“He’s with Jack, isn’t he?” says Amy, who works in Finance but fancies Nick, so she’s always finding excuses to come into our office. “He must be Jack’s lover.”
“What?” I say, sitting up suddenly and snapping the point of my pencil. Luckily everyone’s too busy gossiping to notice.
Jack gay? Jack gay?
That’s why he didn’t kiss me good night. He only wants me to be a friend. He’ll introduce me to Sven and I’ll have to pretend to be all cool with it, like I knew all along—
“Is Jack Harper gay?” Caroline is saying in astonishment.
“I just assumed he was,” says Amy with a shrug. “There’s no woman on the scene—”
“But he doesn’t look groomed enough!”
“I don’t think he looks gay!” I chip in, trying to sound lighthearted and just kind of vaguely interested.
“He’s not gay,” chimes in Artemis authoritatively. “I read an old profile of him in Newsweek, and he was dating the female president of Origin Software. And it said before that he went out with some supermodel.”
A huge surge of relief floods through me.
Obviously I knew he wasn’t gay.
“So, is Jack seeing anyone at the moment?”
“Who knows?”
“He’s pretty sexy, don’t you think?” says Caroline with a wicked grin. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“Yeah, right,” says Nick. “You probably wouldn’t mind his limo, either.”
“Apparently, he hasn’t had a relationship since Pete Laidler died,” says Artemis crisply. “So I doubt you’ve got much of a chance.”
“Bad luck, Caroline,” says Nick with a laugh.
Just for an instant, I find myself imagining what would happen if I stood up and said, “Actually I had dinner with Jack Harper last night.” They’d all be utterly dumbfounded. There’d be gasps, and questions …
Oh, who am I kidding? They wouldn’t believe me, would they? They’d say I was suffering from delusions.
“Hi, Connor,” comes Caroline’s voice, interrupting my thoughts.
Connor? I look up and there he is, with no warning, approaching my desk.
What’s he doing here?
Has he found out about me and Jack?
I push my hair back, feeling nervous. I’ve spotted him a couple of times around the building, but this is our first moment face-to-face since we broke up.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply awkwardly, and there’s silence.
Suddenly I notice my unfinished list of date ideas lying on my desk, with KISS clearly visible. Shit. Trying to stay casual, I reach for it, ball it up, and drop it in the bin.
Around us, all the gossip about Sven and Jack has petered out. I know everyone in the office is listening to us, even if they’re pretending to be doing something else. It’s like we’re the in-house soap opera or something.
And I know which character I am. I’m the heartless bitch who chucked her lovely, decent man for no good reason.
The thing is, I do feel guilty. Every time I see Connor, or even think about him, I get a horrible tight feeling in my chest. But does he have to have such an expression of injured dignity on his face? A kind of you’ve-mortally-wounded-me-but-I’m-such-a-good-person-I-forgive-you kind of look.
I can feel my guilt ebbing away and annoyance starting to rise.
“I only came up,” says Connor at last, “because I’d put us down to do a stint on the Pimm’s stall together at the corporate family day. Obviously when I did so, I thought we’d be—” He breaks off, looking more martyred than ever. “Anyway. But I don’t mind going through with it. If you don’t.”
I’m not going to be the one to say I can’t bear to stand next to him for half an hour. “I don’t mind!” I say.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
There’s another awkward pause.
“I found your blue shirt, by the way,” I say. “I’ll bring it in.”
“Thanks. I think I’ve got some stuff of yours, too …”
“Hey,” says Nick, coming over toward us with a wicked, eyes-gleaming, let’s-stir-shit expression. “I saw you with someone last night.”
I feel a spasm of terror. Fuck! Fuck, fuck. OK … OK … It’s OK. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at Connor.
Who the hell was Connor with?
“That was just a friend,” says Connor stiffly.
“Are you sure?” says Nick. “You looked pretty friendly to me—”
“Shut up, Nick,” says Connor, looking pained. “It’s far too early to be thinking of … moving on. Isn’t it, Emma?”
“Er, yes.” I swallow several times. “Absolutely. Definitely.”
Oh, God.
Anyway. I’m not going to worry about Connor. I have an important date to think about. And thank goodness, by the end of the day I have at last come up with the perfect venue. It only takes me about half an hour to persuade Lissy that when they said, “The key shall in no circumstances be transferred to any nonmember” in the rules, they didn’t really mean it.
At last she reaches into her bag and hands it to me, an anxious expression on her face. “Don’t lose it!”
“I won’t! Thanks, Liss.” I give her a hug.
“You remember the password, don’t you?”
“Yes. ‘Alexander.’ ”
“Where are you going?” says Jemima, coming into my room in a black trouser suit and enormous creamy pearls. She gives me a critical look. “Nice top. Where’s it from?”
“Oxfam. I mean Whistles.”
I’ve decided tonight I’m not even going to try to borrow anything from Jemima. I’m going to wear my nice gray velvet top and black satin skirt, and if Jack doesn’t like it, he can lump it.
“I was meaning to ask,” Jemima says, narrowing her eyes. “You two didn’t go into my room last night, did you?”
“No,” says Lissy innocently. “Why—did it look like we had?”
Jemima was out until three last night, and by the time she got back, everything was back in place. Sellotape and everything. We couldn’t have been more careful.
“No,” admits Jemima. “Nothing was out of place. But I just got a feeling. As though someone had been in there.”
“Did you leave the window open?” says Lissy. “Because I read this article recently, about how monkeys are being sent into houses to steal things.”
“Monkeys?”
“Apparently. The thieves train them.”
Jemima looks from Lissy to me, perplexed, and I force myself to keep a straight face.
“Anyway,” I say to change the subject. “You might like to know that you were wrong about Jack. I’m going out with him again tonight! It wasn’t a disastrous date at all!”
There’s no need to add that we had a big row and I stormed out and he had to follow me to the bus stop. Because the point is, we’re having a second date.
“I wasn’t wrong,” says Jemima. “You just wait. I predict doom.” She glances at herself in the mirror and adjusts her necklace.
“Nice pearls,” says Lissy. “First date?”
Jemima always follows Mummy’s rule: on first dates you wear “prestige jewelry”—that is, real gems, not something cute from Accessorize. You also drop it into the conversation that you collect Tahitian pearls, diamonds, or whatever, and that you’re allergic to base metal.
The rule was started years ago, apparently, after Jemima’s mother had a date with an oil billionaire and wore a simple silver chain. The following day a box arrived from Cartier—containing another simple silver chain and a note from the oil billionaire about how he’d had to restrain himself from buying anything more ostentatious.
And then, two weeks later, he died. Apparently she’s never really got over it.
“Well, ciao. See you later.” Jemima tweaks her pearls one last time, smooths her hair down, and leaves the room. I pull a face at her skinny back and start putting on my mascara.
Ho
nestly. Doom. She’s just trying to spoil things.
“What’s the time?” I say, frowning as I blob a bit on my eyelid.
“Ten to eight,” says Lissy. “How are you going to get there?”
“Cab.”
Suddenly the buzzer goes, and we both look up.
“He’s early,” says Lissy. “That’s a bit weird.”
“He can’t be early!” We both hurry into the sitting room, and Lissy gets to the window first.
“Oh, shit,” she says, looking down to the street below. “It’s Connor.”
“Connor?” I stare at her in horror. “Connor’s here?”
“He’s holding a box of stuff. Shall I buzz him up?”
“No! Pretend we’re not in!”
“Too late,” says Lissy, and pulls a face. “Sorry. He’s seen me.”
The buzzer sounds again, and we exchange helpless looks.
“OK,” I say at last. “I’m going down.”
Shit, shit, shit …
I pelt downstairs and open the door. And there, standing on the doorstep, is Connor, wearing the same martyred expression he had at the office.
“Hi,” he says. “Here are the things I was telling you about. I thought you might need them.”
“Er, thanks,” I say, grabbing the box, which seems to contain one bottle of L’Oréal shampoo and some jumper I’ve never seen in my life. “I haven’t quite sorted out your stuff yet, so I’ll bring it to the office, shall I?”
I dump the box on the stairs, and quickly turn back before Connor thinks I’m inviting him in.
“So, um, thanks,” I say. “It was really good of you to stop by.”
“No problem,” says Connor. He gives a heavy sigh. “Emma … I was thinking perhaps we could use this as an opportunity to talk. Maybe we could have a drink, or supper, even …”
“Gosh,” I say. “I’d love that. I really would. But to be honest, now isn’t a brilliant time …”
“Are you going out?” His face falls.
“Um, yes. With Lissy.” I glance at my watch. It’s six minutes to eight. “So anyway, I’ll see you soon. You know, around the office …”
“Why are you so flustered?”
“I’m not flustered!” I say, and lean casually against the door frame.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes narrow, and he looks past me into the hall. “Is something going on?”
“Connor.” I put a reassuring hand on his arm. “Nothing’s going on. You’re imagining things.”
At that moment, Lissy appears behind me at the door. “Um, Emma, there’s a very urgent phone call for you,” she says in a really stilted voice. “You’d better come straightaway … Oh, hello, Connor!”
The trouble is, Lissy is the worst liar in the world.
“You’re trying to get rid of me!” says Connor, looking from Lissy to me in shock.
“No, we’re not!” says Lissy, flushing bright red.
“Hang on,” says Connor suddenly, staring at my outfit. “Hang on a minute. I don’t … Are you going on a … date?”
My mind works quickly. If I deny it, we’ll probably get into some huge argument. But if I admit the truth … maybe he’ll stalk off in a huff! “You’re right,” I say. “I’ve got a date.”
There’s a shocked silence.
“I don’t believe this,” says Connor, shaking his head, and, to my dismay, descends heavily down onto the garden wall. I glance at my watch. Three minutes to eight. Shit!
“Connor—”
“You told me there wasn’t anyone else! You promised, Emma!”
“There wasn’t! But … there is now. And he’ll be here soon … Connor, you really don’t want to get into this.” I grab his arm and try to lift him, but he weighs about 160 pounds. “Connor, please. Don’t make this more painful for everyone.”
“I suppose you’re right.” At last Connor gets to his feet. “I’ll go.”
He walks to the gate, his back hunched in defeat, and I feel a sudden pang of guilt mixed with a desperate desire for him to hurry. Then, to my horror, he turns back. “So, who is it?”
“It’s … it’s someone you don’t know,” I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. “Look, we’ll have lunch soon and have a good talk. Or something. I promise.”
“OK,” says Connor, looking more wounded than ever. “Fine. I get the message.”
I watch, unable to breathe, as he shuts the gate behind him and walks slowly along the street. Keep walking, keep walking … Don’t stop …
As Connor finally rounds the corner, Jack’s silver car appears at the other end of the street.
“Bloody hell,” murmurs Lissy. “If Jack had been a minute early …”
“Don’t!” I collapse onto the stone wall. “Lissy, I can’t cope with this.”
I feel all shaky. I think I need a drink. Abruptly I realize I’ve only got mascara on one set of eyelashes.
The silver car pulls up in front of the house, and out gets the same uniformed driver as before. He opens the passenger door, and Jack steps out. The formal jacket and tie have gone—he’s wearing a casual blue shirt over jeans.
“Hi!” he says, looking taken aback to see me. “Am I late?”
“No! I was just, um, sitting here. You know. Taking in the view.” I gesture across the road, where I notice for the first time that a man with a huge belly is changing a tire on his Fiat. “Anyway!” I say, hastily standing up. “Actually … I’m not quite ready. Do you want to come up for a minute?”
“Sure. That would be nice.”
“And send your car away!” I add. “You weren’t supposed to have it!”
“You weren’t supposed to be sitting outside your house and catch me,” counters Jack. “OK, Daniel, that’s it for the night.” He nods to the driver. “I’m in this lady’s hands from now on.”
“This is Lissy, my flatmate,” I say as the driver gets back into the car. “Lissy, Jack.”
“Hi,” says Lissy, looking a bit self-conscious as they shake hands.
As we make our way up the stairs to our flat, I’m suddenly aware of how narrow they are and how the cream paint on the walls is all scuffed and the carpet smells of cabbage. Jack probably lives in some enormous, grand mansion. He probably has a marble staircase or something.
But so what? It’s probably awful. All cold and clattery.
“Emma, if you want to get ready, I’ll fix Jack a drink,” says Lissy, with a smile that says, “he’s nice!”
“Thanks,” I say, shooting back an “isn’t he?” look. I hurry into my room and hurriedly start applying mascara to my other eye.
A few moments later there’s a little knock at my door.
“Hi!” I say, expecting Lissy. But in comes Jack, holding out a glass of sweet sherry.
“Oh, thanks!” I say gratefully. “I could do with a drink.”
“I won’t come in—”
“No, it’s fine. Sit down!”
I gesture to the bed, but it’s covered with clothes. And my dressing table stool is piled high with magazines. Damn, I should have tidied up a bit.
“I’ll stand,” says Jack. He takes a sip of what looks like a whisky and looks around my room in fascination. “So this is your room. Your world.”
“Yes.” I flush slightly, unscrewing my lip gloss. “It’s a bit messy—”
“It’s very nice. Very homey.” I can see him taking in the shoes piled in the corner, the fish mobile hanging from my light, the mirror with necklaces strung over the side, and a new skirt hanging on the wardrobe door.
“Cancer Research?” he says puzzledly, looking at the label. “What does that—”
“It’s a shop,” I say, a little defiant. “A secondhand shop.”
“Ah.” He nods in tactful comprehension. “Nice bedspread,” he adds, smiling.
“It’s ironic,” I say in haste. “It’s an ironic statement.”
God, how embarrassing. I should have changed it.
Now Jack’s staring incredulo
usly at my open dressing table drawer crammed with makeup. “How many lipsticks do you have?”
“Er, a few …” I say, closing it.
Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to let Jack come in here. Now he’s picking up my Perfectil vitamins and examining them. I mean, what’s so interesting about vitamins?
“Did you grow up in the city?” I say to distract him. “Or in the country?”
“Kind of between.” Jack looks up from the Perfectil pack. “So these are beauty vitamins? You don’t take them for the health benefits?”
“Well.” I clear my throat, feeling a bit shallow. “Obviously I take them for both health and beauty reasons.…” I reach for my earring box. “So … which do you prefer? Town or country?”
Jack doesn’t seem to hear. He’s looking at Katie’s crochet belt. “What’s this? A snake?”
“It’s a belt,” I say, screwing up my face as I put in an earring. “I know. It’s hideous. I can’t stand crochet.”
Where’s my other earring? Where?
Oh, OK, here it is. Now what’s Jack doing?
I turn to see him looking in fascination at my exercise chart, which I put up in January after I’d spent the entire Christmas eating chocolates.
“ ‘Monday, seven A.M.’ ” he reads aloud. “ ‘Brisk jog around block. Forty sit-ups. Lunch time: yoga class. Evening: Pilates tape. Sixty sit-ups.’ ” He takes a sip of whisky. “Very impressive. You do all this?”
“Well,” I say after a pause, “I don’t exactly manage every single … I mean, it was quite an ambitious … you know, er, anyway!” I quickly spritz myself with perfume. “Let’s go!”
I have to get him out of here quickly before he does something like spot a Tampax and ask me what it is. I mean, honestly! Why on earth is he so interested in everything?
Fifteen
As we head out into the balmy evening, I feel light and happy with anticipation. This evening already has a completely different atmosphere from yesterday night. No scary cars; no posh restaurants. It feels more casual. More fun.
I hail a cab, and as we whizz along Upper Street, I feel quite proud of myself. It just shows, I’m a true Londoner. I can take my guests to little places off the beaten track. I can find spots that aren’t just the obvious venues to go. I mean, not that Jack’s restaurant wasn’t amazing. But how much cooler will this be? A secret club! And I mean—who knows—Ewan might come back this evening!
Can You Keep a Secret? Page 18