Can You Keep a Secret?

by Sophie Kinsella

  My cheeks are getting warmer and warmer.

  “Are you going in?” comes a bright voice. We both jump, and look up to see a woman in black jeans approaching. “The performance is about to start!” she says with a beam.

  I feel like she’s slapped me awake from a dream. “I … I have to go and watch Lissy dancing,” I say dazedly.

  “Right. Well … I’ll leave you, then. That was really all I had to say.” Slowly Jack gets to his feet, then turns back. “There’s one more thing.” He looks at me for a few silent moments. “Emma, I realize these last few days can’t have been easy for you. You have been the model of discretion throughout, whereas I … have not. And I just wanted to … apologize. Again.”

  “That’s … that’s OK,” I manage.

  Jack turns again, and as I watch him walking slowly away, I feel completely torn.

  He came all the way here to tell me his secret. His precious secret.

  He didn’t have to do that.

  Oh, God. Oh, God …

  “Wait!” I hear myself calling out. “Would you … would you like to come, too?”

  As we walk toward the theater together, I pluck up the courage to speak. “Jack, I’ve got something to say, too. About … about what you were just saying. I know I said you ruined my life the other day.”

  “I remember,” says Jack wryly.

  “Well, I might possibly have been wrong about that. You … you didn’t ruin my life.”

  “I didn’t?” says Jack, deadpan. “Do I get another shot?”

  “No!”

  “No?” There’s a serious edge to his voice, which throws me. To cover my confusion, I reach into my bag for a lip salve.

  Suddenly Jack’s gaze falls with interest on my hand. “ ‘I am over Jack,’ ” he reads aloud.

  Fuck.

  My entire face flames with color.

  “That’s just …” I clear my throat. “That was just a … doodle. It didn’t mean …”

  A shrill ring from my mobile interrupts me. Thank God. Whoever this is, I love them. I pull it out and press answer. “Hello?”

  “Emma, you’re going to love me forever!” come Jemima’s piercing tones.

  “What?”

  “I’ve sorted everything out for you!” she says triumphantly. “I know, I’m a total star. You don’t know what you’d do without me.”

  “What?” I feel a twinge of alarm. “Jemima, what are you talking about?”

  “Getting your revenge on Jack Harper, silly! Since you were just sitting there like a total wimp, I’ve taken matters into my own hands!”

  For moment I can’t quite move. “Er, Jack … excuse me a minute.” I keep my voice bright and casual. “I just need to … take this call.”

  I hurry to the corner of the courtyard, well out of earshot.

  “Jemima, you promised you wouldn’t do anything!” I hiss. “You swore on your Míu Míu pony skin bag, remember?”

  “I haven’t got a Míu Míu pony skin bag!” she crows. “I’ve got a Fendi pony skin bag!”

  She’s mad. She’s completely mad.

  “Jemima … what have you done?” I swallow. “Tell me what you’ve done.”

  Please don’t say she’s scraped his car. Please.

  “An eye for an eye, Emma! That man totally betrayed you, and we’re going to do the same to him! Now, I’m sitting here with a very nice chap called Mick. He’s a journalist. He writes for the Daily World.…”

  Everything goes fuzzy for an instant. A journalist.

  “A tabloid journalist?” I manage at last. “Jemima … are you insane?”

  “Don’t be so narrow-minded and suburban!” retorts Jemima reprovingly. “Emma, tabloid journalists are our friends. They’re just like private detectives … but for free! Mick’s done loads of work for Mummy before. He’s marvelous at tracking things down. And he’s very interested in finding out Jack Harper’s little secret! I’ve told him all we know, but he’d like to have a word with you—”

  I feel quite faint. This cannot be happening.

  “Jemima, listen to me,” I say, as though trying to persuade a lunatic down off the roof. “I don’t want to find out Jack’s secret, OK? I just want to forget it. You have to stop this guy.”

  “I won’t!” she says like a petulant six-year-old. “Emma, don’t be so pathetic! You can’t just let men walk all over you and do nothing in return! You have to show them! Mummy always says—” There’s the sudden screeching of tires. “Oops! Teeny crash. I’ll call you back.”

  The phone goes dead.

  In dismay, I jab her number into my phone, but it clicks straight onto 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, holding a program.

  “It’s about to start,” he says. “Everything all right?”

  “Er, 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 light-headed 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 the story. 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? 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 program, and I start in fright.

  “Yes, it is,” I say before I can stop myself. OK, forget the not-talking plan.

  “Right.” Jack nods and turns back to the program. His face is totally calm and unsuspecting.

  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 feel like 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 anymore.

  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 …

  Suddenly a low, insistent drumbeat starts playing over the loudspeakers. I’m so distracted, I actually forgot what we’re 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 onstage; 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—

  Pow! Suddenly there’s a gasp as a dazzling light fills the auditorium, nearly blinding me. Pulsating music starts to fill the air, and a single figure appears onstage in a black, glittering costume, twirling and leaping. Gosh, whoever it is, th
ey’re amazing. I’m blinking 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 out of 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 does an 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 agog, and she looks so completely radiant. I haven’t seen her 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!”

  OK. I need to get ahold of myself; otherwise, it’ll be like the time I took my little goddaughter Amy to see the Disney cartoon Tarzan, and when the lights went up, she was fast asleep and I was in floods, being gawked at by a load of stony-eyed four-year-olds.

  Suddenly I feel something nudging my hand. I look up, and Jack’s offering me a hanky. And as I take it from him, his fingers curl briefly around mine.

  As 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 that we’re coming back down to normality again, I can feel my exhilaration seeping away and anxiety returning. I have to try Jemima again.

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

  “Lissy said I should just 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 wait until he’s safely out of earshot, then immediately dial Jemima’s number. Straight onto messages.

  I dial it again. Straight onto messages again.

  I want to scream with frustration. Where is she? What’s she doing?

  For a few moments I stand perfectly still, trying to ignore my rising panic, trying to work out what to do.

  OK. I’ll just have to go to the party and act normal, 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 afterward. Waiters are carrying drinks around and the noise of chatter is tremendous, and 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 all flushed and shiny, and surrounded by a load of good-looking lawyer-type guys, all of whom seem to be hanging on her every word.

  “Lissy!” 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.” A reluctant smile is growing on her face. “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 next year’s performance!”

  I gape at her. “But you said you never wanted to do this again, ever, and if you mentioned it again, I had to stop you.”

  “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!”

  “Yes,” I say sternly. “I heard about your little disclosure.”

  “Oh,” says Lissy, looking abashed. “Well, I like him! I think you should give him another chance. So … come on. What did he say?”

  I lean closer to her so no one else can hear. “He told me his secret.”

  “You’re joking!” breathes Lissy, hand to her mouth. “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. 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 …”

  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.

  “Lissy! That was fabulous!” A couple of girls in suits suddenly appear at her side, and I move away as she greets them.

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

  I surreptitiously begin to pull my phone from my bag, then hastily put it away again as I hear a voice behind me calling, “Emma!”

  I look around 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. Who on earth chose that?

  “Connor! What are you doing here?”

  “Lissy sent me a flyer,” he replies, looking defensive. “I’ve always been fond of Lissy. I thought I’d come along. And I’m glad I’ve run into you,” he adds. “I’d like to talk to you, if I may.”

  He draws me toward the door, away from the main crowd, and I follow, feeling a tad nervous. 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.

  “Er, 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, shamefaced. “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 in stiff tones.

  “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, playing for time.

  “Were
you honest with me in bed?” His face is growing fire-engine 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 studies his glass, then looks up. “But did you fake anything else?”

  I look at him uncertainly. “I … I’m not sure I know what you—”

  “Were there any …” He clears his throat. “… any particular techniques I used that 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 trail 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. “Women are all different! Our bodies are all different … Everybody likes, um, different things.”

  Connor is a picture of 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—”

  “Emma …” He stares at me in bewilderment. “Do all women have secrets?”

  Oh, no. Have I ruined Connor’s trust in all of womankind forever?

  “No!” I exclaim. “Of course they don’t! Honestly, Connor, I’m sure it’s only me …”