Can You Keep A Secret?

Can You Keep

A Secret?

Sophie Kinsella

To H, from whom I have no secrets. Well, not many, anyway.

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to Mark Hedley, Jenny Bond, Rosie Andrews and Olivia Heywood for all

their generous advice. And hugest gratitude as always to Linda Evans, Patrick Plonkington-

Smythe, Araminta Whitley and Celia Hayley, my boys and the board.

ONE

Of course I have secrets.

Of course I do. Everyone has a secret. It's completely normal. I'm sure I don't have any more

than anybody else.

I'm not talking about big, earth-shattering secrets. Not the-president-is-planning-to-bomb-

Japan-and-only-Will-Smith-can-save-the-world type secrets. Just normal, everyday little

secrets.

Like for example, here are a few random secrets of mine, off the top of my head:

1. My Kate Spade bag is a fake.

2. I love sweet sherry, the least cool drink in the universe.

3. I have no idea what NATO stands for. Or even what it is.

4. I weigh 9 stone 3. Not 8 stone 3, like my boyfriend Connor thinks. (Although in my

defence, I was planning to go on a diet when I told him that. And to be fair, it is only one

number different.)

5. I've always thought Connor looks a bit like Ken. As in Barbie and Ken.

6. Sometimes, when we're right in the middle of passionate sex, I suddenly want to laugh.

7. I lost my virginity in the spare bedroom with Danny Nussbaum, while Mum and Dad were

downstairs watching Ben Hur.

8. I've already drunk the wine that Dad told me to lay down for twenty years.

9. Sammy the goldfish at home isn't the same goldfish that Mum and Dad gave me to look

after when they went to Egypt.

10. When my colleague Artemis really annoys me, I feed her plant orange juice. (Which is

pretty much every day.)

11. I once had this weird lesbian dream about my flatmate Lissy.

12. My G-string is hurting me.

13. I've always had this deep down conviction that I'm not like everybody else, and there's an

amazingly exciting new life waiting for me just around the corner.

14. I have no idea what this guy in the grey suit is going on about.

15. Plus I've already forgotten his name.

And I only met him ten minutes ago.

'We believe in logistical formative alliances,' he's saying in a nasal, droning voice, 'both above

and below the line.'

'Absolutely!' I reply brightly, as though to say: Doesn't everybody?

Logistical. What does that mean, again?

Oh God. What if they ask me?

Don't be stupid, Emma. They won't suddenly demand, 'What does logistical mean?' I'm a

fellow marketing professional, aren't I? Obviously I know these things.

And anyway, if they mention it again I'll change the subject. Or I'll say I'm post-logistical or

something.

The important thing is to keep confident and businesslike. I can do this. This is my big chance

and I'm not going to screw it up.

I'm sitting in the offices of Glen Oil's headquarters in Glasgow, and as I glance at my

reflection in the window, I look just like a top businesswoman. My hair is straightened, I'm

wearing discreet earrings like they tell you to in How-to-win-that-job articles, and I've got on

my smart new Jigsaw suit. (At least, it's practically new. I got it from the Cancer Research

shop and sewed on a button to replace the missing one, and you can hardly tell.)

I'm here representing the Panther Corporation, which is where I work. The meeting is to

finalize a promotional arrangement between the new cranberry-flavoured Panther Prime

sports drink and Glen Oil, and I flew up this morning from London, especially. (The company

paid, and everything!)

When I arrived, the Glen Oil marketing guys started on this long, show-offy 'who's-travelledthe-

most?' conversation about airmiles and the red-eye to Washington — and I think I bluffed

pretty convincingly. (Except when I said I'd flown Concorde to Ottawa, and it turns out

Concorde doesn't go to Ottawa.) But the truth is, this is the first time I've ever had to travel for

a deal.

OK. The real truth is, this is the first deal I've ever done, full stop. I've been at the Panther

Corporation for eleven months as a marketing assistant, and until now all I've been allowed to

do is type out copy, arrange meetings for other people, get the sandwiches and pick up my

boss's dry-cleaning.

So this is kind of my big break. And I've got this secret little hope that if I do this well, maybe

I'll get promoted. The ad for my job said 'possibility of promotion after a year', and on

Monday I'm having my yearly appraisal meeting with my boss, Paul. I looked up 'Appraisals'

in the staff induction book, and it said they are 'an ideal opportunity to discuss possibilities for

career advancement'.

Career advancement! At the thought, I feel a familiar stab of longing in my chest. It would

just show Dad I'm not a complete loser. And Mum. And Kerry. If I could go home and

casually say, 'By the way, I've been promoted to Marketing Executive.'

Emma Corrigan, Marketing Executive.

Emma Corrigan, Senior Vice-President (Marketing.)

As long as everything goes well today. Paul said the deal was done and dusted and all I had to

do was nod and shake their hands, and even I should be able to manage that. And so far, I

reckon it's going really well.

OK, so I don't understand about 90 per cent of what they're saying. But then I didn't

understand much of my GCSE French Oral either, and I still got a B.

'Rebranding… analysis… cost-effective…'

The man in the grey suit is still droning on about something or other. As casually as possible,

I extend my hand and inch his business card towards me so I can read it.

Doug Hamilton. That's right. OK, I can remember this. Doug. Dug. Easy. I'll picture a shovel.

Together with a ham. Which… which looks ill … and…

OK, forget this. I'll just write it down.

I write down 'rebranding' and 'Doug Hamilton' on my notepad and give an awkward little

wriggle. God, my knickers really are uncomfortable. I mean, G-strings are never that

comfortable at the best of times, in my opinion, but these are particularly bad. Which could be

because they're two sizes too small.

Which could possibly be because Connor bought them for me, and told the lingerie assistant I

weighed eight stone three. Whereupon she told him I must be size eight. Size eight!

(Frankly, I think she was just being mean. She must have known I was fibbing.)

So it's Christmas Eve, and we're exchanging presents, and I unwrap this pair of gorgeous pale

pink silk knickers. Size eight. And I basically have two options.

A: Confess the truth: 'Actually these are too small, I'm more of a 12, and by the way, I don't

really weigh eight stone three.' Or…

B: Shoe-horn myself into them.

Actually, it was fine. You could hardly see the red lines on my skin afterwards. And all it

meant was that I had to quickly cut all the labels out of my clothes so Connor would never

realize.

Since then, I've hardly ever worn this particular set of underwear, needless to say. But every

so often I see them looking all nice and expensive in the drawer and think, Oh come on, they

can't be that tight, and somehow squeeze into them. Which is what I did this morning. I even

decided I must have lost weight, because they didn't feel too bad.

I am such a deluded moron.

'… unfortunately since rebranding… major rethink… feel we need to be considering

alternative synergies…'

Up to now I've just been sitting and nodding, thinking this business meeting lark is really easy.

But now Doug Hamilton's voice starts to impinge on my consciousness. What's he saying?

'… two products diverging… becoming incompatible…'

What was that about incompatible? What was that about a major rethink? I feel a jolt of alarm.

Maybe this isn't just waffle. Maybe he's actually saying something. Quick, listen.

'We appreciate the functional and synergetic partnership that Panther and Glen Oil have

enjoyed in the past,' Doug Hamilton is saying. 'But you'll agree that clearly we're going in

different directions.'

Different directions?

Is that what he's been talking about all this time?

My stomach gives an anxious lurch.

He can't be-

Is he trying to pull out of the deal?

'Excuse me, Doug,' I say, in my most relaxed voice. 'Obviously I was closely following what

you were saying earlier.' I give a friendly, we're-all-professionals-together smile. 'But if you

could just… um, recap the situation for all our benefits…'

In plain English, I beg silently.

Doug Hamilton and the other guy exchange glances.

'We're a little unhappy about your brand values,' says Doug Hamilton.

'My brand values?' I echo in panic.

'The brand values of the product,' he says, giving me an odd look. 'As I've been explaining,

we here at Glen Oil are going through a rebranding process at the moment, and we see our

new image very much as a caring petrol, as our new daffodil logo demonstrates. And we feel

Panther Prime, with its emphasis on sport and competition, is simply too aggressive.'

'Aggressive?' I stare at him, bewildered. 'But… it's a fruit drink.'

This makes no sense. Glen Oil is fume-making, world-ruining petrol. Panther Prime is an

innocent cranberry-flavoured drink. How can it be too aggressive?

'The values it espouses.' He gestures to the marketing brochures on the table. 'Drive. Elitism.

Masculinity. The very slogan, "Don't Pause". Frankly, it seems a little dated.' He shrugs. 'We

just don't think a joint initiative will be possible.'

No. No. This can't be happening. He can't be pulling out.

Everyone at the office will think it was my fault. They'll think I cocked it up and I'm

completely crap.

My heart is thumping. My face is hot. I can't let this happen. But what do I say? I haven't

prepared anything. Paul said it was all set up and all I had to do was shake their hands.

'We'll certainly discuss it again before we make a decision,' Doug's saying. He gives me a

brief smile. 'And as I say, we would like to continue links with the Panther Corporation, so

this has been a useful meeting in any case.'

He's pushing back his chair.

I can't let this slip away! I have to try to win them round. I have to try and shut the deal.

Close the deal. That's what I meant.

'Wait!' I hear myself say. 'Just… wait a moment! I have a few points to make.'

What am I talking about? I have no points to make.

There's a can of Panther Prime sitting on the desk, and I grab it for inspiration. Playing for

time, I stand up, walk to the centre of the room and raise the can high into the air where we

can all see it.

'Panther Prime is… a sports drink.'

I stop, and there's a polite silence. My face is prickling.

'It… um… it is very…'

Oh God. What am I doing?

Come on, Emma. Think. Think Panther Prime… think Panther Cola… think… think…

Yes! Of course!

OK, start again.

'Since the launch of Panther Cola in the late 1980s, Panther drinks have been a byword for

energy, excitement and excellence,' I say fluently.

Thank God. This is the standard marketing blurb for Panther Cola. I've typed it out so many

zillions of times, I could recite it in my sleep.

'Panther drinks are a marketing phenomenon,' I continue. 'The Panther character is one of the

most widely recognized in the world, while the classic slogan "Don't Pause" has made it into

dictionaries. We are now offering Glen Oil an exclusive opportunity to join with this premium,

world-famous brand.'

My confidence growing, I start to stride around the room, gesturing with the can.

'By buying a Panther health drink, the consumer is signalling that he will settle for nothing but

the best.' I hit the can sharply with my other hand. 'He expects the best from his energy drink,

he expects the best from his petrol, he expects the best from himself.'

I'm flying! I'm fantastic! If Paul could see me now, he'd give me a promotion on the spot!

I come over to the desk and look Doug Hamilton right in the eye. 'When the Panther

consumer opens that can, he is making a choice which tells the world who he is. I'm asking

Glen Oil to make the same choice.'

As I finish speaking I plant the can firmly in the middle of the desk, reach for the ring pull and,

with a cool smile, snap it back.

It's like a volcano erupting.

Fizzy cranberry-flavoured drink explodes in a whoosh out of the can, landing on the desk,

drenching the papers and blotters in lurid red liquid… and oh no, please no… spattering all

over Doug Hamilton's shirt.

'Fuck!' I gasp. 'I mean, I'm really sorry…'

'Jesus Christ,' says Doug Hamilton irritably, standing up and getting a handkerchief out of his

pocket. 'Does this stuff stain?'

'Er…' I grab the can helplessly. 'I don't know.'

'I'll get a cloth,' says the other guy, and leaps to his feet.

The door closes behind him and there's silence, apart from the sound of cranberry drink

dripping slowly onto the floor.

I stare at Doug Hamilton, my face hot and blood throbbing through my ears.

'Please…' I say, and clear my husky throat. 'Don't tell my boss.'

After all that. I screwed it up.

As I drag my heels across the concourse at Glasgow Airport, I feel completely dejected. Doug

Hamilton was quite sweet in the end. He said he was sure the stain would come out, and

promised he wouldn't tell Paul what happened. But he didn't change his mind about the deal.

My first big meeting. My first big chance — and this is what happens. I feel like giving up on

the whole thing. I feel like phoning the office and saying 'That's it, I'm never coming back

again, and by the way, it was me who jammed the photocopier that time.'

But I can't. This is my third career in four years. It has to work. For my own self-worth. For

my own self-esteem. And also because I owe my dad four thousand quid.

'So what can I get you?' says an Australian guy, and I look up dazedly. I've arrived at the

airport with an hour to go, and have headed straight for the bar.

'Erm…' My mind is blank. 'Er… white wine. No, actually, a vodka and tonic. Thanks.'

As he moves away, I slump down again in my stool. An air hostess with a French plait comes

and sits down, two bar stools away. She smiles at me, and I smile weakly in return.

I don't know how other people manage their careers, I really don't. Like my oldest friend

Lissy. She's always known she wanted to be a lawyer — and now, ta-daah! She's a fraud

barrister. But I left college with absolutely no clue. My first job was in estate agency, and I

only went into it because I've always quite liked looking round houses, plus I met this woman

with amazing red lacquered nails at a career fair who told me she made so much money, she'd

be able to retire when she was forty.

But the minute I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents. I hated saying

things like 'a lovely aspect'. And I hated the way if someone said they could afford ?300,000

we were supposed to give them details of houses costing at least ?400,000, and then kind of

look down our noses, like, 'You only have ?300,000? God, you complete loser.'

So after six months I announced I was changing career and was going to be a photographer

instead. It was such a fantastic moment, like in a film or something. My dad lent me the

money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new

creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life…

Except it didn't quite happen like that.

I mean, for a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer's assistant gets paid?

Nothing. It's nothing.

Which, you know, I wouldn't have minded if anyone had actually offered me a photographer's

assistant's job.

I heave a heavy sigh, and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. As well

as everything else, my hair, which I carefully straightened with serum this morning, has gone

all frizzy. Typical.

At least I wasn't the only one who didn't get anywhere. Out of the eight people on my course,

one became instantly successful and now takes photos for Vogue and stuff, one became a

wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went travelling, one had a baby,

one works at Snappy Snaps and one is now at Morgan Stanley.

Meanwhile I got more and more into debt, and started temping and applying for jobs which

actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at

the Panther Corporation.

The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me, and gives me a quizzical look. 'Cheer

up!' he says. 'It can't be that bad!'

'Thanks,' I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better. I'm just taking a second sip

when my mobile starts to ring.

My stomach gives a nervous flip. If it's the office, I'll just pretend I didn't hear.

But it's not, it's our home number flashing on the little screen.

'Hi,' I say, pressing green.

'Hiya!' comes Lissy's voice. 'Only me! So how did it go?'

Lissy is my flatmate and my oldest friend in the world. She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of

about 600 and is the sweetest person I know.

'It was a disaster,' I say miserably.

'What happened? Didn't you get the deal?'

'Not only did I not get the deal, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Oil in cranberry

drink.'

Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the

whole world knows.

'Oh dear.' I can almost feel Lissy trying to think of something positive to say. 'Well, at least

you got their attention,' she says at last. 'At least they won't forget you in a hurry.'

'I suppose,' I say morosely. 'So, did I have any messages?'

'Oh! Erm… no. I mean, your dad did phone, but… um… you know… it wasn't…' She tails

off evasively.

'Lissy. What did he want?'

There's a pause.

'Apparently your cousin's won some industry award,' she says apologetically. 'They're going

to be celebrating it on Saturday as well as your mum's birthday.'

'Oh. Great.'

I slump deeper in my chair. That's all I need. My cousin Kerry triumphantly clutching some

silver Best-travel-agent-in-the-world-no-make-that-universe trophy.

'And Connor rang, too, to see how you got on,' adds Lissy quickly. 'He was really sweet, he

said he didn't want to ring your mobile during your meeting in case it disturbed you.'

'Really?'

For the first time today, I feel a lift in spirits.

Connor. My boyfriend. My lovely, thoughtful boyfriend.

'He's such a sweetheart!' Lissy is saying. 'He said he's tied up in a big meeting all afternoon

but he's cancelled his squash game especially, so do you want to go out to supper tonight?'

'Oh,' I say, with a flicker of pleasure. 'Oh well, that'll be nice. Thanks, Lissy.'

I click off and take another sip of vodka, feeling much more cheerful.

My boyfriend.

It's just like Julie Andrews said. When the dog bites, when the bee stings… I simply

remember I have a boyfriend — and suddenly things don't seem quite so completely shit.

Or however she put it.

And not just any boyfriend. A tall, handsome, clever boyfriend, whom Marketing Week called

'one of the brightest sparks in marketing research today.'

I sit nursing my vodka, allowing thoughts of Connor to roll round my brain and comfort me.

The way his blond hair shines in the sunshine, and the way he's always smiling. And the way

he upgraded all the software on my computer the other day without me even asking, and the

way he… he…

My mind's gone blank. This is ridiculous. I mean, there's so much that is wonderful about

Connor. From his… his long legs. Yes. And his broad shoulders. To the time he looked after

me when I had the flu. I mean, how many boyfriends do that? Exactly.

I'm so lucky, I really am.

I put the phone away, run my fingers through my hair, and glance at the clock behind the bar.

Forty minutes to go before the flight. Not long now. Nerves are starting to creep over me like

little insects, and I take a deep gulp of vodka, draining my glass.

It'll be fine, I tell myself for the zillionth time. It'll be absolutely fine.

I'm not frightened. I'm just… I'm just…

OK. I am frightened.

16. I'm scared of flying.

I've never told anyone I'm scared of flying. It just sounds so lame. And I mean, it's not like I'm

phobic or anything. It's not like I can't get on a plane. It's just… all things being equal, I

would prefer to be on the ground.

I never used to be scared. But over the last few years, I've gradually got more and more

nervous. I know it's completely irrational. I know thousands of people fly every day and it's

practically safer than lying in bed. You have less chance of being in a plane crash than… than

finding a man in London, or something.

But still. I just don't like it.

Maybe I'll have another quick vodka.

By the time my flight is called, I've drunk two more vodkas and am feeling a lot more positive.

I mean, Lissy's right. At least I made an impression, didn't I? At least they'll remember who I

am. As I stride towards the gate, clutching my briefcase, I almost start to feel like a confident

businesswoman again. A couple of people smile at me as they pass, and I smile broadly back,

feeling a warm glow of friendliness. You see. The world's not so bad after all. It's all just a

question of being positive. Anything can happen in life, can't it? You never know what's

round the next corner.

I reach the entrance to the plane, and there at the door, taking boarding passes, is the air

hostess with the French plait who was sitting at the bar earlier.

'Hi again,' I say smiling. 'This is a coincidence!'

The air hostess stares at me.

'Hi. Erm…'

'What?'

Why does she look embarrassed?

'Sorry. It's just… did you know that…' She gestures awkwardly to my front.

'What is it?' I say, pleasantly. I look down, and freeze, aghast.

Somehow my silky shirt has been unbuttoning itself while I've been walking along. Three

buttons have come undone and it's gaping at the front.

My bra shows. My pink lacy bra. The one that went a bit blobby in the wash.

That's why those people were smiling at me. Not because the world is a nice place, but

because I'm Pink-Blobby-Bra-Woman.

'Thanks,' I mutter, and do up the buttons with rumbling fingers, my face hot with humiliation.

'It hasn't been your day, has it?' says the air hostess sympathetically, holding out a hand for

my boarding pass. 'Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing, earlier.'

'That's all right.' I raise a half-smile. 'No, it hasn't been the best day of my life.' There's a short

silence as she studies my boarding pass.

'Tell you what,' she says in a low voice. 'Would you like an on-board upgrade?'

'A what?' I stare at her blankly.

'Come on. You deserve a break.'

'Really? But… can you just upgrade people like that?'

'If there are spare seats, we can. We use our discretion. And this flight is so short.' She gives

me a conspiratorial smile. 'Just don't tell everyone, OK?'

She leads me into the front section of the plane and gestures to a big, wide, comfortable seat.

I've never been upgraded before in my life! I can't quite believe she's really letting me do this.

'Is this first class?' I whisper, taking in the hushed, luxury atmosphere. A man in a smart suit

is tapping at a laptop to my right, and two elderly women in the corner are plugging

themselves into headsets.

'Business class. There's no first class on this flight.' She lifts her voice to a normal volume. 'Is

everything OK for you?'

'It's perfect! Thanks very much.'

'No problem.' She smiles again and walks away, and I push my briefcase under the seat in

front.

Wow. This really is lovely. Big wide seats, and footrests, and everything. This is going to be a

completely pleasurable experience from start to finish, I tell myself firmly. I reach for my

seatbelt and buckle it up nonchalantly, trying to ignore the flutters of apprehension in my

stomach.

'Would you like some champagne?'

It's my friend the air hostess, beaming down at me.

'That would be great,' I say. 'Thanks!'

Champagne!

'And for you, sir? Some champagne?'

The man in the seat next to mine hasn't even looked up yet. He's wearing jeans and an old

sweatshirt and is staring out of the window. As he turns to answer I catch a glimpse of dark

eyes, stubble; a deep frown etched on his forehead.

'No thanks. Just a brandy. Thanks.'

His voice is dry and has an American accent. I'm about to ask him politely where he's from,

but he immediately turns back and stares out of the window again.

Which is fine, because to be honest, I'm not much in the mood for talking either.

TWO

OK. The truth is, I don't like this.

I know it's business class, I know it's all lovely luxury. But my stomach is still a tight knot of

fear.

While we were taking off I counted very slowly with my eyes closed, and that kind of worked.

But I ran out of steam at about 350. So now I'm just sitting, sipping champagne, reading an

article on '30 Things To Do Before You're 30' in Cosmo. I'm trying very hard to look like a

relaxed business-class top marketing executive. But oh God. Every tiny sound makes me start;

every judder makes me catch my breath.

With an outward veneer of calm I reach for the laminated safety instructions and run my eyes

over them. Safety exits. Brace position. If life jackets are required, please assist the elderly

and children first. Oh God-

Why am I even looking at this? How will it help me to gaze at pictures of little stick people

jumping into the ocean while their plane explodes behind them? I stuff the safety instructions

quickly back in their pocket and take a gulp of champagne.

'Excuse me, madam.' An air hostess with red curls has appeared by my side. 'Are you

travelling on business?'

'Yes,' I say, smoothing down my hair with a prickle of pride. 'Yes I am.'

She hands me a leaflet entitled 'Executive Facilities', on which there's a photo of

businesspeople talking animatedly in front of a clipboard with a wavy graph on it.

'This is some information about our new business class lounge at Gatwick. We provide full

conference call facilities, and meeting rooms, should you require them. Would you be

interested?'

OK. I am a top businesswoman. I am a top highflying business executive.

'Quite possibly,' I say, looking nonchalantly at the leaflet. 'Yes, I may well use one of these

rooms to… brief my team. I have a large team, and obviously they need a lot of briefing. On

business matters.' I clear my throat. 'Mostly… logistical.'

'Would you like me to book you a room now?' says the hostess helpfully.

'Er, no thanks,' I say after a pause, 'My team is currently… at home. I gave them all the day

off.'

'Right.' The hostess looks a little puzzled.

'But another time, maybe,' I say quickly. 'And while you're here — I was just wondering, 'is

that sound normal?'

'What sound?' The air hostess cocks her head.

That sound. That kind of whining, coming from the wing?'

'I can't hear anything.' She looks at me sympathetically. 'Are you a nervous flyer?'

'No!' I say at once, and give a little laugh. 'No, I'm not nervous! I just… was wondering. Just

out of interest.'

'I'll see if I can find out for you,' she says kindly. 'Here you are, sir. Some information about

our executive facilities at Gatwick.'

The American man takes his leaflet wordlessly and puts it down without even looking at it,

and the hostess moves on, staggering a little as the plane gives a bump.

Why is the plane bumping?

Oh God. A sudden rush of fear hits me with no warning. This is madness. Madness! Sitting in

this big heavy box, with no way of escape, thousands and thousands of feet above the ground

…

I can't do this on my own. I have an overpowering need to talk to someone. Someone