He looks as if he wants to laugh, and a small voice inside my head is telling me to stop. But I can"t. I have to explain to him how it is.
"Look. I know I might have made certain ... comments to you on the plane," I begin, clenching my fists tightly at my side. "But what you have to know is that that conversation took place under duress, in extreme circ.u.mstances, and I said a lot of things I didn"t really mean. A lot of things, actually!"
There! That tells him.
"I see," says Jack thoughtfully. "So ... you don"t like double chocolate chip Haagen-Dazs ice-cream."
I gaze at him, discomfited.
"I ..." I clear my throat several times. "Some things, obviously, I did mean-"
The lift doors ping, and both our heads jerk up.
"Jack!" says Cyril, standing on the other side of the doors. "I wondered where you were."
"I"ve been having a nice chat with Emma here," says Jack. "She kindly offered to show me the way."
"Ah." Cyril"s eyes run dismissively over me. "Well, they"re waiting for you in the studio."
"So, um ... I"ll just go, then," I say awkwardly.
"See you later," says Jack with a grin. "Good talking to you, Emma."
NINE.
As I leave the office that evening I feel all agitated, like one of those snow globes. I was perfectly happy being an ordinary, dull little Swiss village. But now Jack Harper"s come and shaken me up, and there are snowflakes all over the place, whirling around, not knowing what they think any more.
And bits of glitter, too. Tiny bits of shiny, secret excitement.
Every time I catch his eye or hear his voice, it"s like a dart to my chest.
Which is ridiculous. Ridiculous.
Connor is my boyfriend. Connor is my future. He loves me and I love him and I"m moving in with him. And we"re going to have wooden floors and shutters and granite worktops. So there.
So there.
I arrive home to find Lissy on her knees in the sitting room, helping Jemima into the tightest black suede dress I"ve ever seen.
"Wow!" I say, as I put down my bag. "That"s amazing!"
"There!" pants Lissy, and sits back on her heels. "That"s the zip done. Can you breathe?"
Jemima doesn"t move a muscle. Lissy and I glance at each other.
"Jemima!" says Lissy in alarm. "Can you breathe?"
"Kind of," says Jemima at last. "I"ll be fine." Very slowly, with a totally rigid body, she totters over to where her Louis Vuitton bag is resting on a chair.
"What happens if you need to go to the loo?" I say, staring at her.
"Or go back to his place?" says Lissy with a giggle.
"It"s only our second date! I"m not going to go back to his place!" Jemima says in horror. "That"s not the way to " she struggles for breath " to get a rock on your finger."
"But what if you get carried away with desire for each other?"
"What if he gropes you in the taxi?"
"He"s not like that," says Jemima, with a roll of her eyes. "He happens to be the First a.s.sistant Undersecretary to the Secretary of the Treasury, actually."
I meet Lissy"s eyes and I can"t help it, I give a snort of laughter.
"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 G.o.d! 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 briefly crosses Jemima"s face, then disappears.
"He won"t," she says scornfully. "Englishmen never suggest dancing."
"Fair point." Lissy grins. "Have a good time."
As Jemima disappears out of the door, I sink down heavily onto the-sofa and reach for a magazine. I glance up at Lissy, but she"s staring ahead with 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 brain power, Lissy spends her whole time doing crosswords and games of chess by correspondence, and special brainy puzzles which 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?"
"I thought I"d have a quiet evening in," I say, flicking through the magazine. "In fact, I might go through my clothes," I add, as my eyes fall on an article ent.i.tled "Essential Wardrobe Upkeep".
"Do what?"
"I thought I"d check them all for missing b.u.t.tons and drooping hems," I say, reading the article. "And brush all my jackets with a clothes brush."
"Have you got a clothes brush?"
"With a hairbrush then."
"Oh right." She shrugs. "Oh well. Because I was just wondering, do you want to go out?"
"Ooh!" My magazine slithers to the floor. "Where?"
"Guess what I"ve got?" She raises her eyebrows tantalizingly, then fishes in her bag. Very slowly she pulls out a large, rusty keyring, to which a brand new Yale is attached.
"What"s that?" I begin, puzzledly then suddenly realize. "No!"
"Yes! I"m in!"
"Oh my G.o.d Lissy!"
"I know!" Lissy beams at me. "Isn"t it fab?"
The key which 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.
And Lissy got in!
"Lissy, you"re the coolest!"
"No I"m not," she says, looking pleased. "It was Jasper at my chambers. He knows everyone on the committee."
"Well I don"t care who it was. I"m so impressed!"
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.
"So who do you think"ll be there?" I look up. "You know, apparently Madonna"s a member. And Jude and Sadie! 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. 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 rea.s.suringly, 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 sc.r.a.p 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.