Can You Keep a Secret?

by Sophie Kinsella

  He’s being so nice to me. He’s pretending he’s having a good time. But what does he think inside? He must despise me. He must think I’m a complete and utter dizzy cow.

  “Emma … are you OK?”

  “Not really,” I say in a thick voice. “Jack … I’m so sorry. I really am. I honestly had it all planned. We were going to go to this really cool club where celebrities go, and it was going to be really good fun …”

  “Emma.” Jack puts his drink down and looks at me. “I wanted to spend this evening with you. And that’s what we’re doing.”

  “Yes. But—”

  “That’s what we’re doing,” he repeats firmly.

  He leans toward me, and my throat tightens in excitement. This is it. He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to—

  Suddenly I stiffen in a rictus of horror.

  Jack stops moving, puzzled. “Emma? Are you OK?”

  “It’s just … a spider,” I manage through clenched teeth, and jerk my head at my leg.

  A big black spider is slowly crawling up my ankle. I feel almost sick, just looking at it.

  With one brisk swipe, Jack brushes the spider off onto the grass, and I subside back on the bench, trying to regain my composure.

  “Planes and spiders, huh?” says Jack.

  “Yeah, kind of. I suppose you’re not afraid of anything,” I add, trying to laugh it off.

  “Real men don’t get afraid,” he says lightly.

  He seems to have forgotten all about kissing me. Misery sinks over me like a cold cloud. Why do I have to be scared of bloody spiders? As soon as I get home tonight, I’m booking myself on a hypnosis course. Spiders, flying, and screechy nails on blackboards. I’m going to zap them all.

  In the distance I can hear a group of people leaving Antonio’s, shouting to one another in Italian.

  “So, how did you get that scar?” I say, to make conversation. I gesture to his wrist, where a faint line snakes underneath his cuff.

  “It’s a long, boring story. You don’t want to hear it.”

  Yes, I do! an inner voice protests. Jack’s not exactly the best at talking about himself.

  “You have tomato sauce on your chin,” he says, and reaches up with a napkin. His fingers brush gently against my face, and I feel a huge bound of hope. Maybe I didn’t ruin things. He’s bending toward me again. This is it. This is really it. This is—

  “Jack.”

  We both leap in shock, and I spill my cocktail on the ground. I turn around, and there’s Sven, standing at the gate of the tiny garden.

  What the bloody fuck is Sven doing here?

  “Great timing,” murmurs Jack. “Hi, Sven.”

  “But … but what’s he doing here?” I stare at Jack. “How did he know where we were?”

  “He called while you were getting the pizza.” Jack sighs and rubs his face. “I didn’t know he’d get here this quickly. Emma … something’s come up. I need to have a quick word with him. I promise it won’t take long. OK?”

  “OK,” I reply, trying to sound cheerful. After all, what else can I say? I reach for the cocktail shaker, pour the remains of the pink cocktail into my cup, and take a deep swig.

  Jack and Sven are standing by the gate, having an animated conversation in low voices. I take a sip of cocktail and casually shift along the bench so I can hear better.

  “… what to do from here …”

  “… plan B … back up to Glasgow …”

  “… urgent …”

  I look up and find myself meeting Sven’s eye. Quickly I look away again, pretending to be studying the ground. Their voices get even lower, and I can’t hear a word. Then suddenly Jack breaks off and comes toward me.

  “Emma … I’m really sorry about this. But I’m going to have to go.”

  “Go?”

  “I’m going to have to go away for a few days. I’m sorry.” He sits down beside me on the bench. “But … it’s pretty important.”

  “Oh. Oh, right.”

  “Sven’s ordered a car to take you home.”

  Great, I think savagely. Thanks a lot, Sven. “That was really … thoughtful of him,” I say, and trace a pattern in the dirt with my shoe.

  “Emma, I really have to go,” says Jack. “But I’ll see you when I get back, OK? At the company family day. And we’ll … take it from there.”

  “OK.” I try to smile. “That would be great.”

  “I had a good time tonight.”

  “So did I.” My eyes are lowered. “I know it wasn’t exactly clockwork … but I had a really good time.”

  “We’ll have a good time again.” He gently lifts my chin until I’m looking straight at him. “I promise, Emma.”

  He leans forward, and this time there’s no hesitation. His mouth lands on mine, sweet and firm. He’s kissing me. Jack Harper is kissing me on a park bench.

  His mouth is opening mine; his stubble is rough against my face. His arm creeps around me and pulls me toward him, and my breath catches in my throat. I find myself reaching under his jacket, feeling the ridges of muscle beneath his shirt. Oh, God, I want this. I want more.

  Suddenly he pulls away, and I feel like I’ve been wrenched out of a dream.

  “Emma, I have to go.”

  My mouth is prickly wet. I can still feel his skin on mine. My entire body is throbbing. This can’t be the end. It can’t.

  “Don’t go,” I hear myself saying thickly. “Half an hour.”

  What am I suggesting? That we do it under a bush?

  Frankly, yes. Anywhere would do.

  “I don’t want to go.” His dark eyes are almost opaque. “But I have to.”

  “So … I’ll … I’ll see you.” I can barely talk properly.

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Jack.” We both look up to see Sven at the gate.

  “OK,” calls Jack. We both stand up, and I discreetly look away from Jack’s rather strange posture.

  I could ride along in the car and—

  No. No. Rewind. I did not think that.

  As we reach the road, there are two silver cars waiting by the pavement. Sven is standing by one, and the other is obviously for me. Bloody hell. I feel like I’ve suddenly become part of the royal family or something.

  As the driver opens the door for me, Jack touches my hand briefly. I want to grab him for a final snog, but somehow I manage to control myself.

  “ ’Bye,” he murmurs.

  “ ’Bye,” I murmur back.

  Then I get into the car, the door closes with an expensive clunk, and we purr away.

  Sixteen

  We’ll take it from there. That could mean …

  Or it could mean …

  Oh, God. Every time I think about it, I feel an excited little fizz. I can’t concentrate at work. I can’t think about anything else.

  The corporate family day is a company event, I keep reminding myself. Not a date. It’ll be a work occasion, and there probably won’t be any chance at all for Jack and me to do more than say hello in a formal, boss-employee manner. Possibly shake hands. Nothing more.

  We’ll take it from there.

  Oh, God. Oh, God …

  On Saturday morning I get up extra early, exfoliate all over, shave under my arms, rub in my most expensive body cream, and paint my toenails.

  Just because it’s always a good thing to be well groomed. No other reason.

  I choose my Gossard lacy bra and matching knickers, and my most flattering bias-cut summer dress.

  Then, with a slight blush, I pop some condoms into my bag. Simply because it’s always good to be prepared. This is a lesson I learned when I was eleven years old at Brownies, and it’s always stayed with me. OK, maybe Brown Owl was talking about spare hankies and sewing kits rather than condoms … but the principle is the same, surely?

  The family day is happening at Panther House, which is the Panther Corporation’s country house in Hertfordshire. They use it for training an
d conferences and creative brainstorming days, none of which I ever get invited to. So I’ve never been here before, and as I get out of the taxi, I have to admit I’m pretty impressed. It’s a really nice big old mansion, with lots of windows and pillars at the front. Probably dating from the … older period.

  I follow the sounds of music and walk around the house to find the event in full swing on the vast lawn. Brightly colored bunting is festooning the back of the house, tents are dotting the grass, a band is playing on a little bandstand, and children are shrieking on a bouncy castle.

  “Emma!” I look up to see Cyril advancing toward me, dressed as a joker with a red and yellow pointy hat. “Where’s your costume?”

  “Costume!” I try to look surprised. “Gosh! Um, I didn’t realize we had to have one.”

  This is not entirely true. Yesterday evening at about five o’clock, Cyril sent around an urgent e-mail to everyone in the company, reading: A REMINDER: AT THE CFD, COSTUMES ARE COMPULSORY FOR ALL PANTHER EMPLOYEES.

  But honestly. How are you supposed to produce a costume with five minutes’ warning? And no way was I going to come here today in some hideous nylon outfit from the party shop.

  Plus, let’s face it, what can they do about it now? “Sorry,” I say vaguely, looking around for Jack. “Still, never mind—”

  “You people! It was on the memo; it was in the newsletter.…” He takes hold of my shoulder as I try to walk away. “Well, you’ll have to take one of the spare ones.”

  “What?” I look at him blankly. “What spare ones?”

  “I had a feeling this might happen,” says Cyril with a slight note of triumph, “so I made advance provisions.”

  A cold feeling starts to creep over me. He can’t mean—

  He can’t possibly mean—

  “We’ve got plenty to choose from …” he’s saying.

  No. No way. I have to escape. Now.

  I give a desperate wriggle, but his hand is like a clamp on my shoulder. He pushes me into a tent, where two middle-aged ladies are standing beside a rack of … Oh, my God. The most revolting, lurid man-made–fiber costumes I’ve ever seen. Worse than the party shop. Where did he get these from?

  “No,” I say in panic. “Really. I’d rather stay as I am …”

  “Everybody has to wear a costume!” says Cyril firmly. “It was in the memo!”

  “But … but this is a costume!” I quickly gesture to my dress. “I forgot to say. It’s, um … a twenties summer garden-party costume, very authentic …”

  “Emma, this is a fun day,” snaps Cyril. “And part of that fun derives from seeing our fellow employees and family in amusing outfits. Which reminds me, where is your family?”

  “Oh.” I pull the regretful face I’ve been practicing all week. “They … Actually, they couldn’t make it.”

  Which could be because I didn’t tell them anything about it.

  “You did tell them about it?” He eyes me suspiciously. “You sent them the leaflet?”

  “Yes!” I cross my fingers behind my back. “Of course I told them! They would have loved to be here!”

  “Well. You’ll have to mingle with other families and colleagues. Here we are. Snow White.” He shoves a horrendous nylon dress with puffy sleeves toward me.

  “I don’t want to be Snow White—” I begin, then break off as I see Moira from Accounts miserably being pushed into a big, shaggy gorilla costume. “OK.” I grab the dress. “I’ll be Snow White.”

  I almost want to cry. My beautiful, flattering dress is lying in a calico bag, ready for collection at the end of the day. And I am wearing an outfit that makes me look like a six-year-old. A six-year-old with zero taste and color blindness.

  As I emerge disconsolately from the tent, the band is briskly playing the “Oom-Pah-Pah” song from Oliver! and someone is making an incomprehensible, crackly announcement over the loudspeaker. I look around, squinting against the sun, trying to work out who everyone is behind their disguises. Suddenly I spot Paul walking along on the grass, dressed as a pirate, with three small children hanging off his legs.

  “Uncle Paul! Uncle Paul!” one is shrieking. “Do your scary face again!”

  “I want a lolly!” yells another. “Uncle Paul, I want a lolleeee!”

  “Hi, Paul,” I say miserably. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Whoever invented corporate family days should be shot,” he says without a flicker of humor. “Get the hell off my foot!” he snaps at one of the children, and they all shriek with delighted laughter.

  “Mummy, I don’t need to go to the bathroom,” mutters Artemis as she walks by dressed as a mermaid, in the company of a commanding woman in a huge hat.

  “Artemis, there’s no need to be so touchy!” booms the woman.

  This is so weird. People with their families are completely different. Thank God mine aren’t here.

  I wonder where Jack is. Maybe he’s in the house. Maybe I should—

  “Emma!” I look up and see Katie heading toward me. She’s dressed in a totally bizarre carrot costume, holding the arm of an elderly man with gray hair. Who must be her father, I suppose.

  Which is a bit weird, because I thought she said she was coming with—

  “Emma, this is Philip!” she says radiantly. “Philip, meet my friend Emma. She’s the one who brought us together!”

  I don’t believe it.

  This is her new man? This is Philip? But he has to be at least seventy!

  In a total blur, I shake his hand, which is dry and papery, just like Grandpa’s, and manage to make a bit of small talk about the weather. But all the time, I’m in total shock.

  Don’t get me wrong. I am not ageist. I am not anything-ist. I think people are all the same whether they’re black or white, male or female, young or—

  But he’s an old man! He’s old!

  “Isn’t he lovely?” says Katie fondly as he goes off to get some drinks. “He’s so thoughtful! Nothing’s too much trouble. I’ve never been out with a man like him before!”

  I clear my throat. “So, er, remind me. Where exactly did you meet Philip again?”

  “You know, silly!” says Katie, mock chidingly. “You suggested I should try somewhere different for lunch, remember? Well, I found this really unusual place tucked away near Covent Garden. In fact, I really recommend it.”

  “Is it … a restaurant? A cafe?”

  “Not exactly,” she says thoughtfully. “I’ve never been anywhere like it before. You go in and someone gives you a tray, and you collect your lunch and then eat it, sitting at all these tables. And it only costs two pounds! And afterward they have free entertainment! Like sometimes it’s bingo or whist … sometimes it’s a singsong around the piano … One time they had this brilliant tea dance! I’ve made loads of new friends …”

  I stare at her for a few silent seconds.

  I’m remembering that place Grandpa went to a few times, until he had a bust-up with the manager. That place full of jolly helpers, and posters advertising cheap trips to the seaside.

  “Katie,” I say at last. “This place. It couldn’t possibly be … a day care center for the elderly?”

  “Oh!” she says, looking taken aback. “Erm …”

  “Try to think. Is everyone who goes there on the … old side?”

  “Gosh,” she says slowly, and screws up her brow. “Now that you mention it, I suppose everyone is kind of quite … mature. But honestly, Emma, you should come along! We have a real laugh!”

  “You’re still going there?”

  “I go every day,” she says in surprise. “I’m on the social committee!”

  “Hello again!” says Philip cheerily, reappearing with three glasses. He beams at Katie and gives her a kiss on the cheek, and she beams back. And suddenly I feel quite heart-warmed. OK, it’s weird. But they do seem to make a really sweet couple.

  “The man behind the stall seemed rather stressed-out, poor chap,” says Philip as I take my first delicious sip of P
imm’s, closing my eyes to savor it.

  Mmm. There is absolutely nothing nicer on a summer’s day than a nice cold glass of—

  Shit. I promised to do the Pimm’s stall with Connor, didn’t I? I glance at my watch and realize I’m already ten minutes late. Oh, bloody hell. No wonder he’s stressed-out.

  I hastily apologize to Philip and Katie, then hurry as fast as I can to the stall, which is in the corner of the garden. There I find Connor manfully coping with a huge queue all on his own. He’s dressed as Henry VIII, with puffy sleeves and breeches, and has a huge red beard stuck to his face. He must be absolutely boiling.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, sliding in beside him. “I had to get into my costume. What do I have to do?”

  “Pour out glasses of Pimm’s,” says Connor curtly. “One pound fifty each. Do you think you can manage?”

  “Yes!” I say, a bit nettled. “Of course I can manage!”

  For the next few minutes we’re too busy serving Pimm’s to talk. Then the queue melts away, and we’re left on our own again.

  Connor isn’t even looking at me, and he’s clanking glasses around so ferociously I’m afraid he might break one.

  “Connor, look, I’m sorry I’m late—”

  “That’s all right,” he says, and starts chopping a bundle of mint as though he wants to kill it. “So, did you have a nice time the other evening?”

  That’s what this is all about.

  “Yes, I did, thanks,” I say after a pause.

  “With your new mystery man.”

  “Er, yes,” I say, and scan the crowded lawn, searching for Jack.

  “It’s someone at work, isn’t it?” Connor suddenly says, and I nearly drop a bottle of lemonade.

  “Why do you say that?” I force myself to sound light.

  “That’s why you won’t tell me who it is.”

  “It’s not that! It’s just … Look, Connor, can’t you just respect my privacy?”

  “I think I have a right to know who I’ve been dumped for!” He shoots me a reproachful look.

  “You weren’t dumped for him—” I stop myself. It’s probably not a good idea to get into details. “I just … don’t think it’s very helpful to discuss it.”

  “Emma, I’m not stupid.” He gives me an appraising look. “I know you a lot better than you think I do.”