Can You Keep a Secret?(62)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

‘Kind of quiet,’ observes Jack at last.

‘Well, this is really a residential area. Antonio’s is a bit of a one-off.’

Outwardly, I’m still quite calm. But inside I’m starting to panic. What are we going to do? Should we try to walk to Clapham High Street? But it’s bloody miles away.

I glance at my watch and see with a dart of shock that it’s 9.15. We’ve spent over an hour faffing about and we haven’t even had a drink. And it’s all my fault. I can’t even organize one simple evening without it going catastrophically wrong.

Suddenly I want to burst into tears. I want to sink down on the pavement and bury my head in my hands and sob.

‘How about pizza?’ says Jack, and my head jerks up in sudden hope.

‘Why? Do you know a pizza place round—’

‘I see pizza for sale.’ He nods at one of the grotty takeaway places. ‘And I see a bench.’ He gestures to the other side of the road, where there’s a tiny railed garden with paving and trees and a wooden bench. ‘You get the pizza.’ He smiles at me. ‘I’ll save the bench.’

I have never felt so mortified in my entire life. Ever.

Jack Harper takes me to the grandest, poshest restaurant in the world. And I take him to a park bench in Clapham.

‘Here’s your pizza,’ I say, carrying the hot boxes over to where he’s sitting. ‘I got margarita, ham and mushroom and pepperoni.’

I can’t quite believe this is going to be our supper. I mean, they aren’t even nice pizzas. They aren’t even gourmet, roasted-artichoke type of pizzas. They’re just cheap slabs of dough pastry with melted, congealed cheese, and a few dodgy toppings.

‘Perfect,’ says Jack with a smile. He takes a large bite, then reaches into his inside pocket. ‘Now, this was supposed to be your going home present, but since we’re here …’

I gape as he produces a small, stainless steel cocktail shaker and two matching cups. He unscrews the top of the shaker and to my astonishment, pours a pink, transparent liquid into each cup.

Is that …

‘I don’t believe it!’ I gaze at him, wide-eyed.

‘Well, come on. I couldn’t let you wonder all your life what it tasted like, could I?’ He hands me a cup and raises his towards me. ‘Your good health.’

‘Cheers.’ I take a sip of the cocktail … and oh my God it’s yummy. Sharp and sweet, with a kick of vodka.

‘Good?’

‘Delicious!’ I say, and take another sip.

He’s being so nice to me. He’s pretending he’s having a good time. But what does he think inside? He must despise me. He must think I’m a complete and utter dizzy cow.

‘Emma, are you OK?’

‘Not really,’ I say in a thick voice. ‘Jack, I’m so sorry. I really am. I honestly had it all planned. We were going to go to this really cool club where celebrities go, and it was going to be really good fun …’

‘Emma.’ Jack puts his drink down and looks at me. ‘I wanted to spend this evening with you. And that’s what we’re doing.’

‘Yes. But—’

‘That’s what we’re doing,’ he repeats firmly.

Slowly he leans towards me and my heart starts to pound. Oh my God. Oh my God. He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to—

‘Arrgh! Arrgh! Arrrgh!’

I leap up off the bench in total panic. A spider is running up my leg. A big black spider. ‘Get it off!’ I say, frantically.’Get it off!’

With one brisk swipe, Jack brushes the spider off onto the grass, and I subside back on the bench, my heart racing.

And of course, the mood’s completely ruined. Great. Just marvellous. Jack tries to kiss me and I shriek in horror. I’m really doing splendidly tonight.

Why was I so pathetic? I think furiously. Why did I scream? I should have just gritted my teeth!

Not literally gritted my teeth, obviously. But I should have been cool. In fact, I should have been so swept away that I didn’t even notice the spider.

‘I don’t suppose you’re afraid of spiders,’ I say to Jack, giving an awkward laugh. ‘I don’t suppose you’re afraid of anything.’

Jack gives a noncommittal little smile in return.

‘Are you afraid of anything?’ I persist.

‘Real men don’t get afraid,’ he says jokily.

In spite of myself, I feel a tiny prickle of discontent. Jack’s not the best person in the world at talking about himself.

‘So, where did you get this scar?’ I ask, gesturing to his wrist.

‘It’s a long, boring story.’ He smiles. ‘You don’t want to hear it.’

I do! my mind immediately says. I do want to hear it. But I just smile, and take another sip of my drink.

Now he’s just staring ahead into the distance, as if I’m not even there.

Did he forget about kissing me?

Should I kiss him? No. No.

‘Pete loved spiders,’ he says suddenly. ‘Kept them as pets. Huge, furry ones. And snakes.’

‘Really?’ I pull a face.

‘Crazy. He was a crazy fucking guy.’ He exhales sharply.

‘You … still miss him,’ I say hesitantly.

‘Yes. I still miss him.’

There’s another silence. In the distance I can hear a group of people leaving Antonio’s, shouting to each other in Italian.