Can You Keep a Secret? (37 page)

The phone goes dead.

I am numb with horror.

Frantically I jab her number into my phone, but it clicks straight on to messages.

'Jemima,' I say as soon as it beeps. 'Jemima, you have to stop this! You have to—' I stop abruptly as Jack appears in front of me, with a warm smile.

'It's about to start,' he says, and gives me a curious look. 'Everything all right?'

'Fine,' I say in a strangled voice, and put my phone away. 'Everything's … fine.'

TWENTY-FIVE

As I walk into the auditorium I'm almost lightheaded with panic.

What have I done? What have I done?

I have given away Jack's most precious secret in the world to a morally warped, revenge-wreaking, Prada-wearing nutcase.

OK. Just calm down, I tell myself for the zillionth time. She doesn't actually know anything. This journalist probably won't find out anything. I mean, what facts does he actually have?

But what if he does find out? What if he somehow stumbles on the truth? And Jack discovers it was me who pointed them in the right direction?

I feel ill at the thought. My stomach is curdling.
Why
did I ever mention Scotland to Jemima?
Why
?

New resolution: I am never giving away a secret again. Never, ever, ever. Even if it doesn't seem important. Even if I am feeling angry.

In fact … I am never talking again, full stop. All talking ever seems to do is get me into trouble. If I hadn't opened my mouth on that stupid plane in the first place, I wouldn't be in this mess now.

I will become a mute. A silent enigma. When people ask me questions I will simply nod, or scribble cryptic notes on pieces of paper. People will take them away and puzzle over them, searching them for hidden meanings—

'Is this Lissy?' says Jack, pointing to a name in the programme, and I jump in fright. I follow his gaze, then give a silent nod, my mouth clamped shut.

'Do you know anyone else in the show?' he asks.

I give a mute 'who knows?' shrug.

'So … how long has Lissy been practising?'

I hesitate, then hold up three fingers.

'Three?' Jack peers at me uncertainly. 'Three what?'

I make a little gesture with my hands which is supposed to indicate 'months'. Then I make it again. Jack looks totally baffled.

'Emma, is something wrong?'

I feel in my pocket for a pen – but I haven't got one.

OK, forget not talking.

'About three months,' I say out loud.

'Right.' Jack nods, and turns back to the programme. His face is calm and unsuspecting, and I can feel guilty nerves rising through me again.

Maybe I should just tell him.

No. I can't. I can't. How would I put it? 'By the way, Jack. You know that really important secret you asked me to keep? Well, guess what …'

Containment is what I need. Like in those military films where they bump off the person who knows too much. But how do I contain Jemima? I've launched some crazed human Exocet missile, fizzing around London, bent on causing as much devastation as she can, and now I want to call her back, but the button doesn't work any more.

OK. Just think rationally. There's no need to panic. Nothing's going to happen tonight. I'll just keep trying her mobile and as soon as I get through I'll explain in words of one syllable that she has to call this guy off and if she doesn't I will break her legs.

A low, insistent drumbeat starts playing over the loudspeakers, and I give a start of fright. I'm so distracted, I'd actually forgotten what we were here for. The auditorium is becoming completely dark, and around us the audience falls silent with anticipation. The beating increases in volume, but nothing happens on stage; it's still pitch black.

The drumming becomes even louder, and I'm starting to feel tense. This is all a bit spooky. When are they going to start dancing? When are they going to open the curtains? When are they going to—

Pow! Suddenly there's a gasp as a dazzling light fills the auditorium, nearly blinding me. Thumping music fills the air, and a single figure appears on stage in a black, glittering costume, twirling and leaping. Gosh, whoever it is, they're amazing. I'm blinking dazedly against the bright light, trying to see. I can hardly tell if it's
a
man or a woman or a—

Oh my God. It's Lissy.

I am pinioned to my seat by shock. Everything else has been swept away from my mind. I cannot keep my eyes off Lissy.

I had no idea she could do this. No idea! I mean, we did a bit of ballet together. And a bit of tap. But we never … I never … How can I have known someone for over twenty years and have no idea they could dance?

She just did this amazing slow, sinewy dance with a guy in a mask who I guess is Jean-Paul, and now she's leaping and spinning around with this ribbon thing, and the whole audience is staring at her, agog, and she looks so completely radiant. I haven't seen her look so happy for months. I'm so proud of her.

To my horror, tears start to prick my eyes. And now my nose is starting to run. I don't even have a tissue. This is so embarrassing. I'm going to have to sniff, like a mother at a Nativity play. Next I'll be standing up and running to the front with my camcorder, going, 'Hello darling, wave to Daddy!'

OK. I need to get a hold of myself, otherwise it'll be like the time I took my little god-daughter Amy to see the Disney cartoon
Tarzan
, and when the lights went up, she was fast asleep and I was in floods, being gawped at by a load of stony-eyed four-year-olds. (Just in my defence, it
was
pretty romantic. And Tarzan was pretty sexy.)

I feel something nudging my hand. I look up, and Jack's offering me a hanky. As I take it from him, his fingers curl briefly round mine.

When the performance comes to an end, I'm on a total high. Lissy takes a star bow, and both Jack and I applaud madly, grinning at each other.

'Don't tell anyone I cried,' I say, above the sound of applause.

'I won't,' says Jack, and gives me a rueful smile. 'I promise.'

The curtain comes down for the last time, and people start getting out of their seats, reaching for jackets and bags. And now we're coming back down to normality again, I feel my exhilaration seeping away and anxiety returning. I have to try to contact Jemima again.

At the exit, people are streaming across the courtyard to a lit-up room on the other side.

'Lissy said I should meet her at the party,' I say to Jack. 'So er … why don't you go on? I just need to make a quick call.'

'Are you OK?' says Jack, giving me a curious look. 'You seem jumpy.'

'I'm fine!' I say. 'Just excited!' I give him as convincing a beam as I can manage, then wait until he's safely out of earshot. Immediately I dial Jemima's number. Straight on to messages.

I dial it again. Messages again.

I want to scream with frustration. Where is she? What's she doing? How can I contain her if I don't know where she is?

I stand perfectly still, trying to ignore my thrusting panic, trying to work out what to do.

OK. I'll just have to go to the party and act normally, keep trying her on the phone and if all else fails, wait until I see her later. There's nothing else I can do. It'll be fine. It'll be fine.

The party is huge and bright and noisy. All the dancers are there, still in costume, and all the audience, and a fair number of people who seem to have come along just for the ride. Waiters are carrying drinks around and the noise of chatter is tremendous. As I walk in, I can't see anyone I know. I take a glass of wine and start edging into the crowd, overhearing conversations all around.

'… wonderful costumes …'

'… find time for rehearsals?'

'… judge was
totally
intransigent …'

Suddenly I spot Lissy, looking flushed and shiny and surrounded by a load of good-looking lawyer-type guys, one of whom is blatantly staring at her legs.

'Lissy!' I cry. She turns around and I give her a huge hug. 'I had no idea you could dance like that! You were amazing!'

'Oh no. I wasn't,' she says at once, and pulls a typical Lissy-face. 'I completely messed up—'

'Stop!' I interrupt. 'Lissy, it was utterly fantastic.
You
were fantastic.'

'But I was completely crap in the—'

'
Don't
say you were crap!' I practically yell. 'You were fantastic. Say it.
Say
it, Lissy.'

'Well … OK.' Her face reluctantly creases into a smile. 'OK. I was … fantastic!' She gives an elated laugh. 'Emma, I've never felt so good in my life! And guess what, we're already planning to go on tour next year.'

'But …' I stare at her. 'You said you never wanted to do this again, ever, and if you mentioned it again, I had to stop you.'

'Oh, that was just stage fright,' she says with an airy wave of her hand. Then she lowers her voice. 'I saw Jack, by the way.' She gives me an avid look. 'What's going on?'

My heart gives a huge thump. Should I tell her about Jemima?

No. She'll only get all hassled. And anyway, there's nothing either of us can do right now.

'Jack came here to talk to me.' I hesitate. 'To … tell me his secret.'

'You're joking!' breathes Lissy, hand to her mouth. 'So – what is it?'

'I can't tell you.'

'You can't
tell
me?' Lissy stares at me in incredulity. 'After all that, you're not even going to
tell
me?'

'Lissy, I really can't.' I pull an agonized face. 'It's … complicated.'

God, I sound just like Jack.

'Well, all right,' says Lissy a bit grumpily. 'I suppose I can live without knowing. So … are you two together again?'

'I dunno,' I say, flushing. 'Maybe.'

'Lissy! That was fabulous!' A couple of girls in suits appear at her side. I give her a smile and move away slightly as she greets them.

Jack is nowhere to be seen. Should I try Jemima again?

Surreptitiously I start getting out my phone, then hastily put it away again as I hear a voice behind me calling 'Emma!'

I look round, and give a huge start of surprise. Connor's standing there in a suit, holding a glass of wine, his hair all shiny and blond under the spotlights. He has a new tie on, I notice instantly. Big yellow polka dots on blue. I don't like it.

'Connor! What are you doing here?' I say in astonishment.

'Lissy sent me a flyer,' he replies, a little defensively. 'I've always been fond of Lissy. I thought I'd come along. And I'm glad I've run into you,' he adds awkwardly. 'I'd like to talk to you, if I may.'

He draws me towards the door, away from the main crowd, and I follow, a tad nervously. I haven't had a proper chat with Connor since Jack was on television. Which could possibly be because every time I've glimpsed him, I've quickly hurried the other way.

'Yes?' I say, turning to face him. 'What did you want to talk about?'

'Emma.' Connor clears his throat as though he's about to start a formal speech. 'I get the feeling that you weren't always … totally honest with me in our relationship.'

This could be the understatement of the year.

'You're right,' I admit, shamefacedly. 'Oh God, Connor, I'm really, really sorry about everything that happened—' He lifts a hand with a look of dignity.

'It doesn't matter. That's water under the bridge. But I'd be grateful if you were totally honest with me now.'

'Absolutely,' I say, nodding earnestly. 'Of course.'

'I've recently … started a new relationship,' he says, a little stiffly.

'Wow!' I say in surprise. 'Good for you! Connor, I'm really pleased. What's her name?'

'Her name's Francesca.'

'And where did you—'

'I wanted to ask you about sex,' Connor says, cutting me off in a rush of embarrassment.

'Oh! Right.' I feel a twinge of dismay, which I conceal by taking a sip of wine. 'Of course!'

'Were you honest with me in that … area?'

'Er … what do you mean?' I say lightly, playing for time.

'Were you honest with me in bed?' His face is growing pillar-box red. 'Or were you faking it?'

Oh no. Is that what he thinks?

'Connor, I never ever faked an orgasm with you,' I say, lowering my voice. 'Hand on heart. I never did.'

'Well … OK.' He rubs his nose awkwardly. 'But did you fake anything else?'

I look at him uncertainly. 'I'm not sure I know what you—'

'Were there any –' he clears his throat

'– any particular techniques I used which you only pretended to enjoy?'.

Oh God.
Please
don't ask me that question.

'You know, I really … can't remember!' I hedge. 'Actually, I ought to be going …'

'Emma, tell me!' he says, with sudden passion. 'I'm starting a new relationship. It's only fair that I should be able to … to learn from past mistakes.'

I gaze back at his shiny face and suddenly feel a huge pang of guilt. He's right. I should be honest. I should finally be honest with him.

'OK,' I say at last, and move closer to him. 'You remember that one thing you used to do with your tongue?' I lower my voice still further. 'That …
slidey
thing? Well, sometimes that kind of made me want to … laugh. So if I had one tip with your new girlfriend, it would be don't do …'

I tail off at his expression.

Fuck. He's already done.it.

'Francesca said …' Connor says in a voice as stiff as a board. 'Francesca told me that really turned her on.'

'Well, I'm sure it did!' I backtrack madly. 'Women are all different. Our bodies are all different … everybody likes … different things.'

Connor is staring me in consternation.

'She said she loved jazz, too.'

'Well, I expect she does! Loads of people
do
like jazz.'

'She said she loved the way I could quote Woody Allen line for line.' He rubs his flushed face. 'Was she
lying
?'

'No, I'm sure she wasn't …' I tail off helplessly.

'Emma …' He stares at me bewilderedly. 'Do
all
women have secrets?'

Oh no. Have I ruined Connor's trust in all of womankind for ever?

'No!' I exclaim. 'Of course they don't! Honestly, Connor, I'm
sure
it's only me.'