Can You Keep a Secret? (28 page)

This is the first time I've seen him since we slept together, it suddenly occurs to me. But his face is as warm as ever, and his eyes look all dark and glossy under the studio lights.

Oh God, I want to kiss him.

If no-one else was here I would go up to the television set and kiss it. I honestly would.

'What have they asked him so far?' I murmur to Artemis.

'They're talking to him about how he works. His inspirations, his partnership with Pete Laidler, stuff like that.'

'Sssh!' says someone else.

'Of course it was tough after Pete died,' Jack's saying. 'It was tough for all of us. But recently …' He pauses. 'Recently my life has turned around and I'm finding inspiration again. I'm enjoying it again.'

A small tingle runs over me.

He has to be referring to me. He has to be. I've turned his life around! Oh my God. That's even more romantic than 'I was gripped'.

'You've already expanded into the sports drinks market,' the male interviewer is saying. 'Now I believe you're looking to expand into the women's market.'

'What?'

There's
a frisson
around the room, and people start turning their heads.

'We're going into the women's market?'

'Since when?'

'I knew, actually,' Artemis is saying smugly. 'Quite a few people have known for a while—'

I stare at the screen, instantly recalling those people up in Jack's office. That's what the ovaries were for. Gosh, this is quite exciting. A new venture!

'Can you give us any further details about that?' the male interviewer is saying. 'Will this be a soft drink marketed at women?'

'It's very early stages,' says Jack. 'But we're planning an entire line. A drink, clothing, a fragrance. We have a strong creative vision.' He smiles at the man. 'We're excited.'

'So, what's your target market this time?' asks the man, consulting his notes. 'Are you aiming at sportswomen?'

'Not at all,' says Jack. 'We're aiming at … the girl on the street.'

'The "girl on the street"?' The female interviewer sits up, looking slightly affronted. 'What's that supposed to mean? Who is this girl on the street?'

'She's twenty-something,' says Jack after a pause. 'She works in an office, takes the tube to work, goes out in the evenings and comes home on the night bus … just an ordinary, nothing-special girl.'

'There are thousands of them,' puts in the man with a smile.

'But the Panther brand has always been associated with men,' chips in the woman, looking sceptical. 'With competition. With masculine values. Do you really think you can make the switch to the female market?'

'We've done research,' says Jack pleasantly. 'We feel we know our market.'

'Research!' she scoffs. 'Isn't this just another case of men telling women what they want?'

'I don't believe so,' says Jack, still pleasantly, but I can see a slight flicker of annoyance pass across his face.

'Plenty of companies have tried to switch markets without success. How do you know you won't just be another one of them?'

'I'm confident,' says Jack.

God, why is she being so aggressive? I think indignantly. Of course Jack knows what he's doing!

'You round up a load of women in some focus group and ask them a few questions! How does that tell you anything?'

'That's only a small part of the picture, I can assure you,' says Jack evenly.

'Oh, come on,' the woman says, leaning back and folding her arms. 'Can a company like Panther – can a man like you –
really
tap into the psyche of, as you put it, an ordinary, nothing-special girl?'

'Yes. I can!' Jack meets her gaze square-on. 'I know this girl.'

'You
know
her?' The woman raises her eyebrows.

'I know who this girl is,' says Jack. 'I know what her tastes are; what colours she likes. I know what she eats, I know what she drinks. I know what she wants out of life. She's size twelve but she'd like to be size ten. She …' he spreads his arms as though searching for inspiration. 'She eats Cheerios for breakfast and dips Flakes in her cappuccinos.'

I look in surprise at my hand, holding a Flake. I was about to dip it into my coffee. And … I had Cheerios this morning.

'We're surrounded these days by images of perfect, glossy people,' Jack is saying with animation. 'But this girl is real. She has bad hair days, and good hair days. She wears G-strings even though she finds them uncomfortable. She writes out exercise routines, then ignores them. She pretends to read business journals but hides celebrity magazines inside them.'

I stare blankly at the television screen.

Just … hang on a minute. This all sounds a bit familiar.

'That's
exactly
what you do, Emma,' says Artemis. 'I've seen your copy of
OK
! inside
Marketing Week
,' She turns to me with a mocking laugh and her gaze lands on my Flake.

'She loves clothes but she's not a fashion victim,' Jack is saying on screen. 'She'll wear, maybe, a pair of jeans …'

Artemis stares in disbelief at my Levis.

'… and a flower in her hair …'

Dazedly I lift a hand and touch the fabric rose in my hair.

He can't—

He can't be talking about—

'Oh … my … God,' says Artemis slowly.

'What?' says Caroline, next to her. She follows Artemis's gaze, and her expression changes.

'Oh my God! Emma! It's you!'

'It's not,' I say, but my voice won't quite work properly.

'It is!'

A few people start nudging each other and turning to look at me.

'She reads fifteen horoscopes every day and chooses the one she likes best …' Jack's voice is saying.

'It is you! It's exactly you!'

'… she scans the back of highbrow books and pretends she's read them …'

'I
knew
you hadn't read
Great Expectations
!' says Artemis triumphantly.

'… she adores sweet sherry …'

'Sweet
sherry
?' says Nick, turning in horror. 'You cannot be serious.'

'It's Emma!' I can hear people saying on the other side of the room. 'It's Emma Corrigan!'

'
Emma?
' says Katie, looking straight at me in disbelief. 'But … but …'

'It's not Emma!' says Connor all of a sudden, with a laugh. He's standing over on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall. 'Don't be ridiculous! Emma's size eight, for a start. Not size twelve!'

'Size eight?' says Artemis with a snort of laughter.

'Size
eight
!' Caroline giggles. 'That's a good one!'

'Aren't you size eight?' Connor looks at me bewil-deredly. 'But you said …'

'I … I know I did.' I swallow, my face like a furnace. 'But I was … I was …'

'Do you really buy all your clothes from thrift shops and pretend they're new?' says Caroline, looking up with interest from the screen.

'No!' I say defensively. 'I mean, yes, maybe … sometimes …'

'She weighs 135 pounds, but pretends she weighs 125,' Jack's voice is saying.

What?
What
?

My entire body contracts in shock.

'I do not!' I yell in outrage at the screen. 'I do not weigh anything like 135 pounds! I weigh … about … 128 … and a half …' I tail off as the entire room turns to stare at me.

'… hates crochet …'

There's an almighty gasp from across the room.

'You hate crochet?' comes Katie's disbelieving voice.

'No!' I say, swivelling in horror. 'That's wrong! I love crochet! You know I love crochet.'

But Katie is stalking furiously out of the room.

'She cries when she hears the Carpenters,' Jack's voice is saying on the screen. 'She loves Abba but she can't stand jazz …'

Oh no. Oh no oh no …

Connor is staring at me as though I have personally driven a stake through his heart.

'You can't stand …
jazz
?'

*   *   *

It's like one of those dreams where everyone can see your underwear and you want to run but you can't. I can't tear myself away. All I can do is stare ahead in agony as Jack's voice continues inexorably.

All my secrets. All my personal, private secrets. Revealed on television. I'm in such a state of shock, I'm not even taking them all in.

'She wears lucky underwear on first dates … she borrows designer shoes from her flatmate and passes them off as her own … pretends to kick-box … confused about religion … worries that her breasts are too small …'

I close my eyes, unable to bear it. My breasts. He mentioned my
breasts
. On
television
.

'When she goes out, she can play sophisticated, but on her bed …'

I'm suddenly faint with fear.

No. No. Please not this. Please,
please
…

'… she has a Barbie bedcover.'

A huge roar of laughter goes round the room, and I bury my face in my hands. I am beyond mortification.
No-one
was supposed to know about my Barbie bedcover.
No-one
.

'Is she sexy?' the interviewer is asking, and my heart gives a huge jump. I stare at the screen, unable to breathe for apprehension. What's he going to say?

'She's very sexual,' says Jack at once, and all eyes swivel towards me, agog. 'This is a modern girl who carries condoms in her purse.'

OK. Every time I think this can't get any worse, it does.

My
mother
is watching this. My
mother
.

'But maybe she hasn't reached her full potential … maybe there's a side of her which has been frustrated …'

I can't look at Connor. I can't look anywhere.

'Maybe she's willing to experiment … maybe she's had – I don't know – a lesbian fantasy about her best friend.'

No! No! My entire body clenches in horror. I have a sudden image of Lissy watching the screen at home, wide-eyed, clasping a hand over her mouth. She'll know it was her. I will never be able to look her in the eye again.

'It was a
dream
, OK?' I manage desperately, as everyone gawps at me. 'Not a fantasy. They're different!'

I feel like throwing myself at the television. Draping my arms over it. Stopping him.

But it wouldn't do any good, would it? A million TVs are on, in a million homes. People, everywhere, are watching.

'She believes in love and romance. She believes her life is one day going to be transformed into something wonderful and exciting. She has hopes and fears and worries, just like anyone. Sometimes she feels frightened.' He pauses, and adds in a softer voice, 'Sometimes she feels unloved. Sometimes she feels she will never gain approval from those people who are most important to her.'

As I stare at Jack's warm, serious face on the screen, I feel my eyes stinging slightly.

'But she's brave and goodhearted and faces her life head on …' He shakes his head dazedly and smiles at the interviewer. 'I'm … I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened there. I guess I got a little carried away. Could we—' His voice is abruptly cut off by the interviewer.

Carried away.

He got a little carried away.

This is like saying Hitler was a tad aggressive.

'Jack Harper, many thanks for talking to us,' the interviewer starts saying. 'Next week, we'll be chatting to the charismatic king of motivational videos, Ernie Powers. Meanwhile, many thanks again to …'

Everyone stares at the screen as she finishes her spiel and the programme's music starts. Then someone leans forward and switches the television off.

For a few seconds the entire room is silent. Everyone is gaping at me, as though they're expecting me to make a speech, or do a little dance or something. Some faces are sympathetic, some are curious, some are gleeful and some are just Jeez-am-I-glad-I'm-not-you.

Now I know exactly how zoo animals feel.

I am never visiting a zoo again.

'But … but I don't understand,' comes a voice from across the room, and all the heads swivel avidly towards Connor, like at a tennis match. He's staring at me, his face red with confusion. 'How does Jack Harper know so much about you?'

Oh God. I know Connor got a really good degree from Manchester University and everything. But sometimes he is so slow on the uptake.

The heads have swivelled back towards me again.

'I …' My whole body is prickling with embarrassment. 'Because we … we …'

I can't say it out loud. I just can't.

But I don't have to. Connor's face is slowly turning different colours.

'No,' he gulps, staring at me as though he's seen a ghost. And not just any old ghost. A really big ghost with clanky chains going 'Whoooarr!'

'No,' he says again. 'No. I don't believe it.'

'Connor—' says someone, putting a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.

'Connor, I'm really sorry,' I say helplessly.

'You're joking!' exclaims some guy in the corner, who is obviously even slower than Connor, and has just had it spelled out to him, word for word. He looks up at me. 'So how long has this been going on?'

It's as if he opened the floodgates. Suddenly everyone in the entire room starts pitching questions at me. I can't hear myself think for the babble.

'Is that why he came to Britain? To see you?'

'Are you going to marry him?'

'You know, you don't
look
like weigh 135 pounds …'

'Do you really have a Barbie bedspread?'

'So in the lesbian fantasy, was it just the two of you, or …'

'Have you had sex with Jack Harper at the office?'

'Is that why you dumped Connor?'

I can't cope with this. I have to get out of here. Now.

Without looking at anyone, I get to my feet and stumble out of the room. As I head down the corridor, I'm too dazed to think of anything other than I must get my bag and go. Now.

I enter the empty marketing department, where phones are shrilly ringing around. The habit's too ingrained, I can't ignore them.

'Hello?' I say, picking up one randomly.

'So!' comes Jemima's furious voice. '"She borrows designer shoes from her flatmate and passes them off as her own." Whose shoes might those be, then? Lissy's?'