Can You Keep a Secret?

  Anyway. Anyway. I don’t care. He can do what he likes. He can keep his stupid secrets.

  Good luck to him. That’s it. Gone for good.

  And what did he mean by that, anyway? Is it such a disaster for people to know the truth about you?

  He can so talk. Mr. Mystery. Mr. Sensitive and Complicated.

  I should have said that. I should have said—

  No. Stop thinking about him. It’s over.

  As I pad into the kitchen the next morning to make a cup of tea, I’m fully resolved. I’m not even going to think about Jack from now on. Finito. Fin. The End.

  “OK. I have three theories.” Lissy arrives at the door of the kitchen in her pajamas, holding her legal pad.

  “What?” I look up, still bleary.

  “Jack’s big secret. I have three theories.”

  “Only three?” says Jemima, appearing behind her in her white robe, clutching her Smythson notebook. “I’ve got eight!”

  “Eight?” Lissy stares at her, affronted.

  “I don’t want to hear any theories!” I say. “Look, both of you, this has been really painful for me. Can’t you just respect my feelings and drop it?”

  They both look at me in silence for a second, then turn back to each other.

  “Eight?” says Lissy again. “How did you get eight?”

  “Easy-peasy. But I’m sure yours are very good, too,” says Jemima kindly. “Why don’t you go first?”

  “OK,” says Lissy with a look of annoyance, and clears her throat. “Number one: He’s relocating the whole of the Panther Corporation to Scotland. He was up there reconnoitering and didn’t want you spreading rumors. Number two: He’s involved in some kind of white-collar fraud—”

  “What?” I say in shock. “Why do you say that?”

  “I looked up the accountants who audited the last Panther Corporation accounts, and they’ve been involved in a few big scandals recently. Which doesn’t prove anything, but if he’s acting shady and talking about transfers …” She pulls a face.

  Jack a fraudster? No. He couldn’t be. He couldn’t.

  Not that I care one way or the other.

  “Can I say that both of those sound highly unlikely to me?” chips in Jemima.

  “Well, what’s your theory, then?” says Lissy crossly.

  “It’s obvious! He’s had secret work done.”

  “What do you mean, ‘work’?” I say, baffled.

  “Work. Enhancement.” Jemima gestures to her face meaningfully.

  “Jack would never have plastic surgery!” I exclaim. “He’s not that kind of guy!”

  “Sharpen your wits, Emma,” says Jemima. “Everyone has it done nowadays. You ask Mummy. Half the cabinet … the Pope …”

  “The Pope?”

  “Compare a recent photo of Jack with an old one, and I bet you see a difference—”

  I cut her off. “It’s not plastic surgery! What are your other seven theories?”

  “Let me see.…” Jemima turns the page of her notebook. “Oh, yes. He’s in the Mafia.” She pauses for effect. “His father was shot, and he’s planning to murder the heads of all the other families.”

  “Jemima, that’s The Godfather,” says Lissy.

  “Oh.” She looks put out. “Damn. Well, here’s another one. He has an autistic brother—”

  “Rain Man.”

  “Bloody hell.” She studies her list again. “So maybe not that after all … or that.” She starts crossing entries out. “OK. But I do have one more.” She raises her head. “He’s got another woman.”

  I feel a jolt. Another woman. I never even thought of that.

  “That was my last theory, too,” says Lissy apologetically.

  “You … both think it’s another woman?” I look from face to face. “But … but why?”

  Suddenly I feel really small. And stupid. Have I been even more naive than I originally thought?

  “It just seems quite a likely explanation,” says Jemima with a shrug. “He’s having some clandestine affair with a woman in Scotland. He’s paying her a secret visit when he met you. She keeps phoning him. Maybe they were having a row, then she comes to London unexpectedly, so he has to dash off from your date.”

  Lissy glances at my stricken face. “But maybe he’s relocating the company!” she says encouragingly. “Or a fraudster!”

  “Well, I don’t care what he’s doing,” I say, my face burning. “It’s his business. And he’s welcome to it.”

  I get out a pint of milk from the fridge and slam it shut, my hands trembling. Sensitive and complicated. Is that code for “I’m seeing someone else?”

  Well, fine. Let him have another woman. I don’t care.

  “It’s your business, too!” says Jemima. “If you’re going to get revenge—”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “I don’t want to get my revenge, OK?” I say, turning around to face her. “It’s not healthy. I want to … heal my wounds and move on.”

  “Yes, and shall I tell you another word for revenge?” she retorts, as though pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “Closure!”

  “Jemima, closure and revenge are not actually the same thing,” says Lissy.

  “In my book they are.” She folds her arms. “Emma, you’re my friend, and I’m not going to let you just sit back and allow yourself to be mistreated by some bastard man! He deserves to pay! He deserves to be punished!”

  “Jemima … you’re not actually going to do anything about this.”

  “Of course I am!” she says. “I’m not going to stand by and see you suffer! It’s called the sisterhood, Emma!”

  I have sudden visions of Jemima rooting through Jack’s rubbish bins in her pink Gucci suit. Or scraping his car with a nail file.

  “Jemima … don’t do anything,” I say in alarm. “Please. I don’t want you to.”

  “You think you don’t. But you’ll thank me later—”

  “No, I won’t! Jemima, you have to promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

  She tightens her jaw rebelliously.

  “Promise!”

  “OK!” says Jemima at last, rolling her eyes. “I promise.”

  “Thank you.” I reach for my mug of tea and pour in some milk.

  “She’s crossing her fingers behind her back,” observes Lissy.

  “What?” I nearly drop the milk. “Promise properly! Swear on something you really love.”

  “Oh, God!” says Jemima sulkily. “All right, you win! I swear on my Míu Míu pony skin bag I won’t do anything. But you’re making a big mistake, you know.”

  She saunters out of the room, and I watch her, feeling a bit uneasy.

  “That girl is a total psychopath,” says Lissy. “Why did we ever let her move in here?” She takes a sip of tea. “Actually, I remember why. It was because her dad gave us a whole year’s rent in advance—” She catches my expression. “Are you OK?”

  “You don’t think she’ll actually do anything to Jack, will she?”

  “Of course not,” says Lissy. “She’s all talk.”

  “You’re right. You’re right.” I pick up my mug and look at it silently for a few moments. “Lissy … do you really think Jack’s secret is another woman?”

  Lissy opens her mouth.

  “Anyway, I don’t care,” I add defiantly before she can answer. “I don’t care what it is.”

  As I arrive at the office, Artemis looks up from her desk, bright-eyed.

  “Morning, Emma!” She smirks at Caroline. “Read any intellectual books lately?”

  Oh, ha, ha-di-ha. So, so funny. Even Nick got bored of teasing me yesterday. Only Artemis still thinks it’s completely hysterical.

  “Actually, Artemis, I have,” I say, taking off my jacket. “I just read this really good book called What to Do If Your Colleague Is an Obnoxious Cow Who Picks Her Nose When She Thinks No One’s Looking.”

  There’s a guffaw around the office, and Artemis flushes a dark red. “I don’t!” she snaps.


  “I never said you did,” I reply, and switch on my computer with a flourish.

  “Ready to go to the meeting, Artemis?” says Paul, coming out of his office with his briefcase and a magazine in his hand. “And by the way, Nick,” he adds ominously. “Before I go, would you mind telling me what on earth possessed you to put a coupon ad for Panther Bars in”—he consults the front cover—“Bowling Weekly magazine? I’m assuming it was you, as this is your product?”

  Shit. Double shit. I didn’t think Paul would ever find out about that.

  Nick shoots me a dirty look, and I pull an agonized face back.

  “Well,” he begins in a truculent voice, “yes, Paul. Panther Bars are my product. But as it happens—”

  Oh, God. I can’t let him take the blame.

  “Paul,” I say, raising my hand. “Actually, it was—”

  “Because I want to tell you.” Paul grins at Nick. “It was bloody inspired! I’ve just had the feedback figures, and bearing in mind the pitiful circulation … they’re extraordinary!”

  I don’t believe it. The ad worked?

  “Really?” says Nick, obviously trying to sound not too amazed. “I mean … excellent!”

  “What the fuck compelled you to advertise a teenage bar to a load of old codgers?”

  “Well!” Nick adjust his cuff links, not looking anywhere near me. “Obviously it was a bit of a gamble. But I simply felt that maybe it was time to … to fly a few kites … experiment with a new demographic …”

  Hang on a minute. What’s he saying?

  “Well, your experiment paid off.” Paul gives Nick an approving look. “And interestingly, it coincides with some Scandinavian market research we’ve just had in. If you’d like to see me later, to discuss it—”

  “Sure!” says Nick with a pleased smile. “What sort of time?”

  How can he? He is such a bastard. “Wait!” I leap to my feet in outrage. “Wait a minute! That was my idea!”

  “What?” Paul frowns.

  “The Bowling Weekly ad! It was my idea. Wasn’t it, Nick?” I look directly at him.

  “Maybe we discussed it,” he says, not meeting my eye. “I don’t really remember. But you know, something you’ll have to learn, Emma, is that marketing’s all about teamwork.”

  “Don’t patronize me! This wasn’t teamwork! It was totally my idea! I put it in for my grandpa!”

  Damn. I didn’t quite mean to let that slip out.

  “First your parents. Now your grandpa,” says Paul, turning to look at me. “Emma, remind me—is this Bring Your Entire Family to Work week?”

  “No! It’s just …” I begin, a little hot under his gaze. “You said you were going to axe Panther Bars, so I … I thought I’d give him and his friends some money off, and they could all stock up. I tried to tell you at that big meeting, my grandfather loves Panther Bars! And so do all his friends! If you ask me, you should be marketing Panther Bars at them, not teenagers!”

  There’s silence. Paul looks astounded. “So, why does this older generation like Panther Bars so much, Emma? Do you know?” He sounds genuinely fascinated.

  “Yes, of course I know!”

  “It’s the gray pound,” puts in Nick. “Demographic shifts in the pensionable population are accounting for—”

  “No, it’s not!” I say impatiently. “It’s because … because …” Oh, God, Grandpa will absolutely kill me for saying this. “It’s because … they don’t pull out their false teeth.”

  Paul looks staggered for an instant. Then he throws back his head and roars with laughter. “False teeth,” he says, wiping his eyes. “That is sheer, bloody genius, Emma. False teeth!”

  “But the tropical flavors just don’t work,” I add. “If you ask me, that’s why the product’s in trouble.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Would you put papaya on your porridge?”

  “Probably not,” says Paul, starting to laugh again.

  As I stand there, watching him, I have the strangest feeling. Like something’s building up inside me, as though I’m about to—“So, can I have a promotion?”

  “What?” Paul stops laughing, and there’s silence.

  Did I really just say that? Out loud?

  “Can I have a promotion?” My voice is trembling, but I hold firm. “You said if I created my own opportunities, I could have a promotion. That’s what you said. Isn’t this creating my own opportunities?”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Artemis pulling an amused face at Caroline.

  Paul sighs. “Emma—”

  His old, patronizing tone has come back. I can’t bear it.

  “I am not the departmental secretary, Paul!” I exclaim. “Just because you want to cut your staff budget, I’ve ended up doing all the menial jobs! But I’ve done tasks at the same level as Artemis, and I know I could do more. I know I could be an asset. If you give me the chance, I’ll show you!”

  Paul looks at me for a few moments, blinking, saying nothing.

  “You know, Emma Corrigan,” he says at last. “You are one of the most … one of the most surprising people I’ve ever known.” He pauses. “For your information, I’ve hired a new departmental secretary. Her name’s Amanda, and she starts in a week.”

  “Oh,” I say, thrown. “Oh, I see.”

  But even so, I’m not going to give up. I screw myself up with determination. “So … what about me?”

  There’s silence around the entire office. Everyone’s waiting to see what he’ll say. As I meet Paul’s eyes, there’s a sudden warmth in them. Friendliness, even.

  “Come and see me later. And we’ll have a chat.” He shakes his head in mock exasperation. “Now, is that it?”

  “No,” I hear myself saying, my heart beating even more furiously. “There’s more. Paul, I broke your World Cup mug.”

  “What?” He looks completely gobsmacked.

  “I’m really sorry. I’ll buy you another one.” I look around the silent, gawking office. “And it was me who jammed the copier that time. In fact … all the times. And that bottom …” Amid agog faces, I walk to the pin board and rip down the photocopied G-stringed bottom. “That’s mine, and I don’t want it up there anymore.” I swivel around. “And, Artemis, about your spider plant.”

  “What?” she says suspiciously.

  I survey her, in her Burberry raincoat and her designer spectacles and her smug, I’m-better-than-you face.

  OK, let’s not get carried away.

  “I … can’t think what’s wrong with it.” I smile. “Have a good meeting.”

  As I emerge from Paul’s office later that afternoon, I feel dizzy with exhilaration. It’s finally happened. I’m going to be promoted. I’m actually going to be a marketing executive! Paul was really nice. He said maybe he had overlooked my contributions in the past, and that I deserved it.

  I don’t quite know what’s happened to me. It’s not just the job—it’s like I’ve become a whole new person. So what if I broke Paul’s mug? Who cares? So what if everyone knows how much I weigh? Who cares? Good-bye, old crap Emma, who hides her Oxfam bags under her desk. Hello, new, confident Emma, who proudly hangs them on her chair.

  I reach my desk and immediately dial home.

  “Mum? It’s Emma. Guess what!” I can’t resist glancing at Artemis. “I’m being promoted! I’m going to be a marketing executive!”

  Mum’s cries of delight are so piercing, they nearly deafen me. Then she relays the news to Grandpa, who sends his congratulations back, and I just hang on the end of the phone and beam happily at it.

  “And what about Jack?” says Mum at last, after we’ve planned a celebratory dinner in London. “Did you have a talk with him?”

  “Yes, I did. But …” The ebullience seeps out of my voice. “I guess we just weren’t meant for each other.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Mum’s silent for a moment. “The truth is, some relationships are supposed to last forever, and some are only supposed to last a f
ew days. That’s the way life is.”

  “I know,” I sigh. “It’s just I was kind of hoping …”

  “Of course you were, love.” Mum sounds more sympathetic than I’ve ever heard her. “Oh, I feel for you. You know, I once had a relationship that lasted only forty-eight hours. In Paris.”

  “Paris!” I say, impressed.

  “It was an affair I’ll never forget.”

  “Really?”

  I’m quite surprised by this. I always thought she and Dad were childhood sweethearts. Did she go to France on a school exchange or something?

  “I’d never experienced physical pleasure like it,” Mum is saying. “And I knew it could never last, but that made it all the more poignant …” She trails off, sounding quite overcome.

  “So, was this before you met Dad?”

  There’s silence.

  “Of course,” says Mum at last, and clears her throat. “Of course it was! Incidentally, darling, I wouldn’t mention any of this to Daddy, if I were you.”

  “Why not?” I say in suspicion.

  “Well!” says Mum, sounding a bit flustered. “Er, you know how he is about the French.”

  As I put down the phone, I’m actually quite shocked. I always thought Mum and Dad … At least, I never …

  Well. It just goes to show.

  “Emma?”

  I look up happily, ready to be congratulated again—and jump about three inches off my chair. Sven is standing right in front of my desk. What’s he doing here?

  “I need to see you,” he says without smiling, and beckons with his finger. “Now.”

  As we walk down the corridor, everyone gives us curious glances. And I try to look all calm and relaxed, like “Oh, Sven and I often have little chats together.” But inside, I’m getting more and more nervous. Why does Sven want to see me?

  We reach an empty meeting room next to the admin. department, and Sven ushers me inside. He turns, his face set like granite.

  It’s me and the hit man. Alone.

  “Emma.”

  It’s almost a shock hearing my name on his lips, in light of the fact that I’ve hardly ever heard him utter a word.

  “I suppose Jack’s sent you,” I say, forcing myself to sound confident. “Well, if he has—”

  “Jack hasn’t sent me. I wanted to talk to you.” He walks to the window in silence, then turns around. “I heard that you and Jack had a row.”