Can You Keep a Secret?

As I stare at Jack's warm, serious face on the screen, I feel my eyes stinging slightly.

'But she's brave and goodhearted and faces her life head on …' He shakes his head dazedly and smiles at the interviewer. 'I'm … I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened there. I guess I got a little carried away. Could we—' His voice is abruptly cut off by the interviewer.

Carried away.

He got a little carried away.

This is like saying Hitler was a tad aggressive.

'Jack Harper, many thanks for talking to us,' the interviewer starts saying. 'Next week, we'll be chatting to the charismatic king of motivational videos, Ernie Powers. Meanwhile, many thanks again to …'

Everyone stares at the screen as she finishes her spiel and the programme's music starts. Then someone leans forward and switches the television off.

For a few seconds the entire room is silent. Everyone is gaping at me, as though they're expecting me to make a speech, or do a little dance or something. Some faces are sympathetic, some are curious, some are gleeful and some are just Jeez-am-I-glad-I'm-not-you.

Now I know exactly how zoo animals feel.

I am never visiting a zoo again.

'But … but I don't understand,' comes a voice from across the room, and all the heads swivel avidly towards Connor, like at a tennis match. He's staring at me, his face red with confusion. 'How does Jack Harper know so much about you?'

Oh God. I know Connor got a really good degree from Manchester University and everything. But sometimes he is so slow on the uptake.

The heads have swivelled back towards me again.

'I …' My whole body is prickling with embarrassment. 'Because we … we …'

I can't say it out loud. I just can't.

But I don't have to. Connor's face is slowly turning different colours.

'No,' he gulps, staring at me as though he's seen a ghost. And not just any old ghost. A really big ghost with clanky chains going 'Whoooarr!'

'No,' he says again. 'No. I don't believe it.'

'Connor—' says someone, putting a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.

'Connor, I'm really sorry,' I say helplessly.

'You're joking!' exclaims some guy in the corner, who is obviously even slower than Connor, and has just had it spelled out to him, word for word. He looks up at me. 'So how long has this been going on?'

It's as if he opened the floodgates. Suddenly everyone in the entire room starts pitching questions at me. I can't hear myself think for the babble.

'Is that why he came to Britain? To see you?'

'Are you going to marry him?'

'You know, you don't look like weigh 135 pounds …'

'Do you really have a Barbie bedspread?'

'So in the lesbian fantasy, was it just the two of you, or …'

'Have you had sex with Jack Harper at the office?'

'Is that why you dumped Connor?'

I can't cope with this. I have to get out of here. Now.

Without looking at anyone, I get to my feet and stumble out of the room. As I head down the corridor, I'm too dazed to think of anything other than I must get my bag and go. Now.

I enter the empty marketing department, where phones are shrilly ringing around. The habit's too ingrained, I can't ignore them.

'Hello?' I say, picking up one randomly.

'So!' comes Jemima's furious voice. '"She borrows designer shoes from her flatmate and passes them off as her own." Whose shoes might those be, then? Lissy's?'

'Look, Jemima, can I just … I'm sorry … I have to go,' I say feebly, and put the phone down.

No more phones. Get bag. Go.

As I zip up my bag with trembling hands, a couple of people who have followed me into the office are picking up some of the ringing phones.

'Emma, your grandad's on the line,' says Artemis, putting her hand over the receiver. 'Something about the night bus and he'll never trust you again?'

'You have a call from Harvey's Bristol Cream publicity department,' chimes in Caroline. 'They want to know where they can send you a free case of sweet sherry?'

'How did they get my name? How? Has the word spread already? Are the women on reception telling everybody?'

'Emma, I have your dad here,' says Nick. 'He says he needs to talk to you urgently …'

'I can't,' I say numbly. 'I can't talk to anybody. I have to … I have to …'

I grab my jacket and almost run out of the office and down the corridor to the stairs. Everywhere, people are making their way back to their offices after watching the interview, and they all stare at me as I hurry by.

'Emma!' As I'm nearing the stairs, a woman named Fiona, whom I barely know, grabs me by the arm. She weighs about 300 pounds and is always campaigning for bigger chairs and wider doorways. 'Never be ashamed of your body. Rejoice in it! The earth mother has given it to you! If you want to come to our workshop on Saturday …' 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">