Can You Keep a Secret? (5 page)

Mind you, he had a yacht, so she probably was heart-broken.

'What did you get?' says Lissy.

'Eighty-nine.' She spritzes herself with perfume, tosses her long blond hair back and smiles at herself in the mirror. 'So Emma, is it true you're moving in with Connor?' I gape at her.

'How did you know that?'

'Word on the street. Andrew called Rupes this morning about cricket, and he told him.'

'Are you moving in with Connor?' says Lissy incredulously. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I was about to, honestly. Isn't it great?'

'Bad move, Emma.' Jemima shakes her head. 'Very bad tactics.'

'Tactics?' says Lissy, rolling her eyes. '
Tactics?
Jemima, they're having a relationship, not playing chess!'

'A relationship
is
a game of chess,' retorts Jemima, brushing mascara onto her lashes. 'Mummy says you always have to look ahead. You have to plan strategically. If you make the wrong move, you've had it.'

'That's rubbish!' says Lissy defiantly. 'A relationship is about like minds. It's about soulmates finding each other.'

'Soulmates!' says Jemima dismissively, and looks at me. 'Just remember, Emma,
if
you want a rock on your finger, don't move in with Connor.'

Her eyes give a swift, Pavlovian glance to the photograph on the mantelpiece of her meeting Prince William at a charity polo match.

'Still holding out for Royalty?' says Lissy. 'How much younger is he than you, again, Jemima?'

'Don't be stupid!' she snaps, colour tinging her cheeks. 'You're so immature sometimes, Lissy.'

'Anyway, I don't
want
a rock on my finger,' I retort.

Jemima raises her perfectly arched eyebrows as though to say, 'you poor, ignorant fool', and picks up her bag.

'Oh,' she suddenly adds, her eyes narrowing. 'Has either of you borrowed my Joseph jumper?'

There's a tiny beat of silence.

'No,' I say innocently.

'I don't even know which one it is,' says Lissy, with a shrug.

I can't look at Lissy. I'm sure I saw her wearing it the other night.

Jemima's blue eyes are running over me and Lissy like some kind of radar scanners.

'Because I have very slender arms,' she says warningly, 'and I really don't want the sleeves stretched. And don't think I won't notice, because I will. Ciao.'

The minute she's gone Lissy and I look at each other.

'Shit,' says Lissy. 'I think I left it at work. Oh well, I'll pick it up on Monday.' She shrugs and goes back to reading the magazine.

OK. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Jemima's clothes. Without asking. But in our defence, she has so many, she hardly ever notices. Plus according to Lissy, it's a basic human right that flatmates should be able to borrow each others' clothes. She says it's practically part of the unwritten British constitution.

'And anyway,' adds Lissy, 'she owes it to me for writing her that letter to the council about all her parking tickets. You know, she never even said thank you.' She looks up from an article on Nicole Kidman. 'So what are you doing later on? D'you want to see a film?'

'I can't,' I say reluctantly. 'I've got my mum's birthday lunch.'

'Oh yes, of course.' She pulls a sympathetic face. 'Good luck. I hope it's OK.'

Lissy is the only person in the world who has any idea how I feel about visiting home. And even she doesn't know it all.

FOUR

But as I sit on the train down, I'm resolved that this time will be better. I was watching a Cindy Blaine show the other day, all about reuniting long-lost daughters with their mothers, and it was so moving I soon had tears running down my face. At the end, Cindy gave this little homily about how it's far too easy to take our families for granted and that they gave us life and we should cherish them. And suddenly I felt really chastened.

So these are my resolutions for today:

I will not
:

Let my family stress me out.

Feel jealous of Kerry, or let Nev wind me up.

Look at my watch, wondering how soon I can leave.

I will
:

Stay serene and loving and remember that we are all sacred links in the eternal circle of life.

(I got that from Cindy Blaine, too.)

Mum and Dad used to live in Twickenham, which is where I grew up. But now they've moved out of London to a village in Hampshire. I arrive at their house just after twelve, to find Mum in the kitchen with my cousin Kerry. She and her husband Nev have moved out too, to a village about five minutes' drive from Mum and Dad, so they see each other all the time.

I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side by the stove. They look more like mother and daughter than aunt and niece. They've both got the same feather-cut hair – although Kerry's is highlighted more strongly than Mum's – they're both wearing brightly coloured tops which show a lot of tanned cleavage, and they're both laughing. On the counter, I notice a bottle of white wine already half gone.

'Happy birthday!' I say, hugging Mum. As I glimpse a wrapped parcel on the kitchen table, I feel a little thrill of anticipation. I have got Mum the
best
birthday present. I can't wait to give it to her!

'Hi
ya
!' says Kerry, turning round in her apron. Her blue eyes are heavily made-up, and round her neck she's wearing a diamond cross which I haven't seen before. Every time I see Kerry she has a new piece of jewellery. 'Great to see you, Emma! We don't see enough of you. Do we, Aunty Rachel?'

'We certainly don't,' says Mum, giving me a hug.

'Shall I take your coat?' says Kerry, as I put the bottle of champagne I've brought into the fridge. 'And what about a drink?'

This is how Kerry always talks to me. As though I'm a visitor.

But never mind. I'm not going to stress about it. Sacred links in the eternal circle of life.

'It's OK,' I say, trying to sound pleasant. 'I'll get it.' I open the cupboard where glasses are always kept, to find myself looking at tins of tomatoes.

'They're over here,' says Kerry, on the other side of the kitchen. 'We moved everything around! It makes much more sense now.'

'Oh right. Thanks.' I take the glass she gives me and take a sip of wine. 'Can I do anything to help?'

'I don't
think
so …' says Kerry, looking critically around the kitchen. 'Everything's pretty much done. So I said to Elaine,' she adds to Mum, '"Where did you get those shoes?" And she said M&S! I couldn't believe it!'

'Who's Elaine?' I say, trying to join in.

'At the golf club,' says Kerry.

Mum never used to play golf. But when she moved to Hampshire, she and Kerry took it up together. And now all I hear about is golf matches, golf club dinners, and endless parties with chums from the golf club.

I did once go along, to see what it was all about. But first of all they have all these stupid rules about what you can wear, which I didn't know, and some old guy nearly had a heart attack because I was in jeans. So they had to find me a skirt, and a spare pair of those clumpy shoes with spikes. And then when we got on to the course I couldn't hit the ball. Not I couldn't hit the ball
well
: I literally could not make contact with the ball. So in the end they all exchanged glances and said I'd better wait in the clubhouse.

'Sorry, Emma, can I just get past you …' Kerry reaches over my shoulder for a serving dish.

'Sorry,' I say, and move aside. 'So, is there really nothing I can do, Mum?'

'You could feed Sammy,' she says, giving me a pot of goldfish food. She frowns anxiously. 'You know, I'm a bit worried about Sammy.'

'Oh,' I say, feeling a spasm of alarm. 'Er … why?'

'He just doesn't seem
himself
.' She peers at him in his bowl. 'What do you think? Does he look right to you?'

I follow her gaze and pull a thoughtful face, as though I'm studying Sammy's features.

Oh God. I never thought she would notice. I tried as hard as I could to get a fish that looked just like Sammy. I mean he's orange, he's got two fins, he swims around … What's the difference?

'He's probably just a bit depressed,' I say at last. 'He'll get over it.'

Please don't let her take him to the vet or anything, I silently pray. I didn't even check if I got the right sex. Do goldfishes even
have
sexes?

'Anything else I can do?' I say, sprinkling fish food lavishly over the water in an attempt to block her view of him.

'We've pretty much got it covered,' says Kerry kindly.

'Why don't you go and say hello to Dad?' says Mum, sieving some peas. 'Lunch won't be for another ten minutes or so.'

I find Dad and Nev in the sitting room, in front of the cricket. Dad's greying beard is as neatly trimmed as ever, and he's drinking beer from a silver tankard. The room has recently been redecorated, but on the wall there's still a display of all Kerry's swimming cups. Mum polishes them regularly, every week.

Plus my couple of riding rosettes. I think she kind of flicks those with a duster.

'Hi, Dad,' I say, giving him a kiss.

'Emma!' He puts a hand to his head in mock-surprise. 'You made it! No detours! No visits to historic cities!'

'Not today!' I give a little laugh. 'Safe and sound.'

There was this time, just after Mum and Dad had moved to this house, when I took the wrong train on the way down and ended up in Salisbury, and Dad always teases me about it.

'Hi, Nev.' I peck him on the cheek, trying not to choke on the amount of aftershave he's wearing. He's in chinos and a white roll-neck, and has a heavy gold bracelet round his wrist, plus a wedding ring with a diamond set in it. Nev runs his family's company, which supplies office equipment all round the country, and he met Kerry at some convention for young entrepreneurs. Apparently they struck up conversation admiring each other's Rolex watches.

'Hi, Emma,' he says. 'D'you see the new motor?'

'What?' I peer at him blankly – then recall a glossy new car on the drive when I arrived. 'Oh yes! Very smart.'

'Mercedes 5 Series.' He takes a slug of beer. 'Forty-two grand list price.'

'Gosh.'

'Didn't pay that, though.' He taps the side of his nose. 'Have a guess.'

'Erm … forty?'

'Guess again.'

'Thirty-nine?'

'Thirty-seven-two-fifty,' says Nev triumphantly. 'And free CD changer. Tax deductible,' he adds.

'Right. Wow.'

I don't really know what else to say, so I perch on the side of the sofa and eat a peanut.

'That's what you're aiming for, Emma!' says Dad. 'Think you'll ever make it?'

'I … don't know. Er … Dad, that reminds me. I've got a cheque for you.' Awkwardly I reach in my bag and get out a cheque for £300.

'Well done,' says Dad. 'That can go on the tally.' His green eyes twinkle as he puts it in his pocket. 'It's called learning the value of money. It's called learning to stand on your own two feet!'

'Valuable lesson,' says Nev, nodding. He takes a slug of beer and grins at Dad. 'Just remind me, Emma – what career is it this week?'

When I first met Nev it was just after I'd left the estate agency to become a photographer. Two and a half years ago. And he makes this same joke every time I see him. Every single bloody—

OK, calm down. Happy thoughts. Cherish your family. Cherish Nev.

'It's still marketing!' I say brightly. 'Has been for over a year now.'

'Ah. Marketing. Good, good!'

There's silence for a few minutes, apart from the cricket commentary. Suddenly Dad and Nev simultaneously groan as something or other happens on the cricket pitch. A moment later they groan again.

'Right,' I say. 'Well, I'll just …'

As I get up from the sofa, they don't even turn their heads.

I go out to the hall and pick up the cardboard box which I brought down with me. Then I go through the side gate, knock on the annexe door and push it cautiously.

'Grandpa?'

Grandpa is Mum's dad, and he's lived with us ever since he had his heart operation, ten years ago. At the old house in Twickenham he just had a bedroom, but this house is bigger, so he has his own annexe of two rooms, and a tiny little kitchen, tacked onto the side of the house. He's sitting in his favourite leather armchair, with the radio playing classical music, and on the floor in front of him are about six cardboard packing cases full of stuff.

'Hi, Grandpa,' I say.

'Emma!' He looks up, and his face lights up. 'Darling girl. Come here!' I bend over to give him a kiss, and he squeezes my hand tight. His skin is dry and cool, and his hair is even whiter than it was last time I saw him.

'I've got some more Panther Bars for you,' I say, nodding to my box. Grandpa is completely addicted to Panther energy bars, and so are all his friends at the bowling club, so I use my allowance to buy him a boxful for every time I come home.

'Thank you, my love,' Grandpa beams. 'You're a good girl, Emma.'

'Where should I put them?'

We both look helplessly around the cluttered room.

'What about over there, behind the television?' says Grandpa at last. I pick my way across the room, dump the box on the floor, then retrace my steps, trying not to tread on anything.

'Now, Emma, I read a very worrying newspaper article the other day,' says Grandpa as I sit down on one of the packing cases. 'About safety in London.' He gives me a beady look. 'You don't travel on public transport in the evenings, do you?'

'Erm … hardly ever,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'Just now and then, when I absolutely have to …'

'Darling girl, you mustn't!' says Grandpa, looking agitated. 'Teenagers in hoods with flick-knives roam the underground, it said. Drunken louts, breaking bottles, gouging one another's eyes out …'

'It's not
that
bad—'

'Emma, it's not worth the risk! For the sake of a taxi fare or two.'

I'm pretty sure that if I asked Grandpa what he thought the average taxi fare was in London, he'd say five shillings.

'Honestly, Grandpa, I'm really careful,' I say reassuringly. 'And I do take taxis.'