Can You Keep a Secret?

By S. Kinsella

I. Vocabulary work

1. Study the following words and use them in contexts of your own.

Swoop, fib, scoff, plummet, flicker, spool, deluded, nip out, pang, tizz, deadpan, linchpin.

II. Discussing the text

1. Read the extracts from the book and answer the questions that follow.

Extract 1

Of course I have secrets.

Of course I do. Everyone has a secret. It’s completely normal. I’m sure I don’t have any more than anybody else.

I’m not talking about big, earth-shattering secrets. Not the-president-is-planning-to-bomb-Japan-and-only-Will-Smith-can-save-the-world type secrets. Just normal, everyday little secrets.

Like for example, here are a few random secrets of mine, off the top of my head:

1. My Kate Spade bag is a fake.

2. I love sweet sherry, the least cool drink in the universe.

3. I have no idea what NATO stands for. Or even what it is.

4. I weigh 9 stone 3. Not 8 stone 3, like my boyfriend Connor thinks. (Although in my defence, I was planning to go on a diet when I told him that. And to be fair, it is only one number different.)

5. I’ve always thought Connor looks a bit like Ken. As in Barbie and Ken.

6. Sometimes, when we’re right in the middle of passionate sex, I suddenly want to laugh.

7. I lost my virginity in the spare bedroom with Danny Nussbaum, while Mum and Dad were downstairs watching Ben Hur.

8. I’ve already drunk the wine that Dad told me to lay down for twenty years.

9. Sammy the goldfish at home isn’t the same goldfish that Mum and Dad gave me to look after when they went to Egypt.

10. When my colleague Artemis really annoys me, I feed her plant orange juice. (Which is pretty much every day.)

11. I once had this weird lesbian dream about my flatmate Lissy.

12. My G-string is hurting me.

13. I’ve always had this deep down conviction that I’m not like everybody else, and there’s an amazingly exciting new life waiting for me just around the corner.

14. I have no idea what this guy in the grey suit is going on about.

15. Plus I’ve already forgotten his name.

And I only met him ten minutes ago.

“We believe in logistical formative alliances,” he’s saying in a nasal, droning voice, “both above and below the line.”

“Absolutely!” I reply brightly, as though to say: Doesn’t everybody?

Logistical. What does that mean, again?

Oh God. What if they ask me?

Don’t be stupid, Emma. They won’t suddenly demand, ‘What does logistical mean?’ I’m a fellow marketing professional, aren’t I? Obviously I know these things.

And anyway, if they mention it again I’ll change the subject. Or I’ll say I’m post-logistical or something.

The important thing is to keep confident and businesslike. I can do this. This is my big chance and I’m not going to screw it up.

I’m sitting in the offices of Glen Oil’s headquarters in Glasgow.

I’m here representing the Panther Corporation, which is where I work. The meeting is to finalize a promotional arrangement between the new cranberry-flavoured Panther Prime sports drink and Glen Oil, and I flew up this morning from London, especially. (The company paid, and everything!)

When I arrived, the Glen Oil marketing guys started on this long, show-offy ‘who’s-travelled the-most?’ conversation about airmiles and the red-eye to Washington – and I think I bluffed pretty convincingly. (Except when I said I’d flown Concorde to Ottawa, and it turns out Concorde doesn’t go to Ottawa.) But the truth is, this is the first time I’ve ever had to travel for a deal.

OK. The real truth is, this is the first deal I’ve ever done, full stop. I’ve been at the Panther Corporation for eleven months as a marketing assistant, and until now all I’ve been allowed to do is type out copy, arrange meetings for other people, get the sandwiches and pick up my boss’s dry-cleaning.

So this is kind of my big break. And I’ve got this secret little hope that if I do this well, maybe I’ll get promoted. The ad for my job said ‘possibility of promotion after a year’, and on Monday I’m having my yearly appraisal meeting with my boss, Paul. I looked up ‘Appraisals’ in the staff induction book, and it said they are ‘an ideal opportunity to discuss possibilities for career advancement’.

Career advancement! At the thought, I feel a familiar stab of longing in my chest. It would just show Dad I’m not a complete loser. And Mum. And Kerry. If I could go home and casually say, “By the way, I’ve been promoted to Marketing Executive.”

Emma Corrigan, Marketing Executive.

Emma Corrigan, Senior Vice-President (Marketing.)

As long as everything goes well today. Paul said the deal was done and dusted and all I had to do was nod and shake their hands, and even I should be able to manage that. And so far, I reckon it’s going really well.

OK, so I don’t understand about 90 per cent of what they’re saying. But then I didn’t understand much of my GCSE French Oral either, and I still got a B.

“Rebranding… analysis… cost-effective…”

The man in the grey suit is still droning on about something or other. As casually as possible, I extend my hand and inch his business card towards me so I can read it.

Doug Hamilton. That’s right. OK, I can remember this. Doug. Dug. Easy. I’ll picture a shovel.

Together with a ham. Which… which looks ill… and…

OK, forget this. I’ll just write it down.

I write down ‘rebranding’ and ‘Doug Hamilton’ on my notepad and give an awkward little wriggle. God, my knickers really are uncomfortable. I mean, G-strings are never that comfortable at the best of times, in my opinion, but these are particularly bad. Which could be because they’re two sizes too small.

Which could possibly be because Connor bought them for me, and told the lingerie assistant I weighed eight stone three. Whereupon she told him I must be size eight. Size eight!

(Frankly, I think she was just being mean. She must have known I was fibbing.)

So it’s Christmas Eve, and we’re exchanging presents, and I unwrap this pair of gorgeous pale pink silk knickers. Size eight. And I basically have two options.

A: Confess the truth: “Actually these are too small, I’m more of a 12, and by the way, I don’t really weigh eight stone three.” Or…

B: Shoe-horn myself into them.

Actually, it was fine. You could hardly see the red lines on my skin afterwards. And all it meant was that I had to quickly cut all the labels out of my clothes so Connor would never realize.

Since then, I’ve hardly ever worn this particular set of underwear, needless to say. But every so often I see them looking all nice and expensive in the drawer and think, Oh come on, they can’t be that tight, and somehow squeeze into them. Which is what I did this morning. I even decided I must have lost weight, because they didn’t feel too bad.

I am such a deluded moron.

“… unfortunately since rebranding… major rethink… feel we need to be considering alternative synergies…”

Up to now I’ve just been sitting and nodding, thinking this business meeting lark is really easy.

But now Doug Hamilton’s voice starts to impinge on my consciousness. What’s he saying?

“… two products diverging… becoming incompatible…”

What was that about incompatible? What was that about a major rethink? I feel a jolt of alarm.

Maybe this isn’t just waffle. Maybe he’s actually saying something. Quick, listen.

“We appreciate the functional and synergetic partnership that Panther and Glen Oil have enjoyed in the past,” Doug Hamilton is saying. “But you’ll agree that clearly we’re going in different directions.”

Different directions?

Is that what he’s been talking about all this time?

My stomach gives an anxious lurch.

He can’t be–

Is he trying to pull out of the deal?

“Excuse me, Doug,” I say, in my most relaxed voice. “Obviously I was closely following what you were saying earlier.” I give a friendly, we’re-all-professionals-together smile. “But if you could just… um, recap the situation for all our benefits…”

In plain English, I beg silently.

***

I put the phone away, run my fingers through my hair, and glance at the clock behind the bar.

Forty minutes to go before the flight. Not long now. Nerves are starting to creep over me like little insects, and I take a deep gulp of vodka, draining my glass.

It’ll be fine, I tell myself for the zillionth time. It’ll be absolutely fine.

I’m not frightened. I’m just… I’m just…

OK. I am frightened.

16. I’m scared of flying.

I know it’s completely irrational. I know thousands of people fly every day and it’s practically safer than lying in bed. You have less chance of being in a plane crash than… than finding a man in London, or something.

But still. I just don’t like it.

Extract 2

OK. The truth is, I don’t like this.

I know it’s business class, I know it’s all lovely luxury. But my stomach is still a tight knot of fear.

While we were taking off I counted very slowly with my eyes closed, and that kind of worked.

But I ran out of steam at about 350. So now I’m just sitting, sipping champagne, reading an article on ‘30 Things To Do Before You’re 30’ in Cosmo.

***

“I was just wondering, is that sound normal?”

“What sound?” The air hostess cocks her head.

“That sound. That kind of whining, coming from the wing?”

“I can’t hear anything.” She looks at me sympathetically. “Are you a nervous flyer?”

“No!” I say at once, and give a little laugh. “No, I’m not nervous! I just… was wondering. Just out of interest.”

“I’ll see if I can find out for you,” she says kindly. “Here you are, sir. Some information about our executive facilities at Gatwick.”

The American man takes his leaflet wordlessly and puts it down without even looking at it, and the hostess moves on, staggering a little as the plane gives a bump.

Why is the plane bumping?

Oh God. A sudden rush of fear hits me with no warning. This is madness. Madness! Sitting in this big heavy box, with no way of escape, thousands and thousands of feet above the ground…

I can’t do this on my own. I have an overpowering need to talk to someone. Someone reassuring. Someone safe.

Connor.

Instinctively I fish out my mobile phone, but immediately the air hostess swoops down on me.

“I’m afraid you can’t use that on board the plane,” she says with a bright smile. “Could you please ensure that it’s switched off?”

“Oh. Er… sorry.”

Of course I can’t use my mobile. They’ve only said it about fifty-five zillion times. I am such a durr-brain.

Maybe I’ll start counting again. Three hundred and forty-nine. Three hundred and fifty. Three hundred and–

What was that bump? Did we just get hit?

OK, don’t panic. It was just a bump. I’m sure everything’s fine. We probably just flew into a pigeon or something. Where was I?

Three hundred and fifty-one. Three hundred and fifty-two. Three hundred and fifty–

And that’s it.

That’s the moment.

Everything seems to fragment.

I hear the screams like a wave over my head, almost before I realize what’s happening.

Oh God. Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh… OH… NO. NO. NO.

We’re falling. Oh God, we’re falling.

We’re plummeting downwards. The plane’s dropping through the air like a stone.

Oh God. Oh God. OK, it’s slowing down now. It’s… it’s better.

I just… I just can’t… I…

I look at the American man, and he’s grasping his seat as tightly as I am.

I feel sick. I think I might be sick. Oh God.

OK. It’s… it’s kind of… back to normal.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” comes a voice over the intercom, and everyone’s heads jerk up. “This is your captain speaking.”

My heart’s juddering in my chest. I can’t listen. I can’t think.

“We’re currently hitting some clear-air turbulence, and things may be unsteady for a while. I have switched on the seatbelt signs and would ask that you all return to your seats as quickly as–”

There’s another huge lurch, and his voice is drowned by screams and cries all round the plane.

It’s like a bad dream. A bad rollercoaster dream.

The cabin crew are all strapping themselves into their seats. One of the hostesses is mopping blood on her face. A minute ago they were happily doling out honey-roast peanuts.

This is what happens to other people in other planes. People on safety videos. Not me.

“Please keep calm,” the captain is saying. “As soon as we have more information…”

Keep calm? I can’t breathe, let alone keep calm. What are we going to do? Are we all supposed to just sit here while the plane bucks like an out-of-control horse?

I can hear someone behind me reciting ‘Hail Mary, full of grace…’ and a fresh, choking panic sweeps through me. People are praying. This is real.

We’re going to die.

We’re going to die.

“I’m sorry?” The American man in the next seat looks at me, his face tense and white.

Did I just say that aloud?

“We’re going to die.” I stare into his face. This could be the last person I ever see alive. I take in the lines etched around his dark eyes; his strong jaw, shaded with stubble.

The plane suddenly drops down again, and I give an involuntary shriek.

“I don’t think we’re going to die,” he says. But he’s gripping his seat-arms, too. “They said it was just turbulence–”

“Of course they did!” I can hear the hysteria in my voice. “They wouldn’t exactly say, ‘OK folks, that’s it, you’re all goners’!” The plane gives another terrifying swoop and I find myself clutching the man’s hand in panic. “We’re not going to make it. I know we’re not. This is it. I’m twenty-five years old, for God’s sake. I’m not ready. I haven’t achieved anything. I’ve never had children, I’ve never saved a life…” My eyes fall randomly on the ‘30 Things To Do Before You’re 30’ article. “I haven’t ever climbed a mountain, I haven’t got a tattoo, I don’t even know if I’ve got a G spot…”

“I’m sorry?” says the man, sounding taken aback, but I barely hear him.

“My career’s a complete joke. I’m not a top businesswoman at all.” I gesture half-tearfully to my suit. “I haven’t got a team! I’m just a crappy assistant and I just had my first ever big meeting and it was a complete disaster. Half the time I haven’t got a clue what people are talking about, I don’t know what logistical means, I’m never going to get promoted, and I owe my dad four thousand quid, and I’ve never really been in love…”

I draw myself up short with a jolt. “I’m sorry,” I say, and exhale sharply. “You don’t want to hear all this.”

“That’s quite all right,” says the man.

God. I’m completely losing it.

And anyway, what I just said wasn’t true. Because I am in love with Connor. It must be the altitude or something, confusing my mind.

Flustered, I push the hair off my face and try to get a hold of myself. OK, let’s try counting again. Three hundred and fifty… six. Three hundred and–

Oh God. Oh God. No. Please. The plane’s lurching again. We’re plummeting.

“I’ve never done anything to make my parents proud of me.” The words come spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Never.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” says the man nicely.

“It’s true. Maybe they used to be proud of me. But then my cousin Kerry came to live with us and all at once it was like my parents couldn’t see me any more. All they could see was her.

She was fourteen when she arrived, and I was ten, and I thought it was going to be great, you know. Like having an older sister. But it didn’t work out like that…”

I can’t stop talking. I just can’t stop.

Every time the plane bumps or jolts, another torrent of words pours randomly out of my mouth, like water gushing over a waterfall.

It’s either talk or scream.

“… she was a swimming champion, and an everything champion, and I was just… nothing in comparison…”

“… photography course and I honestly thought it was going to change my life…”

“… eight stone three. But I was planning to go on a diet…”

“I applied for every single job in the world. I was so desperate, I even applied to…”

“… awful girl called Artemis. This new desk arrived the other day, and she just took it, even though I’ve got this really grotty little desk…”

“… sometimes I water her stupid spider plant with orange juice, just to serve her right…”

“… sweet girl Katie, who works in Personnel. We have this secret code where she comes in and says, ‘Can I go through some numbers with you, Emma?’ and it really means ‘Shall we nip out to Starbucks…’”

“… awful presents, and I have to pretend I like them…”

“… coffee at work is the most disgusting stuff you’ve ever drunk, absolute poison…”

“… put ‘Maths GCSE grade A’ on my CV, when I really only got C. I know it was dishonest. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I so wanted to get the job…”

What’s happened to me? Normally there’s a kind of filter which stops me blurting out everything I’m thinking; which keeps me in check.

But the filter’s stopped working. Everything’s piling out in a big, random stream, and I can’t stop it.

“Sometimes I think I believe in God, because how else did we all get here? But then I think, yes but what about war and stuff…”

“… wear G-strings because they don’t give you VPL. But they’re so uncomfortable…”

“… size eight, and I didn’t know what to do, so I just said ‘Wow those are absolutely fantastic…’”

“… roasted peppers, my complete favourite food…”

“… joined a book group, but I just couldn’t get through Great Expectations. So I just skimmed the back and pretended I’d read it…”

“… I gave him all his goldfish food, I honestly don’t know what happened…”

“… just have to hear that Carpenters song ‘Close to You’ and I start crying…”

“…really wish I had bigger boobs. I mean, not Page 3 size, not completely enormous and stupid, but you know, bigger. Just to know what it’s like…”

“… perfect date would start off with champagne just appearing at the table, as if by magic…”

“… I just cracked, I secretly bought this huge tub of Haagen-Dazs and scoffed the lot, and I never told Lissy…”

I’m unaware of anything around us. The world has narrowed to me and this stranger, and my mouth, spewing out all my innermost thoughts and secrets.

I barely know what I’m saying any more. All I know is, it feels good.

Is this what therapy is like?

“… name was Danny Nussbaum. Mum and Dad were downstairs watching Ben Hur, and I remember thinking, if this is what the world gets so excited about, then the world’s mad…”

“… lie on my side, because that way your cleavage looks bigger…”

“… works in market research. I remember thinking the very first time I saw him, wow, he’s good-looking. He’s very tall and blond, because he’s half-Swedish, and he has these amazing blue eyes. So he asked me out…”

“… always have a glass of sweet sherry before a date, just to calm my nerves…”

“He’s wonderful. Connor’s completely wonderful. I’m just so lucky. Everyone’s always telling me how great he is. He’s sweet, and he’s good, and he’s successful and everyone calls us the perfect couple…”

“… I’d never tell anyone this in a million years. But sometimes I think he’s almost too goodlooking. A bit like one of those dolls? Like Ken. Like a blond Ken.”

And now I’m on the subject of Connor, I’m saying things I’ve never said to anyone. Things I never even realized were in my head.

“… gave him this lovely leather watch for Christmas, but he wears this orange digital thing because it can tell him the temperature in Poland or something stupid…”

“… took me to all these jazz concerts and I pretended to enjoy them to be polite, so now he thinks I love jazz…”

“… every single Woody Allen film off by heart and says each line before it comes and it drives me crackers…”

“… just looks at me as though I’m speaking some foreign language…”

“… determined to find my G spot, so we spent the whole weekend doing it in different positions, and by the end I was just knackered, all I wanted was a pizza and Friends …”

“… he kept saying, what was it like, what was it like? So in the end I just made some stuff up, I said it was absolutely amazing, and it felt as though my whole body was opening up like a flower, and he said, what sort of flower, so I said a begonia…”

“… can’t expect the initial passion to last. But how do you tell if the passion’s faded in a good, long-term-commitment way or in a crap, we-don’t-fancy-each-other-any-more way…”

“… knight in shining armour is not a realistic option. But there’s a part of me that wants a huge, amazing romance. I want passion. I want to be swept off my feet. I want an earthquake, or a… I don’t know, a huge whirlwind… something exciting. Sometimes I feel as if there’s this whole new, thrilling life waiting for me out there, and if I can just–”

“Excuse me, miss?”

“What?” I look up dazedly. “What is it?” The air hostess with the French plait is smiling down at me.

“We’ve landed.” I stare at her.

“We’ve landed?”

This doesn’t make sense. How can we have landed? I look around – and sure enough, the plane’s still. We’re on the ground.

I feel like Dorothy. A second ago I was swirling around in Oz, clicking my heels together, and now I’ve woken up all flat and quiet and normal again.

“We aren’t bumping any more,” I say stupidly.

“We stopped bumping quite a while ago,” says the American man.

“We’re… we’re not going to die.”

“We’re not going to die,” he agrees.

I look at him as though for the first time – and it hits me. I’ve been blabbering non-stop for an hour to this complete stranger. God alone knows what I’ve been saying. I think I want to get off this plane right now.

“I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly. “You should have stopped me.”

“That would have been a little difficult.” There’s a tiny smile at his lips. “You were on a bit of a roll.”

“I’m so embarrassed!” I try to smile, but I can’t even look this guy in the eye. I mean, I told him about my knickers. I told him about my G spot.

“Don’t worry about it. We were all stressed out. That was some flight.” He picks up his knapsack and gets up from his seat – then looks back at me. “Will you be OK getting back home?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine. Thanks. Enjoy your visit!” I call after him, but I don’t think he hears.

Extract 3

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.”

***

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!

***

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!”

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.”

Extract 4

We’re nearing the Panther building now... .

As Katie and I push our way through the heavy revolving glass doors, we look at each other in bewilderment. The whole place is in turmoil. People are scurrying about, someone’s polishing the brass banister, someone else is polishing the fake plants, and Cyril, the senior office manager, is shooing people into lifts.

“What’s happening?” I say to Dave the security guard, who’s lounging against the wall with a cup of tea as usual. He takes a sip, swills it around his mouth and gives us a grin.

“Jack Harper’s visiting.”

“What?” We both gawp at him.

“Today?”

“Are you serious?”

In the world of the Panther Corporation, this is like saying the Pope’s visiting. Or Father Christmas. Jack Harper is the joint founder of the Panther Corporation. He invented Panther Cola. I know this because I’ve typed out blurbs about him approximately a million times. ‘It was 1987 when young, dynamic business partners Jack Harper and Pete Laidler bought up the ailing Zoot soft-drinks company, repackaged Zootacola as Panther Cola, invented the slogan “Don’t Pause”, and thus made marketing history.’

No wonder Cyril’s in a tizz.

***

The atmosphere in the marketing department is a bit like my bedroom used to be before we had parties in the sixth form. People are brushing their hair, spraying perfume, shuffling papers around and gossiping excitedly. As I walk past the office of Neil Gregg, who is in charge of media strategy, I see him carefully lining up his Marketing Effectiveness awards on his desk, while Fiona his assistant is polishing the framed photographs of him shaking hands with famous people.

I’m just hanging up my coat on the rack when the head of our department, Paul, pulls me aside.

“What happened at Glen Oil? I had a very strange email from Doug Hamilton this morning. You poured a drink over him?”

I stare at him in shock. Doug Hamilton told Paul? But he promised he wouldn’t!

“It wasn’t like that,” I say quickly. “I was just trying to demonstrate the many fine qualities of Panther Prime and I… I kind of spilled it.” Paul raises his eyebrows, not in a friendly way.

“All right. It was a lot to ask of you.”

“It wasn’t,” I say quickly. “I mean, it would have been fine, if… what I mean is, if you give me another chance, I’ll do better. I promise.”

“We’ll see.” He looks at his watch. “You’d better get on. Your desk is a mess.”

***

“OK, folks,” says Paul, striding into the department. “He’s on this floor. He’s going into Admin first…”

“On with your everyday tasks!” exclaims Cyril. “Now!”

What’s my everyday task?

I pick up my phone and press my voice-mail code. I can be listening to my messages.

I look around the department – and see that everyone else has done the same thing.

We can’t all be on the phone. This is so stupid!

I know what I’ll do. I’ll be the person getting a coffee. I mean, what could be more natural than that?

“I think I’ll get a coffee,” I say self-consciously, and get up from my seat.

As I’m waiting for the noxious liquid to fill my cup, I glance up, and see Graham Hillingdon walking out of the admin department, followed by a couple of others. He’s coming!

OK. Keep cool. Just wait for the second cup to fill, nice and natural…

And there he is! With his blond hair and his expensive-looking suit, and his dark glasses. But to my slight surprise, he steps back, out of the way.

In fact, no-one’s even looking at him. Everyone’s attention is focused on some other guy. A guy in jeans and a black turtleneck who’s walking out now.

As I stare in fascination, he turns. And as I see his face I feel an almighty thud, as though a bowling ball’s landed hard in my chest.

Oh my God.

It’s him.

The same dark eyes. The same lines etched around them. The stubble’s gone, but it’s definitely him.

It’s the man from the plane.

What’s he doing here?

And why is everyone’s attention on him? He’s speaking now, and they’re lapping up every word he says.

He turns again, and I instinctively duck back out of sight, trying to keep calm. What’s he doing here? He can’t–

That can’t be–

That can’t possibly be–

OK, keep calm. Maybe he won’t remember me. It was one short flight. He probably takes a lot of flights.

“Everyone.” Paul is leading him into the centre of the office. “I’m delighted to introduce our founding father, the man who has influenced and inspired a generation of marketeers – Jack Harper!”

***

Maybe he won’t recognize me. Maybe he won’t remember. Maybe he won’t–

He’s looking at me. I see the flash of surprise in his eyes, and he raises his eyebrows.

He recognizes me.

Please don’t come over, I silently pray. Please don’t come over.

“And who’s this?” he says to Paul.

“This is Emma Corrigan, one of our junior marketing assistants.”

He’s walking towards me. Artemis has stopped talking. Everyone’s staring. I’m hot with embarrassment.

“Hello,” he says pleasantly.

“Hello,” I manage. “Mr Harper.”

OK, so he recognizes me. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he remembers anything I said. A few random comments thrown out by a person in the next-door seat. Who’s going to remember that? Maybe he wasn’t even listening.

“And what do you do?”

“I, um, assist the marketing department and I help with setting up promotional initiatives,” I mumble.

“Emma was in Glasgow only last week on business,” puts in Paul, giving me a completely phoney smile. “We believe in giving our junior staff responsibility as early as possible.”

“Very wise,” says Jack Harper, nodding. His gaze runs over my desk and alights with sudden interest on my polystyrene cup. He looks up and meets my eye. “How’s the coffee?” he asks pleasantly. “Tasty?”

Like a tape recording in my head, I suddenly hear my own stupid voice, prattling on.

“The coffee at work is the most disgusting stuff you’ve ever drunk, absolute poison …”

“It’s great!” I say. “Really… delicious!”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” There’s a spark of amusement in his eyes, and I feel myself redden.

He remembers. He remembers.

“And this is Artemis Harrison,” says Paul. “One of our brightest young marketing executives.”

“Artemis,” says Jack Harper thoughtfully. He takes a few steps towards her work station.

“That’s a nice big desk you’ve got there, Artemis.” He smiles at her. “Is it new?”

“…this new desk arrived the other day, and she just took it…”

He remembers everything, doesn’t he? Everything.

Oh God. What else did I say?

I’m sitting perfectly still, while Artemis makes some showy-off reply, with my pleasant, good-employee expression. But my mind is frantically spooling back, trying to remember, trying to piece together what I said. I mean, God, I told this man everything about myself. Everything. I told him what sort of knickers I wear, and what flavour ice-cream I like, and how I lost my virginity, and–

My blood runs cold.

I’m remembering something I should not have told him.

Something I should not have told anyone.

“…I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I so wanted to get the job…”

I told him about faking the A grade on my CV.

Well, that’s it. I’m dead.

He’ll fire me. I’ll get a record for being dishonest and no-one will ever employ me again, and I’ll end up on a ‘Britain’s Worst Jobs’ documentary, clearing up cow poo, saying brightly “It’s not too bad, really.”

OK. Don’t panic. There must be something I can do. I’ll apologize. Yes. I’ll say it was an error of judgement which I now deeply regret, and I never meant to mislead the company, and–

***

I’m not going to let him fire me. I’m just not going to let it happen.

I stride across the office and down the corridor to the meeting room, knock on the door and push it open.

Jack Harper is sitting on a chair at the conference table, scribbling something in a notebook.

As I come in, he looks up, and the grave expression on his face makes my stomach turn over.

But I have to defend myself. I have to keep this job.

“Hi,” he says. “Can you close the door?” He waits until I’ve done so, then looks up. “Emma, we need to talk about something.”

“I’m aware that we do,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “But I’d like to say my part first, if I may.”

For a moment Jack Harper looks taken aback – then he raises his eyebrows.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

I walk into the room, take a deep breath and look him straight in the eye.

“Mr Harper, I know what you want to see me about. I know it was wrong. It was an error of judgement which I deeply regret. I’m extremely sorry, and it will never happen again. But in my defence…” I can hear my voice rising in emotion. “In my defence, I had no idea who you were on that plane ride. And I don’t believe I should be penalized for what was an honest genuine mistake.”

There’s a pause.

“You know, a lot of people would call that fraud,” says Jack Harper, leaning back in his chair.

“I know they would. I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have… But it doesn’t affect the way I do my job. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You think?” He shakes his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Going from a C grade to an A grade… that’s quite a jump. What if we need you to do some math?”

“I can do maths,” I say desperately. “Ask me a maths question. Go on, ask me anything.”

“OK.” His mouth is twitching. “Eight nines.”

I stare at him, my heart racing, my mind blank. Eight nines. I’ve got no idea. OK, once nine is nine. Two nines are–

No. I’ve got it. Eight tens are 80. So eight nines must be–

“Seventy-two!” I cry, and flinch as he gives a tiny half-smile. “It’s seventy-two,” I add more calmly.

“Very good.” He gestures politely to a chair. “Now. Have you finished what you wanted to say or is there more?”

I rub my face confusedly. “You’re… not going to fire me?”

“No,” says Jack Harper patiently. “I’m not going to fire you. Now can we talk?”

As I sit down, a horrible suspicion starts growing in my mind.

“Was…” I clear my throat. “Was my CV what you wanted to see me about?”

“No,” he says mildly. “That wasn’t what I wanted to see you about.”

I want to die.

I want to die right here, right now.

“For various reasons,” says Jack Harper slowly, “I would prefer it that nobody knows I was in Scotland last week.” He meets my eyes. “So I would like it very much if we could keep our little meeting between ourselves.”

“Right!” I say after a pause. “Of course! Absolutely. I can do that.”

Extract 5

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.

***

“Now everyone!” Paul comes striding up behind him. “Mr Harper is going to be sitting in on the department this morning.”

“Please.” Jack Harper smiles. “Call me Jack.”

“Right you are. Jack is going to be sitting in this morning. He’s going to observe what you do, find out how we operate as a team. Just behave normally, don’t do anything special.”

“Just ignore me,” says Jack Harper pleasantly, as he sits down in the corner. “Behave normally.”

Behave normally. Right. Of course.

So that would be sit down, take my shoes off, check my emails, put some hand cream on, eat a few Smarties, read my horoscope on iVillage, read Connor’s horoscope, write ‘Emma Corrigan, Managing Director’ several times in swirly letters on my notepad, add a border of flowers, send an email to Connor, wait a few minutes to see if he replies, take a swig of mineral water and then finally get round to finding the Tesco leaflet for Artemis.

I don’t think so.

***

“It’s very quiet in here,” says Jack Harper, sounding puzzled. “Is it normally this quiet?”

“Er…” We all look around uncertainly at each other.

“Please, don’t mind me. Talk away like you normally would. You must have office discussions.” He gives a friendly smile. “When I worked in an office, we talked about everything under the sun. Politics, books… For instance, what have you all been reading recently?”

“Actually, I’ve been reading the new biography of Mao Tse Tung,” says Artemis at once.

“I’m in the middle of a history of fourteenth-century Europe,” says Nick.

“I’m just re-reading Proust,” says Caroline, with a modest shrug. “In the original French.”

“Ah.” Jack Harper nods, his face unreadable. “And… Emma, is it? What are you reading?”

‘Um, actually…’ I swallow, playing for time.

I cannot say Celebrity Doodles – What Do They Mean? Even though it is actually very good.

Quick. What’s a serious book?

“You were reading Great Expectations, weren’t you, Emma?” says Artemis. “For your book club.”

“Yes!” I say in relief. “Yes, that’s right–”

And then I stop abruptly as I meet Jack Harper’s gaze.

Inside my head, my own voice from the plane is babbling away innocently.

“…just skimmed the back cover and pretended I’d read it…”

“Great Expectations,” says Jack Harper thoughtfully. “What did you think of it, Emma?”

I don’t believe he asked me that.

For a few moments I can’t speak.

“Well!” I clear my throat at last. “I thought it… it was really… extremely…”

“It’s a wonderful book,” says Artemis earnestly. “Once you fully understand the symbolism.”

Shut up, you stupid show-off. Oh God. What am I going to say?

“I thought it really… resonated,” I say at last.

“What resonated?” says Nick.

“The… um…” I clear my throat. “The resonances.”

There’s a puzzled silence.

“The resonances… resonated?” says Artemis.

“Yes,” I say defiantly. “They did. Anyway, I’ve got to get on with my work.” I turn away with a roll of my eyes and start typing feverishly.

OK. So the book discussion didn’t go that well. But that was just sheer bad luck. Think positive. I can still do this. I can still impress him–

“I just don’t know what’s wrong with it!” Artemis is saying in a girly voice. “I water it every day.”

She pokes her spider plant and gazes at Jack Harper winsomely. “Do you know anything about plants, Jack?”

“I don’t, I’m afraid,” says Jack, and looks over at me, his face deadpan. “What do you think could be wrong with it, Emma?”

“…sometimes, when I’m pissed off with Artemis…”

“I… I have no idea,” I say at last, and carry on typing, my face flaming.

OK. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. So I watered one little plant with orange juice. So what?

“Has anyone seen my World Cup mug?” says Paul, walking into the office with a frown. “I can’t seem to find it anywhere.”

“…I broke my boss’s mug last week and hid the pieces in my handbag …”

OK. Never mind. So I broke one tiny mug, too. It doesn’t matter. Just keep typing.

“Hey Jack,” says Nick, in a matey, lads-together voice. “Just in case you don’t think we have any fun, look up there!” He nods towards the picture of a photocopied, G-stringed bottom which has been up on the noticeboard since Christmas. “We still don’t know who it is…”

“…I had a few too many drinks at the last Christmas party …”

OK, now I want to die. Someone please kill me.

“Hi, Emma!” comes Katie’s voice, and I look up to see her hurrying into the office, her face pink with excitement. When she sees Jack Harper, she stops dead. “Oh!”

“It’s all right. I’m simply a fly on the wall.” He waves a friendly hand at her. “Go ahead. Say whatever you were going to say.”

“Hi Katie!” I manage. “What is it?”

As soon as I say her name, Jack Harper looks up again, a riveted expression on his face. I do not like the look of that riveted expression.

What did I tell him about Katie? What? My mind spools furiously back. What did I say? What did I–

I feel an internal lurch. Oh God.

“…we have this secret code where she comes in and says, ‘Can I go through some numbers with you, Emma?’ and it really means ‘Shall we nip out to Starbucks…’”

I told him our skiving code.

I stare desperately at Katie’s eager face, trying somehow to convey the message to her.

Do not say it. Do not say you want to go over some numbers with me.

But she’s completely oblivious.

“I just… erm…” She clears her throat in a businesslike way and glances self-consciously at Jack Harper. “Could I possibly go over some numbers with you, Emma?”

Extract 6

How can this day have gone so wrong already and I haven’t even sat down yet?

I dump my bag and jacket at my desk, hurry back down the corridors to the lifts, and press the Up button. A moment later, one pings in front of me, and the doors open.

No. No.

This is a bad dream.

Jack Harper is standing alone in the lift, in old jeans and a brown cashmere sweater.

Before I can stop myself I take a startled step backwards. Jack Harper puts his mobile phone away, tilts his head to one side and gives me a quizzical look.

“Are you getting into the elevator?” he says mildly.

I’m stuffed. What can I say? I can’t say “No, I just pressed the button for fun, haha!”

“Yes,” I say at last and walk into the lift with stiff legs. “Yes I am.”

The doors close, and we begin to travel upwards in silence. I’ve got a knot of tension in my stomach.

“Erm, Mr Harper,” I say awkwardly, and he looks up. “I just wanted to apologize for my… for the, um, shirking episode the other day. It won’t happen again.”

“Emma, can you keep a secret?”

“Yes,” I say apprehensively. “What is it?”

Jack leans close and whispers, “I used to play hookey too.”

“What?” I stare at him.

“In my first job,” he continues in his normal voice. “I had a friend I used to hang out with. We had a code, too.” His eyes twinkle. “One of us would ask the other to bring him the Leopold file.”

“What was the Leopold file?”

“It didn’t exist.” He grins. “It was just an excuse to get away from our desks.”

“Oh. Oh right!”

***

The doors open, and my stomach gives a lurch.

Connor is standing on the other side.

As he sees Jack Harper his face lights up as though he can’t believe his luck.

“Hi there!” I say, trying to sound natural.

“Hi,” he says, his eyes shining with excitement, and walks into the lift.

“Hello,” says Jack pleasantly. “Which floor would you like?”

“Nine, please.” Connor swallows. “Mr Harper, may I quickly introduce myself?” He eagerly holds out his hand. “Connor Martin from Research. You’re coming to visit our department later on today.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Connor,” says Jack kindly. “Research is vital for a company like ours.”

Connor gives me an excited grin.

“You’ve already met Emma Corrigan from our marketing department?” he says.

“Yes, we’ve met.” Jack’s eyes gleam at me.

“How are we doing for time?” says Connor. He glances at his watch and in slight horror, I see Jack’s eyes falling on it.

Oh God.

“…I gave him a really nice watch, but he insists on wearing this orange digital thing …”

“Wait a minute!” says Jack, dawn breaking over his face. He stares at Connor as through seeing him for the first time. “Wait a minute. You’re Ken.”

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh–

“It’s Connor,” says Connor puzzledly. “Connor Martin.”

“I’m sorry!” Jack hits his head with his fist. “Connor. Of course. And you two–” he gestures to me “–are an item?”

Connor looks uncomfortable.

“I can assure you, sir, that at work our relationship is strictly professional. However, in a private context, Emma and I are… yes, having a personal relationship.”

“That’s wonderful!” says Jack encouragingly, and Connor beams, like a flower blossoming in the sun.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be very happy together,” Jack Harper says to Connor. “You seem very compatible.”

“Oh we are!” says Connor at once. “We both love jazz, for a start.”

“Is that so?” says Jack thoughtfully. “You know, I can’t think of anything nicer in the world than a shared love of jazz.”

He’s taking the piss. This is unbearable.

Extract 7

As I near my desk, Artemis looks up from a copy of Marketing Week.

“Oh Emma. I was sorry to hear about you and Connor.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But I don’t really want to talk about it if that’s OK.”

“There’s a message for you from Jack Harper, by the way.”

“What?” I start.

I didn’t mean to sound so rattled. “I mean, what is it?” I add more calmly.

“Could you please take the–” She squints at the paper. “–the Leopold file to his office. He said you’d know what it was. But if you can’t find it, it doesn’t matter.”

I stare at her, my heart hammering in my chest.

The Leopold file.

It was just an excuse to get away from our desks…

It’s a secret code. He wants to see me.

***

The family day is happening at Panther House, which is the Panther Corporation’s country house in Hertfordshire.

I follow the sounds of music and walk round the house to find the event in full swing on the vast lawn. Brightly coloured bunting is festooning the back of the house, tents are dotting the grass, a band is playing on a little bandstand and children are shrieking on a bouncy castle.

“Emma!” I look up to see Cyril advancing towards me, dressed as a joker with a red and yellow pointy hat. “Where’s your costume?”

“Costume!” I try to look surprised. “Gosh! Um… I didn’t realize we had to have one.”

“You people! It was on the memo, it was in the newsletter…” He takes hold of my shoulder as I try to walk away. “Well, you’ll have to take one of the spare ones.”

“What?” I look at him blankly. “What spare ones?”

“I had a feeling this might happen,” says Cyril with a slight note of triumph, “so I made advance provisions.”

He chivvies me into a tent, where two middle-aged ladies are standing beside a rack of… oh my God. The most revolting, lurid man-made-fibre costumes I’ve ever seen.

“No,” I say in panic. “Really. I’d rather stay as I am.”

“Emma, this is a fun day,” snaps Cyril. “And part of that fun derives from seeing our fellow employees and family in amusing outfits. Which reminds me, where is your family?”

“Oh.” I pull the regretful face I’ve been practising all week. “They… actually, they couldn’t make it.”

Which could be because I didn’t tell them anything about it.

***

“Connor, look, I’m sorry I’m late.”

“That’s all right,” he says stiffly, and starts chopping a bundle of mint as though he wants to kill it. “So, did you have a nice time the other evening?”

That’s what this is all about.

“Yes, I did, thanks,” I say after a pause.

“With your new mystery man.”

“Yes,” I say, and surreptitiously scan the crowded lawn, searching for Jack.

“It’s someone at work, isn’t it?” Connor suddenly says, and my stomach gives a small plunge.

“Why do you say that?” I say lightly.

“That’s why you won’t tell me who it is.”

“It’s not that! It’s just… look, Connor, can’t you just respect my privacy?”

“I think I have a right to know who I’ve been dumped for.” He shoots me a reproachful look.

***

“There she is! Emma! Cooee!”

That sounded just like my mum. Weird. I stop briefly, and turn round, but I can’t see anyone.

It must be a hallucination. It must be subconscious guilt trying to throw me, or something.

“Emma, turn round! Over here!”

Hang on. That sounded like Kerry.

I peer bewilderedly at the crowded scene, my eyes squinting in the sunshine. I can’t see anything. I’m looking all around, but I can’t see–

And then suddenly, like a Magic Eye, they spring into view. Kerry, Nev, and my mum and dad. Walking towards me. All in costume. Mum is wearing a Japanese kimono and holding a picnic basket. Dad is dressed as Robin Hood and holding two fold-up chairs. Nev is in a Superman costume and holding a bottle of wine. And Kerry is wearing an entire Marilyn Monroe outfit.

What’s going on?

“Mum… What are you doing here? I never – I mean, I forgot to tell you.”

“I know you did,” says Kerry. “But your friend Artemis told me all about it the other day, when I phoned.”

I stare at her, unable to speak.

I will kill Artemis. I will murder her.

“So what time’s the fancy dress contest?” says Kerry, winking at two teenage boys who are gawping at her. “We haven’t missed it, have we?”

“There… there isn’t a contest,” I say, finding my voice.

“Really?” Kerry looks put out.

I don’t believe her. This is why she’s come here, isn’t it? To win a stupid competition.

“You came all this way just for a fancy dress contest?” I can’t resist saying.

“Of course not!” Kerry quickly regains her usual scornful expression. “Nev and I are taking your mum and dad to Hanwood Manor. It’s near here. So we thought we’d drop in.”

“We’ve brought a picnic,” says Mum. “Now, let’s find a nice spot.”

“Um, the thing is,” I say in sudden inspiration, “the thing is, actually, I won’t be able to stay. We’ve all got duties to do.”

“Don’t tell me they can’t give you half an hour off,” says Dad.

“Emma’s the linchpin of the whole organization!” says Kerry with a sarky giggle. “Can’t you tell?”

***

All I can do is stare dumbly down at my plate, telling myself this can’t last for ever. Dad and Nev have made about a million jokes about Don’t Mention Connor. Kerry has shown me her new Swiss watch which cost 4,000 and boasted about how her company is expanding yet again. And now she’s telling us how she played golf with the chief executive of British Airways last week and he tried to head-hunt her.

“They all try it on,” she says, taking a huge bite of chicken drumstick. “But I say to them, if I needed a job…” She tails off. “Did you want something?”

“Hi there,” comes a dry, familiar voice from above my head.

Very slowly I raise my head, blinking in the light.

It’s Jack. Standing there against the blue sky in his cowboy outfit. He gives me a tiny, almost imperceptible smile, and I feel my heart lift. He’s come to get me. I should have known he would.

“Hi!” I say, half-dazedly. “Everyone, this is–”

“My name’s Jack,” he cuts across me pleasantly. “I’m a friend of Emma’s. Emma…’ He looks at me, his face deliberately blank. “I’m afraid you’re needed.”

“That’s a shame!’ says Mum. “Can’t you at least stay for a quick drink? Jack, you’re welcome to join us, have a chicken drumstick or some quiche.”

“We have to go,” I say hurriedly. “Don’t we, Jack?”

“I’m afraid we do,” he says, and holds out a hand to pull me up.

“Sorry, everyone,” I say.

“We don’t mind!” says Kerry with the same sarky laugh. “I’m sure you’ve some vital job to do, Emma. In fact, I expect the whole event would collapse without you!”

Jack stops. Very slowly, he turns round.

“Let me guess,” he says pleasantly. “You must be Kerry.”

“Yes!” she says in surprise. “That’s right.”

“And Mum… Dad…” He surveys the faces. “And you have to be… Nev?”

“Spot on!” says Nev with a chortle.

“Very good!” says Mum with a laugh. “Emma must have told you a bit about us.”

“Oh… she has,” agrees Jack, looking around the picnic rug again with a kind of odd fascination on his face. “You know, there might be time for that drink after all.”

I watch in total disbelief as Jack settles comfortably down on the rug. He was supposed to be rescuing me from all this. Not joining in. Slowly I sink down beside him.

“So, you work for this company, Jack?” says Dad, pouring him a glass of wine.

“In a way,” says Jack after a pause. “You could say… I used to.”

“Are you between jobs?” says Mum tactfully.

“You could put it like that, I guess.” His face crinkles in a little smile.

“Oh dear!” says Mum sympathetically. “What a shame. Still, I’m sure something will come up.”

Oh God. She has absolutely no idea who he is. None of my family has any idea who Jack is.

“So, Jack,” she says sympathetically as she hands him a paper plate. “Are you getting by financially?”

“I’m doing OK,” Jack replies gravely.

Mum looks at him for a moment. Then she rummages in the picnic basket and produces another Sainsbury’s quiche, still in its box.

“Take this,” she says, pressing it on him. “And some tomatoes. They’ll tide you over.”

“Oh no,” says Jack at once. “Really, I couldn’t–”

“I won’t take no for an answer. I insist!”

“Well, that’s truly kind.” Jack gives her a warm smile.

“You want some free career advice, Jack?” says Kerry, munching a piece of chicken.

My heart gives a nervous flip. Please, please don’t try to get Jack to do the successful woman walk.

“Now, you want to listen to Kerry,” puts in Dad proudly. “She’s our star! She has her own company.”

“Is that so?” says Jack politely.

“My own travel agency,” says Kerry with a complacent smile. “Started from scratch. Now we have forty staff and a turnover of just over two million. And you know what my secret is?”

“I… have no idea,” says Jack.

Kerry leans forward and fixes him with her blue eyes.

“Golf.”

“Golf!” echoes Jack.

“Business is all about networking,” says Kerry. “It’s all about contacts. I’m telling you, Jack, I’ve met most of the top businesspeople in the country on the golf course. Take any company. Take this company.” She spreads her arm around the scene. “I know the top guy here. I could call him up tomorrow if I wanted to.”

I stare at her, frozen in horror.

“Really?” says Jack, sounding riveted. “Is that so?”

“Oh yes.” She leans forward confidentially. “And I mean, the top guy.”

“The top guy,” echoes Jack. “I’m impressed.”

“Perhaps Kerry could put in a good word for you, Jack!” exclaims Mum in sudden inspiration.

“You’d do that, wouldn’t you, Kerry love?”

I would burst into hysterical laughter. If it wasn’t so completely and utterly hideous.

“I guess I’ll have to take up golf without delay,” says Jack. “Meet the right people.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “What do you think, Emma?”

I can barely talk. I am beyond embarrassment. I just want to disappear into the rug and never be seen again.

“Mr Harper?” A voice interrupts and I breathe in relief. We all look up to see Cyril bending awkwardly down to Jack.

“I’m extremely sorry to interrupt, sir,” he says, glancing puzzledly around at my family as though trying to discern any reason at all why Jack Harper might be having a picnic with us.

“But Malcolm St John is here and would like a very brief word.”

“Of course,” says Jack, and smiles politely at Mum. “If you could just excuse me a moment.”

As he carefully balances his glass on his plate and gets to his feet, the whole family exchanges confused glances.

“Giving him a second chance, then!” calls out Dad jocularly to Cyril.

“I’m sorry?” says Cyril, taking a couple of steps towards us.

“That chap Jack,” says Dad, gesturing to Jack, who’s talking to a guy dressed in a navy blazer.

“You’re thinking of taking him on again, are you?”

Cyril looks stiffly from Dad to me and back again.

“It's OK, Cyril!” I call lightly. “Dad, shut up, OK?

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 686