Can you keep a secret?

TEN

Jack Harper leaves today.

Thank God. Thank God. Because I really couldn't cope with any more of … of him. If I can just keep my head down and avoid him until five o'clock and then run out of the door, then everything will be fine. Life will be back to normal and I will stop feeling as if my radar's been skewed by some invisible magnetic force.

I don't know why I'm in such a jumpy, irritable mood. Because although I nearly died of embarrassment yesterday, things are pretty good. First of all, it doesn't look like' Connor and I are going to get the sack for having sex at work, which was my immediate fear. And secondly, my brilliant plan worked. As soon as we got back to our desks, Connor started sending me apologetic emails. And then last night we had sex. Twice. With scented candles.

I think Connor must have read somewhere that girls like scented candles during sex. Maybe in Cosmo. Because every time he brings them out, he gives me this 'aren't I considerate?' look, and I have to say 'Oh! Scented candles! How lovely!'

I mean, don't get me wrong. I don't mind scented candles. But it's not as if they actually do anything, is it? They just stand there and burn. And then at crucial moments I find myself thinking 'I hope the scented candle doesn't fall over', which is a bit distracting.

Anyway. So we had sex.

And tonight we're going to look at a flat together. It doesn't have a wooden floor or shutters — but it has a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, which is pretty cool. So my life is coming together nicely. I don't know why I'm feeling so pissed off. I don't know what's—

I don't want to move in with Connor, says a tiny voice in my brain before I can stop it.

No. That can't be right. That cannot possibly be right. Connor is perfect. Everyone knows that.

But I don't want to—

Shut up. We're the Perfect Couple. We have sex with scented candles. And we go for walks by the river. And we read the papers on Sundays with cups of coffee in pyjamas. That's what perfect couples do.

But—

Stop it!

I swallow hard. Connor is the one good thing in my life. If I didn't have Connor, what would I have?

The phone rings on my desk, interrupting my thoughts, and I pick it up.

'Hello, Emma?' comes a familiar dry voice. 'This is Jack Harper.'

My heart gives an almighty leap of fright and I nearly spill my coffee. I haven't seen him since the hand-in-bra incident. And I really don't want to.

I should never have answered my phone.

In fact, I should never have come into work today.

'Oh,' I say.'Er … hi!'

'Would you mind coming up to my office for a moment?'

'What … me?' I say nervously.

'Yes, you.'

I clear my throat.

'Should I … bring anything?'

'No, just yourself.'

He rings off, and I stare at my phone for a few moments, feeling a coldness in my spine. I should have known it was too good to be true. He's going to fire me after all. Gross … negligence … negligent grossness.

I mean, it is pretty gross, getting caught with your boyfriend's hand in your top at work.

OK. Well, there's nothing I can do.

I take a deep breath, stand up and make my way up to the eleventh floor. There's a desk outside his door, but no secretary is sitting there, so I go straight up to the door and knock.

'Come in.'

Cautiously I push the door open. The room is huge and bright and panelled, and Jack is sitting at a circular table with six people gathered round on chairs. Six people I've never seen before, I suddenly realize. They're all holding pieces of paper and sipping water, and the atmosphere is a bit tense.

Have they gathered to watch me being fired? Is this some kind of how-to-fire-people training?

'Hello,' I say, trying to keep as composed as possible. But my face is hot and I know I look flustered.

'Hi.' Jack's face crinkles in a smile. 'Emma … relax. There's nothing to worry about. I just wanted to ask you something.'

'Oh, right,' I say, taken aback.

OK, now I'm totally confused. What on earth could he have to ask me?

Jack reaches for a piece of paper and holds it up so I can see it clearly. 'What do you think this is a picture of?' he says.

Oh fucketty fuck.

This is your worst nightmare. This is like when I went for that interview at Laines Bank and they showed me a squiggle and I said I thought it looked like a squiggle.

Everyone is staring at me. I so want to get it right. If only I knew what right was.

I stare at the picture, my heart beating quickly. It's a graphic of two round objects. Kind of irregular in shape. I have absolutely no idea what they're supposed to be. None at all. They look like … they look like …

Suddenly I see it.

'It's nuts! Two walnuts!'

Jack explodes with laughter, and a couple of people give muffled giggles which they hastily stifle.

'Well, I think that proves my point,' says Jack.

'Aren't they walnuts?' I look helplessly around the table.

'They're supposed to be ovaries,' says a man with rimless spectacles tightly.

'Ovaries?' I stare at the page. 'Oh, right! Well, yes. Now you say it, I can definitely see a … an ovary-like …'

'Walnuts.' Jack wipes his eyes.

'I've explained, the ovaries are simply part of a range of symbolic representations of womanhood," says a thin guy defensively. 'Ovaries to represent fertility, an eye for wisdom, this tree to signify the earth mother …'

'The point is, the images can be used across the entire range of products,' says a woman with black hair, leaning forward. 'The health drink, clothing, a fragrance …'

'The target market responds well to abstract images,' adds Rimless Spectacle Guy. 'The research has shown—'

'Emma.' Jack looks at me again. 'Would you buy a drink with ovaries on it?'

'Er …' I clear my throat, aware of a couple of hostile faces pointing my way. 'Well … probably not.'

A few people exchange glances.

'This is so irrelevant,' someone is muttering.

'Jack, three creative teams have been at work at this,' the black-haired woman says earnestly. 'We can't start from scratch. We simply cannot.'

Jack takes a swig of water from an Evian bottle, wipes his mouth and looks at her.

'You know I came up with the slogan "Don't Pause" in two minutes on a bar napkin?'

'Yes, we know,' mutters the guy in rimless spectacles.

'We are not selling a drink with ovaries on it.' He exhales sharply, and runs a hand through his dishevelled hair. Then he pushes his chair back. 'OK, let's take a break. Emma, would you be kind enough to assist me in carrying some of these folders down to Sven's office?'

God, I wonder what all that was about. But I don't quite dare ask. Jack marches me down the corridor, and into a lift and presses the ninth-floor button, without saying anything. After we've descended for about two seconds he presses the emergency button, and we grind to a halt. Then, finally, he looks at me.

'Are you and I the only sane people in this building?'

'Um …'

'What happened to instincts?' His face is incredulous. 'No-one knows a good idea from a terrible one any more. Ovaries.' He shakes his head. 'Fucking ovaries!'

I can't help it. He looks so outraged, and the way he says 'ovaries!' suddenly seems the funniest thing in the world, and before I know it, I've started laughing. For an instant Jack looks astounded, and then his face kind of crumples, and suddenly he's laughing too. His nose screws right up when he laughs, just like a baby's and somehow this makes it seem about a million times funnier.

Oh God. I really am laughing now. I'm giving tiny little snorts, and my ribs hurt, and every time I look at him I give another gurgle. My nose is running, and I haven't got a tissue … I'll have to blow my nose on the picture of the ovaries …

'Emma, why are you with that guy?'

'What?' I look up, still laughing, until I realize that Jack's stopped. He's looking at me, with an unreadable expression on his face.

'Why are you with that guy?' he repeats.

My gurgles peter out, and I push my hair back off my face.

'What do you mean?' I say, playing for time.

'Connor Martin. He's not going to make you happy. He's not going to fulfil you.'

I stare at him, feeling wrong-footed.

'Who says?'

'I've got to know Connor. I've sat in meetings with him. I've seen how his mind works. He's a nice guy — but you need more than a nice guy.' Jack gives me a long, shrewd look. 'My guess is, you don't really want to move in with him. But you're afraid of ducking out.'

I feel a swell of indignation. How dare he read my mind and get it so … so wrong. Of course I want to move in with Connor.

'Actually, you're quite mistaken,' I say cuttingly. 'I'm looking forward to moving in with him. In fact … in fact, I was just sitting at my desk, thinking how I can't wait!'

So there.

Jack's shaking his head.

'You need someone with a spark. Who excites you.'

'I told you, I didn't mean what I said on the plane. Connor does excite me!' I give him a defiant look. 'I mean … when you saw us last, we were pretty passionate, weren't we?'

'Oh, that.' Jack shrugs. 'I assumed that was a desperate attempt to spice up your love life.'

I stare at him in fury.

'That was not a desperate attempt to spice up my love life!' I almost spit at him. 'That was simply a … a spontaneous act of passion.'

'Sorry,' says Jack mildly. 'My mistake.'

'Anyway, why do you care?' I fold my arms. 'What does it matter to you whether I'm happy or not?'

There's a sharp silence, and I find I'm breathing rather quickly. I meet his dark eyes, and quickly look away again.

'I've asked myself that same question,' says Jack. He shrugs. 'Maybe it's because we experienced that extraordinary plane ride together. Maybe it's because you're the only person in this whole company who hasn't put on some kind of phoney act for me.'

I would have put on an act! I feel like retorting. If I'd had a choice!

'I guess what I'm saying is … I feel as if you're a friend,' he says. 'And I care what happens to my friends.'

'Oh,' I say, and rub my nose.

I'm about to say politely that he feels like a friend, too, when he adds, 'Plus anyone who recites Woody Allen films line for line has to be a loser.'

I feel a surge of outrage on Connor's behalf.

'You don't know anything about it!' I exclaim. 'You know, I wish I'd never sat next to you on that stupid plane! You go around, saying all these things to wind me up, behaving as though you know me better than anyone else—'

'Maybe I do,' he says, his eyes glinting.

'What?'

'Maybe I do know you better than anyone else.'

I stare back at him, feeling a breathless mixture of anger and exhilaration. I suddenly feel like we're playing tennis. Or dancing.

'You do not know me better than anyone else!' I retort, in the most scathing tones I can muster.

'I know you won't end up with Connor Martin.'

'You don't know that.'

'Yes I do.'

'No you don't.'

'I do.'

He's starting to laugh.

'No you don't! If you want to know, I'll probably end up marrying Connor.'

'Marry Connor?' says Jack, as though this is the funniest joke he's ever heard.

'Yes! Why not? He's tall, and he's handsome, and he's kind and he's very … he's …' I'm floundering slightly. 'And anyway, this is my personal life. You're my boss, and you only met me last week, and frankly, this is none of your business!'

Jack's laughter vanishes, and he looks as though I've slapped him. For a few moments he stares at me, saying nothing. Then he takes a step back and releases the lift button.

'You're right,' he says in a completely different voice. 'Your personal life is none of my business. I overstepped the mark, and I apologize.'

I feel a spasm of dismay.

'I … I didn't mean—'

'No. You're right.' He stares at the floor for a few moments, then looks up. 'So, I leave for the States tomorrow. It's been a very pleasant stay, and I'd like to thank you for all your help. Will I see you at the drinks party tonight?'

'I … I don't know,' I say.

The atmosphere has disintegrated.

This is awful. It's horrible. I want to say something, I want to put it back to the way it was before, all easy and joking. But I can't find the words.

We reach the ninth floor, and the doors open.

'I think I can manage these from here,' Jack says. 'I really only asked you along for the company.'

Awkwardly, I transfer the folders to his arms.

'Well, Emma,' he says in the same formal voice. 'In case I don't see you later on … it was nice knowing you.' He meets my eyes and a glimmer of his old, warm expression returns. 'I really mean that.'

'You too,' I say, my throat tight.

I don't want him to go. I don't want this to be the end. I feel like suggesting a quick drink. I feel like clinging to his hand and saying: Don't leave.

God, what's wrong with me?

'Have a good journey,' I manage as he shakes my hand. Then he turns on his heel and walks off down the corridor.

I open my mouth a couple of times to call after him — but what would I say? There's nothing to say. By tomorrow morning he'll be on a plane back to his life. And I'll be left here in mine.

I feel leaden for the rest of the day. Everyone else is talking about Jack Harper's leaving party, but I leave work half an hour early. I go straight home and make myself some hot chocolate, and I'm sitting on the sofa, staring into space when Connor lets himself into the flat.

I look up as he walks into the room, and immediately I know something's different. Not with him. He hasn't changed a bit.

But I have. I've changed.

'Hi,' he says, and kisses me lightly on the head. 'Shall we go?'

'Go?'

'To look at the flat on Edith Road. We'll have to hurry if we're going to make it to the party. Oh, and my mother's given us a house-warming present. It was delivered to work.'

He hands me a cardboard box, I pull out a glass teapot and look at it blankly.

'You can keep the tea-leaves separate from the water. Mum says it really does make a better cup of tea—'

'Connor,' I hear myself saying. 'I can't do this.'

'It's quite easy. You just have to lift the—'

'No.' I shut my eyes, trying to gather some courage, then open them again. 'I can't do this. I can't move in with you.'

'What?' Connor stares at me. 'Has something happened?'

'Yes. No.' I swallow. 'I've been having doubts for a while. About us. And recently they've … they've been confirmed. If we carry on, I'll be a hypocrite. It's not fair to either of us.'

'What?' Connor rubs his face. 'Emma, are you saying you want to … to …'

'I want to break up,' I say, staring at the carpet.

'You're joking.'

'I'm not joking!' I say in sudden anguish. 'I'm not joking, OK?'

'But … this is ridiculous! It's ridiculous!' Connor's pacing around the room like a rattled lion. Suddenly he looks at me.

'It's that plane journey.'

'What?' I jump as though I've been scalded. 'What do you mean?'

'You've been different ever since that plane ride down from Scotland.'

'No I haven't!'

'You have! You've been edgy, you've been tense …' Connor squats down in front of me and takes my hands. 'Emma, I think maybe you're still suffering some kind of trauma. You could have counselling.'

'Connor, I don't need counselling!' I jerk my hands away. 'But maybe you're right. Maybe that plane ride did …' I swallow. 'Affect me. Maybe it brought my life into perspective and make me realize a few things. And one of the things I've realized is, we aren't right for each other.'

Slowly Connor sinks down onto the carpet, his face bewildered.

'But things have been great! We've been having lots of sex—'

'I know.'

'Is there someone else?'

'No!' I say sharply. 'Of course there's no-one else!' I rub my finger roughly up and down the cover of the sofa.

'This isn't you talking,' says Connor suddenly. 'It's just the mood you're in. I'll run you a nice hot bath, light some scented candles …'

'Connor, please!' I cry. 'No more scented candles! You have to listen to me. And you have to believe me.' I look straight into his eyes. 'I want to break up.'

'I don't believe you!' he says, shaking his head. 'I know you, Emma! You're not that kind of person. You wouldn't just throw away something like that. You wouldn't—'

He stops in shock as, with no warning, I hurl the glass teapot to the floor.

We both stare at it, stunned.

'It was supposed to break,' I explain after a pause. 'And that was going to signify that yes, I would throw something away. If I knew it wasn't right for me.'

'I think it has broken,' says Connor, picking it up and examining it. 'At least, there's a hairline crack.'

'There you go.'

'We could still use it—'

'No. We couldn't.'

'We could get some Sellotape.'

'But it would never work properly.' I clench my fists by my sides. 'It just … wouldn't work.'

'I see,' says Connor after a pause.

And I think, finally, he does.

'Well … I'll be off then,' he says at last. 'I'll phone the flat people and tell them that we're …' He stops, and roughly wipes his nose.

'OK,' I say, in a voice which doesn't sound like mine. 'Can we keep it quiet from everyone at work?' I add. 'Just for the moment.'

'Of course,' he says gruffly. 'I won't say anything.'

He's halfway out of the door when abruptly he turns back, reaching in his pocket. 'Emma, here are the tickets for the jazz festival,' he says, his voice cracking a little. 'You have them.'

'What?' I stare at them in horror. 'No! Connor, you have them! They're yours!'

'You have them. I know how much you've been looking forward to hearing the Dennisson Quartet.' He pushes the brightly coloured tickets roughly into my hand and closes my fingers over them.

'I … I …' I swallow. 'Connor … I just … I don't know what to say.'

'We'll always have jazz,' says Connor in a choked-up voice, and closes the door behind him.