Can You Keep a Secret?

'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 façade 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.

Oh my God. 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. Just be cool.'

'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 gawp at the celebrities. I'm not going to stare. I'm not going to—

'Lookout!'

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 staring at 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 open the cocktail menu and run my eyes down it. God this is a strain. My eyes are starting to ache. I want to look around. I want to see the place.

'Lissy,' I hiss. 'I'm going to have a look round.'

'Really?' Lissy stares 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-gawping sweep. I lean back in my chair, take a deep breath, then allow my eyes to skim swiftly round the room, taking in as much detail as quickly as I can. Low lighting … lots of purple sofas and chairs … a couple of guys in T-shirts … three girls in jeans and jumpers, God, Lissy's going to freak … a couple whispering to each other … 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 and Sadie? 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 grey 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 round, 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.

Anyway. I don't care. We didn't come here to see tacky celebrities taking coke and showing off. 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 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 vague 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 hand-made 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 catalogue 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?' ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">