Can You Keep a Secret? (6 page)

Sometimes. About once a year.

'Anyway. What's all this stuff?' I ask, to change the subject, and Grandpa gives a gusty sigh.

'Your mother cleared out the attic last week. I'm just sorting out what to throw away and what to keep.'

'That seems like a good idea.' I look at the pile of rubbish on the floor. 'Is this stuff you're throwing away?'

'No! I'm keeping all that.' He puts a protective hand over it.

'So where's the pile of stuff to throw out?'

There's silence. Grandpa avoids my gaze.

'Grandpa! You have to throw
some
of this away!' I exclaim, trying not to laugh. 'You don't need all these old newspaper cuttings. And what's this?' I reach past the newspaper cuttings and fish out an old yo-yo. 'This is rubbish, surely.'

'Jim's yo-yo.' Grandpa reaches for the yo-yo, his eyes softening. 'Good old Jim.'

'Who was Jim?' I say, puzzled. I've never even heard of a Jim before. 'Was he a good friend of yours?'

'We met at the fairground. Spent the afternoon together. I was nine.' Grandpa is turning the yo-yo over and over in his fingers.

'Did you become friends?'

'Never saw him again.' He shakes his head mistily. 'I've never forgotten it.'

The trouble with Grandpa is, he never forgets anything.

'Well, what about some of these cards?' I pull out a bundle of old Christmas cards.

'I never throw away cards.' Grandpa gives me a long look. 'When you get to my age; when the people you've known and loved all your life start to pass away … you want to hang onto any memento. However small.'

'I can understand that,' I say, feeling touched. I reach for the nearest card, open it and my expression changes. 'Grandpa! This is from Smith's Electrical Maintenance, 1965.'

'Frank Smith was a very good man—' starts Grandpa.

'No!' I put the card firmly on the floor. 'That's going. And nor do you need one from …' I open the next card. 'Southwestern Gas Supplies. And you don't need twenty old copies of
Punch
.' I deposit them on the pile. 'And what are these?' I reach into the box again and pull out an envelope of photos. 'Are these actually of anything you really want to—'

Something shoots through my heart and I stop, midstream.

I'm looking at a photograph of me and Dad and Mum, sitting on a bench in a park. Mum's wearing a flowery dress, and Dad's wearing a stupid sunhat, and I'm on his knee, aged about nine, eating an ice-cream. We all look so happy together.

Wordlessly, I turn to another photo. I've got Dad's hat on and we're all laughing helplessly at something. Just us three.

Just us. Before Kerry came into our lives.

I still remember the day she arrived. A red suitcase in the hall, and a new voice in the kitchen, and an unfamiliar smell of perfume in the air. I walked in and there she was, a stranger, drinking a cup of tea. She was wearing school uniform, but she still looked like a grown-up to me. She already had an enormous bust, and gold studs in her ears, and streaks in her hair. And at suppertime, Mum and Dad let her have a glass of wine. Mum kept telling me I had to be very kind to her, because her mother had died. We all had to be very kind to Kerry. That was why she got my room.

I leaf through the rest of the pictures, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I remember this place now. The park we used to go to, with swings and slides. But it was too boring for Kerry, and I desperately wanted to be like her, so I said it was boring too, and we never went again.

'Knock knock!' I look up with a start, and Kerry's standing at the door, holding her glass of wine. 'Lunch is ready!'

'Thanks,' I say. 'We're just coming.'

'Now, Gramps!' Kerry wags her finger reprovingly at Grandpa, and gestures at the packing cases. 'Haven't you got anywhere with this lot yet?'

'It's difficult,' I hear myself saying defensively. 'There are a lot of memories in here. You can't just throw them out.'

'If you say so.' Kerry rolls her eyes. 'If it were me, the whole lot'd go in the bin.'

I cannot cherish her. I cannot do it. I want to throw my treacle tart at her.

We've been sitting round the table now for forty minutes and the only voice we've heard is Kerry's.

'It's all about image,' she's saying now. 'It's all about the right clothes, the right look, the right walk. When I walk along the street, the message I give the world is "I am a successful woman".'

'Show us!' says Mum admiringly.

'Well.' Kerry gives a false-modest smile. 'Like this.' She pushes her chair back and wipes her mouth with her napkin.

'You should watch this, Emma,' says Mum. 'Pick up a few tips!'

As we all watch, Kerry starts striding round the room. Her chin is raised, her boobs are sticking out, her eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and her bottom is jerking from side to side.

She looks like a cross between an ostrich and one of the androids in
Attack of the Clones
.

'I should be in heels, of course,' she says, without stopping.

'When Kerry goes into a conference hall, I tell you, heads turn,' says Nev proudly, and takes a sip of wine. 'People stop what they're doing and stare at her!'

I bet they do.

Oh God. I want to giggle. I mustn't. I mustn't.

'Do you want to have a go, Emma?' says Kerry. 'Copy me?'

'Er … I don't think so,' I say. 'I think I probably … picked up the basics.'

Suddenly I give a tiny snort and turn it into a cough.

'Kerry's trying to help you, Emma!' says Mum. 'You should be grateful! You are good to Emma, Kerry.'

She beams fondly at Kerry, who simpers back. And I take a swig of wine.

Yeah, right. Kerry really wants to help me.

That's why when I was completely desperate for a job and asked her for work experience at her company, she said no. I wrote her this long, careful letter, saying I realized it put her in an awkward situation, but I'd really appreciate any chance, even a couple of days running errands.

And she sent back a standard rejection letter.

I was so totally mortified, I never told anyone. Especially not Mum and Dad.

'You should listen to some of Kerry's business tips, Emma,' Dad is saying sharply. 'Maybe if you paid more attention you'd do a bit better in life.'

'It's only a walk,' quips Nev with a chortle. 'It's not a miracle cure!'

'Nev!' says Mum half reprovingly.

'Emma knows I'm joking, don't you, Emma?' says Nev easily and fills up his glass with more wine.

'Of course!' I say, forcing myself to smile gaily.

Just wait till I get promoted.

Just wait. Just wait.

'Emma! Earth to Emma!' Kerry is waving a comical hand in front of my face. 'Wake up, Dopey! We're doing presents.'

'Oh right,' I say, coming to. 'OK. I'll just go and get mine.'

As Mum opens a camera from Dad and a purse from Grandpa, I start to feel excited. I
so
hope Mum likes my present.

'It doesn't look much,' I say as I hand her the pink envelope. 'But you'll see when you open it …'

'What can it be?' Mum says, looking intrigued. She rips open the envelope, opens the flowered card, and stares at it. 'Oh, Emma!'

'What is it?' says Dad.

'It's a day at a spa!' says Mum in delight. 'A whole day of pampering.'

'What a good idea,' says Grandpa, and pats my hand. 'You always have good ideas for presents, Emma.'

'Thank you, love. How thoughtful!' Mum leans over to kiss me, and I feel a warm glow inside. I had the idea a few months ago. It's a really nice day-long package, with free treatments and everything.

'You get champagne lunch,' I say eagerly. 'And you can keep the slippers!'

'Wonderful!' says Mum. 'I'll look forward to it. Emma, that's a lovely present!'

'Oh dear,' says Kerry, giving a little laugh. She looks at the large creamy envelope in her own hands. 'My present's slightly upstaged, I'm afraid. Never mind. I'll change it.'

I look up, alert. There's something about Kerry's voice. I know something's up. I just know it.

'What do you mean?' says Mum.

'It doesn't matter,' says Kerry. 'I'll just … find something else. Not to worry.' She starts to put the envelope away in her bag.

'Kerry, love!' says Mum. 'Stop that! Don't be silly. What is it?'

'Well,' says Kerry. 'It's just that Emma and I seem to have had the same idea.' She hands Mum the envelope with another little laugh. 'Can you believe it?'

My whole body stiffens in apprehension.

No.

No. She can't have done what I think she's done.

There's complete silence as Mum opens the envelope.

'Oh my goodness!' she says, taking out a gold embossed brochure. 'What's this? Le Spa Meridien?' Something falls out, into her hands, and she stares at it. 'Tickets to
Paris
? Kerry!'

She has. She's ruined my present.

'For both of you,' adds Kerry, a little smugly. 'Uncle Brian, too.'

'Kerry!' says Dad in delight. 'You marvel!'

'It is supposed to be rather good,' says Kerry with a complacent smile. 'Five-star accommodation … the chef has three Michelin stars …'

'I don't believe this,' says Mum. She's leafing excitedly through the brochure. 'Look at the swimming pool! Look at the gardens!'

My flowery card is lying, forgotten, amid the wrapping paper.

All at once I feel close to tears. She knew. She
knew
.

'Kerry, you knew,' I suddenly blurt out, unable to stop myself. 'I told you I was giving Mum a spa treat. I
told
you! We had that conversation about it, months ago. In the garden!'

'Did we?' says Kerry casually. 'I don't remember.'

'You do! Of course you remember.'

'Emma!' says Mum sharply. 'It was a simple mistake. Wasn't it, Kerry?'

'Of course it was!' says Kerry, opening her eyes in wide innocence. 'Emma, if I've spoiled things for you, I can only apologize—'

'There's no need to apologize, Kerry love,' says Mum. 'These things happen. And they're
both
lovely presents.
Both
of them.' She looks at my card again. 'Now, you two girls are best friends! I don't like to see you quarrelling. Especially on my birthday.'

Mum smiles at me, and I try to smile back. But inside, I feel about ten years old again. Kerry always manages to wrong-foot me. She always has done, ever since she arrived. Whatever she did, everyone took her side. She was the one whose mother had died. We all had to be nice to her. I could never, ever win.

Trying to pull myself together, I reach for my wine glass and take a huge swig. Then I find myself surreptitiously glancing at my watch. I can leave at four if I make an excuse about trains running late. That's only another hour and a half to get through. And maybe we'll watch telly or something …

'A penny for your thoughts, Emma,' says Grandpa, patting my hand with a little smile, and I look up guiltily.

'Er … nothing,' I say, and force a smile. 'I wasn't really thinking about anything.'

FIVE

Anyway. It doesn't matter, because I'm going to get a promotion. Then Nev will stop making cracks about my career, and I'll be able to pay back Dad. Everyone will be really impressed – and it'll be fantastic!

I wake up on Monday morning feeling totally bouncy and positive, and get dressed in my usual work outfit of jeans and a nice top, this one from French Connection.

Well, not exactly French Connection. To be honest, I bought it at Oxfam. But the
label
says French Connection. And while I'm still paying off Dad I don't have much choice about where I shop. I mean, a new top from French Connection costs about fifty quid, whereas this one cost £7.50. And it's practically new!

As I skip up the tube steps, the sun's shining and I'm full of optimism. Imagine if I do get promoted. Imagine telling everybody. Mum will say, 'How was your week?' and I'll say, 'Well, actually …'

No, what I'll do is wait until I go home, and then just nonchalantly hand over my new business card.

Or maybe I'll just drive up in my company car I think in excitement! I mean, I'm not sure any of the other marketing executives have cars – but you never know, do you? They might introduce it as a new thing. Or they might say, 'Emma, we've chosen you specially—'

'Emma!'

I look round to see Katie, my friend from Personnel, climbing the tube steps behind me, panting slightly. Her curly red hair is all tousled, and she's holding one shoe in her hand.

'What on earth happened?' I say as she reaches the top.

'My stupid shoe,' says Katie disconsolately. 'I only had it mended the other day, and the heel's just come off.' She flaps it at me. 'I paid six quid for that heel! God, this day is such a disaster. The milkman forgot to bring me any milk, and I had a
terrible
weekend …'

'I thought you were spending it with Charlie,' I say in surprise. 'What happened?'

Charlie is Katie's latest man. They've been seeing each other for a few weeks and she was supposed to be visiting his country cottage, which he's doing up at the weekends.

'It was awful! As soon as we arrived, he said he was going off to play golf.'

'Oh right.' I try to find a positive angle. 'Well, at least he's comfortable with you. He can just act normally.'

'Maybe.' She looks at me doubtfully. 'So 'then he said, how did I feel about helping out a bit while he was gone? So I said of course – and then he gave me this paintbrush, and three pots of paint and said I should get the sitting room done if I worked fast.'

'
What?
'

'And then he came back at six o'clock – and said my brushwork was careless!' Her voice rises woefully. 'It wasn't careless! I only smudged one bit, and that's because the stupid ladder wasn't long enough.'

I stare at her.

'Katie, you're not telling me you actually painted the room.'

'Well … yes.' She looks at me with huge blue eyes. 'You know, to help out. But now I'm starting to think … is he just using me?'

I'm almost speechless with disbelief.

'Katie, of course he's using you,' I manage at last. 'He wants a free painter-decorator! You have to chuck him. Immediately. Now!'