Can You Keep a Secret? (16 page)

'Why are you with that guy?' he repeats.

My gurgles peter out, and I push my hair back off my face.

'What do you mean?' I say, playing for time.

'Connor Martin. He's not going to make you happy. He's not going to fulfil you.'

I stare at him, feeling wrong-footed.

'Who says?'

'I've got to know Connor. I've sat in meetings with him. I've seen how his mind works. He's a nice guy – but you need more than a nice guy.' Jack gives me a long, shrewd look. 'My guess is, you don't really want to move in with him. But you're afraid of ducking out.'

I feel a swell of indignation. How dare he read my mind and get it so … so
wrong
. Of course I want to move in with Connor.

'Actually, you're quite mistaken,' I say cuttingly. 'I'm looking forward to moving in with him. In fact … in fact, I was just sitting at my desk, thinking how I can't wait!'

So there.

Jack's shaking his head.

'You need someone with a spark. Who excites you.'

'I told you, I didn't
mean
what I said on the plane. Connor
does
excite me!' I give him a defiant look. 'I mean … when you saw us last, we were pretty passionate, weren't we?'

'Oh, that.' Jack shrugs. 'I assumed that was a desperate attempt to spice up your love life.'

I stare at him in fury.

'That was not a desperate attempt to spice up my love life!' I almost spit at him. 'That was simply a … a spontaneous act of passion.'

'Sorry,' says Jack mildly. 'My mistake.'

'Anyway, why do you care?' I fold my arms. 'What does it matter to you whether I'm happy or not?'

There's a sharp silence, and I find I'm breathing rather quickly. I meet his dark eyes, and quickly look away again.

'I've asked myself that same question,' says Jack. He shrugs. 'Maybe it's because we experienced that extraordinary plane ride together. Maybe it's because you're the only person in this whole company who hasn't put on some kind of phoney act for me.'

I would have put on an act! I feel like retorting. If I'd had a choice!

'I guess what I'm saying is … I feel as if you're a friend,' he says. 'And I care what happens to my friends.'

'Oh,' I say, and rub my nose.

I'm about to say politely that he feels like a friend, too, when he adds, 'Plus anyone who recites Woody Allen films line for line
has
to be a loser.'

I feel a surge of outrage on Connor's behalf.

'You don't know anything about it!' I exclaim. 'You know, I wish I'd never sat next to you on that stupid plane! You go around, saying all these things to wind me up, behaving as though you know me better than anyone else—'

'Maybe I do,' he says, his eyes glinting.

'What?'

'Maybe I do know you better than anyone else.'

I stare back at him, feeling a breathless mixture of anger and exhilaration. I suddenly feel like we're playing tennis. Or dancing.

'You do not know me better than anyone else!' I retort, in the most scathing tones I can muster.

'I know you won't end up with Connor Martin.'

'You don't know that.'

'Yes I do.'

'No you don't.'

'I do.'

He's starting to laugh.

'No you don't! If you want to know, I'll probably end up marrying Connor.'

'Marry Connor?' says Jack, as though this is the funniest joke he's ever heard.

'Yes! Why not? He's tall, and he's handsome, and he's kind and he's very … he's …' I'm floundering slightly. 'And anyway, this is my personal life. You're my boss, and you only met me last week, and frankly, this is none of your business!'

Jack's laughter vanishes, and he looks as though I've slapped him. For a few moments he stares at me, saying nothing. Then he takes a step back and releases the lift button.

'You're right,' he says in a completely different voice. 'Your personal life is none of my business. I overstepped the mark, and I apologize.'

I feel a spasm of dismay.

'I … I didn't mean—'

'No. You're right.' He stares at the floor for a few moments, then looks up. 'So, I leave for the States tomorrow. It's been a very pleasant stay, and I'd like to thank you for all your help. Will I see you at the drinks party tonight?'

'I … I don't know,' I say.

The atmosphere has disintegrated.

This is awful. It's horrible. I want to say something, I want to put it back to the way it was before, all easy and joking. But I can't find the words.

We reach the ninth floor, and the doors open.

'I think I can manage these from here,' Jack says. 'I really only asked you along for the company.'

Awkwardly, I transfer the folders to his arms.

'Well, Emma,' he says in the same formal voice. 'In case I don't see you later on … it was nice knowing you.' He meets my eyes and a glimmer of his old, warm expression returns. 'I really mean that.'

'You too,' I say, my throat tight.

I don't want him to go. I don't want this to be the end. I feel like suggesting a quick drink. I feel like clinging to his hand and saying: Don't leave.

God, what's
wrong
with me?

'Have a good journey,' I manage as he shakes my hand. Then he turns on his heel and walks off down the corridor.

I open my mouth a couple of times to call after him – but what would I say? There's nothing to say. By tomorrow morning he'll be on a plane back to his life. And I'll be left here in mine.

I feel leaden for the rest of the day. Everyone else is talking about Jack Harper's leaving party, but I leave work half an hour early. I go straight home and make myself some hot chocolate, and I'm sitting on the sofa, staring into space when Connor lets himself into the flat.

I look up as he walks into the room, and immediately I know something's different. Not with him. He hasn't changed a bit.

But I have. I've changed.

'Hi,' he says, and kisses me lightly on the head. 'Shall we go?'

'Go?'

'To look at the flat on Edith Road. We'll have to hurry if we're going to make it to the party. Oh, and my mother's given us a house-warming present. It was delivered to work.'

He hands me a cardboard box, I pull out a glass teapot and look at it blankly.

'You can keep the tea-leaves separate from the water. Mum says it really does make a better cup of tea—'

'Connor,' I hear myself saying. 'I can't do this.'

'It's quite easy. You just have to lift the—'

'No.' I shut my eyes, trying to gather some courage, then open them again. 'I can't do
this
. I can't move in with you.'

'What?' Connor stares at me. 'Has something happened?'

'Yes. No.' I swallow. 'I've been having doubts for a while. About us. And recently they've … they've been confirmed. If we carry on, I'll be a hypocrite. It's not fair to either of us.'

'
What?
' Connor rubs his face. 'Emma, are you saying you want to … to …'

'I want to break up,' I say, staring at the carpet.

'You're joking.'

'I'm not joking!' I say in sudden anguish. 'I'm not joking, OK?'

'But … this is ridiculous! It's ridiculous!' Connor's pacing around the room like a rattled lion. Suddenly he looks at me.

'It's that plane journey.'

'What?' I jump as though I've been scalded. 'What do you mean?'

'You've been different ever since that plane ride down from Scotland.'

'No I haven't!'

'You have! You've been edgy, you've been tense …' Connor squats down in front of me and takes my hands. 'Emma, I think maybe you're still suffering some kind of trauma. You could have counselling.'

'Connor, I don't need counselling!' I jerk my hands away. 'But maybe you're right. Maybe that plane ride did …' I swallow. 'Affect me. Maybe it brought my life into perspective and make me realize a few things. And one of the things I've realized is, we aren't right for each other.'

Slowly Connor sinks down onto the carpet, his face bewildered.

'But things have been great! We've been having lots of sex—'

'I know.'

'Is there someone else?'

'No!' I say sharply. 'Of course there's no-one else!' I rub my finger roughly up and down the cover of the sofa.

'This isn't you talking,' says Connor suddenly. 'It's just the mood you're in. I'll run you a nice hot bath, light some scented candles …'

'Connor, please!' I cry. 'No more scented candles! You have to listen to me. And you have to believe me.' I look straight into his eyes. 'I want to break up.'

'I
don't
believe you!' he says, shaking his head. 'I
know
you, Emma! You're not that kind of person. You wouldn't just throw away something like that. You wouldn't—'

He stops in shock as, with no warning, I hurl the glass teapot to the floor.

We both stare at it, stunned.

'It was supposed to break,' I explain after a pause. 'And that was going to signify that yes, I would throw something away. If I knew it wasn't right for me.'

'I think it has broken,' says Connor, picking it up and examining it. 'At least, there's a hairline crack.'

'There you go.'

'We could still use it—'

'No. We couldn't.'

'We could get some Sellotape.'

'But it would never work properly.' I clench my fists by my sides. 'It just … wouldn't work.'

'I see,' says Connor after a pause.

And I think, finally, he does.

'Well … I'll be off then,' he says at last. 'I'll phone the flat people and tell them that we're …' He stops, and roughly wipes his nose.

'OK,' I say, in a voice which doesn't sound like mine. 'Can we keep it quiet from everyone at work?' I add. 'Just for the moment.'

'Of course,' he says gruffly. 'I won't say anything.'

He's halfway out of the door when abruptly he turns back, reaching in his pocket. 'Emma, here are the tickets for the jazz festival,' he says, his voice cracking a little. 'You have them.'

'What?' I stare at them in horror. 'No! Connor, you have them! They're yours!'

'
You
have them. I know how much you've been looking forward to hearing the Dennisson Quartet.' He pushes the brightly coloured tickets roughly into my hand and closes my fingers over them.

'I … I …' I swallow. 'Connor … I just … I don't know what to say.'

'We'll always have jazz,' says Connor in a choked-up voice, and closes the door behind him.

ELEVEN

So now I have no promotion
and
no boyfriend. And puffy eyes from crying. And everyone thinks I'm mad.

'You're mad,' Jemima says, approximately every ten minutes. It's Saturday morning, and we're in our usual routine of dressing gowns, coffee, and nursing hangovers. Or in my case, break-ups. 'You do realize you had him?' She frowns at her toenail, which she's painting baby pink. 'I would have predicted a rock on your finger within six months.'

'I thought you said I'd ruined all my chances by agreeing to move in with him,' I retort sulkily.

'Well, in Connor's case I think you would have been safe and dry.' She shakes her head. 'You're crazy.'

'Do you think I'm crazy?' I say, turning to Lissy, who's sitting in the rocking chair with her arm round her knees, eating a piece of raisin toast. 'Be honest.'

'Er … no,' says Lissy unconvincingly. 'Of course not!'

'You do!'

'It's just … you seemed like such a great couple.'

'I know we did. I know we looked great on the outside.' I pause, trying to explain. 'But the truth is, I never felt I was being myself. It was always a bit like we were acting. You know. It didn't seem
real
, somehow.'

'That's
it
?' interrupts Jemima, staring at me as though I'm talking gibberish. 'That's the reason you broke up?'

'It's a pretty good reason, don't you think?' says Lissy loyally.

Jemima stares at us both blankly.

'Of course not! Emma, if you'd just stuck it out and acted being the perfect couple for long enough, you would have
become
the perfect couple.'

'But … but we wouldn't have been happy!'

'You would have been the perfect couple,' says Jemima, as though explaining something to a very stupid child.'
Obviously
you would have been happy.' She cautiously stands up, her toes splayed by bits of pink foam, and starts making her way towards the door. 'And anyway. Everyone pretends in a relationship.'

'No they don't! Or at least, they shouldn't.'

'Of course they should! All this being honest with each other is totally overrated.' She gives us a knowing look. 'My mother's been married to my father for thirty years, and he still has no idea she isn't a natural blonde.'

She disappears out of the room and I exchange glances with Lissy.

'Do you think she's right?' I say.

'No,' says Lissy uncertainly. 'Of course not! Relationships should be built on … on trust … and truth …' She pauses, and looks at me anxiously. 'Emma, you never told me you felt that way about Connor.'

'I … didn't tell anyone.'

This isn't quite true, I immediately realize. But I'm hardly going to tell my best friend that I told more to a complete stranger than to her, am I?

'Well, I really wish you'd confided in me more,' says Lissy earnestly. 'Emma, let's make a new resolution. We'll tell each other
everything
from now on. We shouldn't have secrets from one another, anyway. We're best friends!'

'It's a deal!' I say, with a sudden warm burst of emotion. Impulsively I lean forward and give her a hug.

Lissy's so right. We should confide in each other. We shouldn't keep things from each other. I mean, we've known each other for over twenty years, for God's sake.

'So, if we're telling each other everything …' Lissy takes a bite of raisin toast and gives me a sidelong look. 'Did your chucking Connor have anything to do with that man? The man from the plane?'

I feel a tiny pang inside which I ignore by taking a sip of coffee.

Did it have anything to do with him? No. No, it didn't.

'No,' I say without looking up. 'Nothing.'

We both watch the television screen for a few moments, where Kylie Minogue is being interviewed.