Can You Keep a Secret?(59)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

As he finally rounds the corner, Jack’s silver car appears at the other end of the street.

‘Oh my God,’ says Lissy, staring at it.

‘Don’t!’ I sink onto the stone wall. ‘Lissy, I can’t cope with this.’

I feel shaky. I think I need a drink. And I’ve only got mascara on one set of eyelashes, I abruptly realize.

The silver car pulls up in front of the house, and out gets the same uniformed driver as before. He opens the passenger door, and Jack steps out.

‘Hi!’ he says, looking taken aback to see me. ‘Am I late?’

‘No! I was just … um … sitting here. You know. Taking in the view.’ I gesture across the road, where I notice for the first time that a man with a huge belly is changing the wheel on his caravan. ‘Anyway!’ I say, hastily standing up, ‘Actually, I’m not quite ready. Do you want to come up for a minute?’

‘Sure,’ says Jack with a smile. ‘That would be nice.’

‘And send your car away,’ I add. ‘You weren’t supposed to have it!’

‘You weren’t supposed to be sitting outside your house and catch me out,’ retorts Jack with a grin. ‘OK, Daniel, that’s it for the night.’ He nods to the driver. ‘I’m in this lady’s hands from now on.’

‘This is Lissy, my flatmate,’ I say as the driver gets back into the car. ‘Lissy, Jack.’

‘Hi,’ says Lissy with a self-conscious grin, as they shake hands.

As we make our way up the stairs to our flat, I’m suddenly aware of how narrow they are, and how the cream paint on the walls is all scuffed, and the carpet smells of cabbage. Jack probably lives in some enormous grand mansion. He probably has a marble staircase or something.

But so what? We can’t all have marble.

Anyway, it’s probably awful. All cold and clattery. You probably trip on it all the time, and it probably chips really easily—

‘Emma, if you want to get ready, I’ll fix Jack a drink,’ says Lissy, with a smile that says: He’s nice!

‘Thanks,’ I say, shooting back an ‘isn’t he?’ look. I hurry into my room and hurriedly start applying mascara to my other eye.

A few moments later there’s a little knock at my door.

‘Hi!’ I say, expecting Lissy. But in comes Jack, holding out a glass of sweet sherry.

‘Oh, thanks!’ I say gratefully. ‘I could do with a drink.’

‘I won’t come in,’ he says politely.

‘No, it’s fine. Sit down!’

I gesture to the bed, but it’s covered with clothes. And my dressing table stool is piled high with magazines. Damn, I should have tidied up a bit.

‘I’ll stand,’ says Jack with a little smile. He takes a sip of what looks like whisky, and looks around my room in fascination. ‘So this is your room. Your world.’

‘Yes.’ I flush slightly, unscrewing my lip-gloss. ‘It’s a bit messy—’

‘It’s very nice. Very homey.’ I can see him taking in the shoes piled in the corner, the fish mobile hanging from my light, the mirror with necklaces strung over the side, and a new skirt hanging on the wardrobe door.

‘Cancer Research?’ he says puzzledly, looking at the label. ‘What does that—’

‘It’s a shop,’ I say, a little defiantly. ‘A second-hand shop.’

‘Ah.’ He nods in tactful comprehension. ‘Nice bedcover,’ he adds, smiling.

‘It’s ironic,’ I say hastily. ‘It’s an ironic statement.’

God, how embarrassing. I should have changed it.

Now Jack’s staring incredulously at my open dressing-table drawer, crammed with makeup. ‘How many lipsticks do you have?’

‘Er, a few …’ I say, hastily closing it.

Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to let Jack come in here. He’s picking up my Perfectil vitamins, and examining them. I mean, what’s so interesting about vitamins? Now he’s looking at Katie’s crochet belt.

‘What’s this? A snake?’

‘It’s a belt,’ I say, screwing up my face as I put in an earring. ‘I know. It’s hideous. I can’t stand crochet.’

Where’s my other earring? Where?

Oh, OK, here it is. Now what’s Jack doing?

I turn to see him looking in fascination at my exercise chart, which I put up in January after I’d spent the entire Christmas eating Quality Street.

‘"Monday, 7 a.m.",’ he reads aloud. ‘"Brisk jog round block. Forty sit-ups. Lunch time: yoga class. Evening: Pilates tape. Sixty sit-ups."’ He takes a sip of whisky. ‘Very impressive. You do all this?’

‘Well,’ I say after a pause. ‘I don’t exactly manage every single … I mean, it was quite an ambitious … you know … er … Anyway!’ I quickly spritz myself with perfume. ‘Let’s go!’

I have to get him out of here quickly before he does something like spot a Tampax and ask me what it is. I mean, honestly! Why on earth is he so interested in everything?

FIFTEEN

As we head out into the balmy evening, I feel light and happy with anticipation. Already there’s a completely different atmosphere from yesterday night. No scary cars; no posh restaurants. It feels more casual. More fun.

‘So,’ says Jack, as we walk up to the main road. ‘An evening out, Emma-style.’