Can You Keep a Secret? (2 page)

As I finish speaking I plant the can firmly in the middle of the desk, reach for the ring pull and, with a cool smile, snap it back.

It's like a volcano erupting.

Fizzy cranberry-flavoured drink explodes in a whoosh out of the can, landing on the desk, drenching the papers and blotters in lurid red liquid … and oh no, please no … spattering all over Doug Hamilton's shirt.

'Fuck!' I gasp. 'I mean, I'm really sorry …'

'Jesus Christ,' says Doug Hamilton irritably, standing up and getting a handkerchief out of his pocket. 'Does this stuff stain?'

'Er …' I grab the can helplessly. 'I don't know.'

'I'll get a cloth,' says the other guy, and leaps to his feet.

The door closes behind him and there's silence, apart from the sound of cranberry drink dripping slowly onto the floor.

I stare at Doug Hamilton, my face hot and blood throbbing through my ears.

'Please …' I say, and clear my husky throat. 'Don't tell my boss.'

After all that. I screwed it up.

As I drag my heels across the concourse at Glasgow Airport, I feel completely dejected. Doug Hamilton was quite sweet in the end. He said he was sure the stain would come out, and promised he wouldn't tell Paul what happened. But he didn't change his mind about the deal.

My first big meeting. My first big chance – and this is what happens. I feel like giving up on the whole thing. I feel like phoning the office and saying 'That's it, I'm never coming back again, and by the way, it was me who jammed the photocopier that time.'

But I can't. This is my third career in four years. It
has
to work. For my own self-worth. For my own self-esteem. And also because I owe my dad four thousand quid.

'So what can I get you?' says an Australian guy, and I look up dazedly. I've arrived at the airport with an hour to go, and have headed straight for the bar.

'Erm …' My mind is blank. 'Er … white wine. No, actually, a vodka and tonic. Thanks.'

As he moves away, I slump down again in my stool. An air hostess with a French plait comes and sits down, two bar stools away. She smiles at me, and I smile weakly in return.

I don't know how other people manage their careers, I really don't. Like my oldest friend Lissy. She's always known she wanted to be a lawyer – and now, ta-daah! She's a fraud barrister. But I left college with absolutely no clue. My first job was in estate agency, and I only went into it because I've always quite liked looking round houses, plus I met this woman with amazing red lacquered nails at a career fair who told me she made so much money, she'd be able to retire when she was forty.

But the minute I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents. I hated saying things like 'a lovely aspect'. And I hated the way if someone said they could afford £300,000 we were supposed to give them details of houses costing at least £400,000, and then kind of look down our noses, like, 'You only have £300,000? God, you complete loser.'

So after six months I announced I was changing career and was going to be a photographer instead. It was
such
a fantastic moment, like in a film or something. My dad lent me the money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life …

Except it didn't quite happen like that.

I mean, for a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer's assistant gets paid?

Nothing. It's nothing.

Which, you know, I wouldn't have minded if anyone had actually
offered
me a photographer's assistant's job.

I heave a heavy sigh, and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. As well as everything else, my hair, which I carefully straightened with serum this morning, has gone all frizzy. Typical.

At least I wasn't the only one who didn't get anywhere. Out of the eight people on my course, one became instantly successful and now takes photos for
Vogue
and stuff, one became a wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went travelling, one had a baby, one works at Snappy Snaps and one is now at Morgan Stanley.

Meanwhile I got more and more into debt, and started temping and applying for jobs which actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at the Panther Corporation.

The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me, and gives me a quizzical look. 'Cheer up!' he says. 'It can't be that bad!'

'Thanks,' I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better. I'm just taking a second sip when my mobile starts to ring.

My stomach gives a nervous flip. If it's the office, I'll just pretend I didn't hear.

But it's not, it's our home number flashing on the little screen.

'Hi,' I say, pressing green.

'Hiya!' comes Lissy's voice. 'Only me! So how did it go?'

Lissy is my flatmate and my oldest friend in the world. She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of about 600 and is the sweetest person I know.

'It was a disaster,' I say miserably.

'What happened? Didn't you get the deal?'

'Not only did I not get the deal, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Oil in cranberry drink.'

Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the whole world knows.

'Oh dear.' I can almost
feel
Lissy trying to think of something positive to say. 'Well, at least you got their attention,' she says at last. 'At least they won't forget you in a hurry.'

'I suppose,' I say morosely. 'So, did I have any messages?'

'Oh! Erm … no. I mean, your dad did phone, but … um … you know … it wasn't …' She tails off evasively.

'Lissy. What did he want?'

There's a pause.

'Apparently your cousin's won some industry award,' she says apologetically. 'They're going to be celebrating it on Saturday as well as your mum's birthday.'

'Oh. Great.'

I slump deeper in my chair. That's all I need. My cousin Kerry triumphantly clutching some silver Best-travel-agent-in-the-world-no-make-that-universe trophy.

'And Connor rang, too, to see how you got on,' adds Lissy quickly. 'He was really sweet, he said he didn't want to ring your mobile during your meeting in case it disturbed you.'

'Really?'

For the first time today, I feel a lift in spirits.

Connor. My boyfriend. My lovely, thoughtful boyfriend.

'He's such a sweetheart!' Lissy is saying. 'He said he's tied up in a big meeting all afternoon but he's cancelled his squash game especially, so do you want to go out to supper tonight?'

'Oh,' I say, with a flicker of pleasure. 'Oh well, that'll be nice. Thanks, Lissy.'

I click off and take another sip of vodka, feeling much more cheerful.

My boyfriend.

It's just like Julie Andrews said. When the dog bites, when the bee stings … I simply remember I have a boyfriend – and suddenly things don't seem quite so completely shit.

Or however she put it.

And not just any boyfriend. A tall, handsome, clever boyfriend, whom
Marketing Week
called 'one of the brightest sparks in marketing research today.'

I sit nursing my vodka, allowing thoughts of Connor to roll round my brain and comfort me. The way his blond hair shines in the sunshine, and the way he's always smiling. And the way he upgraded all the software on my computer the other day without me even asking, and the way he … he …

My mind's gone blank. This is ridiculous. I mean, there's so much that is wonderful about Connor. From his … his long legs. Yes. And his broad shoulders. To the time he looked after me when I had the flu. I mean, how many boyfriends do that? Exactly.

I'm so lucky, I really am.

I put the phone away, run my fingers through my hair, and glance at the clock behind the bar. Forty minutes to go before the flight. Not long now. Nerves are starting to creep over me like little insects, and I take a deep gulp of vodka, draining my glass.

It'll be fine, I tell myself for the zillionth time. It'll be absolutely fine.

I'm not frightened. I'm just … I'm just …

OK. I am frightened.

16. I'm scared of flying.

I've never told anyone I'm scared of flying. It just sounds so lame. And I mean, it's not like I'm phobic or anything. It's not like I can't
get
on a plane. It's just … all things being equal, I would prefer to be on the ground.

I never used to be scared. But over the last few years, I've gradually got more and more nervous. I know it's completely irrational. I know thousands of people fly every day and it's practically safer than lying in bed. You have less chance of being in a plane crash than … than finding a man in London, or something.

But still. I just don't like it.

Maybe I'll have another quick vodka.

By the time my flight is called, I've drunk two more vodkas and am feeling a lot more positive. I mean, Lissy's right. At least I made an impression, didn't I? At least they'll remember who I am. As I stride towards the gate, clutching my briefcase, I almost start to feel like a confident businesswoman again. A couple of people smile at me as they pass, and I smile broadly back, feeling a warm glow of friendliness. You see. The world's not so bad after all. It's all just a question of being positive. Anything can happen in life, can't it? You never know what's round the next corner.

I reach the entrance to the plane, and there at the door, taking boarding passes, is the air hostess with the French plait who was sitting at the bar earlier.

'Hi again,' I say smiling. 'This is a coincidence!'

The air hostess stares at me.

'Hi. Erm …'

'What?'

Why does she look embarrassed?

'Sorry. It's just … did you know that …' She gestures awkwardly to my front.

'What is it?' I say, pleasantly. I look down, and freeze, aghast.

Somehow my silky shirt has been unbuttoning itself while I've been walking along. Three buttons have come undone and it's gaping at the front.

My bra shows. My pink lacy bra. The one that went a bit blobby in the wash.

That's why those people were smiling at me. Not because the world is a nice place, but because I'm Pink-Blobby-Bra-Woman.

'Thanks,' I mutter, and do up the buttons with rumbling fingers, my face hot with humiliation.

'It hasn't been your day, has it?' says the air hostess sympathetically, holding out a hand for my boarding pass. 'Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing, earlier.'

'That's all right.' I raise a half-smile. 'No, it hasn't been the best day of my life.' There's a short silence as she studies my boarding pass.

'Tell you what,' she says in a low voice. 'Would you like an on-board upgrade?'

'A what?' I stare at her blankly.

'Come on. You deserve a break.'

'Really? But … can you just upgrade people like that?'

'If there are spare seats, we can. We use our discretion. And this flight is so short.' She gives me a conspiratorial smile. 'Just don't tell everyone, OK?'

She leads me into the front section of the plane and gestures to a big, wide, comfortable seat. I've never been upgraded before in my life! I can't quite believe she's really letting me do this.

'Is this first class?' I whisper, taking in the hushed, luxury atmosphere. A man in a smart suit is tapping at a laptop to my right, and two elderly women in the corner are plugging themselves into headsets.

'Business class. There's no first class on this flight.' She lifts her voice to a normal volume. 'Is everything OK for you?'

'It's perfect! Thanks very much.'

'No problem.' She smiles again and walks away, and I push my briefcase under the seat in front.

Wow. This really is lovely. Big wide seats, and footrests, and everything. This is going to be a completely pleasurable experience from start to finish, I tell myself firmly. I reach for my seatbelt and buckle it up nonchalantly, trying to ignore the flutters of apprehension in my stomach.

'Would you like some champagne?'

It's my friend the air hostess, beaming down at me.

'That would be great,' I say. 'Thanks!'

Champagne!

'And for you, sir? Some champagne?'

The man in the seat next to mine hasn't even looked up yet. He's wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt and is staring out of the window. As he turns to answer I catch a glimpse of dark eyes, stubble; a deep frown etched on his forehead.

'No thanks. Just a brandy. Thanks.'

His voice is dry and has an American accent. I'm about to ask him politely where he's from, but he immediately turns back and stares out of the window again.

Which is fine, because to be honest, I'm not much in the mood for talking either.

TWO

OK. The truth is, I don't like this.

I know it's business class, I know it's all lovely luxury. But my stomach is still a tight knot of fear.

While we were taking off I counted very slowly with my eyes closed, and that kind of worked. But I ran out of steam at about 350. So now I'm just sitting, sipping champagne, reading an article on '30 Things To Do Before You're 30' in
Cosmo
. I'm trying very hard to look like a relaxed business-class top marketing executive. But oh God. Every tiny sound makes me start; every judder makes me catch my breath.

With an outward veneer of calm I reach for the laminated safety instructions and run my eyes over them. Safety exits. Brace position. If life jackets are required, please assist the elderly and children first. Oh God—

Why am I even
looking
at this? How will it help me to gaze at pictures of little stick people jumping into the ocean while their plane explodes behind them? I stuff the safety instructions quickly back in their pocket and take a gulp of champagne.

'Excuse me, madam.' An air hostess with red curls has appeared by my side. 'Are you travelling on business?'

'Yes,' I say, smoothing down my hair with a prickle of pride. 'Yes I am.'

She hands me a leaflet entitled 'Executive Facilities', on which there's a photo of businesspeople talking animatedly in front of a clipboard with a wavy graph on it.