Can You Keep a Secret? (31 page)

'Well then, you'll have to make something up,' says Jemima. 'You know, before the affair with the scientist, Mummy was treated very badly by some politician chap. So she made up a rumour that he was taking bribes from the Communist party, and passed it round the House of Commons. She always says, that taught Dennis a lesson!'

'Not … Dennis Llewellyn?' Lissy says.

'Er, yes, I think that was him.'

'The disgraced Home Secretary?' Lissy looks aghast. 'The one who spent his whole life fighting to clear his name and ended up in a mental institution?'

'Well, he shouldn't have messed Mummy around, should he?' says Jemima, sticking out her chin. A bleeper goes off in her pocket. 'Time for my footbath!'

As she disappears back into the house, Lissy rolls her eyes.

'She's nuts,' she says. 'Totally nuts. Emma, you are
not
making anything up about Jack Harper.'

'I won't make anything up!' I say indignantly. 'Who do you think I am? Anyway.' I stare into my schnapps, feeling my exhilaration fade away. 'Who am I kidding? I could never get my revenge on Jack. I could never hurt him. He doesn't
have
any weak points. He's a huge, powerful millionaire.' I take a miserable slug of my drink. 'And I'm a nothing-special … crappy … ordinary … nothing.'

TWENTY-ONE

The next morning I wake up full of sick dread. I feel exactly like a five-year-old who doesn't want to go to school. A five-year-old with a severe hangover, that is.

'I can't go,' I say, as 8.30 arrives. 'I can't face them.'

'Yes you can,' says Lissy reassuringly, doing up my jacket buttons. 'It'll be fine. Just keep your chin up.'

'What if they're horrid to me?'

'They won't be horrid to you. They're your friends. Anyway, they'll probably all have forgotten about it by now.'

'They won't! Can't I just stay at home with you?' I grab her hand beseechingly. 'I'll be really good, I promise.'

'Emma, I've explained to you,' says Lissy patiently. 'I've got to go to court today.'

She prises my hand out of hers. 'But I'll be here when you get home. And we'll have something really nice for supper. OK?'

'OK,' I say in a small voice. 'Can we have chocolate ice-cream?'

'Of course we can,' says Lissy, opening the front door of our flat. 'Now, go on. You'll be fine!'

Feeling like a dog being shooed out, I go down the stairs and open the front door. I'm just stepping out of the house when a van pulls up at the side of the road. A man gets out in a blue uniform, holding the biggest bunch of flowers I've ever seen, all tied up with dark green ribbon, and squints at the number on our house.

'Hello,' he says. 'I'm looking for an Emma Corrigan.'

'That's me!' I say in surprise.

'Aha!' He smiles, and holds out a pen and clipboard. 'Well, this is your lucky day. If you could just sign here …'

I stare at the bouquet in disbelief. Roses, freesias, amazing big purple flowers … fantastic dark red pompom things … dark green frondy bits … pale green ones which look just like asparagus …

OK, I may not know what they're all called. But I do know one thing. These flowers are expensive.

There's only one person who could have sent them.

'Wait,' I say, without taking the pen. 'I want to check who they're from.'

I grab the card, rip it open, and scan down the long message, not reading any of it until I come to the name at the bottom.

Jack.

I feel a huge dart of emotion. After all he did, Jack thinks he can fob me off with some manky bunch of flowers?

All right, huge, deluxe bunch of flowers.

But that's not the point.

'I don't want them, thank you,' I say, lifting my chin.

'You don't
want
them?' The delivery man stares at me.

'No. Tell the person who sent them that thanks, but no thanks.'

'What's going on?' comes a breathless voice beside me, and I look up to see Lissy gawping at the bouquet. 'Oh my God. Are they from Jack?'

'Yes. But I don't want them,' I say. 'Please take them away.'

'Wait!' exclaims Lissy, grabbing the cellophane. 'Let me just smell them.' She buries her face in the blooms and inhales deeply. 'Wow! That's absolutely incredible! Emma, have you smelt them?'

'No!' I say, crossly. 'I don't want to smell them.'

'I've never
seen
flowers as amazing as this.' She looks at the man. 'So what will happen to them?'

'Dunno.' He shrugs. 'They'll get chucked away, I suppose.'

'Gosh.' She glances at me. 'That seems like an awful waste …'

Hang on. She's not—

'Lissy, I can't
accept
them!' I exclaim. 'I can't! He'll think I'm saying everything's OK between us.'

'No, you're quite right,' says Lissy reluctantly. 'You have to send them back.' She touches a pink velvety rose petal. 'It is a shame, though …'

'Send what back?' comes a sharp voice behind me. 'You are joking, aren't you?'

Oh, for God's sake. Now Jemima has arrived in the street, still in her white dressing gown. 'You're not sending those back!' she cries. 'I'm giving a dinner party tomorrow night. They'll be perfect.' She' grabs the label. 'Smythe and Foxe! Do you know how much these must have cost?'

'I don't care how much they cost!' I exclaim. 'They're from Jack! I can't possibly keep them.'

'Why not?'

She is unbelievable.

'Because … because it's a matter of principle. If I keep them, I'm basically saying, "I forgive you." '

'Not necessarily,' retorts Jemima. 'You could be saying "I
don't
forgive you." Or you could be saying "I can't be bothered to return your stupid flowers, that's how little you mean to me."'

There's silence as we all consider this.

The thing is, they
are
pretty amazing flowers.

'So do you want them or not?' says the delivery guy.

'I …' Oh God, now I'm all confused.

'Emma, if you send them back you look weak,' says Jemima firmly. 'You look like you can't bear to have any reminder of him in the house. But if you keep them, then you're saying, "I don't care about you!" You're standing firm! You're being strong. You're being—'

'Oh, God, OK!' I say, and grab the pen from the delivery guy. 'I'll sign for them. But could you please tell him that this does
not
mean I forgive him, nor that he isn't a cynical, heartless, despicable user and furthermore, if Jemima wasn't having a dinner party, these would be straight in the bin.' As I finish signing I'm red-faced and breathing hard, and I stamp a full stop so hard it tears the page. 'Can you remember all that?'

The delivery guy looks at me blankly.

'Love, I just work at the depot.'

'I know!' says Lissy suddenly. She grabs the clipboard back and prints
WITHOUT
PREJUDICE
clearly under my name.

'What does that mean?' I say.

'It means "I'll never forgive you, you complete bastard … but I'll keep the flowers anyway."'

'And you're still going to get even,' adds Jemima determinedly.

It's one of those amazingly bright, crisp mornings that make you feel that London really is the best city in the world. As I'm walking from the tube station to work, my spirits can't help rising a little.

Maybe Lissy's right. Maybe everyone at work will already have forgotten about the whole thing. I mean, let's get a bit of proportion here. It wasn't
that
big a deal. It wasn't
that
interesting. Surely some other piece of gossip will have come along in the meantime. Surely everyone will be talking about … the football. Or politics or something. Exactly.

I push open the glass door to the foyer with a small spurt of optimism, and walk in, my head held high.

'… a Barbie bedspread!' I immediately hear from across the marble. A guy from Accounts is talking to a woman with a 'Visitor' badge, who is listening avidly.

'… shagging Jack Harper all along?' comes a voice from above me, and I look up to see a group of girls walking up the stairs.

'It's Connor I feel sorry for,' one replies. 'That poor guy …'

'… pretended she loved jazz,' someone else is saying as they get out of the lift. 'I mean, why on earth would you do that?'

OK. So … they haven't forgotten.

All my crisp optimism dies away, and for an instant I consider running away and spending the rest of my life under the duvet.

But I can't do that.

For a start, I'd probably get bored after about a week.

And secondly … I have to face them. I have to do this.

Clenching my fists at my sides, I slowly make my way up the stairs and along the corridor. Everyone I pass either blatantly stares at me, or pretends they're not looking when they are, and at least five conversations are hastily broken off as I approach.

As I reach the door to the marketing department, I take a deep breath, then walk in, trying to look as unconcerned as possible.

'Hi everyone,' I say, taking off my jacket and hanging it on my chair.

'Emma!' exclaims Artemis in tones of sarcastic delight.'Well I never!'

'Good morning, Emma,' says Paul, coming out of his office and giving me an appraising look. 'You OK?'

'Fine, thanks.'

'Anything you'd like to … talk about?' To my surprise he looks as if he genuinely means it.

But honestly. What does he think? That I'm going to go in there and sob on his shoulder, 'That bastard Jack Harper used me'?

I'll only do that if I get really,
really
desperate.

'No,' I say, my face prickling. 'Thanks, but I'm OK.'

'Good.' He pauses, then adopts a more businesslike tone. 'Now, I'm assuming that when you disappeared yesterday, it was because you'd decided to work from home.'

'Er … yes.' I clear my throat. 'That's right.'

'No doubt you got lots of useful tasks done?'

'Er … yes. Loads.'

'Excellent. Just what I thought. All right, then, carry on. And the rest of you.' Paul looks around the office warningly. 'Remember what I said.'

'Of course,' says Artemis at once. 'We all remember!'

Paul disappears into his office again, and I stare rigidly at my computer as it warms up. It'll be fine, I tell myself. I'll just concentrate on my work, completely immerse myself …

Suddenly I become aware that someone's humming a tune, quite loudly. It's something I recognize. It's …

It's the Carpenters.

And now a few others around the room are joining in on the chorus.

'Close to yoooou …'

'All right, Emma?' says Nick, as my head jerks up suspiciously. 'D'you want a hanky?'

'Close to yoooou …' everybody trills in unison again, and I hear muffled laughter.

I'm not going to react. I'm not going to give them the pleasure.

As calmly as possible I click onto my emails, and give a small gasp of shock. I normally get about ten emails every morning, if that. Today I have ninety-five.

Dad: I'd really like to talk …

Carol: I've already got two more people for our Barbie Club!

Moira: I know where you can get really comfy G-strings …

Sharon: So how long has this been going on?!!

Fiona: Re: the body awareness workshop …

I scroll down the endless list and suddenly feel a stabbing in my heart.

There are three from Jack.

What should I do?

Should I read them?

My hand hovers uncertainly over my mouse. Does he deserve at least a chance to explain?

'Oh Emma,' says Artemis innocently, coming over to my desk with a carrier bag. 'I've got this jumper I wondered if you'd like. It's a bit too small for me, but it's very nice. And it should fit you, because –' she pauses, and catches Caroline's eye – 'it's a size eight.'

Immediately both of them erupt into hysterical giggles.

'Thanks, Artemis,' I say shortly. 'That's really sweet of you.'

'I'm off for a coffee,' says Fergus, standing up. 'Anybody want anything?'

'Make mine a Harvey's Bristol Cream,' says Nick brightly.

'Ha ha,' I mutter under my breath.

'Oh Emma, I meant to say,' Nick adds, sauntering over to my desk. 'That new secretary in Admin. Have you seen her? She's quite something, isn't she?'

He winks at me and I stare at him blankly for a moment, not understanding.

'Nice spiky haircut,' he adds. 'Nice dungarees.'

'Shut up!' I cry furiously, my face flaming red. 'I'm not a … I'm not … Just fuck off, all of you!'

My hand trembling with anger, I swiftly delete each and every one of Jack's emails. He doesn't deserve anything. No chance. Nothing.

I rise to my feet and stride out of the room, breathing hard. I head for the ladies' room, slam the door behind me, and rest my hot forehead on the mirror. Hatred for Jack Harper is bubbling through me like lava. Does he have any idea what I'm going through? Does he have any idea what he's done to me?

'Emma!' A voice interrupts my thoughts and I give a start. Immediately I feel a jolt of apprehension.

Katie has come into the Ladies without me hearing. She's standing right behind me, holding her makeup bag. Her face is reflected in the mirror next to mine … and she isn't smiling. It's just like
Fatal Attraction
.

'So,' she says in a strange voice. 'You don't like crochet.'

Oh God. Oh God. What have I done? I've unleashed the bunny-boiler side of Katie that no-one's ever seen before. Maybe she'll impale me with a crochet needle, I find myself thinking wildly.

'Katie,' I say, my heart thumping hard. 'Katie, please listen. I never meant … I never said …'

'Emma, don't even try.' She lifts her hand. 'There's no point. We both know the truth.'

'He was wrong!' I say quickly. 'He got confused! I meant I don't like … um …
crèches
. You know, all those babies everywhere—'

'You know, I was pretty upset yesterday,' Katie cuts me off with an eerie smile. 'But after work I went straight home, and I called my mum. And do you know what she said to me?'

'What?' I say apprehensively.

'She said … she doesn't like crochet either.'

'
What
?' I wheel round and gape at her.