Can You Keep a Secret?

by Sophie Kinsella

  Jemima’s mother is her total role model. She’s taller than Jemima, thinner than Jemima, and has a 10.5-carat rock on her finger, which in Jemima’s world makes her God. Living with Jemima, I’ve gotten to know Mummy’s opinions on pretty much all subjects, including tattoos (vulgar), gays (“as long as they dress well”), and whether one should wear a backless gown when entertaining minor royalty at a charity ball (no).

  “But what if you get carried away with desire for each other?” Lissy is needling Jemima.

  “What if he gropes you in the taxi?” I join in.

  “He’s not like that,” says Jemima. “He happens to be the First Assistant Under-Secretary to the Secretary of the Treasury, actually.”

  I meet Lissy’s eyes and can’t help giggling.

  “Emma, don’t laugh,” says Lissy, deadpan. “There’s nothing wrong with being a secretary. He can always move up, get himself a few qualifications.…”

  “Oh ha-ha, very funny,” says Jemima crossly. “You know, he’ll be knighted one day. I don’t think you’ll be laughing then.”

  “Oh, I expect I will,” says Lissy. “Even more so.” She suddenly focuses on Jemima, who is still standing by the chair, trying to reach her bag. “Oh, my God! You can’t even pick up your bag, can you?”

  “I can!” says Jemima, making one last, desperate effort to bend her body. “Of course I can! There!” She manages to scoop up the strap on the end of one of her acrylic fingernails and triumphantly swings it onto her shoulder. “You see?”

  “What if he suggests dancing?” says Lissy slyly. “What will you do then?”

  A look of total panic crosses Jemima’s face, then disappears. “He won’t,” she says scornfully. “Englishmen never suggest dancing.”

  “Fair point. Have a good time.”

  As Jemima vanishes out of the door, I sit down and flick on the telly. A Cindy Blaine show is just starting, with the tag line “I’m Going to Propose to the Father of My Twins!” and I settle back comfortably on the sofa.

  “Look, Liss,” I say. “It’s your favorite show.”

  Lissy always tries to be appalled when I watch Cindy Blaine. She says it’s all so demeaning for everyone involved and she’s going to go and do some work. (She usually reaches the door, and watches the rest from there.)

  But Lissy isn’t listening. She has a preoccupied look on her face. “Conditional!” she says suddenly. “Of course! How could I have been so stupid?”

  She scrabbles around under the sofa, pulls out several old newspaper crosswords, and starts searching through them.

  Honestly. As if being a top lawyer didn’t use up enough brainpower, Lissy spends her whole time doing crosswords and games of chess by correspondence, and special brainy puzzles that she gets from her geeky society of extra-clever people. (It’s not called that, of course. It’s called something like “Mindset—For People Who Like to Think.” Then at the bottom it casually mentions that you need an IQ of 600 in order to join.)

  And if she can’t solve a clue, she doesn’t just throw it out, saying “stupid puzzle,” like I would. She saves it. Then about three months later, when we’re watching EastEnders or something, she’ll suddenly come up with the answer. And she’s ecstatic! Just because she gets the last word in the box, or whatever.

  Lissy’s my oldest friend, and I really love her. But sometimes I really do not understand her.

  “What’s that?” I say as she writes in the answer. “Some crossword from 1993?”

  “Ha-ha,” she says absently. “So, what are you doing this evening?”

  “Watching Cindy, of course,” I say, gesturing to the screen. “There’s no finer entertainment.”

  “Oh, right. So you won’t be interested in this …” She fishes in her bag and slowly pulls out a large, rusty key ring, to which a brand-new Yale is attached.

  “What’s that?” Suddenly I realize. “No!”

  “Yes! I’m in!”

  “Oh, my God! Lissy!”

  “I know!” Lissy beams at me. “Isn’t it fab?”

  The key that Lissy is holding is the coolest key in the world. It opens the door to a private members’ club in Clerkenwell, which is completely happening and impossible to get into … except someone at Lissy’s chambers is on the founding committee.

  “Lissy, you’re a star!”

  I take the key from her and look at it in fascination, but there’s nothing on it. No name, no address, no logo, no nothing. It looks a bit like the key to my dad’s garden shed, I find myself thinking. But obviously way, way cooler, I add hastily. “Apparently Madonna’s a member!” I look up. “And Jude Law! And that gorgeous new actor from EastEnders. Except everyone says he’s gay, really—”

  “Emma,” interrupts Lissy. “You do know celebrities aren’t guaranteed.”

  “I know!” I say, a little offended.

  Honestly. Who does Lissy think I am? I’m a cool and sophisticated Londoner. “Actually, I was just thinking how it probably spoils the atmosphere if the place is stuffed full of celebrities,” I say. “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 consider this.

  “So,” says Lissy casually, “we might as well go and get ready.”

  “Why not,” I say with equal nonchalance.

  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 study Lissy’s face. “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. “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 diamanté heart on my shoulder blade. “Oh, this. Yes, it just sticks on. I thought I’d wear it for fun.” I reach for my halter neck 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 to get from Islington to Clerkenwell. Lissy leads me down an empty road near 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 facade 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.

  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.”

  “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 gawk at the celebrities. I’m not going to stare. I’m not going to—

  “Look out!”

  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 ogling 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 scan the cocktail menu, keeping my eyes down.

  God, this is a strain. My eyes are starting to ache. I want to see the place. “Lissy,” I hiss. “I’m going to have a look around.”

  “Really?” Lissy peers 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-gawking sweep. I lean back in my chair, take a deep breath, then allow my eyes to skim swiftly around the room, taking in as much detail as quickly as I can. Low lighting … lots of purple sofas and chairs … a pair of guys in T-shirts … three girls in jeans and jumpers—God, Lissy’s going to freak—a couple whispering to each other and giggling … 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 Law? 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 gray 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 around, 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.

  I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed. Not to see a single famous person.

  But never mind. We didn’t come here to see tacky celebrities taking coke and showing off, I tell myself. 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 that 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 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 handmade 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 catalog 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.”

  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. Lucky you!” Lissy takes a sip of her daiquiri and leans forward. “You know, I reckon he’s going to ask you to marry him!”

  “Really?” I say, feeling as though I’ve swallowed a chunk of ice. “I mean … yes. Connor’s just … great.” I start to shred my paper coaster into little bits.

  “Emma?” I lift my head to see Lissy peering at me questioningly. “Is something wrong?”

  “I suppose the only tiny little thing would be … that it’s not that romantic anymore.”

  “You can’t expect it to be romantic forever! Things change. It’s natural to become a bit more steady.”

  “Oh, I know that! We’re two mature, sensible people in a loving, steady relationship. Which … you know, is just what I want. Except …” I clear my throat awkwardly. “We don’t have sex that often anymore.”

  “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.” She leans forward. “Emma …”

  “Yes?” I hold my breath. Is she going to give me advice on bondage gear?

  “You’ve got something stuck between your teeth.”

  “Ooh!” I say in horror, and pull out my compact, but it’s too dim in here to see my reflection. “I’ll just pop to the loo.” I stand up and grab my bag. “Can you order me another drink?”

  The ladies’ room is all limestone and glass basins and chrome taps, which you operate by waving your arms about. I fix my teeth, then redo my lipstick and get out my hairbrush. And I’m just starting to brush my hair when I hear a moan from a cubicle.

  I ignore it and carry on brushing. But then there’s another one. Then
another, much longer one. I pause and look at the cubicle door, feeling uncertain. Should I do anything? Maybe some girl is ill in there.

  Or maybe she’s taken a drug overdose, I think in sudden horror. It’s a celebrity on heroin. I knew it. There’s another moan, and a muffled knocking sound against the door. I feel a faint queasiness. Has she passed out?

  “Er, hello?” I say softly.

  There’s no answer. Now what do I do?

  A cry of pain breaks the silence and I clap a hand over my mouth. She must be in agony. She must have cracked her head on the floor.

  “It’s OK!” I say quickly, getting down onto my knees and craning to see underneath the door. I’ll try to make eye contact with her and establish a bond, then I’ll go into the next cubicle and somehow climb over the partition—

  Hang on.

  I’m looking at three feet. Two in pink suede kitten heels … and one in a heavy black brogue. As I watch, the other brogue appears on the floor.

  And now the knocking sound has started again. Except it’s more of a … rocking. And the moaning is more like—

  I don’t believe this.

  I scramble to my feet, feeling a wash of embarrassment. What, they’re just having blatant sex and not bothering about anyone else? Connor and I would never do that. Not in a million years. I mean, the very thought of Connor and me getting it together in some public place, where someone could easily come across us …

  I catch sight of my own flushed reflection.

  Actually … that’s an idea.

  I hurry out of the ladies’, down the corridor, and back through the dim bar to our table, where Lissy looks up in excitement.

  “Emma! Where were you! You’ll never—”

  “I have it,” I interrupt, sliding into my chair. “I have the answer. It came to me in the loo. I’m going to seduce Connor in public. Like, at work or somewhere. That’ll put the fizz back in our sex life. What do you think?”

  “Emma, you just missed Ewan McGregor! He just came in here! He was in this amazing dark suit and he looked totally gorgeous! And he was alone!”

  For a full five minutes I cannot speak.