Can You Keep a Secret? (14 page)

'I know!' I say, a little offended.

Honestly. Who does Lissy think I am? I'm a cool and sophisticated Londoner. I don't get excited by stupid celebrities. I was just
mentioning
it, that's all.

'In fact,' I add after a pause, 'it probably spoils the atmosphere if the place is stuffed full of famous people. I mean, can you think of anything worse than sitting at a table, trying to have a nice normal conversation, while all around you are movie stars and supermodels and … and pop stars …'

There's a pause while we both think about this.

'So,' says Lissy casually. 'We might as well go and get ready.'

'Why not?' I say, equally casually.

Not that it will take long. I mean, I'm only going to throw on a pair of jeans. And maybe quickly wash my hair, which I was going to do anyway.

And maybe do a quick face-mask.

An hour later Lissy appears at the door of my room, dressed in jeans, a tight black corset top and her Bertie heels which I happen to know always give her a blister.

'What do you think?' she says, in the same casual voice. 'I mean, I haven't really made much effort—'

'Neither have I,' I say, blowing on my second coat of nail polish. 'I mean, it's just a relaxed evening out. I'm hardly even bothering with makeup.' I look up and stare at Lissy. 'Are those false eyelashes?'

'No! I mean … yes. But you weren't supposed to notice. They're called natural look.' She goes over to the mirror and bats her eyelids at herself worriedly. 'Are they really obvious?'

'No!' I say reassuringly, and reach for my blusher brush. When I look up again, Lissy is staring at my shoulder.

'What's that?'

'What?' I say innocently, and touch the little diamante heart on my shoulder blade. 'Oh
this
. Yes, it just sticks on. I thought I'd just put it on for fun.' I reach for my halterneck top, tie it on, and slide my feet into my pointy suede boots. I got them in a Sue Ryder shop a year ago, and they're a bit scuffed up, but in the dark you can hardly tell.

'Do you think we look too much?' says Lissy as I go and stand next to her in front of the mirror. 'What if they're all in jeans?'

'We're in jeans!'

'But what if they're in big thick jumpers and we look really stupid?'

Lissy is always completely paranoid about what everyone else will be wearing. When it was her first chambers Christmas party and she didn't know whether 'black tie' meant long dresses or just sparkly tops, she made me come and stand outside the door with about six different outfits in carrier bags, so she could quickly change. (Of course the original dress she'd put on was fine. I
told
her it would be.)

'They won't be wearing big thick jumpers,' I say. 'Come on, let's go.'

'We can't!' Lissy looks at her watch. 'It's too early.'

'Yes we can. We can be just having a quick drink on our way to
another
celebrity party.'

'Oh yes.' Lissy brightens. 'Cool. Let's go!'

It takes us about fifteen minutes by bus to get from Islington to Clerkenwell. Lissy leads me down an empty road near to Smithfield Market, full of warehouses and empty office buildings. Then we turn a corner, and then another corner, until we're standing in a small alley.

'Right,' says Lissy, standing under a street lamp and consulting a tiny scrap of paper. 'It's all hidden away somewhere.'

'Isn't there a sign?'

'No. The whole point is, no-one except members knows where it is. You have to knock on the right door and ask for Alexander.'

'Who's Alexander?'

'Dunno.' Lissy shrugs. 'It's their secret code.'

Secret code! This gets cooler and cooler. As Lissy squints at an intercom set in the wall, I look idly around. This street is completely nondescript. In fact, it's pretty shabby. Just rows of identical doors and blanked-out windows and barely any sign of life. But just think. Hidden behind this grim façade is the whole of London celebrity society!

'Hi, is Alexander there?' says Lissy nervously. There's a moment's silence, then as if by magic, the door clicks open.

Oh my God. This is like Aladdin or something. Looking apprehensively at each other, we make our way down a lit corridor pulsing with music. We come to a flat, stainless steel door, and Lissy reaches for her key. As it opens, I quickly tug at my top and casually rearrange my hair.

'OK,' Lissy mutters. 'Don't look. Don't stare. Just be cool.'

'All right,' I mutter back, and follow Lissy into the club. As she shows her membership card to a girl at a desk, I stare studiously at her back, and as we walk through into a large, dim room, I keep my eyes fixed on the beige carpet. I'm not going to gawp at the celebrities. I'm not going to stare. I'm not going to—

'Lookout!'

Oops. I was so busy gazing at the floor, I blundered right into Lissy.

'Sorry,' I whisper. 'Where shall we sit down?'

I don't dare look around the room for a free seat, in case I see Madonna and she thinks I'm staring at her. 'Here,' says Lissy, gesturing to a wooden table with an odd little jerk of her head.

Somehow we manage to sit down, stow our bags and pick up the lists of cocktails, all the time rigidly staring at each other.

'Have you seen anyone?' I murmur.

'No. Have you?'

'No.' I open the cocktail menu and run my eyes down it. God this is a strain. My eyes are starting to ache. I want to look around. I want to
see
the place.

'Lissy,' I hiss. 'I'm going to have a look round.'

'Really?' Lissy stares at me anxiously, as though I'm Steve McQueen announcing he's going over the wire. 'Well … OK. But be careful. Be
discreet
.'

'I will. I'll be fine!'

OK. Here we go. A quick, non-gawping sweep. I lean back in my chair, take a deep breath, then allow my eyes to skim swiftly round the room, taking in as much detail as quickly as I can. Low lighting … lots of purple sofas and chairs … a couple of guys in T-shirts … three girls in jeans and jumpers, God, Lissy's going to freak … a couple whispering to each other … a guy with a beard reading
Private Eye
… and that's it.

That can't be it.

This can't be right. Where's Robbie Williams? Where's Jude and Sadie? Where are all the supermodels?

'Who did you see?' hisses Lissy, still staring at the cocktail menu.

'I'm not sure,' I whisper uncertainly. 'Maybe that guy with the beard is some famous actor?'

Casually, Lissy turns in her seat and gives him a look.

'I don't think so,' she says at last, turning back.

'Well, how about the guy in the grey T-shirt?' I say, gesturing hopefully. 'Is he in a boy band or something?'

'Mmm … no. I don't think so.'

There's silence as we look at each other.

'Is
anyone
famous here?' I say at last.

'Celebrities aren't guaranteed!' says Lissy defensively.

'I know! But you'd think—'

'Hi!' A voice interrupts us and we both look round, to see two of the girls in jeans approaching our table. One of them is smiling at me nervously. 'I hope you don't mind, but my friends and I were just wondering – aren't you that new one in
Hollyoaks
?'

Oh, for God's sake.

Anyway. I don't care. We didn't come here to see tacky celebrities taking coke and showing off. We just came to have a nice quiet drink together.

We order strawberry daiquiris and some luxury mixed nuts (£4.50, for a small bowl. Don't even
ask
how much the drinks cost). And I have to admit, I feel a bit more relaxed now I know there's no-one famous to impress.

'How's your work going?' I ask, as I sip my drink.

'Oh, it's fine,' says Lissy with a vague shrug. 'I saw the Jersey Fraudster today.'

The Jersey Fraudster is this client of Lissy's who keeps being charged with fraud and appealing and – because Lissy's so brilliant – getting let out. One minute he's wearing handcuffs, the next he's dressed in hand-made suits and taking her to lunch at the Ritz.

'He tried to buy me a diamond brooch,' says Lissy, rolling her eyes. 'He had this Asprey's catalogue and he kept saying "That one's rather jolly." And I was like, "Humphrey, you're in prison! Concentrate!"' She shakes her head, takes a sip of her drink, and looks up. 'So … what about your man?'

I know at once she means Jack, but I don't want to admit that's where my mind has leapt to, so I attempt a blank look and say, 'Who, Connor?'

'No, you dope! Your stranger on the plane. The one who knows everything about you.'

'Oh
him
.' I feel a flush coming to my cheeks, and look down at my embossed paper coaster.

'Yes, him! Have you managed to avoid him?'

'No,' I admit. 'He won't bloody leave me alone.'

I break off as a waiter puts two fresh strawberry daiquiris on the table. When he's gone, Lissy gives me a close look.

'Emma, do you fancy this guy?'

'No, of course I don't
fancy
him,' I say hotly. 'He just … disconcerts me, that's all. It's a completely natural reaction. You'd be the same. Anyway, it's fine. I only have to get through until Friday. Then he'll be gone.'

'And then you'll be moving in with Connor.' Lissy takes a sip of her daiquiri and leans forward. 'You know, I reckon he's going to ask you to marry him!'

I feel a tiny lurch in my stomach, which is probably just my drink going down or something.

'You're so lucky,' says Lissy wistfully. 'You know, he put up those shelves in my room the other day without even asking! How many men would do that?'

'I know. He's just … great.' There's a pause, and I start to shred my paper coaster into little bits. 'I suppose the only
tiny
little thing would be that it's not that romantic any more.'

'You can't expect it to be romantic for ever,' says Lissy. 'Things change. It's natural to become a bit more steady.'

'Oh, I know that!' I say. 'We're two mature, sensible people, and we're having a loving, steady relationship! Which, you know, is just what I want out of life. Except …' I clear my throat awkwardly. 'We don't have sex
that
often any more …'

'That's a common problem in long-term relationships,' says Lissy knowledgeably. 'You need to spice it up.'

'With what?'

'Have you tried handcuffs?'

'No! Have you?' I stare at Lissy, riveted.

'A long time ago,' she says with a dismissive shrug. 'They weren't all that … Um … why not try doing it somewhere different. Try doing it at work!'

At work! Now, that's a good idea. Lissy is so clever.

'OK!'I say. 'I'll try that!'

I reach for my bag, get out a pen and write 'shag@work' on my hand, next to where I've written 'nb: darling'.

Suddenly I'm filled with fresh enthusiasm. This is a brilliant plan. I'll shag Connor at work tomorrow, and it will be the best sex we've ever had, and the sparkle will come back, and we'll be madly in love again. Easy. And that will show Jack Harper.

No. This is nothing to do with Jack Harper. I don't know why that slipped out.

There's only one tiny hitch to my scheme. Which is that it's not quite as easy to shag your boyfriend at work as you'd think. I hadn't quite appreciated before how
open
everything is in our office. And how many glass partitions there are. And how many people there are, walking around all the time.

By eleven o'clock the next morning I still haven't managed to put a game plan together. I think I'd kind of pictured doing it behind a pot plant somewhere. But now I actually look at them, pot plants are tiny! And all frondy. There's no way Connor and I would be able to hide behind one, let alone risk any … movement.

We can't do it in the loos. The girls' loos always have people in there, gossiping and putting on their makeup, and the men's loos … yuck. No way.

We can't do it in Connor's office because the walls are completely made of glass and there aren't any blinds or anything. Plus people are always coming in and out of it to get stuff out of his filing cabinet.

Oh, this is ridiculous. People having affairs must have sex at the office all the time. Is there some special secret shagging room I don't know about?

I can't email Connor and ask for suggestions, because it's crucial that I surprise him. The shock element will be a huge turn-on and make it really sizzling hot and romantic. Plus there's a tiny risk that if I wrarn him he'll go all corporate on me and insist we take an hour's unpaid leave for it, or something.

I'm just wondering whether we could creep out onto the fire escape, when Nick comes out of Paul's office saying something about margins.

My head jerks up, and I feel a twinge of apprehension. There's something I've been trying to pluck up courage to say to him since that big meeting yesterday.

'Hey Nick,' I say as he walks by my desk. 'Panther Bars are your product, aren't they?'

'If you can call them a product,' he says, rolling his eyes.

'Are they going to axe them?'

'More than likely.'

'Well, listen,' I say quickly. 'Can I have a tiny bit of the marketing budget to put a coupon ad in a magazine?' Nick puts his hands on his hips and stares at me.

'Do what?'

'Put in an ad. It won't be very expensive, I promise. No-one will even notice.'

'Where?'

'
Bowling Monthly
,' I say, flushing slightly. 'My grandpa gets it.'

'Bowling
what
?'

'Please! Look, you don't have to do anything. I'll sort it all out. It'll be a drop in the ocean compared to all the other ads you've run.' I stare at him entreatingly. 'Please … please …'

'Oh all right!' he says impatiently. 'It's a dead duck, anyway.'

'Thanks!' I beam at him, then as he walks off, reach for the phone and dial Grandpa's number.

'Hi Grandpa!' I say as his answermachine beeps. 'I'm putting a money-off coupon ad for Panther Bars in
Bowling Monthly
. So tell all your friends! You can stock up cheaply. I'll see you soon, OK?'

'Emma?' Grandpa's voice suddenly booms into my ear. 'I'm here! Just screening.'

'Screening?' I echo, trying not to sound too surprised. Grandpa screens?