Can You Keep a Secret? (13 page)

'Seventy-four per cent of 10-14-year-olds felt the texture could be more chewy,' says Connor earnestly. 'However, 67 per cent of 15-18-year-olds felt the texture could be more crunchy, while 22 per cent felt it could be
less
crunchy …'

I glance over Artemis's shoulder and see she's written 'Chewy/crunchy??' on her notepad.

Connor presses the remote control again, and another graph appears.

'Now, 46 per cent of 10-14-year-olds felt the flavour was too tangy. However, 33 per cent of 15—18-year-olds felt it was not tangy enough, while …'

Oh God. I know it's Connor. And I love him and everything. But can't he make this sound a bit more
interesting
?

I glance over to see how Jack Harper is taking it and he raises his eyebrows at me. Immediately I flush, feeling disloyal.

He'll think I was laughing at Connor. Which I wasn't. I wasn't.

'And 90 per cent of female teenagers would prefer the calorie content to be reduced,' Connor concludes. 'But the same proportion would also like to see a thicker chocolate coating.' He gives a helpless shrug.

'They don't know what the hell they want,' says someone.

'We polled a broad cross-section of teenagers,' says Connor, 'including Caucasians, Afro-Caribbeans, Asians, and … er …' he peers at the paper. 'Jedi knights.'

'Teenagers!' says Artemis, rolling her eyes.

'Briefly remind us of our target market, Connor,' says Paul with a frown.

'Our target market …' Connor consults another clipboard, 'is aged 10-18, in full or part time education. He/she drinks Panther Cola four times a week, eats burgers three times a week, visits the cinema twice a week, reads magazines and comics but not books, is most likely to agree with the lifestyle statement "It's more important to be cool than rich" …' he looks up. 'Shall I go on?'

'Does he/she eat toast for breakfast?' says somebody thoughtfully. 'Or cereal?'

'I … I'm not sure,' says Connor, riffling quickly through his pages. 'We could do some more research …'

'I think we get the picture,' says Paul. 'Does anyone have any thoughts on this?'

All this time, I've been plucking up courage to speak, and now I take a deep breath.

'You know, my grandpa really likes Panther Bars!' I say. Everyone swivels in their chairs to look at me, and I feel my face grow hot.

'What relevance does that have?' says Paul with a frown.

'I just thought I could …' I swallow. 'I could maybe ask him what he thinks …'

'With all due respect, Emma,' says Connor, with a smile which verges on patronizing, 'your grandfather is hardly in our target demographic!'

'Unless he started very young,' quips Artemis.

I flush, feeling stupid, and pretend to be reorganizing the teabags.

To be honest, I feel a bit hurt. Why did Connor have to say that? I know he wants to be all professional and proper when we're at work. But that's not the same as being mean, is it? I'd always stick up for him.

'My own view,' Artemis is saying, 'is that if the Panther Bar isn't performing, we should axe it. It's quite obviously a problem child.'

I look up in slight dismay. They can't axe the Panther Bar! What will Grandpa take to his bowling tournaments?

'Surely a fully cost-based, customer-oriented re-branding—' begins somebody.

'I disagree.' Artemis leans forward. 'If we're going to maximise our concept innovation in a functional and logistical way, then surely we need to focus on our strategic competencies—'

'Excuse me,' says Jack Harper, lifting a hand. It's the first time he's spoken, and everyone turns to look. There's a prickle of anticipation in the air, and Artemis glows smugly. 'Yes, Mr Harper?' she says.

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' he says.

The whole room reverberates in shock, and I give a snort of laughter without quite meaning to.

'As you know, I've been out of the business arena for a while.' He smiles. 'Could you please translate what you just said into standard English?'

'Oh,' says Artemis, looking discomfited. 'Well, I was simply saying, that from a strategic point of view, notwithstanding our corporate vision …' she tails off at his expression.

'Try again,' he says kindly. 'Without using the word strategic.'

'Oh,' says Artemis again, and rubs her nose. 'Well, I was just saying that … we should … concentrate on … on what we do well.'

'Ah!' Jack Harper's eyes gleam. 'Now I understand. Please, carry on.'

He glances at me, rolls his eyes and grins, and I can't help giving a tiny grin back.

After the meeting, people trickle out of the room, still talking, and I go round the table, picking up coffee cups.

'It was very good to meet you, Mr Harper,' I can hear Connor saying eagerly. 'If you'd like a transcript of my presentation …'

'You know, I don't think that will be necessary,' Jack says in that dry, quizzical voice. 'I think I more or less got the gist.'

Oh God. Doesn't Connor
realize
he's trying too hard?

I balance all the cups in precarious piles on the trolley, then start collecting up the biscuit wrappers.

'Now, I'm due in the design studio right about now,' Jack Harper's saying, 'but I don't quite remember where it is …'

'Emma!' says Paul sharply. 'Can you please show Jack to the design studio? You can clear up the rest of the coffee later.'

I freeze, clutching an orange cream wrapper.

Please, no more.

'Of course,' I manage at last. 'It would be a … pleasure. This way.'

Awkwardly, I usher Jack Harper out of the meeting room and we begin to walk down the corridor, side by side. My face is tingling slightly as people try not to stare at us, and I'm aware of everyone else in the corridor turning into self-conscious robots as soon as they see him. People in adjacent offices are nudging each other excitedly, and I hear at least one person hissing 'He's coming!'

Is it like this everywhere Jack Harper goes?

'So,' he says conversationally after a while. 'You're moving in with Ken.'

'It's
Connor
,' I say. 'And yes.'

'Looking forward to it?'

'Yes. Yes, lam.'

We've reached the lifts and I press the button. I can feel his quizzical eyes on me. I can
feel
them.

'What?' I say defensively, turning to look at him.

'Did I say anything?' He raises his eyebrows. As I see the expression on his face I feel stung. What does he know about it?

'I know what you're thinking,' I say, lifting my chin defiantly. 'But you're quite wrong.'

'I'm wrong?'

'Yes! You're … misapprehended.'

'
Misapprehended
?'

He looks as if he wants to laugh, and a small voice inside my head is telling me to stop. But I can't. I have to explain to him how it is.

'Look. I know I might have made certain … comments to you on the plane,' I begin, clenching my fists tightly at my side. 'But what you have to know is that that conversation took place under duress, in extreme circumstances, and I said a lot of things I didn't really mean. A lot of things, actually!'

There! That tells him.

'I see,' says Jack thoughtfully. 'So … you
don't
like double chocolate chip Häagen-Dazs ice-cream.'

I gaze at him, discomfited.

'I …' I clear my throat several times. 'Some things, obviously, I
did
mean—'

The lift doors ping, and both our heads jerk up.

'Jack!' says Cyril, standing on the other side of the doors. 'I wondered where you were.'

'I've been having a nice chat with Emma here,' says Jack. 'She kindly offered to show me the way.'

'Ah.' Cyril's eyes run dismissively over me. 'Well, they're waiting for you in the studio.'

'So, um … I'll just go, then,' I say awkwardly.

'See you later,' says Jack with a grin. 'Good talking to you, Emma.'

NINE

As I leave the office that evening I feel all agitated, like one of those snow globes. I was perfectly happy being an ordinary, dull little Swiss village. But now Jack Harper's come and shaken me up, and there are snowflakes all over the place, whirling around, not knowing what they think any more.

And bits of glitter, too. Tiny bits of shiny, secret excitement.

Every time I catch his eye or hear his voice, it's like a dart to my chest.

Which is ridiculous. Ridiculous.

Connor is my boyfriend. Connor is my future. He loves me and I love him and I'm moving in with him. And we're going to have wooden floors and shutters and granite worktops. So there.

So there.

I arrive home to find Lissy on her knees in the sitting room, helping Jemima into the tightest black suede dress I've ever seen.

'Wow!' I say, as I put down my bag. 'That's amazing!'

'There!' pants Lissy, and sits back on her heels. 'That's the zip done. Can you breathe?'

Jemima doesn't move a muscle. Lissy and I glance at each other.

'Jemima!' says Lissy in alarm. 'Can you breathe?'

'Kind of,' says Jemima at last. 'I'll be fine.' Very slowly, with a totally rigid body, she totters over to where her Louis Vuitton bag is resting on a chair.

'What happens if you need to go to the loo?' I say, staring at her.

'Or go back to his place?' says Lissy with a giggle.

'It's only our second date! I'm not going to go back to his place!' Jemima says in horror. 'That's not the way to –' she struggles for breath '– to get a rock on your finger.'

'But what if you get carried away with desire for each other?'

'What if he gropes you in the taxi?'

'He's not
like
that,' says Jemima, with a roll of her eyes. 'He happens to be the First Assistant Undersecretary to the Secretary of the Treasury,
actually
.'

I meet Lissy's eyes and I can't help it, I give a snort of laughter.

'Emma, don't laugh,' says Lissy, deadpan. 'There's nothing wrong with being a secretary. He can always move up, get himself a few qualifications …'

'Oh ha ha, very funny,' says Jemima crossly. 'You know, he'll be knighted one day. I don't think you'll be laughing then.'

'Oh, I expect I will,' says Lissy. 'Even more so.' She suddenly focuses on Jemima, who is still standing by the chair, trying to reach her bag. 'Oh my God! You can't even pick up your bag, can you?'

'I can!' says Jemima, making one last desperate effort to bend her body. 'Of course I can. There!' She manages to scoop up the strap on the end of one of her acrylic fingernails, and triumphantly swings it onto her shoulder. 'You see?'

'What if he suggests dancing?' says Lissy slyly. 'What will you do then?'

A look of total panic briefly crosses Jemima's face, then disappears.

'He won't,' she says scornfully. 'Englishmen never suggest dancing.'

'Fair point.' Lissy grins. 'Have a good time.'

As Jemima disappears out of the door, I sink down heavily onto the-sofa and reach for a magazine. I glance up at Lissy, but she's staring ahead with a preoccupied look on her face.

'Conditional!' she says suddenly. 'Of course! How could I have been so
stupid
?'

She scrabbles around under the sofa, pulls out several old newspaper crosswords and starts searching through them.

Honestly. As if being a top lawyer didn't use up enough brain power, Lissy spends her whole time doing crosswords and games of chess by correspondence, and special brainy puzzles which she gets from her geeky society of extra-clever people. (It's not
called
that, of course. It's called something like 'Mindset – for people who like to think'. Then at the bottom it casually mentions that you need an IQ of 600 in order to join.)

And if she can't solve a clue, she doesn't just throw it out, saying 'stupid puzzle' like I would. She saves it. Then about three months later, when we're watching
EastEnders
or something, she'll suddenly come up with the answer. And she's ecstatic! Just because she gets the last word in the box, or whatever.

Lissy's my oldest friend, and I really love her. But sometimes I really do
not
understand her.

'What's that?' I say, as she writes in the answer. 'Some crossword from 1993?'

'Ha ha,' she says absently. 'So what are you doing this evening?'

'I thought I'd have a quiet evening in,' I say, flicking through the magazine. 'In fact, I might go through my clothes,' I add, as my eyes fall on an article entitled 'Essential Wardrobe Upkeep'.

'Do what?'

'I thought I'd check them all for missing buttons and drooping hems,' I say, reading the article. 'And brush all my jackets with a clothes brush.'

'Have you got a clothes brush?'

'With a hairbrush then.'

'Oh right.' She shrugs. 'Oh well. Because I was just wondering, do you want to go out?'

'Ooh!' My magazine slithers to the floor. 'Where?'

'Guess what I've got?' She raises her eyebrows tantalizingly, then fishes in her bag. Very slowly she pulls out a large, rusty keyring, to which a brand new Yale is attached.

'What's that?' I begin, puzzledly – then suddenly realize. 'No!'

'Yes! I'm in!'

'Oh my God Lissy!'

'I know!' Lissy beams at me. 'Isn't it fab?'

The key which Lissy is holding is the coolest key in the world. It opens the door to a private members' club in Clerkenwell, which is completely happening and impossible to get into.

And Lissy got in!

'Lissy, you're the coolest!'

'No I'm not,' she says, looking pleased. 'It was Jasper at my chambers. He knows everyone on the committee.'

'Well I don't care who it was. I'm so impressed!'

I take the key from her and look at it in fascination, but there's nothing on it. No name, no address, no logo, no nothing. It looks a bit like the key to my dad's garden shed, I find myself thinking. But obviously way, way cooler, I add hastily.

'So who do you think'll be there?' I look up. 'You know, apparently Madonna's a member. And Jude and Sadie! And that gorgeous new actor from
EastEnders
. Except everyone says he's gay really …'

'Emma,' interrupts Lissy. 'You do know celebrities aren't guaranteed.'