“You amaze me.” His mouth twitches. “The atmosphere in the admin. department also seemed very false. My suspicions were aroused when two employees spontaneously started singing the Panther Corporation song. I didn’t even know there was a Panther Corporation song.”
“Neither did I,” I say in surprise. “Is it any good?”
“What do you think?” He grimaces in mock horror and I give a little giggle.
It’s bizarre, but the atmosphere between us isn’t remotely awkward anymore. In fact, it almost feels like we’re old friends or something.
“How about this corporate family day?” he says. “Looking forward to it?”
“Like having teeth pulled out.”
“I got that vibe.” He nods, looking amused. “And what …” He hesitates. “What do people think about me?” He casually rumples his hair. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to—”
“No, everyone likes you!” I think for a few moments. “Although … some people think your friend is creepy.”
“Who, Sven?” Jack stares at me for a minute, then throws back his head and laughs. “I can assure you, Sven is one of my oldest, closest friends, and he’s not in the least bit creepy. In fact—”
He breaks off as the lift doors ping. We both snap back into impassive expressions and move slightly away from each other. The doors open, and I freeze.
Connor is standing on the other side.
When he sees Jack Harper, his face lights up as though he can’t believe his luck.
“Hi there!” I say, trying to sound natural.
“Hi,” he says, his eyes shining with excitement.
“Plenty of room,” says Jack easily.
There’s an infinitesimal pause—then he moves a couple of steps closer to me.
Somewhere in my body a tiny pulse starts beating. Which must be because of the weirdness of the situation.
“Which floor would you like?” says Jack.
“Nine, please.”
Jack reaches past to press the button. I catch the faint smell of his musky aftershave, familiar from the plane. I don’t move. I don’t dare look up.
“Mr. Harper, may I quickly introduce myself?” Connor eagerly holds out his hand. “Connor Martin from Research. You’re coming to visit our department later on today.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Connor,” says Jack. “Research is vital for a company like ours.”
“You’re so right!” says Connor, thrilled. “In fact, I’m looking forward to discussing with you the latest research findings on Panther Sportswear. We’ve come up with some very fascinating results involving customer preferences on fabric thickness. You’ll be amazed!”
“I’m … sure I will,” says Jack. “I look forward to it.”
Connor gives me an excited grin. “You’ve already met Emma Corrigan from our marketing department?” he says.
“Yes, we’ve met.” Jack’s tone gives nothing away.
We travel for a few seconds in an awkward silence.
“How are we doing for time?” says Connor. He glances at his watch, and in horror I see Jack glance at it, too.
Oh, God.
… I gave him a really nice watch, but he insists on wearing this orange digital thing …
“Wait a minute!” says Jack, dawn breaking over his face. He peers at Connor as though seeing him for the first time. “Wait a minute. You’re Ken.”
Oh, no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh—
“It’s Connor.” Connor looks puzzled. “Connor Martin—”
“I’m sorry!” Jack hits his head with his fist. “Connor. Of course. And you two”—he gestures to me—“are an item?”
Connor looks uncomfortable. “I can assure you, sir, that at work, our relationship is strictly professional. However. In a private context, Emma and I are … yes, having a personal relationship.”
“That’s wonderful!” says Jack encouragingly.
Connor looks as thrilled as a head prefect receiving a good-conduct badge. “In fact,” he adds proudly, “Emma and I have just decided to move in together.”
“Is that so?” Jack shoots me a look of genuine surprise. “That’s … great news. When did you make that decision?”
“Just a couple of days ago,” says Connor. “At the airport.”
“At the airport,” echoes Jack Harper after a short silence. “Very interesting.”
I can’t look at him. I’m staring desperately at the floor. Why can’t this bloody lift go quicker?
“Well … I’m sure you’ll be very happy together,” Jack Harper says to Connor. “You seem very compatible.”
“Oh, we are!” says Connor at once. “We both love jazz, for a start.”
“Is that so?” says Jack. “You know, I can’t think of anything nicer in the world than a shared love of jazz.”
He’s teasing me. This is unbearable.
“Really?” says Connor eagerly.
“Absolutely.” Jack nods. “I’d say jazz, and … Woody Allen films.”
“We love Woody Allen films!” says Connor in amazed delight. “Don’t we, Emma!”
“Yes,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Yes, we do.”
“Now, Connor, tell me,” says Jack in confidential tones. “Did you ever find Emma’s …”
If he says “G spot,” I will die. I will die. I will die.
“… presence here distracting? Because I can imagine I would!” Jack gives Connor a friendly smile, but Connor doesn’t smile back.
“As I said, sir,” he begins a little stiffly, “Emma and I operate on a strictly professional basis while at work. We would never dream of abusing the company’s time for our own … ends.” He flushes. “I mean … by ends, I don’t mean … I meant …”
“I’m glad to hear it,” says Jack.
God, why does Connor have to be such a … goody-goody?
The lift pings, and I feel relief drain over me. Thank God, at last I can escape—
“Looks like we’re all going to the same place,” says Jack Harper. “Connor, why don’t you lead the way?”
I can’t cope with this. I just can’t cope. As I pour out cups of tea and coffee for members of the marketing department, I’m outwardly calm, smiling at everyone and even chatting. But inside I’m all unsettled and confused. I don’t want to admit it to myself, but seeing Connor through Jack Harper’s eyes has thrown me.
I love Connor. I didn’t mean any of what I said on the plane. I love him. I run my eyes over his face, trying to reassure myself. There’s no doubt about it. Connor is good-looking by any standards. He glows with good health. His hair is shiny and his eyes are blue, and he’s got a gorgeous dimple when he smiles.
Jack Harper never seems to shave. His hair is all over the place. And there’s a hole in his jeans. But even so. It’s like he’s some kind of magnet. I’m sitting here, my attention firmly on the tea trolley—and yet, somehow I can’t keep my eyes off him.
It’s because of the plane, I keep telling myself. It’s just because we were in a traumatic situation together, and … and that’s why. No other reason.
“We need more lateral thinking, people,” Paul is saying. “The Panther Bar is simply not performing as it should. Connor, you have the latest research statistics?”
Connor stands up, and I feel a little flip of apprehension on his behalf. I can tell he’s really nervous from the way he keeps fiddling with his cuffs.
“That’s right, Paul.” He picks up a clipboard and clears his throat. “In our latest survey, one thousand teenagers were questioned on aspects of the Panther Bar. Unfortunately, the results were inconclusive.”
He presses his remote control. A graph appears on the screen behind him, and we all regard it obediently.
“Seventy-four percent of ten-to-fourteen-year-olds felt the texture could be more chewy,” says Connor earnestly. “However, sixty-seven percent of fifteen-to-eighteen-year-olds felt the texture could be more crunchy, while twenty
-two percent felt it could be less crunchy.”
I glance over Artemis’s shoulder and see she’s written “Chewy/crunchy??” on her notepad.
Connor presses the remote control again, and another graph appears.
“Forty-six percent of ten-to-fourteen-year-olds felt the flavor was too tangy. However, thirty-three percent of fifteen-to-eighteen-year-olds felt it was not tangy enough, while …”
Oh, God. I know it’s Connor. And I love him and everything. But can’t he make this sound a bit more … interesting? And anyway, what’s the point of all these stupid percentages that don’t really mean anything? Those teenagers couldn’t give a shit. They probably all lied on their forms.
I glance over to see how Jack Harper is taking it, and he raises his eyebrows at me. Immediately I flush, feeling disloyal.
“Ninety percent of female teenagers would prefer the calorie content to be reduced,” Connor concludes. “But the same proportion would also like to see a thicker chocolate coating.” He gives a helpless shrug.
“They don’t know what the hell they want,” says someone.
“We polled a broad cross-section of teenagers,” says Connor, “including Caucasians, Afro-Caribbeans, Asians, and, er”—he peers at the paper—“Jedi knights. At least, that’s what they put.”
“Teenagers!” says Artemis, rolling her eyes.
“Briefly remind us of our target market, Connor,” says Paul with a frown.
“Our target market”—Connor consults another clipboard—“is aged ten to eighteen, in full- or part-time education. He/she drinks Panther Cola four times a week, eats burgers three times a week, visits the cinema twice a week, reads magazines and comics but not books, is most likely to agree with the lifestyle statement ‘It’s more important to be cool than rich.’ …” He looks up. “Shall I go on?”
“Does he/she eat toast for breakfast?” says somebody thoughtfully. “Or cereal?”
“I … I’m not sure,” says Connor, riffling through his pages. “We could do some more research …”
“I think we get the picture,” says Paul. “Does anyone have any thoughts on this?”
All this time, I’ve been plucking up the courage to speak, and now I take a deep breath. “You know, my grandpa really likes Panther Bars!” I say. Everyone swivels in their chairs to look at me, and I feel my face grow hot.
“What relevance does that have?” says Paul with a frown.
“It’s just that …” I swallow. “He really doesn’t like the new papaya and pineapple flavor …”
“With all due respect, Emma,” says Connor in an almost patronizing tone, “your grandfather is hardly in our target demographic!”
“Unless he started very young,” quips Artemis.
I flush, feeling stupid, and pretend to be reorganizing the tea bags.
To be honest, I feel a bit hurt. Why did Connor have to say that? I know he wants to be all professional and proper when we’re at work. But that’s not the same as being mean, is it? I’d always stick up for him.
“My own view,” Artemis is saying, “is that if the Panther Bar isn’t performing, we should axe it. It’s quite obviously a problem child—”
I look up in dismay. They can’t axe the Panther Bar! What will Grandpa take to his bowling tournaments?
“Surely a fully cost-based, customer-oriented rebranding—” begins somebody.
“I disagree.” Artemis leans forward. “If we’re going to maximize our concept innovation in a functional and logistical way, then surely we need to focus on our strategic competencies—”
“Excuse me,” says Jack Harper, lifting a hand. It’s the first time he’s spoken, and everyone turns to look. There’s a sudden prickle of anticipation in the air, and Artemis glows smugly. “Yes, Mr. Harper?” she says.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.
The whole room reverberates in shock, and I cough with laughter without quite meaning to.
“As you know, I’ve been out of the business arena for a while,” Jack adds. “Could you please translate what you just said into standard English?”
“Oh,” says Artemis, looking discomfited. “Well, I was simply saying that from a strategic point of view, notwithstanding our corporate vision …” She trails off at his expression.
“Try again. Without using the word ‘strategic.’ ”
“Oh,” says Artemis again, and rubs her nose. “Well, I was just saying that … we should … concentrate on … on what we do well.”
“Ah! Now I understand. Please, carry on.”
As Artemis starts talking again, Jack shoots me the briefest of glances. And I can’t help giving a tiny grin back.
After the meeting, people trickle out of the room, still talking, and I go around the table, picking up coffee cups.
“It was very good to meet you, Mr. Harper,” I can hear Connor saying eagerly. “If you’d like a transcript of my presentation …”
“You know, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Jack says in that dry voice. “I think I more or less got the gist.”
Oh, God. Doesn’t Connor realize he’s trying too hard?
I balance all the cups in precarious piles on the trolley, then start collecting the biscuit wrappers.
“Now, I’m due in the design studio right about now,” Jack’s saying, “but I don’t quite remember where it is …”
“Emma!” says Paul sharply. “Can you please show Jack to the design studio? You can clear up the rest of the coffee later.”
I freeze, clutching an orange cream wrapper.
Please, no more.
“Of course,” I manage at last. “It would be a … pleasure. This way.”
Awkwardly, I usher Jack Harper out of the meeting room and we begin to walk down the corridor, side by side. My face is tingling slightly as people try not to gawk at us. I’m aware of everyone else turning into self-conscious robots as soon as they see him. People in adjacent offices are nudging one another excitedly, and I hear at least one person hissing, “He’s coming!”
Is it like this everywhere he goes?
Mind you, he doesn’t even seem to notice.
“So,” says Jack Harper. “You’re moving in with Ken.”
“It’s Connor,” I say. “And yes. Yes, we are.”
“Looking forward to it?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
We’ve reached the lifts and I press the button. I can feel his eyes on me. I can feel them. “What?” I say defensively, turning to look at him.
“Did I say anything?” As I see the amusement in his eyes, I feel stung. What does he know about it?
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, lifting my chin defiantly. “But you’re quite wrong.”
“I’m wrong?”
“Look. I know I might have made certain … comments to you on the plane,” I begin, clenching my fists tightly at my sides. “But what you have to know is that that conversation took place under duress, in extreme circumstances … and I said a lot of things that I didn’t really mean!”
“I see,” says Jack thoughtfully. “So … you don’t like double chocolate chip Häagen-Dazs ice cream.”
For an instant, I’m thrown.
“Some things, obviously, I did mean—”
The lift doors ping, and both our heads jerk up.
“Jack!” says Cyril, standing on the other side of the lift doors. “I wondered where you were!”
“I’ve been having a nice chat with Emma here,” says Jack. “She offered to show me the way.”
“Ah.” Cyril’s dismissive eyes run over me. “Well, they’re waiting for you in the studio.”
“So, um, I’ll just go, then.”
“See you later,” says Jack. “Good talking to you, Emma.”
Nine
As I leave the office in the evening, I feel all agitated, like one of those snow globes you see resting peacefully on shop counters. I was perfectly happy being an ordinary, dull little Swiss
village. But now Jack Harper’s come and shaken me up, and there are snowflakes all over the place, whirling around until I don’t know what I think anymore.
And bits of glitter, too. Tiny bits of shiny, secret excitement.
Every time I catch his eye or hear his voice, it’s like a little dart to my chest.
Which is ridiculous. Ridiculous.
Connor is my boyfriend. Connor is my future. He loves me and I love him and I’m moving in with him. And we’re going to have all-wooden floors and shutters and granite work tops. So there.
So there.
I arrive home to find Lissy on her knees in the sitting room. She’s still in her smart suit and white shirt from court and is helping Jemima into the tightest black suede dress I’ve ever seen.
“Wow!” I say as I put down my bag. “That’s amazing!”
“There!” pants Lissy, and sits back on her heels. “That’s the zip done. Can you breathe?”
Jemima doesn’t move a muscle. Lissy and I glance at each other.
“Jemima!” says Lissy in alarm. “Can you breathe?”
“Kind of,” says Jemima at last. “I’ll be fine.” Very slowly, with a totally rigid body, she totters over to where her Louis Vuitton bag is resting on a chair. Her skin is golden brown with Saint-Tropez tan, her hair is smooth blond, and her makeup has the kind of perfection you only get with time and very expensive brushes. All to get a rock on her finger.
“Did you go to work today?” inquires Lissy.
“Of course I did.” Jemima gives her a scathing look. “Till three.”
“How on earth do you get away with it?”
“I sold a seventy-thousand-pound painting yesterday, thank you very much.” Jemima speaks in short snatches, gasping for breath in between. “This dress is my commission.”
“Jemima, what happens if you need to go to the loo?” I ask.
“Or go back to his place?” says Lissy with a giggle.
“It’s only our second date! I’m not going to go back to his place!” Jemima says in horror. “Mummy says that’s not the way to …” She struggles for breath. “… to get a rock on your finger.”
Can You Keep a Secret? Page 11