Can You Keep a Secret? (9 page)

Jack Harper opens the door, and holds it politely for me. And I'm halfway out when I stop. 'Wait.'

'What is it?'

'What shall I say you wanted to talk to me about?' I say awkwardly. 'Everyone's going to ask me.'

'Why not say we were discussing logistics?' He raises his eyebrows and closes the door.

SIX

For the rest of the day there's a kind of festive atmosphere at work. But I just sit there, unable to believe what just happened. And as I travel home that evening, my heart is still pounding at the unlikeliness of it all. At the
injustice
of it all.

He was a stranger. He was supposed to be a
stranger
. The whole point about strangers is, they disappear into the ether, never to be seen again. Not turn up at the office. Not ask you what eight nines are. Not turn out to be your mega-boss employer.

Well, all I can say is, that's taught me. My parents always said never talk to strangers, and they were right. I'm never telling a stranger anything again.
Ever
.

I've arranged to go to Connor's flat in the evening, and when I arrive I feel my body expand in relief. Away from the office. Away from all the endless Jack Harper talk. And Connor's already cooking. I mean, how perfect is that? The kitchen is full of a wonderful garlicky-herby smell, and there's a glass of wine already waiting for me on the table.

'Hi!' I say, and give him a kiss.

'Hi, darling!' he says, looking up from the stove.

Shit. I totally forgot to say Darling. OK, how am I going to remember this?

I know. I'll write it on my hand.

'Have a look at those. I downloaded them from the Internet.' Connor gestures to a folder on the table with a wide smile. I open it, and find myself looking at a grainy black and white picture of a room with a sofa and a pot plant.

'Flat details!' I say, taken aback. 'Wow. That's quick. I haven't even given notice yet.'

'Well, we need to start looking,' says Connor. 'Look, that one's got a balcony. And there's one with a working fireplace!'

'Gosh!'

I sit down on a nearby chair and peer at the blurry photograph, trying to imagine me and Connor living in it together. Sitting on that sofa. Just the two of us, every single evening.

I wonder what we'll talk about.

Well! We'll talk about … whatever we always talk about.

Maybe we'll play Monopoly. Just if we get bored or anything.

I turn to another sheet and feel a pang of excitement.

This flat has wooden floors and shutters! I've
always
wanted wooden floors and shutters. And look at that cool kitchen, with all granite worktops …

Oh, this is going to be so great. I can't wait!

I take a happy slug of wine, and am just sinking comfortably back when Connor says, 'So! Isn't it exciting about Jack Harper coming over.'

Oh God. Please. Not
more
talk about bloody Jack Harper.

'Did you get to meet him?' he adds, coming over with a bowl of peanuts. 'I heard he went into Marketing.'

'Um, yes, I met him.'

'He came into Research this afternoon, but I was at a meeting.' Connor looks at me, agog. 'So what's he like?'

'He's … I don't know. Dark hair … American … So how did the meeting go?'

Connor totally ignores my attempt to change the subject.

'Isn't it exciting, though?' His face is glowing. 'Jack Harper!'

'I suppose so.' I shrug. 'Anyway—'

'Emma! Aren't you excited?' Connor looks astonished. 'We're talking about the founder of the company! We're talking about the man who came up with the concept of Panther Cola. Who took an unknown brand, repackaged it and sold it to the world! He turned a failing company into a huge, successful corporation. And now we're all getting to meet him. Don't you find that thrilling?'

'Yes,' I say at last. 'It's … thrilling.'

'This could be the opportunity of a lifetime for all of us. To learn from the genius himself! You know, he's never written a book, he's never shared his thoughts with anyone except Pete Laidler …' He reaches into the fridge for a can of Panther Cola and cracks it open. Connor has to be the most loyal employee in the world. I once bought a Pepsi when we were out on a picnic, and he nearly had a hernia.

'You know what I would love above anything?' he says, taking a gulp. 'A one-to-one with him.' He looks at me, his eyes shining. 'A one-to-one with Jack Harper! Wouldn't that be the most fantastic career boost?'

A one-to-one with Jack Harper.

Yup, that boosted my career great.

'I suppose,' I say reluctantly.

'Of course it would be! Just having the chance to listen to him. To hear what he has to say! I mean, the guy's been shut away for three years. What ideas must he have been generating all this time? He must have so many insights and theories, not just about marketing, but about business … about the way people work … about life itself.'

Connor's enthusiastic voice is like salt rubbing into my sore skin. So, let's just see quite how spectacularly I have played this wrong, shall we? I'm sitting on a plane next to the great Jack Harper, creative genius and source of all wisdom on business and marketing, not to mention the great mysteries of life itself.

And what do I do? Do I ask him insightful questions? Do I engage him in intelligent conversation? Do I learn anything from him at all?

No. I blabber on about what kind of underwear I prefer.

Great career move, Emma. One of the best.

The next day, Connor is off to a meeting first thing, but before he goes he digs out an old magazine article about Jack Harper.

'Read this,' he says, through a mouthful of toast. 'It's good background information.'

I don't
want
any background information! I feel like retorting, but Connor's already out of the door.

I'm tempted to leave it behind and not even bother looking at it, but it's quite a long journey from Connor's place to work, and I haven't got any magazines with me. So I take the article with me, and grudgingly start reading it on the tube, and I suppose it is quite an interesting story. How Harper and Pete Laidler were friends, and they decided to go into business, and Jack was the creative one and Pete was the extrovert playboy one, and they became multimillionaires together, and they were so close they were practically like brothers. And then Pete was killed in a car crash. And Jack was so devastated he shut himself away from the world and said he was giving it all up.

And of course now I read all this I'm starting to feel a bit stupid. I should have recognized Jack Harper. I mean, I certainly recognize Pete Laidler. For one thing he looks – looked – just like Robert Redford. And for another, he was all over the papers when he died. I can remember it vividly now, even though I had nothing to do with the Panther Corporation then. He crashed his Mercedes, and everyone said it was just like Princess Diana.

I'm so busy reading, I nearly miss my stop and have to make one of those stupid dashes for the doors, where everyone looks at you like: You complete moron, did you not know that your stop was coming up? And then, as the doors close, I realize I've left the article behind on the tube.

Oh well. I'd kind of got the gist of it.

It's a bright sunshiny morning, and I head towards the juice bar where I usually pop in before work. I've got into the habit of picking up a mango smoothie every morning, because it's healthy.

And also because there is a very cute New Zealand guy who works behind the counter, called Aidan. (In fact, I had a miniature crush on him, before I started going out with Connor.) When he isn't working in the smoothie bar he's doing a course on sports science, and he's always telling me stuff about essential minerals, and what your carb-ratio should be.

'Hiya,' he says as I come in. 'How's the kick-boxing going?'

'Oh!' I say, colouring slightly. 'It's great, thanks.'

'Did you try that new manoeuvre I told you about?'

'Yes! It really helped!'

'I thought it would,' he says, looking pleased, and goes off to make my mango smoothie.

OK. So the truth is, I don't really do kick-boxing. I did try it once, at our local leisure centre, and to be honest, I was shocked! I had no idea it would be so
violent
. But Aidan was so enthused about it, and kept saying how it would transform my life, I couldn't bring myself to admit I'd given up after only one session. It just seemed so lame. So I kind of … fibbed. And I mean, it's not like it matters. He'll never know. It's not as if I ever see him outside the smoothie bar.

'That's one mango smoothie,' says Aidan.

'And a chocolate brownie,' I say. 'For … my colleague.' Aidan picks up the brownie and pops it in a bag.

'You know, that colleague of yours needs to think about her refined sugar levels,' he says with a concerned frown. 'That must be – four brownies this week?'

'I know,' I say earnestly. 'I'll tell her. Thanks, Aidan.'

'No problem!' says Aidan. 'And remember: one-two-swivel!'

'One-two-swivel,' I repeat brightly. 'I'll remember!'

As I arrive at the office, Paul appears out of his room, snaps his fingers at me and says, 'Appraisal.'

My stomach gives an almighty lurch, and I nearly choke on my last bite of chocolate brownie'. Oh God. This is it. I'm not ready.

Yes I am. Come on. Exude confidence. I am a woman on her way somewhere.

Suddenly I remember Kerry and her 'I am a successful woman' walk. I know Kerry's an obnoxious cow, but she does have her own travel agency and make zillions of pounds a year. She must be doing something right. Maybe I should give it a go. Cautiously I stick out my bust, lift my head and start striding across the office with a fixed, alert expression on my face.

'Have you got period pain or something?' says Paul crudely as I reach his door.

'No!' I say in shock.

'Well you look very odd. Now sit down.' He shuts the door, sits down at his desk and opens a form marked Staff Appraisal Review. 'I'm sorry I couldn't see you yesterday. But what with Jack Harper's arrival, everything got buggered up.'

'That's OK.'

I try to smile but my mouth is suddenly dry. I can't believe how nervous I feel. This is worse than a school report.

'OK. So … Emma Corrigan.' He looks at the form and starts ticking boxes. 'Generally, you're doing fine. You're not generally late … you understand the tasks given to you … you're fairly efficient … you work OK with your colleagues … blah blah … blah … Any problems?' he says, looking up.

'Er … no.'

'Do you feel racially harassed?'

'Er … no.'

'Good.' He ticks another box. 'Well I think that's it. Well done. Can you send Nick in to see me?'

What? Has he forgotten?

'Um, what about my promotion?' I say, trying not to sound too anxious.

'Promotion?' He stares at me. 'What promotion?'

'To Marketing Executive.'

'What the fuck are you talking about?'

'It said. It said in the ad for my job …' I pull the crumpled ad out of my jeans pocket, where it's been since yesterday. '"Possible promotion after a year." It says it right there.' I push it across the desk, and he looks at it with a frown.

'Emma, that was only for exceptional candidates. You're not ready for a promotion. You'll have to prove yourself first.'

'But I'm doing everything as well as I can! If you just give me a chance—'

'You had the chance at Glen Oil.' Paul raises his eyebrows at me and I feel a twinge of humiliation. 'Emma, bottom line is, you're not ready for a higher position. In a year we'll see.'

'A
year
?'

'OK? Now hop it.'

My mind is whirling. I have to accept this in a calm, dignified way. I have to say something like 'I respect your decision, Paul', shake his hand and leave the room. This is what I have to do.

The only trouble is, I can't seem to get up out of my chair.

After a few moments Paul looks puzzledly at me. 'That's it, Emma.'

I can't move. Once I leave this room, it's over. '

'Emma?'

'Please promote me,' I say desperately. 'Please. I have to get a promotion to impress my family. It's the only thing I want in the whole world, and I'll work so hard, I promise, I'll come in at weekends, and I'll … I'll wear smart suits …'

'
What?
' Paul is staring at me as though I've turned into a goldfish.

'You don't have to pay me any more salary! I'll do all the same jobs as before. I'll even pay to have my new business cards printed! I mean, it won't make any difference to you. You won't even
know
I've been promoted!'

I break off, breathing hard.

'I think you'll find that's not quite the point of promotion, Emma,' says Paul sarcastically. 'I'm afraid the answer's no. Even more so.'

'But—'

'Emma, a word of advice. If you want to get ahead, you have to create your own chances. You have to carve out your own opportunities. Now seriously. Could you please fuck off out of my office and get Nick for me?'

As I leave I can see him raising his eyes to heaven and scribbling something else on my form.

Great. He's probably writing 'Deranged lunatic, seek medical help'.

As I walk dejectedly back to my desk, Artemis looks up with a beady expression. 'Oh, Emma,' she says, 'your cousin Kerry just called for you.'

'Really?' I say in surprise. Kerry never phones me at work. In fact she never phones me at all. 'Did she leave a message?'

'Yes, she did. She wanted to know, have you heard about your promotion yet?'

OK. This is now official. I hate Kerry.

'Oh right,' I say, trying to sound as though this is some boring, everyday enquiry. 'Thanks.'

'Are you being promoted, Emma? I didn't know that!' Her voice is high and piercing, and I see a couple of people raise their heads in interest. 'So, are you going to become a marketing executive?'

'No,' I mutter, my face hot with humiliation. 'I'm not.'

'Oh!' Artemis pulls a mock-confused face. 'So why did she—'

'Shut up, Artemis,' says Caroline. I give her a grateful look and slump into my chair.

Another whole year. Another whole year of being the crappy marketing assistant, and everyone thinking I'm useless. Another year of being in debt to Dad, and Kerry and Nev laughing at me, and feeling like a complete failure. I switch on my computer and dispiritedly type a couple of words. But suddenly all my energy's gone.