Can You Keep a Secret?

by Sophie Kinsella

  There’s another silence, and I cast around for something to say. “So, um, I have a confession to make,” I say, gesturing to his plate. “I pinched one of your scallops.”

  I wait for him to pretend to be shocked, or angry. Or anything.

  “That’s OK,” he says, and begins to fork the rest of them into his mouth.

  I don’t understand. What’s happened?

  By the time we’ve finished our tarragon chicken with rocket salad and chips, my entire body is tense with misery. This date is a disaster. A complete disaster. I’ve made every effort possible to chat, and joke, and be funny. But Jack’s taken two more calls, and the rest of the time he’s been all broody and distracted, and to be honest, I might as well not be here.

  I feel like crying with disappointment. We were getting on so well. What went wrong?

  “I’ll … just go and freshen up,” I say as our main-course plates are removed, and Jack simply nods.

  The ladies’ is more like a palace than a loo, with spotlit mirrors, dressing tables, plushy chairs, and a woman in uniform to give you a towel. For a moment I feel a bit shy, phoning Lissy in front of her—but she must have seen it all before, mustn’t she?

  “Hi,” I say as Lissy picks up. “It’s me.”

  “Emma! How’s it going?”

  “It’s awful.”

  “What do you mean?” she says in horror. “How can it be awful? What’s happened?”

  “That’s the worst thing!” I slump into a chair. “It all started off brilliantly. We were laughing and joking, and the restaurant’s amazing, and he’d ordered this special menu just for me, all full of my favorite things …”

  I swallow hard. Now that I put it like that, it does all sound pretty perfect.

  “It sounds wonderful!” says Lissy in astonishment. “So, how come—”

  “So then he had this call on his mobile.” I grab a tissue from a tortoiseshell box and blow my nose. “And ever since, he’s barely said a word to me! He keeps disappearing off to take calls, and I’m left on my own, and when he comes back, the conversation’s all strained and stilted, and he’s obviously only half paying attention.”

  “Maybe he’s worried about something, but he doesn’t want to burden you with it,” says Lissy after a pause.

  “That’s true,” I say slowly. “He does look pretty hassled.”

  “Maybe something awful has happened, but he doesn’t want to ruin the mood. Just try talking to him.”

  “OK,” I say, feeling more cheerful. “OK, I’ll try that. Thanks, Lissy.”

  I walk back to the table, feeling slightly more positive. A waiter materializes to help me with my chair, and as I sit down I give Jack the warmest, most sympathetic look I can muster. “Jack, is everything OK?”

  He frowns. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well … you keep disappearing off. I just wondered if there was anything … you wanted to talk about.”

  “It’s fine,” he says curtly. “Thanks.” His tone is very much “subject closed,” but I’m not going to give up that easily.

  “Have you had some bad news?”

  “No.”

  “Is it … a business thing?” I persist. “Or … or is it some kind of personal …”

  Jack looks up, a flash of anger in his face. “I said it’s nothing. Quit it.”

  That puts me in my place, doesn’t it?

  “Would you both care for dessert?” A waiter’s voice interrupts me, and I smile as best I can.

  “Actually, I don’t think so.” I’ve had enough of this evening. I want to go home.

  “Very well. Any coffee?”

  “She does want dessert,” says Jack over my head.

  What? What did he just say? The waiter looks at me in hesitation.

  “No, I don’t!”

  “Come on, Emma,” says Jack, and suddenly his warm, teasing tone is back. “You don’t have to pretend with me. You told me on the plane, this is what you always say. You say you don’t want a dessert, when really you do.”

  “Well, this time I really don’t!”

  “It’s specially created for you.” Jack leans forward. “Häagen-Dazs, meringue, Baileys sauce on the side …”

  I feel completely patronized. How does he know what I want? Maybe I just want fruit. Maybe I want nothing. “I’m not hungry.” I push my chair back.

  “Emma, I know you. You want it, really—”

  “You don’t know me!” I cry angrily before I can stop myself. “Jack, you may know a whole load of random facts about me. But that doesn’t mean you know me!”

  “What?”

  “If you knew me, you would have realized that when I go out to dinner with someone, I like them to listen to what I’m saying. I like them to treat me with a bit of respect, and not tell them to ‘quit it’ when all they’re doing is trying to make conversation …”

  Jack looks totally astonished.

  “Emma, are you OK?”

  “No. I’m not OK! You’ve practically ignored me all evening.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “You have! You’ve been on autopilot. Ever since your mobile phone started going …”

  “Look.” Jack sighs, thrusting his fingers through his hair. “A few things are going on in my life at the moment. They’re very important—”

  “Fine. Well, let them go on without me.”

  Tears are stinging my eyes as I stand up and reach for my bag. I so wanted this to be a perfect evening. I had such high hopes.

  “That’s right! You tell him!” the woman in gold supportively calls from across the room. “You know, this girl’s got a lovely husband of her own!” she exclaims to Jack. “She doesn’t need you!”

  “Thank you for dinner,” I say, gazing fixedly at the tablecloth as one of the waiters magically appears at my side with my coat.

  “Emma,” says Jack, getting to his feet in disbelief. “You’re not seriously going.”

  “I am.”

  “Give it another chance. Please. Stay and have some coffee. I promise I’ll talk—”

  “I don’t want any coffee,” I say as the waiter helps me on with my coat.

  “Mint tea, then. Chocolates! I ordered you a box of Godiva truffles specially …” His tone is entreating, and just for an instant I waver. I love Godiva truffles.

  No, I’ve made up my mind. “I don’t care. I’m going. Thank you very much,” I add to the waiter. “How did you know I wanted my coat?”

  “We make it our business to know,” says the waiter discreetly.

  “You see?” I say to Jack. “They know me.”

  There’s an instant of silence.

  “Fine,” says Jack at last in resignation. “Fine. Daniel will take you home. He should be waiting outside in the car—”

  “I’m not going home in your car! I’ll make my own way, thanks.”

  “Emma, don’t be stupid—”

  “Good-bye. And thanks very much,” I add to the waiter. “You were all very attentive and nice to me.”

  I hurry out of the restaurant to discover it’s started to rain. And I don’t have an umbrella.

  Well, I don’t care. I stride along the streets, skidding slightly on the wet pavement, feeling raindrops mingling with tears on my face. I have no idea where I am. I don’t even know where the nearest tube is or where …

  Hang on. There’s a bus stop. The Islington bus runs from here.

  Well, fine. I’ll take the bus home. And then I’ll have a nice cup of hot chocolate. And maybe some ice cream in front of the telly.

  It’s one of those bus shelters with a roof and little seats, and I sit down, thanking God my hair won’t get any wetter.

  What happened? Did I do something wrong? Did I break some rule I wasn’t even aware of? One minute everything’s great. The next, it’s a disaster. It doesn’t make any sense. My mind is running back and forth, trying to work it out, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when things started going wrong, when a big silver car pu
rrs up at the pavement.

  I don’t believe it.

  “Please,” says Jack, getting out. “Let me take you home.”

  “No,” I say without turning my head.

  “You can’t stand here in the rain.”

  “Yes, I can! Some of us live in the real world, you know.”

  What does he think? That I’ll meekly say “Thank you!” and get in? That just because he’s got a fancy car he can behave how he likes?

  I turn away and pretend to be studying a poster all about AIDS. The next moment Jack has arrived in the bus shelter. He sits down in the little seat next to mine, and for a while we’re both silent.

  “I know I was terrible company this evening,” he says eventually. “And I’m sorry. And I’m also sorry I can’t tell you anything about it. But my life is … complicated. And some bits of it are very delicate. Do you understand?”

  No, I want to say. No, I don’t understand, when I’ve told you every single, little thing about me.

  “I suppose,” I say at last.

  The rain is beating down even harder, thundering on the roof of the shelter and creeping into my—Jemima’s—silver sandals. God, I hope it won’t stain them.

  “I’m sorry the evening was a disappointment to you,” says Jack, lifting his voice above the noise.

  “It wasn’t,” I say, suddenly feeling bad. “I just … I had such high hopes! I wanted to get to know you a bit … and I wanted to have fun … and for us to laugh … and I wanted one of those pink cocktails, not champagne …”

  Shit. Shit. That slipped out before I could stop it.

  “But … you like champagne!” says Jack, looking stunned. “You told me. Your perfect date would start off with champagne.”

  I can’t quite meet his eye. “Yes, well. I didn’t know about the pink cocktails then, did I?”

  Jack throws back his head and laughs. “Fair point. Very fair point. And I didn’t even give you a choice, did I?” He shakes his head ruefully. “You were probably sitting there thinking, ‘Damn this guy. Can’t he tell I want a pink cocktail?’ ”

  “No!” I say at once, but my cheeks are turning crimson, and Jack is looking at me with such a comical expression, I want to hug him.

  “Oh, Emma. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to get to know you, too. And I wanted to have fun, too. It sounds like we both wanted the same things. And it’s my fault we didn’t get them.”

  “It’s not your fault—” I mumble.

  “This is not the way I planned for things to go.” He looks at me seriously. “Will you give me another chance? Tomorrow night?”

  A big red double-decker bus rumbles up to the bus stop, and we both look up.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say, standing up. “This is my bus.”

  “Emma, don’t be silly. Come in the car.”

  I feel a flicker of temptation. The car will be all warm and cozy and comfortable.

  But something deeper inside me resists it. I want to show Jack that I was serious. That I didn’t come running out here expecting him to follow me.

  “I’m going on the bus.”

  The automatic doors open, and I step onto the bus. I show my travel card to the driver and he nods.

  “You’re seriously considering riding on this thing?” says Jack, stepping on behind me. He peers dubiously at the usual motley collection of night bus riders. A man with bulbous eyes looks up at us and hunches his plastic hood over his head. “Is this safe?”

  “You sound like my grandpa! Of course it’s safe. It goes to the end of my road.”

  “Hurry up!” says the driver impatiently to Jack. “If you haven’t got the money, get off.”

  “I have American Express …” says Jack, feeling in his pocket.

  “You can’t pay a bus fare with American Express!” I say. “Don’t you know anything? And anyway”—I stare at my travel card for a few seconds—“I think maybe we should call it an evening. I’m pretty tired.”

  I’m not really tired. But somehow I want to be alone. I want to clear my head and start again.

  “I see,” says Jack in a more serious voice. “I guess I’d better get off,” he says to the driver. Then he looks at me. “You haven’t answered me. Can we try again? Tomorrow night. And this time we’ll do whatever you want. You call the shots.”

  “OK.” I try to sound noncommittal, but as I meet his eye, I find myself smiling, too. “Tomorrow.”

  “Eight o’clock again?”

  “Eight o’clock. And leave the car behind,” I add firmly. “We’ll do things my way.”

  “Great! I look forward to it. Good night, Emma.”

  “Good night.”

  As he turns to get off, I climb the stairs to the top deck of the bus. I head for the front seat, the place I always used to sit when I was a child, and look out at the dark, rainy London night. If I gaze for long enough, the streetlights become blurred like a kaleidoscope. Like a fairyland.

  That date was nothing like I expected it to be.

  Not that I knew what to expect. But I did have the odd imaginary scenario in my head, ranging from dreadful (he doesn’t turn up; it turns out he’s a Nazi) to fantastic (we end up making love on a speedboat on the Thames and he asks me to marry him. Actually I think that one might have been a dream).

  The real thing was somehow better and worse, all at once. I wasn’t expecting to storm out. I wasn’t expecting to cry. I wasn’t expecting Jack to have made such an effort.

  Swooshing around my mind are images of the woman in gold, the pink cocktail, Jack’s expression as I said I was leaving, the waiter bringing me my coat, Jack’s car arriving at the bus stop. Everything’s jumbled up. I can’t quite straighten my thoughts. All I can do is sit there, aware of familiar, comforting sounds around me. The old-fashioned grind and roar of the bus engine. The noise of the doors swishing open and shut. The sharp ring of the request bell. People thumping up the stairs and thumping back down again.

  I can feel the bus swaying as we turn corners, but I’m barely even aware of where we’re going. Until after a while, I start to take in familiar sights outside, and I realize we’re nearly at my street. I gather myself, reach for my bag, and totter along to the top of the stairs.

  Suddenly the bus makes a sharp swing left, and I grab for a seat handle, trying to steady myself. Why are we turning left? I look out of the window, thinking I’ll be really pissed off if I end up having to walk, and blink in astonishment.

  We’re in my tiny little road.

  And now we’ve stopped outside my house.

  I hurry down the stairs, nearly breaking my ankle.

  “Forty-one Elmwood Road,” the driver says with a flourish.

  No. This can’t be happening.

  I look around the bus in bewilderment, and a couple of drunk teenagers leer at me.

  “What’s going on?” I look at the driver. “Did he pay you?”

  “Five hundred quid,” says the driver, and winks at me. “Whoever he is, love, I’d hold on to him.”

  Five hundred quid? “Thanks,” I manage. “I mean … thanks for the ride.”

  Feeling as though I’m in a dream, I get off the bus and head for the front door. But Lissy has already got there and is opening it. She looks totally mystified.

  “What on earth’s a bus doing here?”

  “It’s my bus,” I say. “It took me home.”

  I wave to the driver, who waves back, and the bus rumbles off into the night.

  Fourteen

  OK. Don’t tell anyone. Do not tell anyone that you were on a date with Jack Harper last night.

  As I arrive at work the next day, I feel almost convinced I’m going to blurt it out by mistake. Or someone’s going to guess. I mean, surely it must be obvious from my face. From my clothes. From the way I’m walking. I feel as though everything I do screams, “Hey, guess what I did last night!”

  “Hiya,” says Caroline as I make myself a cup of coffee. “How are you?”

 
“I’m fine, thanks!” I say, giving a guilty jump. “I just had a quiet evening in last night. With my flatmate. We watched three videos, Pretty Woman, Notting Hill, and Four Weddings. Just the two of us. No one else.”

  “Right!” says Caroline, looking a bit bemused. “Er, lovely!”

  I’m losing it. Everyone knows this is how criminals get caught. They add too many details and trip themselves up.

  Right, no more babbling.

  “Hi,” says Artemis as I sit down at my desk.

  “Hi,” I say, forcing myself to keep it at that. I won’t even mention which kind of pizza Lissy and I ordered, even though I’ve got a whole story ready about how the pizza company thought we said green pepper instead of pepperoni, ha-ha, what a mix-up.

  I’m supposed to be working on a money-off flyer for Panther Prime this morning. But instead, I find myself taking out a piece of paper and starting a list of possible date venues where I can take Jack tonight.

  1. Pub. No. Far too boring.

  2. Movie. No. Too much sitting, not talking to each other.

  3. Ice-skating. Jack and I will glide around to music in seamless harmony … No. I can’t skate. I’ll end up twisting my ankle.

  4.

  I’ve run out of ideas already. How crap is this?

  Suddenly I have a thought. I read this article on marketing innovation last month that said if your mind was blank, you should write buzzwords like SUCCESS and CUSTOMER and DESIRES on a piece of paper and wait for them to stimulate your brain.

  I think for a bit, then write down, JACK, DATE, ROMANCE, KISS. I gaze at the words, trying to focus. But it’s hard to concentrate when my brain is half tuning in to the idle conversation going on around me.

  “… really working on some secret project, or is that just a rumor?”

  “… company in a new direction, apparently, but no one knows exactly what he’s …”

  “… is this Sven guy anyway? I mean, what function does he have?”

  “He’s Jack’s bodyguard, isn’t he?” says someone.

  That’s it. That’s exactly what Sven looks like. A bodyguard. Or a hit man. Maybe he’s in charge of “dealing” with Jack’s competitors.