Can You Keep a Secret?

  “You get champagne lunch,” I say eagerly. “And you can keep the slippers!”

  “Wonderful!” says Mum. “I’ll look forward to it! Emma, that’s a lovely present!”

  “Oh, dear!” says Kerry with a little laugh. She looks at the large creamy envelope in her own hands. “My present’s slightly upstaged, I’m afraid. Never mind. I’ll change it.”

  I look up, alert. There’s something about Kerry’s voice. I know something’s up. I just know it.

  “What do you mean?” says Mum.

  “It doesn’t matter,” says Kerry. “I’ll just … find something else. Not to worry.” She starts to put the envelope away in her bag.

  “Kerry, love!” says Mum. “Stop that! Don’t be silly! What is it?”

  “Well,” says Kerry. “It’s just that Emma and I seem to have had the same idea.” She hands Mum the envelope with another little laugh. “Can you believe it?”

  My whole body stiffens.

  There’s complete silence as Mum opens the envelope.

  “Oh, my goodness!” she says, taking out a gold-embossed brochure. “What’s this? Le Spa Meridien?” Something falls into her hands, and she lifts it. “Tickets to Paris? Kerry!”

  She’s ruined my present.

  “For both of you,” adds Kerry a little smugly. “Uncle Brian, too.”

  “Kerry!” says Dad in delight. “You marvel!”

  “It is supposed to be rather good,” says Kerry with a complacent smile. “Five-star accommodation … The chef has three Michelin stars.”

  “I don’t believe this!” says Mum. She’s leafing excitedly through the brochure. “Look at the swimming pool! Look at the gardens!”

  My flowery card is lying, forgotten, amid the wrapping paper.

  Suddenly I feel close to tears. She knew. She knew.

  “Kerry, you knew,” I suddenly blurt out, unable to stop myself. “I told you I was giving Mum a spa treat. I told you! We had that conversation about it, months ago. In the garden!”

  “Did we?” says Kerry casually. “I don’t remember.”

  “You do! Of course you remember!”

  “Emma!” says Mum sharply. “It was a simple mistake. Wasn’t it, Kerry?”

  “Of course it was!” says Kerry, opening her eyes in wide innocence. “Emma, if I’ve spoiled things for you, I can only apologize—”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Kerry love!” says Mum. “These things happen. And they’re both lovely presents. Both of them.” She looks at my card again. “Now, you two girls are best friends! I don’t like to see you quarreling! Especially on my birthday!”

  Mum smiles at me, and I try to smile back. But inside, I feel about ten years old again. Kerry always manages to wrong-foot me. She always has, ever since she arrived. Whatever she did, everyone took her side. She was the one whose mother had died. We all had to be nice to her. I could never, ever win.

  Trying to pull myself together, I reach for my wineglass and take a huge swig. Then I find myself surreptitiously glancing at my watch. I can leave at four if I make an excuse about trains running late. That’s only another hour and a half to get through. And maybe we’ll watch telly or something.…

  “A penny for your thoughts, Emma,” says Grandpa, patting my hand, and I look up guiltily.

  “Er, nothing,” I say. “I wasn’t really thinking about … anything.”

  Five

  Anyway. It doesn’t matter, because I’m going to get a promotion. Then Nev will stop making cracks about my career, and I’ll be able to pay back Dad.… Everyone will be really impressed.

  I still have to explain to Paul why the Glasgow meeting went wrong. I’m not looking forward to that. But even so, I can’t help feeling optimistic as I wake up on Monday morning. It’s my yearly appraisal today. And if you ignore that one teeny incident—if you look at the bigger picture—I’ve been doing really well recently. I know I have.

  The thing about Paul is, he doesn’t heap you with praise. But I bet he’s noticed all the extra jobs I’ve been doing. He’s probably been writing it all down in a little book or something. He’ll bring it out and flick through the pages and say, “You know, effort doesn’t go uncredited in this company, Emma.”

  As I get dressed, I can feel a growing fizz of anticipation. I even wonder whether to put on a smart suit again—just to show Paul what a great executive I’d make. But no. He might think I’m being pretentious. I’ll just wear my usual work outfit. Jeans and a nice top, this one from French Connection.

  Well … not exactly French Connection. To be honest, I bought it at Oxfam. But the label says French Connection. And while I’m still paying off Dad, I don’t have much choice about where I shop. I mean, a new top from French Connection costs about fifty quid, whereas this one cost £7.50! And it’s practically new!

  As I skip up the tube steps at Blackfriars, the air is fresh and the sky is a bright morning blue. Office workers are hurrying along the street, holding cups of tea and coffee, clutching bags and cases, jostling one another at the traffic lights. A guy in a raincoat and heavy shoes strides past and almost squashes my foot, but I’m too distracted to react. I’m imagining if I do get promoted. Mum will say, “How was your week?” and I’ll say, “Well, actually—”

  No, what I’ll do is wait until I go home and then just nonchalantly hand over my new business card—

  “Emma!”

  I look around to see Katie, my friend from Personnel, climbing the tube steps behind me, panting slightly. Her curly red hair is all tousled, she’s holding one shoe in her hand, and her green eyes are even wider than usual, giving her an air of surprise.

  I heard a group of girls talking about Katie in the loos at work once. Their theory was that she always looks surprised because she plucks her eyebrows so high. But the truth is, quite a lot of the time Katie is surprised by life. It’s like she’s unprepared. Like she was never given the instruction manual.

  “What on earth happened?” I say as she reaches the top of the steps.

  “My stupid shoe!” she exclaims. “I only had it mended the other day, and the heel’s just come off!” She flaps it at me. “I paid six quid for that heel! God, this day is such a disaster. The milkman forgot to bring me any milk, and I had a terrible weekend.”

  “I thought you were spending it with Charlie!” I say in surprise. “What happened?”

  Charlie is Katie’s latest man. They’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks, and this weekend she was supposed to be visiting his country cottage, which he’s doing up at the weekends.

  “It was awful! As soon as we arrived, he said he was going off to play golf.”

  “Oh, right.” I try to find a positive angle. “Well … at least he’s comfortable with you. He can just act normal.”

  “Maybe.” She looks doubtful. “So then he said, how did I feel about helping out a bit while he was gone? So I said of course—and then he gave me this paintbrush and three pots of paint and said I should get the sitting room done if I worked fast.”

  “What?”

  “And then he came back at six o’clock … and said my brushwork was careless!” Her voice rises in woe. “It wasn’t careless! I only smudged one bit, and that’s because the stupid ladder wasn’t long enough.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “Katie, you’re not telling me you actually painted the room.”

  “Well … yes. You know, to help out. But now I’m starting to think … Is he just using me?”

  I’m almost speechless.

  “Katie, of course he’s using you!” I manage at last. “He wants a free painter-decorator! You have to chuck him! Immediately! Now!”

  Katie is silent for a few seconds, and I eye her with apprehension. Her face is still, but I can tell lots of things are going on beneath the surface.

  “Oh, God, you’re right!” she suddenly bursts out. “You’re right! He’s been using me! It’s my own fault. I should have realized when he asked me if I had any experience in plu
mbing or roofing—”

  “When did he ask you that?” I say incredulously.

  “On our first date! I thought he was just, you know, making conversation.…”

  “Katie, it’s not your fault.” I squeeze her arm. “You weren’t to know!”

  “But what is it about me?” Katie stops still in the street. “Why do I only attract complete shits?”

  “You don’t!”

  “I do! Look at the men I’ve been out with.” She starts counting off on her fingers. “Daniel borrowed all that money off me and disappeared to Mexico, Eric chucked me as soon as I found him a job, David was two-timing me.… Do you see a pattern emerging?”

  “I, um, possibly …”

  “I just think I should give up.” Her face falls. “I’m never going to find anyone nice.”

  “No!” I say at once. “Don’t give up! Katie, I just know your life is going to turn around. You’re going to find some lovely, kind, wonderful man—”

  “But where?”

  “I … don’t know!” I cross my fingers behind my back. “But I know it’ll happen. I’ve got a really strong feeling about it.”

  “Really?” She blinks. “You do?”

  “Absolutely!” I think for a moment. “Look, here’s an idea. Why don’t you try … going to have lunch at a different place today. Somewhere completely different. And maybe you’ll meet someone there!”

  “You think?” She gazes at me. “OK. I’ll try it.”

  We start walking along the pavement again. “The only good thing about the weekend,” she adds as we reach the corner, “is I finished making my new top! What do you think?”

  She proudly takes off her jacket and does a twirl, and I stare at her for a few seconds, not quite sure what to say.

  It’s not that I don’t like crochet—

  OK. It is that I don’t like crochet.

  Especially pink scoop-neck open-weave crochet tops. You can actually see glimpses of her bra through it.

  “It’s … amazing!” I manage at last. “Absolutely fantastic!”

  “Isn’t it great?” She gives me a pleased smile. “And it was so quick to do! I’m going to make the matching skirt next!”

  “That’s great!” I say faintly. “You’re so clever.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing! I just enjoy it.”

  She smiles modestly and puts her jacket back on. “So anyway, how about you?” she adds as we start to cross the road. “Did you have a nice weekend? I bet you did. I bet Connor was completely wonderful and romantic. I bet he took you out for dinner or something.”

  “Actually, he asked me to move in with him,” I say, feeling a bit awkward.

  “Really?” Katie gazes at me wistfully. “God, Emma, you two make the perfect couple. You give me faith that it can happen. It all seems so easy for you.”

  I can’t help feeling a little flicker of pleasure inside. Me and Connor. The perfect couple. Role models for other people.

  “It’s not that easy!” I try to sound modest. “I mean, we argue, like anyone else!”

  “Do you?” Katie looks surprised. “I’ve never seen you argue.”

  “Of course we do!”

  I rack my brain for a moment, trying to remember the last time Connor and I had a fight. I mean, obviously we do have arguments. Loads of them. All couples do. It’s only healthy.

  Come on, this is silly. We must have—

  Yes! There was that time by the river when I thought those big white birds were geese and Connor thought they were swans. Exactly.

  The Panther building is a big steel and glass office block on Farringdon Road. As we walk up the pale stone steps, each with a granite panther jumping across it, my stomach starts jumping a little with nerves. What shall I say to Paul about the meeting at Glen Oil?

  Well, obviously I’ll be completely frank and honest. Without actually telling him the truth—

  “Hey, look!” Katie’s voice interrupts me, and I follow her gaze. Through the glass front of the building, I can see a commotion in the foyer. This isn’t normal. What’s going on?

  God, has there been a fire or something?

  As Katie and I push our way through the heavy revolving glass doors, we look at each other, baffled. The whole place is in turmoil. People are scurrying about, someone’s polishing the brass banister, someone else is polishing the fake plants, and Cyril, the senior office manager, is shooing people into lifts.

  “Could you please go to your offices! We don’t want you hanging around the reception area. You should all be at your desks by now.” Cyril sounds completely stressed-out. “There’s nothing to see down here! Please go to your desks!”

  “What’s happening?” I say to Dave the security guard, who’s lounging against the wall with a cup of tea as usual. He takes a sip, swills it around his mouth, and gives us a grin. “Jack Harper’s visiting.”

  “What?” We both gawk at him.

  “Today?”

  “Are you serious?”

  In the world of the Panther Corporation, this is like saying the Pope’s visiting. Or Father Christmas. Jack Harper is the joint founder of the Panther Corporation. He invented Panther Cola. I know this because I’ve typed out blurbs about him approximately a million times. “It was 1987 when young, dynamic business partners Jack Harper and Pete Laidler bought up the ailing Zoot soft drinks company, repackaged Zootacola as Panther Cola, invented the slogan ‘Don’t Pause,’ and thus made marketing history.”

  No wonder Cyril’s in a tizz.

  “In about five minutes.” Dave consults his watch. “Give or take.”

  “But … but how come?” says Katie. “I mean, just out of the blue like this …”

  Dave’s eyes twinkle. He’s obviously been telling people the news all morning and is thoroughly enjoying himself. “He wants to have a look around the U.K. operation, apparently.”

  “I thought he wasn’t interested in the business anymore!” says Jane from Accounts, who’s come up behind us and is listening, agog. “I thought ever since Pete Laidler died, he was all grief-stricken and reclusive. He was going to take a career break, wasn’t he? On his ranch, or whatever it is.”

  “That was a year ago,” points out Katie. “Maybe he’s feeling better.”

  “Maybe he wants to sell us off, more like,” says Jane darkly.

  “My theory,” says Dave, and we bend our heads to listen, “is he wants to see if the plants are shiny enough.” He nods his head toward Cyril, and we all giggle.

  “Be careful,” Cyril is snapping. “Don’t damage the stems.” He glances up. “What are you all still doing there?”

  “Just going!” says Katie, and we head toward the stairs, which I always use because it means I don’t have to bother with the gym. Plus, luckily Marketing is on the first floor. We’ve just reached the landing when Jane squeaks, “Look! Oh, my God! It’s him!”

  A limousine has purred up in the street, right in front of the glass doors. Like clockwork, a lift at the other end of the foyer suddenly opens, and out strides Graham Hillingdon, the chief executive, plus the managing director and about six others, all looking immaculate in dark suits.

  “That’s enough!” Cyril is hissing at the poor cleaners in the foyer. “Go! Leave it!”

  The three of us stand, goggling like children, as the passenger door of the limousine opens. A moment later, out gets a man with sleek blond hair in a navy blue overcoat. He’s wearing dark glasses and black leather gloves and is holding a titanium briefcase. His trousers are pressed to razor-sharp pleats at the front, and his hair is so perfect, it looks like each follicle has been individually trimmed.

  He looks like a million dollars.

  Graham Hillingdon and the others are all outside by now, lined up on the steps. They all shake his hand in turn, then usher him inside, where Cyril is waiting. The blond man scans the foyer over his dark glasses, then flicks some dust off his coat.

  “Welcome to the Panther Corporation U.K.,” Cyril says fulsomely. “I
hope your journey was pleasant?”

  “Not too bad, thanks,” says the man, in an American accent.

  “As you can see, this is very much a normal working day.…”

  “Hey, look,” murmurs Katie. “Kenny’s stuck outside the doors.”

  Kenny Davey, one of the designers, is hovering uncertainly on the steps outside in his jeans and baseball boots, not knowing whether to come in or not. He puts a hand to the door, then retreats a little, then comes up to the door again and peers uncertainly inside.

  “Come in, Kenny!” says Cyril, opening the door with a rather savage smile. “One of our designers, Kenny Davey. You should have been here ten minutes ago, Kenny! Still, never mind!” He pushes a bewildered Kenny toward the lifts, then glances up and shoos us away in irritation.

  “Come on,” says Katie, “we’d better go.” And, trying not to giggle, the three of us hurry up the stairs.

  The atmosphere in the marketing department is a bit like my bedroom used to be before we had parties in the sixth form. People are brushing their hair, spraying perfume, shuffling papers around, and gossiping excitedly. As I walk past the office of Neil Gregg, who is in charge of media strategy, I see him carefully lining up his Marketing Week awards on his desk, while Fiona, his assistant, is polishing all the framed photographs of him shaking hands with famous people.

  I’m just hanging up my coat on the rack when the head of our department, Paul, pulls me aside.

  “What the fuck happened at Glen Oil? I had a very strange e-mail from Doug Hamilton this morning. You poured a drink over him?”

  I don’t believe it. Doug Hamilton told Paul? But he promised he wouldn’t! “It wasn’t like that,” I say quickly. “I was just trying to demonstrate the many fine qualities of Panther Prime and I … I kind of spilled it.”

  Paul raises his eyebrows, and not in a friendly way. “All right. Well, I’ve smoothed it over with them. I guess it was a lot to ask of you.”

  My heart plummets. Please don’t say one stupid can has ruined my chances. “It wasn’t!” I say quickly. “What I mean is, if you just give me another opportunity to prove myself, I’ll do better. I promise.”