Can You Keep a Secret?

  But somehow I keep control of myself.

  “I never want to speak to you again,” I say, and switch off the phone.

  “Well done!” says Lissy.

  An instant later it rings again. “Please, Emma,” says Jack, “just listen for a moment. I know you must be very upset. But if you just give me a second to explain—”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” I exclaim, my face flushing. “You used me and you humiliated me and I never want to speak to you again, or see you, or hear you, or … or …”

  “Taste you,” puts in Jemima, nodding urgently.

  “… or touch you again. Never ever. Ever.” I switch off the phone, march inside, and yank the line out of the wall. Then, with trembling hands, I get my mobile out of the bag and, just as it begins to ring, switch it off.

  As I emerge on the balcony again, I’m still shaking with shock. I can’t quite believe my perfect romance has crumbled into nothing.

  “Are you OK?” says Lissy anxiously.

  “I’m fine. I think. A bit shaky.”

  “Now, Emma,” says Jemima, examining one of her cuticles. “I don’t want to rush you. But you know what you have to do, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “You have to get your revenge.” She looks up and fixes me with a determined gaze. “You have to make him pay.”

  “Oh, no.” Lissy pulls a face. “Isn’t revenge really undignified? Isn’t it better just to walk away?”

  “What good is walking away?” retorts Jemima. “Will walking away teach him a lesson? Will walking away make him wish he’d never crossed you?”

  “Emma and I have always agreed we’d rather keep the moral high ground,” says Lissy determinedly. “ ‘Living well is the best revenge.’ George Herbert.”

  Jemima looks blank. “So anyway,” she says at last, turning back to me. “I’d be delighted to help. Revenge is actually quite a specialty of mine, though I say it myself …”

  I avoid Lissy’s eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Scrape his car, shred his suits, sew fish inside his curtains and wait for them to rot …” she reels off instantly, as though reciting poetry.

  “Did you learn that at finishing school?” says Lissy, rolling her eyes.

  “I’m being a feminist, actually,” retorts Jemima. “We women have to stand up for our rights. You know, before she married my father, Mummy went out with this scientist chap who practically jilted her. He changed his mind three weeks before the wedding—can you believe it? So one night she crept into his lab and pulled out all the plugs of his stupid machines. His whole research was ruined! She always says, That taught Emerson!”

  “Emerson?” says Lissy, staring at her in disbelief. “As in … Emerson Davies?”

  “That’s right! Davies.”

  “Emerson Davies who nearly discovered a cure for smallpox?”

  “Well, he shouldn’t have messed Mummy about, should he?” says Jemima mutinously. She turns to me. “Another of Mummy’s tips is chili oil. You somehow arrange to have sex with the chap again, and then you say, ‘How about a little massage oil?’ And you rub it into his … you know.” Her eyes sparkle. “That’ll hurt him where it counts!”

  “Your mother told you this?” says Lissy.

  “Yes!” says Jemima. “It was rather sweet, actually. On my eighteenth birthday she sat me down and said we should have a little chat about men and women—”

  Lissy is staring at her incredulously. “In which she instructed you to rub chili oil into men’s genitals?”

  “Only if they treat you badly!” says Jemima in annoyance. “What is your problem, Lissy? Do you think you should just let men walk all over you and get away with it? Great blow for feminism!”

  “I’m not saying that!” says Lissy. “I just wouldn’t get my revenge with … chili oil!”

  “Well, what would you do, then, clever clogs?” says Jemima, putting her hands on her hips.

  “OK!” says Lissy. “If I were going to stoop so low as to get my revenge—which I never would, because personally I think it’s a huge mistake …” She pauses for breath. “I’d do exactly what he did. I’d expose one of his secrets.”

  “Actually … that’s rather good,” says Jemima grudgingly.

  “Humiliate him,” says Lissy with a tiny air of vindication. “Embarrass him. See how he likes it!”

  They both turn and look at me expectantly. “But I don’t know any of his secrets,” I say.

  “You must!” says Jemima.

  “I don’t! Lissy, you had it right all along. Our relationship was completely one-sided. I shared all my secrets with him … but he didn’t share any of his with me. He didn’t tell me anything. We weren’t soul mates. I was a completely deluded moron.”

  “Emma, you weren’t a moron,” says Lissy, putting a hand on mine. “You were just trusting.”

  “Trusting … moron … it’s the same thing …”

  “You must know something!” says Jemima. “You slept with him, for goodness’ sake! He must have some secret. Some … weak point!”

  “An Achilles’ heel,” puts in Lissy, and Jemima gives her an odd look.

  “It doesn’t have to do with his feet,” Jemima says, and turns to me, pulling a Lissy’s-lost-it face. “It could be anything. Anything at all. Think back!”

  I close my eyes and cast my mind back. But my mind’s swirling a bit from all that brandy. Secrets … Jack’s secrets … Think back …

  Scotland.

  I open my eyes, feeling a tingle of exhilaration. I do know one of his secrets.

  “What?” says Jemima. “Have you remembered something?”

  “He …” I stop, feeling torn.

  I did make a promise to Jack.

  But then, so what? So bloody what? My chest swells in emotion again. Why on earth am I keeping any stupid promise to him? It’s not like he kept my secrets to himself, is it?

  “He was in Scotland!” I say. “The first time we met after the plane, he asked me to keep it a secret that he was in Scotland.”

  “Why did he do that?” says Lissy.

  “I dunno.”

  “What was he doing in Scotland?” puts in Jemima.

  “I … dunno.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Hmm,” says Jemima kindly. “It’s not the most embarrassing secret in the world, is it? I mean, plenty of smart people live in Scotland. Haven’t you got anything better? Like … does he wear a chest wig?”

  “A chest wig!” Lissy gives an explosive snort of laughter. “Or a toupee!”

  “Of course he doesn’t wear a chest wig! Or a toupee!”

  Do they honestly think I’d go out with a man who wore a toupee?

  “Well, then, you’ll have to make something up,” says Jemima. “You know, before the affair with the scientist, Mummy was treated very badly by some politician chap. So she made up a rumor that he was taking bribes from the Communist party, and passed it around the House of Commons. She always says, That taught Dennis a lesson!”

  “Not … Dennis Llewellyn?” Lissy says.

  “Er, yes! I think that was him.”

  “The disgraced Home Secretary?” Lissy looks aghast. “The one who spent his whole life fighting to clear his name and ended up in a mental institution?”

  “Well, he shouldn’t have messed Mummy around, should he?” says Jemima, sticking out her chin. A bleeper goes off in her pocket. “Time for my footbath!”

  As she disappears back into the house, Lissy shakes her head.

  “She’s nuts,” she says. “Totally nuts. Emma, you are not making anything up about Jack Harper.”

  “I won’t make anything up!” I say. “Who do you think I am? Anyway.” I stare into my brandy, feeling my exhilaration fade away. “Who am I kidding? I could never get my revenge on Jack. I could never hurt him. He doesn’t have any weak points. He’s a huge, powerful millionaire.” I take a miserable slug of my drink. “And I’m a nothing-special … crappy … ordinar
y … nothing.”

  Twenty-one

  The next morning I wake up sick with dread. I feel exactly like a five-year-old who doesn’t want to go to school. A five-year-old with a severe hangover, that is.

  “I can’t go,” I say as eight-thirty arrives. “I can’t face them.”

  “Yes, you can!” says Lissy, doing up my jacket buttons. “It’ll be fine. Just keep your chin up.”

  “What if they’re horrid to me?”

  “They won’t be horrid to you! They’re your friends! Anyway, they’ll probably all have forgotten about it by now!”

  “They won’t! Can’t I just stay at home with you?” I grab her hand. “I’ll be really good. I promise—”

  “Emma, I’ve explained to you,” says Lissy in patient mother tones. “I’ve got to go to court today.” She pries my hand out of hers. “But I’ll be here when you get home. And we’ll have something really nice for supper. OK? Now, go on.” She opens the door to our flat. “You’ll be fine!”

  Feeling like a dog being shooed out, I go down the stairs and open the front door. I’m just stepping out of the house when a van pulls up at the side of the road. A man gets out in a blue uniform, holding the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen, all tied up with dark green ribbon, and squints at the number on our house.

  “Hello,” he says, “I’m looking for an Emma Corrigan.”

  “That’s me!” I say in surprise.

  “Aha!” He smiles, and holds out a pen and clipboard. “Well, this is your lucky day! If you could just sign here.”

  The bouquet is unbelievable. Roses, freesias, amazing big purple flowers, fantastic dark red pom-pom things, dark green, frondy bits, pale green ones that look just like asparagus.

  OK, I may not know what they’re all called. But I do know one thing. These flowers are expensive. There’s only one person who could have sent them.

  “Wait,” I say without taking the pen. “I want to check who they’re from.”

  I grab the card, rip it open, and scan down the long message, not reading any of it until I come to the name at the bottom.

  Jack.

  I feel a huge dart of stung pride. After all he did, Jack thinks he can fob me off with some manky bunch of flowers?

  All right, huge, deluxe bunch of flowers, but that’s not the point.

  “I don’t want them, thank you,” I say.

  “You don’t want them?” the delivery man looks baffled.

  “What’s going on?” comes a breathless voice beside me, and I look up to see Lissy gawking at the bouquet. “Oh, my God. Are they from Jack?”

  “Yes. Please take them away,” I say to the deliveryman.

  “Wait!” exclaims Lissy, grabbing the cellophane. “Let me just smell them.” She buries her face in the blooms and inhales deeply. “Wow! That’s absolutely incredible! I’ve never seen flowers as amazing as this.” She looks at the man. “So, what will happen to them?”

  “Dunno.” He shrugs. “They’ll get chucked away, I suppose.”

  “Gosh.” She glances at me. “That seems like an awful waste.”

  “Lissy, I can’t accept them!” I exclaim. “I can’t! He’ll think I’m saying everything’s OK between us!”

  “No, you’re quite right,” says Lissy, sounding reluctant. “You have to send them back.” She touches a pink velvety rose petal. “It is a shame, though.”

  “Send what back?” comes a sharp voice behind me. “You are joking, aren’t you?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Now Jemima has arrived in the street, still in her white dressing gown. “You’re not sending those back!” she cries. “I’m giving a dinner party on Saturday! They’ll be perfect!” She grabs the label. “Smythe and Foxe! Do you know how much these must have cost?”

  “I don’t care how much they cost!” I exclaim. “They’re from Jack! I can’t possibly keep them!”

  “Why not?”

  She’s unbelievable.

  “Because … because it’s a matter of principle! If I keep them, I’m basically saying, ‘I forgive you.’ ”

  “Not necessarily!” retorts Jemima. “You could be saying, ‘I don’t forgive you.’ Or you could be saying, ‘I can’t be bothered to return your stupid flowers—that’s how little you mean to me.’ ”

  There’s silence as we all consider this. The thing is, they are pretty amazing flowers.

  “So, do you want them or not?” says the delivery guy.

  “I …” Oh, God, now I’m all confused.

  “Emma, if you send them back, you look weak,” says Jemima firmly. “You look like you can’t bear to have any reminder of him in the house. But if you keep them, then you’re saying, ‘I don’t care about you!’ You’re standing firm! You’re being strong! You’re being—”

  “Oh, God, OK!” I say, and grab the pen. “I’ll sign for them. But could you please tell him that this does not mean I forgive him, nor that he isn’t a cynical, heartless, despicable user, and furthermore, if Jemima weren’t having a dinner party, these would be straight in the bin.” As I finish signing, I’m red-faced, and I stamp a period so hard it tears the page. “Can you remember all that?”

  “Love,” says the delivery guy, “I just work at the depot.”

  “I know!” says Lissy. She grabs the clipboard back and prints WITHOUT PREJUDICE clearly under my name.

  “What does that mean?” I say.

  “It means ‘I’ll never forgive you, you complete bastard … but I’ll keep the flowers anyway.’ ”

  “And you’re still going to get even,” adds Jemima.

  It’s one of those amazingly bright, crisp mornings that make you feel like London really is the best city in the world. The sun is glinting off the river and the windows of office blocks, and the dome of St. Paul’s looks like a picture postcard against the blue sky. And as I stride along from the tube station, my spirits can’t help rising a little.

  Maybe Lissy’s right. Maybe everyone at work will already have forgotten about the whole thing. I mean, let’s get a bit of proportion here. It wasn’t that big a deal. It wasn’t that interesting. Surely some other piece of gossip will have come along in the meantime. Surely everyone will be talking about … football. Or politics or something. Exactly.

  I arrive at the Panther building, push open the glass door to the foyer, and walk in, my head held high.

  “… a Barbie bedspread!” I immediately hear from across the marble. A guy from Accounts is talking to a woman with a “Visitor” badge, who is listening avidly.

  “… shagging Jack Harper all along?” comes a voice from above me, and I look up to see a group of girls walking up the stairs.

  “It’s Connor I feel sorry for,” one replies. “That poor guy …”

  “… pretended she loved jazz!” someone else is saying as they get out of the lift. “I mean, why on earth would you do that?”

  My optimism instantly dies away, and I consider running away and spending the rest of my life under the duvet.

  But I have to face them. I have to do this.

  Clenching my fists at my sides, I slowly make my way up the stairs and along the corridor to the marketing department. Everyone I pass either blatantly goggles at me or pretends they’re not looking, and at least five conversations are hastily broken off as I approach.

  As I reach the door to the marketing department, I take a deep breath, then walk in, trying to look as unconcerned as possible.

  “Hi, everyone,” I say, taking off my jacket and hanging it on my chair.

  “Emma!” exclaims Artemis in tones of sarcastic delight. “Well, I never!”

  “Good morning, Emma,” says Paul, coming out of his office and giving me an appraising look. “You OK?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Anything you’d like to … talk about?” To my surprise, he looks like he genuinely means it.

  But honestly. What does he think? That I’m going to go in there and sob on his shoulder, “That bastard Jack Harper used me?
???

  “No,” I say, my face prickling. “Thanks, but … I’m OK.”

  “Good.” He pauses, then adopts a more businesslike tone. “Now, I’m assuming that when you disappeared yesterday, it was because you’d decided to work from home.”

  “Er, yes.” I clear my throat. “That’s right.”

  “No doubt you got lots of useful tasks done?”

  “Er, yes. Loads.”

  “Excellent. Just what I thought. All right, then, carry on. And the rest of you”—Paul looks around the office as though in warning—“remember what I said.”

  “Of course!” says Artemis at once. “We all remember!”

  Paul disappears into his office again, and I focus rigidly on my computer as it warms up. It’ll be fine, I tell myself. I’ll just concentrate on my work, completely immerse myself.…

  Suddenly I become aware that someone’s humming a tune quite loudly.

  It’s something I recognize. It’s …

  It’s the Carpenters.

  And now a few others around the room are joining in on the chorus.

  “Close to yoooou …”

  “All right, Emma?” says Nick as I look up suspiciously. “D’you want a hanky?”

  “Close to yoooou …” everybody trills in unison again, and I hear muffled laughter.

  I’m not going to react. I’m not going to give them the pleasure.

  As calmly as possible, I click onto my e-mails, and give a small gasp of shock. I normally get about ten e-mails every morning, if that. Today I have ninety-five.

  Dad: I’d really like to talk …

  Carol: I’ve already got two more people for our Barbie Club …

  Moira: I know where you can get really comfy G-strings …

  Sharon: So how long has this been going on?!!

  Fiona: Re: the body awareness workshop …

  I scroll down the endless list and suddenly feel a stabbing in my heart.

  There are three from Jack.

  What should I do?

  Should I read them?

  My hand hovers over my mouse. Does he deserve at least a chance to explain?

  “Oh, Emma,” says Artemis innocently, coming over to my desk with a carrier bag. “I’ve got this jumper I wondered if you’d like. It’s a bit too small for me, but it’s very nice. And it should fit you, because …” She pauses, and catches Caroline’s eye. “… it’s a size four.”