Can You Keep a Secret?

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Well, I wash my hands of it,” says Jemima, still shaking her head. “What are you going to wear?” Her eyes suddenly narrow. “Where’s your outfit?”

  “My black dress. And my strappy sandals.” I gesture to the back of the door, where my black dress is hanging up.

  Jemima’s eyes narrow even further. She would have made a really good SS officer, I often think.

  “You’re not going to borrow anything of mine.”

  “No!” I say in indignant tones. “Honestly, Jemima, I do have my own clothes, you know.”

  “Fine. Well. Have a good time.”

  Lissy and I wait until her footsteps have tapped down the corridor and the front door has slammed.

  “Right!” I say, but Lissy lifts a hand.

  “Wait.”

  We both sit still for about five minutes. Suddenly there’s the sound of the front door being opened very quietly.

  “She’s trying to catch us out,” whispers Lissy. “Hi!” she says, raising her voice. “Is anyone there?”

  “Oh, hi,” says Jemima, appearing at the door of the room. “I forgot my lip gloss.” Her eyes do a quick sweep of the room.

  “I don’t think you’ll find it in here,” says Lissy innocently.

  “No. Well.” Her eyes travel around the room again. “OK. Have a nice evening.”

  Again her footsteps tap down the corridor, and again the front door slams.

  “Right!” says Lissy. “Let’s go.”

  We unpeel the Sellotape from Jemima’s door, and Lissy makes a little mark where it was. “Wait!” she says as I’m about to push the door open. “There’s another one at the bottom.”

  “You should have been a spy,” I say, watching her carefully peel it off.

  “OK,” she says, her forehead furrowed with concentration. “There have to be some more booby traps.”

  “There’s Sellotape on the wardrobe, too,” I say. “And … look!” I point up. A glass of water is balanced on top of the wardrobe, ready to drench us if we open the door.

  “That cow!” says Lissy as I reach up for it. “You know, I had to spend all evening fielding calls for her the other night, and she wasn’t even grateful.”

  She waits until I’ve put the water down safely, then reaches for the door. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Lissy takes a deep breath, then opens the wardrobe door. Immediately a loud, piercing siren begins to wail. “Wee-oo wee-oo wee-oo …”

  “Shit!” she says, banging the door shut. “Shit! How did she do that?”

  “It’s still going! Make it stop! Make it stop!”

  “I don’t know how to! You probably need a special code!”

  We’re both jabbing at the wardrobe, patting it, searching for an off switch.

  “I can’t see a button or a switch or anything.…”

  Abruptly the noise stops, and we both stare at each other, panting.

  “Actually,” says Lissy after a long pause. “Actually, I think that might have been a car alarm outside.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh, right. Yes, maybe it was.”

  Looking a bit sheepish, Lissy reaches for the door again—and this time it’s silent. “OK,” she says. “Here goes.”

  “Wow,” we breathe as one as she swings the door open.

  Jemima’s wardrobe is like a treasure chest. New, shiny, gorgeous clothes, all neatly folded and hung on padded hangers. All the shoes in shoe boxes with Polaroids on the front. All the belts are hanging neatly from hooks. All the bags are neatly lined up on a shelf. It’s been a while since I borrowed anything from Jemima, but every single item seems to have changed since then.

  “She must spend about an hour a day keeping this tidy,” I say, thinking of the jumble that is my own wardrobe.

  “She does,” says Lissy. “I’ve seen her.”

  Mind you, Lissy is even worse. She has all these good intentions—but when she’s working hard on a case, her wardrobe basically ends up being a chair in her room, on which all her garments get heaped.

  “So!” says Lissy with a grin, and reaches for a white sparkly dress. “What look would Madam like this evening?”

  I don’t wear the white sparkly dress. But I do try it on. In fact, we both try on quite a lot of stuff, and then have to put it all back, very carefully. At one point another car alarm goes off outside, and we both jump in terror, then immediately pretend we weren’t fazed.

  In the end, I go for this amazing new red top with slashed shoulders, over my own black DKNY chiffon trousers (twenty-five pounds from the Notting Hill Housing Trust shop), and Jemima’s silver high heels from Prada. And then, although I wasn’t intending to, at the last minute, I grab a little black Gucci bag.

  “You look amazing!” says Lissy as I do a little twirl. “Completely fab!”

  “Do I look too smart?”

  “Of course not! Come on—you’re going out to dinner with a multimillionaire!”

  “Don’t say that!” I exclaim, feeling a clutch of nerves. I look at my watch. It’s almost eight o’clock.

  Oh, God. In the fun of getting ready, I’d almost forgotten what it was all for.

  Keep calm, I tell myself. It’s just dinner. That’s all it is. Nothing out of the—

  “Fuck!” Lissy’s looking out the window in the sitting room. “Fuck! There’s a great big car outside!”

  “What? Where?” I hurry to join her. As I follow her gaze, I almost can’t breathe.

  An enormous, posh car is waiting outside our house. I mean enormous. It’s all silver and shiny and looks incredibly conspicuous in our tiny little street. In fact, I can see some curious neighbors looking out of the house opposite.

  What am I doing? This is a world I know nothing about. When we were sitting in the plane, Jack and I were just two people on an equal level. But now, look at the world he lives in—and look at the world I live in.

  “Lissy,” I say in a tiny voice. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Yes, you do!” says Lissy—but I can see she’s just as freaked out as I am.

  The buzzer goes, and we both jump.

  I feel like I might throw up.

  OK. OK. Here I go. “Hi,” I say into the intercom. “I’ll … I’ll be right down.” I replace the phone and look at Lissy.

  “Well,” I say. “This is it!”

  “Emma.” Lissy grabs my hands. “Before you go. Don’t take any notice of what Jemima said. Just have a lovely time.” She hugs me tightly. “Call me if you get a chance!”

  “I will!”

  I take one last look at myself in the mirror, then make my way down the stairs.

  I open the front door, and Jack’s standing there, wearing a jacket and tie. His hair is brushed. He looks tidy. For an instant, I feel even more nervous.

  Then he smiles—and all my fears fly away like butterflies. Jemima’s wrong. This isn’t me against him. This is me with him.

  “Hi,” he says. “You look very nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  I reach for the door handle, but a man in a peaked cap rushes forward to open it for me.

  “Silly me!” I say with a nervous laugh.

  I can’t quite believe I’m getting into this car. Me. Emma Corrigan. I feel like a princess. I feel like a movie star.

  I sit down on the plushy seat, trying not to think how different this is from any car I’ve ever been in, ever.

  “Are you OK?” says Jack.

  “Yes! I’m fine!” My voice is a squeak.

  “Emma,” says Jack. “We’re going to have fun. I promise. Did you have your pre-date sweet sherry?”

  How did he know—

  Oh, yes. I told him on the plane. “Yes, I did, actually,” I admit.

  “Would you like some more?” He opens the bar, and I see a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream sitting on a silver platter.

  “Did you get that especially for me?” I say in disbelief.

  “No, it’s my favorite tipple.” His expression is so deadpan, I can
’t help laughing.

  “I’ll join you,” he says as he hands me a glass. “I’ve never tasted this before.” He pours himself a deep measure, takes a sip, and splutters. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s yummy! It tastes like Christmas!”

  “It tastes like …” He shakes his head. “I don’t even want to tell you what it tastes like. I’ll stick to whisky, if you don’t mind.”

  “You’re missing out.” I take another sip and grin happily at him.

  I’m completely relaxed already.

  This is going to be the perfect date.

  Thirteen

  We arrive at a restaurant in Mayfair that I’ve never been to before. It’s so completely posh, whyever would I?

  “It’s kind of a small place,” Jack murmurs as we walk through a pillared courtyard. “Not many people know about it. But the food is fabulous.”

  “Mr. Harper. Miss Corrigan,” says a man in a Nehru suit, appearing out of nowhere. “Please come this way.”

  They know my name? Wow.

  We glide past more pillars into a softly lit room decorated with huge abstract paintings, candles burning in alcoves, and only a few linen-covered tables. Three other couples are already seated. All the women have diamonds flashing on their hands and ears.

  “This is so not my world,” I mutter nervously to Jack.

  At once he stops. He turns to me, his face serious, while the waiter hovers. “Emma.” His voice is low, but distinct. “You are here, having dinner. This is as much your world as any other. OK?” He meets my eyes as though issuing a command, and I feel a ripple of pleasure.

  “OK.”

  There’s a couple to our right, and as we walk past, a middle-aged woman with platinum hair and a gold lamé jacket suddenly catches my eye.

  “Well, hello!” she says. “Rachel!”

  “What?” I halt, bewildered. Is she looking at me?

  She gets up from her seat, makes her way over, and plants a kiss on my cheek before I can react. “How are you, darling? We haven’t seen you for ages!”

  “Not your world, huh?” says Jack in my ear.

  You can smell the alcohol on her breath from five yards away. And as I glance over at her dinner partner, he looks just as bad.

  “I think you’ve made a mistake,” I say politely. “I’m not Rachel.”

  “Oh!” The woman frowns for a moment. Then she glances at Jack, and her face snaps in understanding. “Oh! Oh, I see. Of course you’re not.” She gives me a little wink.

  “No!” I say in horror. “You don’t understand. I’m really not Rachel. I’m Emma!”

  “Emma! Of course!” She nods conspiratorially. “Well, have a wonderful dinner! And call me sometime!”

  As she stumbles back to her chair, Jack gives me an inquiring look. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “That woman is extremely drunk.”

  “Aha.” Jack nods. “So, shall we sit down? Or do you have any more long-lost friends you’d like to greet?”

  “No … I think that’s probably it.”

  “If you’re sure,” says Jack. “Take your time. You’re sure that elderly gentleman over there isn’t your grandfather?”

  I feel a laugh rising and quell it. This is a posh restaurant. I have to behave with decorum.

  We’re shown to a table in the corner, by the fire. A waiter helps me into my chair and fluffs my napkin over my knee, while another pours out some water and yet another offers me a bread roll. Exactly the same is happening on Jack’s side of the table. We have six people dancing attendance on us! I want to catch Jack’s eye and laugh, but he looks unconcerned, like this is perfectly normal.

  Perhaps it is normal for him, it suddenly strikes me. Oh, God. Perhaps he has a butler who makes him tea and irons his newspaper every day.

  But what if he does? I mustn’t let any of this faze me.

  “Actually, my grandpa never comes to London if he can help it,” I say, and give Jack a teasing look. “He thinks it’s too full of Americans these days.”

  “He’s absolutely right,” replies Jack without a flicker. “Would this be the grandpa who likes Panther bars? Who taught you to ride a bike?”

  “That’s the one,” I say, watching as a waiter adjusts the flowers in our vase. “Do you have a grandpa? Any grandparents?”

  “All dead, I’m afraid.”

  There’s a pause. I’m waiting for Jack to add something else. Some detail or other. But … he doesn’t.

  Well, maybe he doesn’t like talking about his grandparents.

  “So!” I say as the waiting staff melt away. “What shall we have to drink?” I’ve already eyed up the drink that that woman in gold has. It’s all pink and has shaved slices of watermelon decorating the glass, and looks absolutely delicious.

  “Already taken care of,” says Jack with a smile as one of the waiters brings over a bottle of champagne, pops it open, and starts pouring. “I remember your telling me on the plane, your perfect date would start off with a bottle of champagne appearing at your table as if by magic.”

  “Oh,” I say, quelling a tiny feeling of disappointment. “Er, yes! So I did.”

  “Cheers,” says Jack, and lightly clinks my glass.

  “Cheers.” I take a sip, and it’s delicious champagne. It really is.

  I wonder what the watermelon drink tastes like.

  Stop it. Champagne is perfect. “The first time I ever had champagne was when I was six years old—” I begin.

  “At your aunt Sue’s,” says Jack. “You took all your clothes off and threw them in the pond.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, halted mid-track. “Yes, I’ve told you, haven’t I?”

  So I won’t bore him with that anecdote again. I sip my champagne and quickly try to think of something else to say. Something that he doesn’t already know.

  Is there anything?

  “I’ve chosen a very special meal, which I think you’ll like,” Jack says, taking a sip of his champagne. “All preordered, just for you.”

  “Gosh!” I say, taken aback. “How … wonderful!”

  A meal specially preordered for me! That’s incredible.

  Except … choosing your food is half the fun of eating out, isn’t it? It’s almost my favorite bit.

  Anyway. It doesn’t matter. It’ll be perfect. It is perfect. “Um, so … what do you like doing in your spare time?” I ask.

  Jack considers for a moment. “I hang out. I watch baseball. I fix my cars …”

  “You have a collection of vintage cars!” I exclaim. “That’s right. I really, um …”

  “You hate vintage cars.” He looks amused. “I remember.”

  Damn. I was hoping he might have forgotten. “I don’t hate the cars themselves!” I say quickly. “I hate the people who … who …”

  Shit. That didn’t quite come out right. I take a quick gulp of champagne, but it goes down the wrong way and I start coughing. Oh, God. I’m really spluttering. My eyes are tearing.

  And now the other six people in the room have all turned to stare.

  “Are you OK?” says Jack in alarm. “Have some water. You like Evian, right?”

  “Er, yes. Thanks.”

  Oh, bloody hell. I hate to admit that Jemima could be right about anything. But it would have been a lot easier if I could just have said, “Oh, I adore vintage cars!”

  Anyway. Never mind.

  As I’m gulping my water, a plate of roasted peppers somehow materializes in front of me. “I love roasted peppers!” I exclaim in delight.

  “I remembered.” Jack looks rather proud of himself. “You said on the plane that your favorite food was roasted peppers.”

  “Did I?” I say in surprise.

  I don’t remember that. I mean, I like roasted peppers, but I wouldn’t have said—

  “So I called the restaurant and had them make it specially for you. Peppers disagree with me,” Jack adds as a plate of scallops
appears in front of him, “otherwise, I would join you.”

  I gape at his plate. Oh, my God. Those scallops look amazing. I adore scallops.

  “Bon appétit!” says Jack cheerfully.

  “Er, yes! Bon appétit.”

  I take a bite of roasted pepper. It’s delicious. And it was very thoughtful of him to remember.

  But … I can’t help eyeing his scallops. They’re making my mouth water.

  “Would you like a bite?” says Jack, following my gaze.

  “No!” I say, jumping. “No, thanks! These peppers are absolutely … perfect!” I beam at him and take another huge bite.

  Suddenly Jack claps a hand on his pocket. “My cell,” he says. “Emma … would you mind if I took this? It could be something important.”

  When he’s gone, I just can’t help it. I reach over and spear one of his scallops. I close my eyes as I chew it, letting the flavor flood through my mouth. That is just divine. That is the best food I’ve ever tasted in my life. I’m just wondering whether I could get away with eating a second one if I shifted the others around his plate a bit, when I smell a whiff of gin. The woman in the golden jacket is right by my ear.

  “Tell me quickly!” she says. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re … having dinner.”

  “I can see that!” she says impatiently. “But what about Jeremy? Does he have any idea?”

  “Look. I’m not who you think I am—”

  “I can see that! I would never have thought you had this in you!” The woman squeezes my arm. “Well, good for you! Have some fun—that’s what I say! You took your wedding band off,” she adds, glancing at my left hand. “Smart girl … oops! He’s coming! I’d better go!”

  She moves away as Jack sits back down in his place, and I lean forward, already half giggling. Jack is going to love this.

  “Guess what!” I say. “I have a husband called Jeremy! My friend over there just came over and told me. So, what do you reckon? Has Jeremy been having a dalliance, too?”

  There’s silence, and Jack looks up, a strained expression on his face. “I’m sorry?” he says.

  He didn’t hear a word I said.

  I can’t say the whole thing again. I’ll just feel stupid. In fact … I already feel stupid. “It … doesn’t matter.”