Can You Keep a Secret?
Page 19
We stop at some traffic lights. Outside, plastered across a building, is a huge billboard advertising Panther Cola.
“It must be weird being you,” I say without thinking. Jack looks at me, and I realize that came out wrong. “I just mean … it’s all around you. Everywhere you look, the Panther logo. Like a symbol of your success.”
“Well, sure,” he says, giving me a wry look. “And of course my failures.”
Failures? “You’ve never failed at anything!” I say, affronted. “You’re a successful, creative marketing genius. Everyone knows that.”
Jack laughs. “You think I’ve had nothing but success? You want to hear about some of the great Panther failures? Like …” He considers for a moment. “The Panther tan tattoo.”
“The what?”
“We developed this back in the eighties. A transparent sticky plastic shape. You stuck it on your skin, sunbathed, and … zowee. When you peeled it off at the end of a day in the sun, you had a shape on your back. A pair of lips, a flower, whatever. Let me tell you, this was going to be the latest craze.” He pauses. “Before skin cancer came in, of course.”
“What happened?”
“We lost half a million dollars,” says Jack simply. “A lot, back then.”
“Blimey.”
I’m utterly taken aback. I’ve never thought of Jack as failing at anything.
“Then there was the Panther pogo stick … and the Panther pool cue. What a disaster.” Jack shakes his head reminiscently. “Pete’s fault. He started playing pool every night. Fine. But he couldn’t leave it at that.” He puts on a British accent. “ ‘Jack, believe me. Every red-blooded male, deep down, wants his own pool cue.’ ” Jack gives me a rueful look. “Like hell they do.”
I laugh at his comical expression. Then all of a sudden the light fades from his eyes, and he looks out of the window, frowning. It’s like he’s trying to control himself.
“You still miss Pete?” I say hesitantly.
“Yeah.”
“It must be really hard,” I say, feeling inadequate.
“It’s hard.” He nods. “And it’s tiring. Doing it all alone. Pete and I … we spoke a kind of shorthand. We bounced off each other. Gave each other energy. We worked hard … but it wasn’t all meetings and formality.” Jack pauses. “You know, we took a vacation together every summer. People didn’t understand it. But that’s where we got the most work done all year.”
“He must have been … an amazing person.” I bite my lip.
Jack’s silent, and I feel a dart of nerves. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked about Pete. Maybe I’ve gone too far.
“He had a glow about him,” he says suddenly. “He had this phenomenal … energy. Pete was the kind of guy who’d walk into a meeting, take the room over, and make a bunch of promises he couldn’t fulfill. Then somehow … he’d fulfill them.” Jack turns to look at me. He’s smiling, but his eyes are shiny. “ ‘Don’t Pause.’ That was Pete.”
“That’ll be eight-fifty,” comes the cabbie’s voice from the front, and I give a startled jump. We’re in Clerkenwell. I’d almost forgotten what we were doing.
As we get out into the fresh air, the intense mood of the taxi ride disappears. I insist on paying the fare and lead Jack down the alley.
“Very interesting!” says Jack, looking around. “So, where are we going?”
“Just wait,” I say enigmatically. I head for the door, press the buzzer, and take Lissy’s key out of my pocket with a little frisson of excitement.
He is going to be so impressed. He is going to be so impressed!
“Hello?” comes a voice.
“Hello,” I say casually. “I’d like to speak to Alexander, please.”
“Who?” says the voice.
“Alexander,” I repeat, and give a little knowing smile. Obviously they have to double-check.
“Ees no Alexander here.”
“You don’t understand. Al-ex-an-der,” I enunciate clearly.
“Ees no Alexander.”
Maybe this is the wrong door, it suddenly occurs to me. I mean, I remember it as being this one—but maybe it was this other one, with the frosted glass. Yes. This one looks quite familiar, actually.
“Tiny hitch.” I smile at Jack and press the new bell.
There’s silence. I wait a few minutes, then try again, and again. There’s no reply.
OK. So … it’s not this one, either.
Fuck.
I am a moron. Why didn’t I check the address? I was just so sure I’d remember where it was.
“Is there a problem?” says Jack.
“No!” I say at once. “I’m just not entirely sure …”
I look up and down the street, trying not to panic. Which one was it? Am I going to have to ring every doorbell in the street? I take a few steps along the pavement to trigger my memory. And suddenly, through an arch, I spy another alley almost identical to this one.
I feel cold with horror. Am I in the right alley, even? I dart forward and peer into the other alley. It looks exactly the same: rows of nondescript doors and blanked-out windows.
What am I going to do? I can’t try every single doorbell in every bloody alley in the vicinity. It never once occurred to me that this might happen. Not once. I never even thought to—
OK, I’m being stupid. I’ll call Lissy! She’ll tell me.
I pull out my mobile and dial home, but immediately it clicks onto voice mail.
“Hi, Lissy, it’s me,” I say, trying to sound light and casual. “A small problem has arisen, which is that I can’t remember exactly which door the club is behind. Or actually … which alley it’s in, either. So if you get this, could you give me a call? Thanks!”
I switch off, then turn to Jack with the brightest, most I’m-in-control expression I can muster.
“Just a slight glitch,” I say, and give a relaxed little laugh. “There’s this secret club along here somewhere, but I can’t quite remember where.”
“Never mind,” says Jack. “These things happen.”
I feel a sinking sensation at his polite voice. He’s just being kind. These things never happen to him. Of course they don’t.
I jab the number for home again, but it’s still engaged. Quickly I dial Lissy’s mobile number, but it’s switched off.
Oh, fuck. Fuck. We can’t stand here in the street all night.
“Emma,” says Jack, “would you like me to make a reservation at—”
“No!” I jump as though stung. Jack’s not going to reserve anything. I’ve said I’ll organize this evening, and I will. “No, thanks. It’s OK.” I make a snap decision. “Change of plan. We’ll go to Antonio’s instead.”
“I could call the car—” begins Jack.
“We don’t need the car!” I stride toward the main road, and, thank God, a taxi’s coming toward us with its light on. I flag it down, open the door for Jack, and say to the driver, “Hi, Antonio’s on Sanderstead Road in Clapham, please.”
Hurrah. I have been grown-up and decisive and saved the situation.
“What’s Antonio’s?” says Jack as the taxi begins to speed away.
“It’s a bit out of the way, in south London. But it’s really nice. Lissy and I used to go there when we lived in Wandsworth. It’s got huge pine tables and gorgeous food and sofas and stuff. And they never chivvy you.”
“It sounds perfect,” says Jack.
OK, it should not take this long to get from Clerkenwell to Clapham. We should have gotten there ages ago. I mean, it’s only down the road! After we’ve sat in one solid congested patch of traffic for five minutes, I lean forward and say to the driver yet again, “Is there a problem?”
“Traffic, love.” He gives an easy shrug. “What can you do?”
You can find a clever traffic-avoiding back route like taxi drivers are supposed to! I want to yell furiously. But instead I say politely, “So … how long do you think it’ll be before we get there?”
“Who knows?”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “This hasn’t been one of my greatest successes …”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I had it all planned out—”
“Emma, really. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”
Just then the taxi swings sharply around a corner, and I’m thrown up against Jack. Without my intending to, my brain immediately catalogs that his shirt is crisp, that his body feels hard and muscular, that he’s got the faintest five o’clock shadow, that the skin of his neck is completely different from Connor’s, that I have the strongest urge to reach up and touch him …
“Sorry!” I laugh. “These taxis …” I pull away and start to fumble with my seat belt, aware that my cheeks are flaming.
I really am taking the prize for least cool date in the universe.
“Since we’re on the subject,” says Jack, as though nothing just happened. “What have been your greatest successes?”
“My what?”
“Just off the top of your head. Since I told you about my failures …” He gives me a wry look.
“Well … OK.”
I think for a moment. My successes in life. It’s not exactly a long list. “I suppose the first would be getting my job. Second would be …” I come to a halt.
“Or something you’re proud of,” puts in Jack. “Anything.”
“Getting Lissy out of her room after her boyfriend chucked her,” I reply promptly. “She was a total wreck. She didn’t wash her hair and she didn’t eat, and she had this big case she had to prepare for, but she just kept crying and saying she didn’t care anymore …”
“So, what did you do?” Jack sits up, looking intrigued.
“I tricked her. I pretended to set the kitchen on fire. The smoke alarms were going off, and I was shrieking. She came rushing out … and there was a tea party waiting for her. With a big cake.” I can’t help smiling at the memory. “So she cried some more. But at least she was out …”
“You two must be close,” says Jack.
“We’ve just been best friends forever.” I shrug. “You know …”
“I do.” Jack nods.
Suddenly I realize what I’ve said. Oh, God. I hope I haven’t upset him.
“There’s a third!” I exclaim, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “I have three successes to my name.”
“Three?” Jack responds with mock amazement. “Are you superhuman?”
“I got a joke published in a magazine when I was ten!”
“You had a joke published?” He sounds genuinely impressed. “Tell it to me.”
“ ‘A ghost walks into a bar. And the barman says …’ ”
“ ‘We don’t serve spirits.’ ” Jack gives me a quizzical look. “That’s a very old joke.”
“They didn’t say it had to be original,” I retort. “I still got five quid for it.”
I glance out of the window. We’re still only in Battersea. How can we be going so slowly?
“You know, that’s a perfect exercise in marketing,” Jack is saying. “Take an an old product … repackage it … sell it. People have written books about how to do this. You obviously have the natural instinct.”
“Well, you know … maybe I’ll make millions one day, like you,” I say lightly.
“Is that what you want?” asks Jack. “To make millions?”
“Absolutely!” I’m uncertain whether he’s teasing or not. “Billions, preferably.”
“I’m serious. What does Emma Corrigan want out of life? Money? Fame? Security?”
“Happiness, I suppose. Doing what I want to be doing. Feeling I’ve made my mark on the world.”
A promotion, I add silently. And thinner thighs would be nice.
I look out of the window again and feel a lift in spirits. At last. We’re in Clapham! Nearly there … As we halt at a red light, I can barely keep still on my seat for frustration. Precious time is ticking away and the driver’s just sitting there like it doesn’t matter …
Green! It’s green! Go now!
OK, calm down, Emma. Here’s the street. We’re finally here. “So this is it!” I say, trying to sound relaxed as we get out of the taxi. “Sorry it took a while …”
“No problem,” says Jack. “This place looks great.”
As I hand the fare to the taxi driver, I have to admit, I’m pretty pleased we came. Antonio’s looks absolutely amazing! There are fairy lights decorating the familiar green facade, and helium balloons tied to the canopy, and music and laughter spilling out of the open door. I can even hear people singing inside.
“It’s not normally quite this buzzing!” I say with a laugh, and head for the door. I can already see Antonio standing just inside. His thick, graying hair is as bushy as ever, and he’s as plump as one of his own ravioli bundles.
“Hi!” I say as I push the door open. “Antonio!”
“Emma!” says Antonio. His cheeks are rosy; he’s holding a glass of wine and is beaming even more widely than usual. “Bellissima!”
He kisses me on each cheek, and I feel a flood of warm relief. I was right to come here. I know the management. They’ll make sure we have a wonderful time.
“This is Jack.”
“Jack! Wonderful to meet you!” Antonio kisses Jack on each cheek, too.
“So, could we have a table for two?”
“Ah …” He pulls a face of regret. “Sweetheart, we’re closed!”
“What? But … but you’re not closed. People are here!” I look around at all the merry faces.
“It’s a private party!” He raises his glass to someone across the room and shouts something in Italian. “My nephew’s wedding. You ever meet him? Guido. He served here a few summers ago …”
“I … I’m not sure.”
“He met a lovely girl at the law school. You know, he’s qualified now! You ever need legal advice …”
“Thanks. Well … congratulations.”
“I hope the party goes well,” says Jack, and squeezes my arm. “Never mind, Emma. You couldn’t have known.”
“Darling, I’m sorry!” says Antonio, seeing my face. “Another night, I’ll give you the best table we have. You call in advance—you let me know …”
“I’ll do that.” I manage a smile. “Thanks, Antonio.”
I can’t even look at Jack. I dragged him all the way down to bloody Clapham for this.
I have to redeem this situation. Quickly. “We’ll go to the pub!” I say as soon as we’re outside on the pavement. “I mean, what’s wrong with just sitting down with a nice drink?”
“Sounds good,” says Jack, and follows me as I hurry down the street to a sign reading “The Nag’s Head” and push the door open. I’ve never been in this pub before, but surely it’s bound to be fairly—
OK. Maybe not.
This has to be the grimmest pub I’ve ever seen in my life. Threadbare carpet, no music, and with no signs of life except a single man with a paunch.
I cannot have a date with Jack in here. I just can’t. “Right!” I say, swinging the door shut again. “Let’s think again.” I quickly look up and down the street, but apart from Antonio’s everything is shut except for a couple of grotty take-away places and a minicab firm. “Well … let’s just grab a taxi and head back to town!” I say with a kind of shrill brightness. “It won’t take too long.”
I stride to the edge of the pavement and stick out my hand.
During the next three minutes, not a single car passes by. Not just no taxis. No vehicles at all.
“Kind of quiet,” observes Jack at last.
“Well, this is really kind of a residential area. Antonio’s is a bit of a one-off.”
Outwardly, I’m still quite calm. But inside I’m starting to panic. What are we going to do? Should we try to walk to Clapham High Street? But it’s bloody miles away.
<
br /> I glance at my watch and am shocked to see that it’s nine-fifteen. We’ve spent over an hour faffing about and we haven’t even had a drink. And it’s all my fault.
I can’t even organize one simple evening without its going catastrophically wrong.
Suddenly I want to burst into tears. I want to sink down on the pavement and bury my head in my hands and sob.
“How about pizza?” says Jack, and I feel a pinprick of hope.
“Why? Do you know a pizza place around—”
“I see pizza for sale.” He nods at one of the grotty take-away places. “And I see a bench.” He gestures to the other side of the road, where there’s a tiny railed garden with paving and trees and a wooden bench. “You get the pizza. I’ll save the bench.”
I have never felt so mortified in my entire life. Ever.
Jack Harper takes me to the grandest, poshest restaurant in the world, and I take him to a park bench in Clapham.
“Here’s your pizza,” I say, carrying the hot boxes over to where he’s sitting. “I got margherita, ham and mushroom, and pepperoni.”
I can’t quite believe this is going to be our supper. I mean, they aren’t even nice pizzas. They aren’t even gourmet, roasted-artichoke type of pizzas. They’re just cheap slabs of dough pastry with melted, congealed cheese and a few dodgy toppings.
“Perfect,” says Jack. He takes a large bite, then reaches into his inside pocket. “Now, this was supposed to be your going-home present, but since we’re here …”
I gape as he produces a small stainless steel cocktail shaker and two matching cups. He unscrews the top of the shaker and, to my astonishment, pours a pink, transparent liquid into each cup.
Is that …
“I don’t believe it!” I gaze at him, wide-eyed.
“Well, come on. I couldn’t let you wonder all your life what it tasted like, could I?” He hands me a cup and raises his toward me. “Your good health.”
“Cheers.” I take a sip of the cocktail … and—oh, my God—it’s yummy. Sharp and sweet, with a kick of vodka.
“Good?”
“Delicious!” I say, and take another sip.