Can You Keep a Secret?

'So, shall we sit down? Or do you have any more long-lost friends you'd like to greet?'

I look around the room consideringly.

'No, I think that's probably it.'

'If you're sure. Take your time. You're sure that elderly gentleman over there isn't your grandfather?'

'I don't think so …'

'Also, you should know that pseudonyms are fine by me,' Jack adds. 'I myself often go by the name of Egbert.'

I give a snort of laughter and hastily stifle it. This is a posh restaurant. People are already looking at us.

We're shown to a table in the corner, by the fire. A waiter helps me into my chair and fluffs a napkin over my knee, while another pours out some water, and yet another offers me a bread roll. Exactly the same is happening on Jack's side of the table. We have six people dancing attendance on us! I want to catch Jack's eye and laugh, but he looks unconcerned, as if this is perfectly normal.

Perhaps it is normal for him, it strikes me. Oh God. Perhaps he has a butler who makes him tea and irons his newspaper every day.

But what if he does? I mustn't let any of this faze me.

'So,' I say, as all the waiting staff melt away. 'What shall we have to drink?' I've already eyed up the drink which that woman in gold has got. It's pink and has slices of watermelon decorating the glass, and looks absolutely delicious.

'Already taken care of,' says Jack with a smile, as one of the waiters brings over a bottle of champagne, pops it open and starts pouring. 'I remember you telling me on the plane, your perfect date would start off with a bottle of champagne appearing at your table as if by magic.'

'Oh,' I say, quelling a tiny feeling of disappointment. 'Er … yes! So I did.'

'Cheers,' says Jack, and lightly clinks my glass.

'Cheers.' I take a sip, and it's delicious champagne. It really is. All dry and delicious.

I wonder what the watermelon drink tastes like.

Stop it. Champagne is perfect. Jack's right, this is the perfect start to a date.

'The first time I ever had champagne was when I was six years old—' I begin.

'At your Aunt Sue's,' says Jack with a smile. 'You took all your clothes off and threw them in the pond.'

'Oh right,' I say, halted mid-track. 'Yes, I've told you, haven't I?'

So I won't bore him with that anecdote again. I sip my champagne and quickly try to think of something else to say. Something that he doesn't already know.

Is there anything?

'I've chosen a very special meal, which I think you'll like,' says Jack, with a smile. 'All pre-ordered, just for you.'

'Gosh!' I say, taken aback. 'How … wonderful.'

A meal specially pre-ordered for me! Wow. That's incredible.

Except … choosing your food is half the fun of eating out, isn't it? It's almost my favourite bit.

Anyway. It doesn't matter. It'll be perfect. It is perfect.

OK. Let's start a conversation.

'So what do you like doing in your spare time?' I ask, and Jack gives a shrug.

'I hang out. I watch baseball. I fix my cars …'

'You have a collection of vintage cars! That's right. Wow. I really … um …'

'You hate vintage cars.' He smiles. 'I remember.'

Damn. I was hoping he might have forgotten.

'I don't hate the cars themselves,' I say quickly. 'I hate the people who … who …'

Shit. That didn't quite come out right. I take a quick gulp of champagne, but it goes down the wrong way and I start coughing. Oh God, I'm really spluttering. My eyes are weeping.

And now the other six people in the room have all turned to stare.

'Are you OK?' says Jack in alarm. 'Have some water. You like Evian, right?'

'Er … yes. Thanks.'

Oh, bloody hell. I hate to admit that Jemima could be right about anything. But it would have been a lot easier if I could just have said brightly, 'Oh, I adore vintage cars!'

Anyway. Never mind.

As I'm gulping my water, a plate of roasted peppers somehow materializes in front of me.

'Wow!' I say in delight. 'I love roasted peppers.'

'I remembered.' Jack looks rather proud of himself. 'You said on the plane that your favourite food was roasted peppers.'

'Did I?' I stare at him, a bit surprised.

Gosh. I don't remember that. I mean, I like roasted peppers, but I wouldn't have said—

'So I called the restaurant and had them make it specially for you. I can't eat peppers,' Jack adds, as a plate of scallops appears in front of him, 'otherwise I would join you.'

I gape at his plate. Oh my God. Those scallops look amazing. I adore scallops.

'Bon appetit!' says Jack cheerfully.

'Er … yes! Bon appetit.'

I take a bite of roasted pepper. It's delicious. And it was very thoughtful of him to remember.

But I can't help eyeing up his scallops. They're making my mouth water. And look at that green sauce! God, I bet they're succulent and perfectly cooked … 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">