“You haven’t told anyone?”
“No. No one! Not even my … I mean, no one. I haven’t told anyone.”
“Good. Thank you very much. I appreciate it.” He smiles and gets up from his chair. “Nice to meet you again, Emma. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Unless you had anything else you wanted to discuss—”
“No!” I get to my feet hurriedly, banging my ankle on the table leg.
I mean, what did I think? That he was going to ask me to head up his exciting new international project?
Jack Harper opens the door and holds it politely for me. And I’m halfway out when I stop. “Wait.”
“What is it?”
“What shall I say you wanted to talk to me about?” I say awkwardly. “Everyone’s going to ask me.”
“Why not say we were discussing logistics?” He raises his eyebrows and closes the door.
Six
He was a stranger. He was supposed to be a stranger. As I travel home that evening, I’m still reeling with the injustice of it all. The whole point about strangers is, they disappear into the ether and you never see them again. They don’t turn up at the office. They don’t ask you what eight nines are. They don’t turn out to be your mega-boss employer.
Well, all I can say is, that’s taught me. My parents always said never talk to strangers, and they were right. I’m never telling a stranger anything again. Ever.
I’ve arranged to go to Connor’s flat this evening, and as I arrive, I feel my body expand in relief. Away from the office. Away from all the endless Jack Harper talk. And Connor’s already cooking. I mean, how perfect is that? The kitchen is full of a wonderful garlicky-herby smell, and there’s a glass of wine already waiting for me on the table.
“Hi!” I say, and give him a kiss.
“Hi, darling!” he says, looking up from the stove.
Shit. I totally forgot to say “darling.” OK, how am I going to remember this?
I know. I’ll write it on my hand.
“Have a look at those! I downloaded them from the Internet.” Connor gestures to a folder on the table. I open it and find myself looking at a grainy black and white picture of a room with a sofa and a potted plant.
“Flat details!” I say, taken aback. I check the postcode. It’s in Maida Vale. In fact, just around the corner from here. I don’t remember agreeing on Maida Vale. But then, it doesn’t really matter.
“Wow!” I say. “That’s quick! I haven’t even given notice yet.”
“Well, we need to start looking,” says Connor. “Look—that one’s got a balcony. And there’s one with a working fireplace!”
“Gosh!”
I sit down on a nearby chair and peer at the blurry photograph, trying to imagine me and Connor living in it together. Sitting on that sofa. Just the two of us, every single evening.
I wonder what we’ll talk about.
Well! We’ll talk about … whatever we always talk about.
Maybe we’ll play Monopoly. Just if we get bored or anything.
I turn to another sheet and feel a sudden pang of excitement.
This flat has wooden floors and shutters! I’ve always wanted wooden floors and shutters. And look at that cool kitchen, with all-granite work tops.…
Oh, this is going to be so great.
I take a happy slug of wine and am just sinking comfortably back as Connor says, “So! Isn’t it exciting about Jack Harper coming over!”
Oh, God. Please. Not more talk about bloody Jack Harper.
“Did you get to meet him?” he adds, coming over with a bowl of peanuts. “I heard he went into Marketing.…”
“Um … yes, I met him.”
“He came into Research this afternoon, but I was at a meeting.” Connor looks at me, agog. “So, what’s he like?”
“He’s … I don’t know. Dark hair … American.… So, how did the meeting go?”
Connor totally ignores my attempt to change the subject. “Isn’t it exciting, though?” His face is glowing. “Jack Harper!”
“I suppose so.” I shrug. “Anyway—”
“Emma! Aren’t you excited?” says Connor in astonishment. “We’re talking about the founder of the company! We’re talking about the man who came up with the concept of Panther Cola! Who took an unknown brand, repackaged it, and sold it to the world! He turned a failing company into a huge, successful corporation. And now we’re all getting to meet him! Don’t you find that thrilling?”
“Yes,” I say at last. “It’s … thrilling!”
“This could be the opportunity of a lifetime for all of us! To learn from the genius himself! You know, he’s never written a book. He’s never shared his thoughts with anyone except Pete Laidler.…” He reaches into the fridge for a can of Panther Cola and cracks it open. Connor has to be the most loyal employee in the world. I once bought a Pepsi when we were out on a picnic, and he nearly had a heart attack.
“You know what I would love above anything?” he says, taking a gulp. “A one-to-one with him.” His eyes shine. “A one-to-one with Jack Harper! Wouldn’t that be the most fantastic career boost?”
A one-to-one with Jack Harper.
Yup, that really boosted my career.
“I suppose,” I say reluctantly.
“Of course it would be! Just having the chance to listen to him! To hear what he has to say! I mean, the guy’s been shut away for a year. What ideas must he have been generating all this time? He must have so many insights and theories, not just about marketing but about business … about the way people work … about life itself—”
Connor’s enthusiastic voice is like salt on sore skin. So, let’s just see quite how spectacularly I have played this wrong, shall we? I’m sitting on a plane next to the great Jack Harper, creative genius and source of all wisdom on business and marketing, not to mention the deepest mysteries of life itself.
And what do I do? Do I ask him insightful questions? Do I engage him in intelligent conversation? Do I learn anything from him at all?
No. I blabber on about fascinating subjects such as what kind of underwear I prefer.
Great career move, Emma. One of the best.
The next day, Connor is off to a meeting first thing, but before he goes, he digs out an old magazine article about Jack Harper.
“Read this,” he says through a mouthful of toast. “It’s good background information.”
I don’t want any background information! I feel like saying, but Connor’s already out the door.
I’m tempted to leave it behind and not even bother looking at it, but it’s quite a long journey from Maida Vale to work, and I haven’t got any magazines with me. So I take the article and grudgingly start reading it on the tube. I suppose it is quite an interesting story. How Jack Harper and Pete Laidler were friends ever since they met at some small marketing agency, and they decided to go into business, and Jack was the creative one and Pete was the extroverted playboy one, and they became multimillionaires together, and they were so close they were practically like brothers. There’s some quote from a business mogul saying how annoying it was having meetings with them because they were so in tune with each other and expected everyone else to follow their thoughts.
And then Pete crashed his Mercedes and died the next day. And Jack was so devastated he shut himself away from the world and said he was giving it all up.
And of course now that I read all this, I’m starting to feel a bit stupid. I should have recognized Jack Harper. I mean, I certainly recognize Pete Laidler. For one thing, he looks—looked—just like Robert Redford. And for another, he was all over the papers when he died. I can remember it vividly now, even though I had nothing to do with the Panther Corporation then.
I emerge from the underground into a bright morning, and head toward the juice bar where I usually pop in before work. I’ve got into the habit of picking up a mango smoothie every morning, because it’s healthy.
“Hiya,” he says as I come in. “How’s the kickboxing going?”
“Oh!” I say, coloring slightly. “It’s great, thanks!”
“Did you try that new maneuver I told you about?”
“Erm, yes! It really helped!”
“I thought it would,” he says, looking pleased, and goes off to make my mango smoothie.
The truth is, I don’t really do kickboxing. I did try it once, at our local leisure center, and to be honest, I was shocked! I had no idea it would be so violent. But Aidan was so enthused about it and kept saying how it would transform my life, I couldn’t bring myself to admit I’d given up after only one session. So I kind of … fibbed. I mean, he’ll never know. It’s not like I ever see him outside the smoothie bar.
“That’s one mango smoothie,” says Aidan.
“And … a chocolate brownie,” I say. “For … my colleague.” Aidan picks up the brownie and pops it in a bag.
“You know, that colleague of yours needs to think about her refined sugar levels,” he says with a concerned frown. “She’s averaging three brownies a week.”
“I know,” I say earnestly. “I’ll … tell her. Thanks, Aidan.”
“No problem!” says Aidan. “And remember: one-two-swivel!”
“One-two-swivel,” I repeat. “I’ll … remember!”
As I arrive at the office, everything’s quiet apart from a couple of people murmuring on the phone. It’s as though, after the hubbub of yesterday, everyone’s a bit exhausted. In fact, as I hang my jacket up, Nick gives an enormous yawn—then sees me watching him and scowls.
“Emma.” Paul appears out of his office and snaps his fingers at me. “Appraisal.”
My stomach gives an almighty lurch, and I nearly choke on my last bite of chocolate brownie. Oh, God. This is it. I’m not ready.
Yes, I am. Come on. Exude confidence. I am a woman on her way somewhere.
Suddenly I remember Kerry and her I-am-a-successful-woman walk. I know Kerry’s an obnoxious cow, but she does have her own company and make zillions of pounds a year. She must be doing something right. Maybe I should give it a go. Cautiously I stick out my bust, lift my head, and start striding across the office with a fixed, alert expression on my face.
“Is something wrong, Emma?” says Paul as I reach his door.
“Er, no.”
“Well, you look very odd. Now. Sit down.” He shuts the door, sits down at his desk, and opens a form marked “Staff Appraisal Review.” “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday. But what with Jack Harper’s arrival, everything got buggered up.”
“That’s OK.”
I try to smile, but my mouth is suddenly dry. I can’t believe how nervous I feel. This is worse than a school report. I watch Paul as he leafs through his notes. It occurs to me that objectively he’s quite good-looking, despite his receding hairline. He’s tall and slim and has an infectious laugh. If you met him at a party, you’d probably enjoy chatting with him.
But I’ve never met him at a party. I’ve only ever seen him here. My scary boss.
“OK. So … Emma Corrigan.” He looks at the form and starts ticking boxes. “Generally, you’re doing fine. You’re not generally late.… You understand the tasks given to you.… You’re fairly efficient.… You work OK with your colleagues … blah, blah … blah … Any problems?” he says, looking up.
“Er, no.”
“Do you feel racially harassed?”
“Er, no.”
“Good.” He ticks another box and starts writing in a panel at the bottom of the sheet. “Well, I think that’s it. Well done. Can you send Nick in to see me?”
What? Has he forgotten? “Um, what about my promotion?” I say, trying not to sound too anxious.
“Promotion?” He pauses in his writing. “What promotion?”
“To marketing executive.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It said in the ad for my job.…” I pull the crumpled ad out of my jeans pocket, where it’s been since yesterday. “ ‘Possible promotion after a year.’ It says it right there.” I push it across the desk, and he looks at it with a frown.
“Emma, that was only for exceptional candidates. You’re not ready for a promotion. You’ll have to prove yourself first.” He hands the ad back.
“But … I’m doing everything as well as I can! If you just give me a chance—”
“You had the chance at Glen Oil.” Paul raises his eyebrows at me, and I feel a twinge of humiliation. “Emma, bottom line is, I don’t think you’re ready for a higher position. In a year we’ll see.”
A year?
“OK? Now, hop to it.”
My mind is whirling. I have to accept this in a calm, dignified way. I have to say something like “I respect your decision, Paul,” shake his hand, and leave the room. This is what I have to do.
The only trouble is, I can’t seem to get up out of my chair.
After a few moments Paul looks at me, puzzled. “That’s it, Emma.”
I can’t move. Once I leave this room, it’s over.
“Emma?”
“I’ve done everything I can!” The words spill out before I can stop them. “I’ve been writing copy for leaflets, I’ve been making contacts, I sorted out that whole mess with the ice-skating promotion.… Plus, I’ve been doing all the typing and stuff.… I mean, it’s more like two jobs I’ve been doing!”
“I see.” Paul looks grave. “Well, if you’re finding it too much—”
“No! It’s not that.…” I crumple the ad in frustration. “I just want to be doing more interesting things! I’ve had loads of ideas.… Like, it was me who came up with the idea of giving away Panther Gum with health club towels. Remember?”
Paul puts down his pen and sighs. “Emma, I’m not saying you haven’t done well—”
“Please promote me! It’s the only thing I want in the whole world, and I’ll work so hard—I promise. I’ll come in at weekends, and I’ll … I’ll wear smart suits.…”
“What?” Paul is staring at me as though I’ve turned into a goldfish.
OK, I have to calm down here. Take a deep breath. Nice and steady. “I feel I deserve a promotion.”
There are my cards. Right on the table.
“And I feel you’re not yet up to it,” replies Paul without hesitation.
The trouble is, I’ve never been any good at cards. “Right.” I bite my lip. “So, when—”
“Emma, moving up to marketing executive is a big step. If you want to get ahead, you have to create your own chances. You have to carve out your own opportunities. Now, seriously. Could you please fuck off out of my office and get Nick for me?”
As I leave, I can see him raising his eyes to heaven and scribbling something else on my form.
I walk, dejected, back to my desk, and Artemis looks up with a beady expression.
“Oh, Emma,” she says, “your cousin Kerry just called for you.”
“Really?” I say in surprise. Kerry never phones me at work. In fact she never phones me at all. “Did she leave a message?”
“Yes, she did. She wanted to know, have you heard about your promotion yet?”
This is now official. I hate Kerry. “Right,” I say, trying to sound as though this is some boring, everyday inquiry. “Thanks.”
“Are you being promoted, Emma? I didn’t know that!” Her voice is high and piercing, and I see several people raise their heads in interest. “So, are you going to become a marketing executive?”
“No,” I mutter, my face hot with humiliation.
“I’m not.”
“Oh!” Artemis pulls a puzzled face. “So, why did she—”
“Shut up, Artemis,” says Caroline. I give her a grateful look and slump into my chair.
Another whole year. Another whole year of being the crappy marketing assistant, and everyone thinking I’m useless. Another year of being in debt to Dad, and Kerry and Nev laughing at me, and feeling like a complete failure. I switch on my computer and summon up the copy for a new Panther Lite brochure. But suddenly all my energy’s gone.
“I think I’ll get a coffee,” I say. “Does anyone want one?”
“You can’t get a coffee,” says Artemis, giving me an odd look. “Haven’t you seen?”
“What?”
“They’ve taken the coffee machine away,” says Nick. “While you were in with Paul.”
“Taken it away? But … why?”
“Dunno,” he says, walking off toward Paul’s office. “They just came and carted it away.”
“We’re getting a new machine!” says Caroline, walking past with a bundle of proofs. “That’s what they were saying downstairs. A really nice one, with proper coffee. Ordered by Jack Harper, apparently.”
Jack Harper ordered a new coffee machine?
“Emma!” Artemis is snapping. “Did you hear that? I want you to find the leaflet we did for the Tesco promotion two years ago. Sorry, Mummy?” she says into the phone. “Just telling my assistant something.”
Her assistant. God, it pisses me off when she says that.
But to be honest, I’m feeling a bit too dazed to get annoyed.
It’s nothing to do with me, I tell myself firmly as I root around at the bottom of the filing cabinet. He was probably planning to order new coffee anyway. He was probably—
I stand up with a pile of files in my arms and nearly drop them all on the floor.
There he is.
Standing right in front of me, wearing jeans and a slate-gray jumper.
“Hello again.” His dark eyes crinkle in a smile. “How are you doing?”
“Er … good, thanks.” I swallow hard. “I just heard about the coffee machine. Um, thanks.”
“No problem.”
Can You Keep a Secret? Page 8