Can You Keep a Secret? (35 page)

'I don't!' she snaps.

'I never said you did,' I reply innocently, and switch on my computer with a flourish.

'Ready to go to the meeting, Artemis?' says Paul, coming out of his office with his briefcase and a magazine in his hand. 'And by the way, Nick,' he adds ominously, 'Before I go, would you mind telling me what on earth possessed you to put a coupon ad for Panther Bars in –' he consults the front cover

'–
Bowling Monthly
magazine? I'm assuming it was you, as this is your product?'

My heart gives a little swoop, and I lift my head. Shit. Double shit. I didn't think Paul would ever find out about that.

Nick shoots me a dirty look and I pull an agonized face back.

'Well,' he begins truculently. 'Yes, Paul. Panther Bars are my product. But as it happens—'

Oh God. I can't let him take the blame.

'Paul,' I say in a trembling voice, half raising my hand. 'Actually, it was—'

'Because I want to tell you,' Paul grins at Nick. 'It was bloody inspired! I've just had the feedback figures, and bearing in mind the pitiful circulation … they're extraordinary!'

I stare at him in astonishment. The ad worked?

'Really?' says Nick, obviously trying to sound not too amazed. 'I mean – excellent!'

'What the
fuck
compelled you to advertise a teenage bar to a load of old codgers?'

'Well!' Nick adjusts his cufflinks, not looking anywhere near me. 'Obviously it was a
bit
of a gamble. But I simply felt that maybe it was time to … to fly a few kites … experiment with a new demographic …'

Hang on a minute.
What's
he saying?

'Well, your experiment paid off.' Paul gives Nick an approving look. 'And very interestingly, it coincides with some Scandinavian market research we've just had in. If you'd like to see me later, to discuss it—'

'Sure!' says Nick with a pleased smile. 'What sort of time?'

No! How can he? He is such a
bastard
.

'Wait!' To my own astonishment, I leap to my feet in outrage. 'Wait a minute! That was
my
idea!'

'What?' Paul frowns.

'The
Bowling Monthly
ad. It was my idea.
Wasn't
it, Nick?' I look directly at him.

'Maybe we discussed it,' he says, not meeting my eye. 'I don't really remember. But you know, something you'll have to learn, Emma, is that marketing's all about team-work …' .

'Don't patronize me! This wasn't team-work. It was totally my idea. I put it in for my grandpa!'

Damn. I didn't quite mean to let that slip out.

'First your parents. Now your grandpa,' says Paul, turning to look at me. 'Emma, remind me, is this Bring Your Entire Family To Work week?'

'No! It's just …' I begin, a little hot under his gaze. 'You said you were going to axe Panther Bars, so I … I thought I'd give him and his friends some money off, and they could all stock up. I tried to tell you at that big meeting, my grandfather loves Panther Bars! And so do all his friends. If you ask me, you should be marketing Panther Bars at
them
, not teenagers.'

There's silence. Paul looks astonished.

'You know, in Scandinavia, they're coming to the same conclusion,' he says. 'That's what this new research shows.'

'Oh,' I say. 'Well … there you go.'

'So why does this older generation like Panther Bars so much, Emma? Do you know?' He sounds genuinely fascinated.

'Yes, of course I know.'

'It's the grey pound,' puts in Nick wisely. 'Demographic shifts in the pensionable population are accounting for—'

'No it's not!' I say impatiently. 'It's because … because …' Oh God, Grandpa will absolutely kill me for saying this. 'It's because … they don't pull out their false teeth.'

There's a staggered pause. Then Paul throws back his head and roars with laughter. 'False teeth,' he says, wiping his eyes. 'That is sheer bloody genius, Emma. False teeth!'

He chuckles again and I stare back at him, feeling the blood beating in my head. I've got the strangest feeling. Like something's building up inside me, as though I'm about to—

'So can I have a promotion?'

'What?' Paul looks up.

Did I really just say that? Out loud?

'Can I have a promotion?' My voice is trembling slightly, but I hold firm. 'You said if I created my own opportunities I could have a promotion. That's what you said. Isn't this creating my own opportunities?'

Paul looks at me for a few moments, blinking, saying nothing.

'You know, Emma Corrigan,' he says at last. 'You are one of the most … one of the most
surprising
people I've ever known.'

'Is that a yes?' I persist.

There's silence in the entire office. Everyone's waiting to see what he'll say.

'Oh, for God's sake,' he says, rolling his eyes. 'All right! You can have a promotion. Is that it?'

'No,' I hear myself saying, my heart beating even more furiously. 'There's more. Paul, I broke your World Cup mug.'

'What?' He looks gobsmacked.

'I'm really sorry. I'll buy you another one.' I look around the silent, gawping office. 'And it was me who jammed the copier that time. In fact … all the times. And that bottom …' Amid agog faces, I walk to the pin-board and rip down the photocopied, G-stringed bottom. 'That's mine, and I don't want it up there any more.' I swivel round. 'And Artemis, about your spider plant …'

'What?' she says suspiciously.

I stare at her, in her Burberry raincoat and her designer spectacles, and her smug, I'm-better-than-you face.

OK, let's not get carried away. 'I … I can't think what's wrong with it.' I smile at her. 'Have a good meeting.'

For the rest of the day, I am totally exhilarated. Kind of shocked and exhilarated, all at the same time. I can't believe I'm getting a promotion. I'm actually going to be a Marketing Executive!

But it's not just that. I don't quite know what's happened to me. I feel like a whole new person. So what if I broke Paul's mug? Who cares? So what if everyone knows how much I weigh? Who cares? Goodbye old, crap Emma, who hides her Oxfam bags under her desk. Hello new, confident Emma, who proudly hangs them on her chair.

I rang Mum and Dad to tell them I was getting promoted, and they were so impressed! They said at once they'd come up to London and take me out to celebrate. And then I had a really nice long chat with Mum about Jack. She said some relationships were supposed to last for ever and some were only supposed to last a few days, and that was just the way life was. Then she told me all about some chap in Paris who she'd had some amazing forty-eight hour fling with. She said she'd never experienced physical pleasure like it, and she knew it could never last, but that made it all the more poignant.

Then she added I needn't mention any of this to Dad.

Gosh. I'm actually quite shocked. I always thought Mum and Dad … at least, I never …

Well. It just goes to show.

But she is right. Some relationships are meant to be short-lived. Jack and I were obviously never going to get anywhere. And actually, I'm very sorted out about it. In fact, I'm pretty much over him. My heart only went into spasm once today, when I thought I saw him in the corridor, and I recovered really quickly.

My whole new life begins today. In fact, I expect I'll meet someone new tonight at Lissy's dancing show. Some really tall, dashing lawyer. Yes. And he'll come and pick me up from work in his amazingly fab sports car. And I'll trip happily down the steps, tossing my hair back, not even
looking
at Jack, who will be standing at his office window, glowering …

No. No. Jack won't be anywhere. I am over Jack. I have to remember this.

Maybe I'll write it on my hand.

TWENTY-FOUR

Lissy's dancing show is being held in a theatre in Bloomsbury set in a small gravelled courtyard, and when I arrive I find the entire place crammed with lawyers in expensive suits using their mobile phones.

'… client unwilling to accept the terms of agreement …'

'… attention to clause four, comma, notwithstanding …'

No-one is making the slightest attempt to go into the auditorium yet, so I head backstage, to give Lissy the bouquet I've bought for her. (I was originally planning to throw it onto the stage at the end, but it's roses, and I'm a bit worried it might ladder her tights.)

As I walk down the shabby corridors, music is being piped through the sound system and people keep brushing past me in glittery costumes. A man with blue feathers in his hair is stretching his leg against the wall and talking to someone in a dressing room at the same time. 'So then I pointed out to that
idiot
of a prosecuting counsel that the precedent set in 1983 by Miller v. Davy means …' He suddenly stops. 'Shit. I've forgotten my first steps.' His face drains of colour. 'I can't remember a fucking thing. I'm not joking! I jete on – then what?' He looks at me as though expecting me to supply him with an answer.

'Er … a pirouette?' I hazard, and awkwardly hurry on, nearly tripping over a girl doing the splits. Then I catch sight of Lissy sitting on a stool in one of the dressing rooms. Her face is heavily made up and her eyes are all huge and glittery, and she's got blue feathers in her hair too.

'Oh my God, Lissy!' I say, halting in the doorway. 'You look amazing! I completely love your—'

'I can't do it.'

'What?'

'I can't do it!' she repeats desperately, and pulls her cotton robe around her. 'I can't remember anything. My mind is blank!'

'Everyone thinks that,' I say reassuringly. 'There was a guy outside saying exactly the same thing—'

'No. I
really
can't remember anything.' Lissy stares at me with wild eyes. 'My legs feel like cotton wool, I can't breathe …' She picks up a blusher brush, looks at it bleakly, then puts it down. 'Why did I ever agree to do this? Why?'

'Er … because it would be fun?'

'Fun?' Her voice rises in disbelief. 'You think this is
fun
? Oh God.' Suddenly her face changes expression, and she breaks off and rushes through an adjoining door. The next moment I can hear her retching.

OK, there's something wrong here. I thought dancing was suppose to be
good
for your health.

She appears at the door again, pale and trembling, and I peer at her anxiously.

'Liss, are you all right?'

'I can't do it,' she says. 'I can't.' She seems to come to a sudden decision. 'OK, I'm going home.' She starts reaching for her clothes. 'Tell them I was suddenly taken ill, it was an emergency …'

'You can't go home!' I say in horror, and try to grab the clothes out of her hands. 'Lissy, you'll be fine! I mean, think about it. How many times have you had to stand up in a big court and make some really long speech in front of loads of people, and if you get it wrong an innocent man might go to jail?'

Lissy stares at me as though I'm crazy.

'Yes, but that's
easy
!'

'Well …' I cast around desperately. 'Well, if you pull out now, you'll always regret it. You'll always look back and wish you'd gone through with it.'

There's silence. I can practically see Lissy's brain working underneath all the feathers and stuff.

'You're right,' she says at last, and relinquishes her hold of the clothes. 'OK. I'll do it. But I don't want you to watch. Just … meet me afterwards. No, don't even do that. Just stay away. Stay right away.'

'OK,' I say hesitantly. 'I'll go if you really want me to—'

'No!' She swivels round. 'You can't go! I've changed my mind. I need you there!'

'OK,' I say, even more hesitantly, just as a Tannoy in the wall blares out 'This is your fifteen minute call!'

'I'll go then,' I say. 'Let you warm up.'

'Emma.' Lissy grabs hold of my arm and fixes me with an intense gaze. She's holding me so tight, she's hurting my flesh. 'Emma, if I ever say I want to do anything like this again, you have to stop me. Whatever I say. Promise you'll stop me.'

'I promise,' I say hastily. 'I promise.'

Bloody hell. I have never seen Lissy like that before in my life. As I walk back out into the courtyard, which is now swarming with even more well-dressed people, I'm thudding with nerves myself. She didn't look capable of standing up, let alone dancing.

Please don't let her mess up. Please.

A horrible image comes to me of Lissy standing like a startled rabbit, unable to remember her steps. And the audience just staring at her. The thought of it makes my stomach curdle.

OK. I am not going to let that happen. If anything goes wrong I'll cause a distraction. I'll pretend to have a heart attack. Yes. I'll collapse on the floor, and everyone will look at me for a few seconds, but the performance won't stop or anything because we're British, and by the time everyone turns back to the stage again, Lissy will have remembered her steps.

And if they rush me to hospital or anything, I'll just say, 'I had these terrible chest pains!' No-one will be able to prove that I didn't.

And even if they
can
prove it, with some special machine, I'll just say—

'Emma.'

'What?' I say absently. And then my heart stops.

Jack is standing ten feet away. He's dressed in his usual uniform of jeans and jersey, and he stands out a mile amongst all the corporate suited lawyers. As his dark eyes meet mine I feel all the old hurt rushing back into my chest.

Don't react, I tell myself quickly. Closure. New life.

'What are you doing here?' I ask, with a little I'm-not-actually-interested shrug.

'I found the flyer for this on your desk.' He lifts a piece of paper, not taking his eyes off mine. 'Emma, I really wanted to talk.'

I feel a sudden smarting inside. He thinks he can just pitch up and I'll drop everything to talk to him? Well, maybe I'm busy. Maybe I've moved on. Did he think of that?

'Actually … I'm here with someone,' I say in polite, slightly pitying tones.

'Really?'

'Yes. I am. So …' I give a little shrug and wait for Jack to walk away. But he doesn't.

'Who?' he says.

OK, he wasn't supposed to ask who. For a moment I'm not entirely sure what to do.