh, I am!”
The thing is, I probably will get to like jazz one day. In fact, I’m positive I will.
I watch with fondness as he gets dressed, flosses his teeth, and picks up his briefcase.
“You wore my present,” he says, glancing at my discarded underwear on the floor, obviously pleased.
“I … often wear them!” I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. “They’re so beautiful.”
“Have a lovely day with your family.” Connor comes over to the bed to kiss me, and then hesitates. “Emma?”
“Yes?”
He sits down on the bed and gazes seriously at me with his bright blue eyes. “There’s something I wanted to say.” He bites his lip. “You know we always speak frankly to each other about our relationship.”
“Er, yes,” I say, feeling a little apprehensive.
“This is just an idea. You may not like it. I mean … it’s completely up to you.…”
I have never seen Connor look so squirmy. Oh, my God. Is he going to start getting kinky? Does he want me to dress up in outfits and stuff?
I wouldn’t mind being a nurse, actually. Or Catwoman from Batman! That would be cool. I could get some shiny boots.…
“I was thinking that … perhaps … we could …” He stops awkwardly.
“Yes?” I put a supportive hand on his arm.
“We could …” He stops again.
“Yes?”
There’s another silence. I almost can’t breathe for anticipation.
“We could start calling each other ‘darling,’ ” he says in an embarrassed rush.
“What?” I say stupidly.
“It’s just that …” Connor’s whole face is suffused with blood. “We’re going to be living together. It’s quite a commitment. And I noticed recently, we never seem to use any … terms of endearment.”
I stare at him, feeling caught out. “Don’t we?”
“No.”
“Oh.” I take a sip of coffee. Now that I think about it, he’s right. We don’t. Why don’t we?
“So how do you feel about it? Only if you wanted to—”
“Absolutely! I mean, you’re right! Of course we should.” I clear my throat. “Darling!”
“Thanks, darling,” he says lovingly, and I smile back, trying to ignore the tiny protests inside my head.
This doesn’t feel right.
I don’t feel like a darling.
Darling is a married person with pearls and a four-wheel drive.
“Emma?” Connor looks perturbed. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure!” I give a self-conscious laugh. “I just don’t know if I feel like a ‘darling’! But … you know. It may grow on me.”
“Really? Well, we can use something else. What about ‘dear’?”
Dear? Is he serious?
“No,” I say quickly. “I think ‘darling’ is better.”
“Or ‘sweetheart’ … ‘honey’ … ‘angel’ …”
“Maybe. Look, can we just leave it?”
Connor’s face falls, and immediately I feel bad. Come on. I can call my boyfriend “darling.” This is what growing up’s all about.
“Connor, I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I’m still a bit tense after that flight.” I take his hand. “Darling.”
“That’s all right, darling.” He gives me a kiss, his sunny expression restored. “See you later.”
You see. Easy.
Oh, God.
It takes me about half an hour to get from Connor’s place in Maida Vale to Islington, which is where I live, and as I open the door, I find Lissy on the sofa. She’s surrounded by papers and has a frown of concentration on her face.
She works so hard, Lissy. When she’s preparing a case, she spends days at home, reading technical documents and wandering around and scrawling notes to herself. And one thing I’ve learned is never to throw anything away when she’s in this phase. Ever since the awful time I chucked out an empty packet of Rice Krispies that had a bit of scribble on the back—and it turned out the scribble was her entire opening speech.
“What are you working on?” I say sympathetically. “Is it that fraud case?”
Most of Lissy’s cases are to do with fraud and offshore companies and stuff. It’s pretty dry, to be honest. She says she enjoys it—but even she looks a bit jaded sometimes. Which I think is a bit sad, because when we were at school, she preferred the creative side of things. I think she’d have loved to go into the arts.
Her parents would never have let her be an artist, though. She once told her dad she’d like to be a painter—and he gave her this whole tirade about how she wouldn’t make any money and she’d starve, and he wouldn’t bail her out, if that’s what she thought. Poor old Lissy was really freaked out. I mean, she was only seven.
“Er, no, it’s not a case. It’s this article,” says Lissy. She lifts up a glossy magazine, looking a bit sheepish. “It says since the days of Cleopatra, the proportions of beauty have been the same, and there’s a way to work out how beautiful you are, scientifically. You do all these measurements.…”
“Oh, right!” I say with interest. “So, what are you?”
“I’m just working it out.” She frowns at the page again. “That makes fifty-three … subtract twenty … makes … Oh, my God!” She stares at the page in dismay. “I only got thirty-three!”
“Out of what?”
“A hundred! Thirty-three out of a hundred!”
“Oh, Lissy. That’s crap!”
“I know,” says Lissy seriously. “I’m ugly. I knew it. You know, all my life I’ve kind of secretly known, but—”
“No!” I say, trying not to laugh. “I meant the magazine’s crap! You can’t measure beauty with some stupid index! Just look at you!” Lissy
is tall and slim, has the biggest gray eyes in the world, has gorgeous clear, pale skin, and is frankly stunning, even if her last haircut was a bit severe. “I mean, who are you going to believe? The mirror or a stupid, mindless magazine article?”
“A stupid, mindless magazine article,” says Lissy as though it’s perfectly obvious.
I know she’s half joking. But ever since her boyfriend Simon chucked her, two months ago, Lissy’s had really low self-esteem. In fact, I’ve been quite worried about her.
What’s so weird is, when she’s in the courtroom, Lissy has more confidence than anyone I know. In fact, her nickname is the Rottweiler. The last time I watched her in court, some fraudster was trying to spin a story about how he didn’t know what he was doing, it was all the fault of his computer software … and Lissy completely annihilated him. Then one of the opposing barristers got some technical point wrong—and she annihilated him, too.
But then last week she went on a blind date, and the guy made an excuse and left after half an hour—and she came home totally convinced it was because of her thighs. Apparently he glanced at them as he left.
“Is that the golden proportion of beauty?” says our other flatmate, Jemima, tapping into the room in her kitten heels. She’s wearing pale pink jeans and a tight white top, and as usual she looks perfectly tanned and groomed. In theory, Jemima has a job, working in a Bond Street gallery. But all she ever seems to do is have bits of her waxed and plucked and massaged and go on dates with city bankers, whose salary she always checks out before she says yes.
I do get on with Jemima. Kind of. It’s just that she tends to begin all her sentences “If you want a rock on your finger,” and “If you want an SW3 address,” and “If you want to be known as a seriously good dinner party hostess.”
I mean, I wouldn’t mind being known as a seriously good dinner party hostess. You know. It’s just not exactly highest on my list of priorities right now.
Plus, Jemima’s idea of being a seriously good dinner party hostess is inviting lots of rich friends over, decorating the whole flat with twiggy things, getting caterers to cook loads of yummy food and telling everyone she made it herself, then sending her flatmates (me and Lissy) out to the cinema for the night and looking affronted when they dare creep back in at midnight and make themselves a hot chocolate.
“I did that quiz,” she says now, picking up her pink Louis Vuitton bag. Her dad bought it for her as a present when she broke up with a guy after three dates. Like she was heartbroken.
Mind you, he had a yacht, so she probably was heartbroken.
“What did you get?” says Lissy.
“Eighty-nine.” She spritzes herself with perfume, tosses her long, blond hair back, and smiles at herself in the mirror. “So, Emma, is it true you’re moving in with Connor?”
“How did you know that?” I say in shock.
“Word on the street. Andrew called Rupes this morning about cricket, and he told him.”
“Are you moving in with Connor?” says Lissy incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was about to. Isn’t it great?”
“Bad move, Emma.” Jemima shakes her head. “Very bad tactics.”
“Tactics?” says Lissy, rolling her eyes. “Tactics? Jemima, they’re having a relationship, not playing chess!”
“A relationship is a game of chess!” retorts Jemima, brushing mascara onto her lashes. “Mummy says you always have to look ahead. You have to plan strategically. If you make the wrong move, you’ve had it.”
“That’s rubbish!” says Lissy. “A relationship is about like minds! It’s about soul mates finding each other.”
“Soul mates!” says Jemima dismissively, and looks at me. “Just remember, Emma, if you want a rock on your finger, don’t move in with Connor.”
Her eyes give a swift, Pavlovian glance to the photograph on the mantelpiece of her meeting Prince William at a charity polo match.
“Still holding out for royalty?” says Lissy. “How much younger is he than you again, Jemima?”
“Don’t be stupid!” she snaps, color tinging her cheeks. “You’re so immature sometimes, Lissy.”
“Anyway, I don’t want a rock on my finger,” I return.
Jemima raises her arched eyebrows as though to say, “You poor, ignorant fool,” and picks up her bag.
“Oh,” she adds, her eyes narrowing. “Has either of you borrowed my Joseph jumper?”
There’s a tiny beat of silence.
“No,” I say innocently.
“I don’t even know which one it is,” says Lissy, flipping a page.
I can’t look at Lissy. I’m sure I saw her wearing it the other night.
Jemima’s blue eyes are running over us like radar scanners. “Because I have very slender arms,” she says warningly, “and I really don’t want the sleeves stretched. And don’t think I won’t notice, because I will. Ciao.”
The minute she’s gone, Lissy and I look at each other.
“Shit,” says Lissy. “I think I left it at work. Oh, well, I’ll pick it up on Monday.” She shrugs and goes back to reading the magazine.
OK. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Jemima’s clothes. Without asking. But in our defense, she has so many, she hardly ever notices. Plus, according to Lissy, it’s a basic human right that flatmates should be able to borrow one another’s clothes. She says it’s practically part of the unwritten British constitution.
“And anyway,” adds Lissy, “she owes it to me for writing her that letter to the council about all her parking tickets. You know, she never even said thank you!” She looks up from an article on Nicole Kidman. “So, what are you doing later on? D’you want to see a film?”
“I can’t,” I say reluctantly. “I’ve got my mum’s birthday lunch.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Lissy is the only person in the world who has any idea how I feel about visiting home. She pulls a sympathetic face. “Good luck. I hope it’s OK.”
Four
But as I sit on the train down, I resolve that this time will be better. I was watching a Cindy Blaine show the other day, all about reuniting long-lost daughters with their mothers, and it was so moving I had tears running down my face. At the end, Cindy gave this little homily about how our families are far too easy to take for granted and that they gave us life and we should cherish them. And I felt really chastened.
So these are my resolutions for today:
I will not:
Let my family stress me out.
Feel jealous of Kerry, or let Nev wind me up.
Look at my watch, wondering how soon I can leave.
I will:
Stay serene and loving and remember that we are all sacred links in the eternal circle of life.
(I got that from Cindy Blaine, too.)
Mum and Dad used to live in Twickenham, which is where I grew up. But now, since Dad’s retirement, they’ve moved farther out of London to Stanning St. John, which is a village in Hampshire. Dad used to work for a textile company, and he took early retirement when he didn’t get on the board.
He made lots of jokes about it at his retirement do, and everyone kind of winced. Especially the guy who did get on. I almost think Dad was hoping they’d suddenly offer it to him. But they didn’t. So he and Mum decided to “get out of the rat race”—even though Twickenham isn’t exactly inner city—and bought a big golden brick house with a half-acre garden, which Dad calls “land.”
I arrive at the house just after twelve, to find Mum in the kitchen with my cousin Kerry. She and her husband, Nev, have moved out, too, to a village about five minutes’ drive from Stanning St. John, so they see one another all the time.
I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side by the stove. They look more like mother and daughter than aunt and niece. It’s not that their faces are similiar. Kerry’s is all pointy nose and jutting chin, whereas Mum has the same dimples as me. But they’ve become similar in other ways. They’ve both
got the same feather-cut blond hair—although Kerry’s is highlighted more strongly than Mum’s. They’re both wearing brightly colored tops that show a lot of tanned cleavage and probably came from the same shop. And they’re both laughing. On the counter, I notice a bottle of white wine already half gone.
“Happy birthday!” I say, hugging Mum with a thrill of anticipation. I have got Mum the best birthday present. I can’t wait to give it to her!
“Hiya!” says Kerry, turning around in her apron. Her blue eyes are heavily made-up, and around her neck she’s wearing a diamond cross, which I haven’t seen before. Every time I see Kerry, she has a new piece of jewelry. “Great to see you, Emma! We don’t see enough of you. Do we, Auntie Rachel?”
“We certainly don’t,” says Mum, giving me a hug.
“Shall I take your coat?” says Kerry as I put the bottle of champagne I’ve brought into the fridge. “And what about a drink?”
This is how Kerry always talks to me. As though I’m a visitor.
But never mind. I’m not going to stress about it. Sacred links in the eternal circle of life. “It’s OK!” I say, trying to sound pleasant. “I’ll get it.” I open the cupboard where glasses are always kept, to find myself looking at tins of tomatoes.
“They’re over here now,” says Kerry, on the other side of the kitchen. “We moved everything around! It makes much more sense now.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.” I take the glass she gives me and sip my wine. “Well done on your award, by the way.”
“You’ve got quite an array now!” pipes up Mum. “Haven’t you, Kerry love?”
“Five.” Kerry smirks. “Seven, including the regional ones.”
“That’s fantastic!” I force a smile. “Really great. So … can I do anything to help?”
“I don’t think so …” says Kerry, looking critically around the kitchen. “Everything’s pretty much done. So I said to Elaine,” she adds to Mum, “ ‘Where did you get those shoes?’ And she said M & S! I couldn’t believe it!”
“Who’s Elaine?” I say, trying to join in.
“At the golf club,” says Kerry.
Mum never used to play golf. But then when she moved to Hampshire, she and Kerry took it up together. And now all I hear about is golf matches, golf club dinners, and endless parties with chums from the golf club.
Can You Keep a Secret? Page 4