Can You Keep A Secret?

reassuring. Someone safe.

Connor.

Instinctively I fish out my mobile phone, but immediately the air hostess swoops down on me.

'I'm afraid you can't use that on board the plane,' she says with a bright smile. 'Could you

please ensure that it's switched off?'

'Oh. Er… sorry.'

Of course I can't use my mobile. They've only said it about fifty-five zillion times. I am such a

durr-brain. Anyway, never mind. It doesn't matter. I'm fine. I put the phone away in my bag,

and try to concentrate on an old episode of Fawlty Towers which is showing on the screen.

Maybe I'll start counting again. Three hundred and forty-nine. Three hundred and fifty. Three

hundred and-

Fuck. My head jerks up. What was that bump? Did we just get hit?

OK, don't panic. It was just a bump. I'm sure everything's fine. We probably just flew into a

pigeon or something. Where was I?

Three hundred and fifty-one. Three hundred and fifty-two. Three hundred and fifty-

And that's it.

That's the moment.

Everything seems to fragment.

I hear the screams like a wave over my head, almost before I realize what's happening.

Oh God. Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh… OH… NO. NO. NO.

We're falling. Oh God, we're falling.

We're plummeting downwards. The plane's dropping through the air like a stone. A man over

there has just shot up through the air and banged his head on the ceiling. He's bleeding. I'm

gasping, clutching onto my seat, trying not to do the same thing, but I can feel myself being

wrenched upwards, it's like someone's tugging me, like gravity's suddenly switched the other

way. There's no time to think. My mind can't… Bags are flying around, drinks are spilling,

one of the cabin crew has fallen over, she's clutching at a seat…

Oh God. Oh God. OK, it's slowing down now. It's… it's better.

Fuck. I just… I just can't… I…

I look at the American man, and he's grasping his seat as tightly as I am.

I feel sick. I think I might be sick. Oh God.

OK. It's… it's kind of… back to normal.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' comes a voice over the intercom, and everyone's heads jerk up. 'This

is your captain speaking.'

My heart's juddering in my chest. I can't listen. I can't think.

'We're currently hitting some clear-air turbulence, and things may be unsteady for a while. I

have switched on the seatbelt signs and would ask that you all return to your seats as quickly

as-'

There's another huge lurch, and his voice is drowned by screams and cries all round the plane.

It's like a bad dream. A bad rollercoaster dream.

The cabin crew are all strapping themselves into their seats. One of the hostesses is mopping

blood on her face. A minute ago they were happily doling out honey-roast peanuts.

This is what happens to other people in other planes. People on safety videos. Not me.

'Please keep calm,' the captain is saying. 'As soon as we have more information…'

Keep calm? I can't breathe, let alone keep calm. What are we going to do? Are we all

supposed to just sit here while the plane bucks like an out-of-control horse?

I can hear someone behind me reciting 'Hail Mary, full of grace…' and a fresh, choking panic

sweeps through me. People are praying. This is real.

We're going to die.

We're going to die.

'I'm sorry?' The American man in the next seat looks at me, his face tense and white.

Did I just say that aloud?

'We're going to die.' I stare into his face. This could be the last person I ever see alive. I take

in the lines etched around his dark eyes; his strong jaw, shaded with stubble.

The plane suddenly drops down again, and I give an involuntary shriek.

'I don't think we're going to die,' he says. But he's gripping his seat-arms, too. 'They said it

was just turbulence-'

'Of course they did!' I can hear the hysteria in my voice. 'They wouldn't exactly say, "OK

folks, that's it, you're all goners"!' The plane gives another terrifying swoop and I find myself

clutching the man's hand in panic. 'We're not going to make it. I know we're not. This is it. I'm

twenty-five years old, for God's sake. I'm not ready. I haven't achieved anything. I've never

had children, I've never saved a life…' My eyes fall randomly on the '30 Things To Do

Before You're 30' article. 'I haven't ever climbed a mountain, I haven't got a tattoo, I don't

even know if I've got a G spot…'

'I'm sorry?' says the man, sounding taken aback, but I barely hear him.

'My career's a complete joke. I'm not a top businesswoman at all.' I gesture half-tearfully to

my suit. 'I haven't got a team! I'm just a crappy assistant and I just had my first ever big

meeting and it was a complete disaster. Half the time I haven't got a clue what people are

talking about, I don't know what logistical means, I'm never going to get promoted, and I owe

my dad four thousand quid, and I've never really been in love…'

I draw myself up short with a jolt. 'I'm sorry,' I say, and exhale sharply. 'You don't want to

hear all this.'

'That's quite all right,' says the man.

God. I'm completely losing it.

And anyway, what I just said wasn't true. Because I am in love with Connor. It must be the

altitude or something, confusing my mind.

Flustered, I push the hair off my face and try to get a hold of myself. OK, let's try counting

again. Three hundred and fifty… six. Three hundred and-

Oh God. Oh God. No. Please. The plane's lurching again. We're plummeting.

'I've never done anything to make my parents proud of me.' The words come spilling out of

my mouth before I can stop them. 'Never.'

'I'm sure that's not true,' says the man nicely.

'It's true. Maybe they used to be proud of me. But then my cousin Kerry came to live with us

and all at once it was like my parents couldn't see me any more. All they could see was her.

She was fourteen when she arrived, and I was ten, and I thought it was going to be great, you

know. Like having an older sister. But it didn't work out like that…'

I can't stop talking. I just can't stop.

Every time the plane bumps or jolts, another torrent of words pours randomly out of my

mouth, like water gushing over a waterfall.

It's either talk or scream.

'… she was a swimming champion, and an everything champion, and I was just… nothing in

comparison…'

'… photography course and I honestly thought it was going to change my life…'

'… eight stone three. But I was planning to go on a diet…'

'I applied for every single job in the world. I was so desperate, I even applied to…'

'… awful girl called Artemis. This new desk arrived the other day, and she just took it, even

though I've got this really grotty little desk…'

'… sometimes I water her stupid spider plant with orange juice, just to serve her right…'

'… sweet girl Katie, who works in Personnel. We have this secret code where she comes in

and says, "Can I go through some numbers with you, Emma?" and it really means "Shall we

nip out to Starbucks…"'

'… awful presents, and I have to pretend I like them…'

'… coffee at work is the most disgusting stuff you've ever drunk, absolute poison…'

'… put "Maths GCSE grade A" on my CV, when I really only got C. I know it was dishonest.

I know I shouldn't have done it, but I so wanted to get the job…'

What's happened to me? Normally there's a kind of filter which stops me blurting out

everything I'm thinking; which keeps me in check.

But the filter's stopped working. Everything's piling out in a big, random stream, and I can't

stop it.

'Sometimes I think I believe in God, because how else did we all get here? But then I think,

yes but what about war and stuff…'

'… wear G-strings because they don't give you VPL. But they're so uncomfortable…'

'… size eight, and I didn't know what to do, so I just said "Wow those are absolutely fantastic

…"'

'… roasted peppers, my complete favourite food…'

'… joined a book group, but I just couldn't get through Great Expectations. So I just skimmed

the back and pretended I'd read it…'

'… I gave him all his goldfish food, I honestly don't know what happened…'

'… just have to hear that Carpenters song "Close to You" and I start crying…'

'… really wish I had bigger boobs. I mean, not Page 3 size, not completely enormous and

stupid, but you know, bigger. Just to know what it's like…'

'… perfect date would start off with champagne just appearing at the table, as if by magic…'

'… I just cracked, I secretly bought this huge tub of Haagen-Dazs and scoffed the lot, and I

never told Lissy…'

I'm unaware of anything around us. The world has narrowed to me and this stranger, and my

mouth, spewing out all my innermost thoughts and secrets.

I barely know what I'm saying any more. All I know is, it feels good.

Is this what therapy is like?

'… name was Danny Nussbaum. Mum and Dad were downstairs watching Ben Hur, and I

remember thinking, if this is what the world gets so excited about, then the world's mad…'

'… lie on my side, because that way your cleavage looks bigger…'

'… works in market research. I remember thinking the very first time I saw him, wow, he's

good-looking, He's very tall and blond, because he's half-Swedish, and he has these amazing

blue eyes. So he asked me out…'

'… always have a glass of sweet sherry before a date, just to calm my nerves…'

'He's wonderful. Connor's completely wonderful. I'm just so lucky. Everyone's always telling

me how great he is. He's sweet, and he's good, and he's successful and everyone calls us the

perfect couple…'

'… I'd never tell anyone this in a million years. But sometimes I think he's almost too goodlooking.

A bit like one of those dolls? Like Ken. Like a blond Ken.'

And now I'm on the subject of Connor, I'm saying things I've never said to anyone. Things I

never even realized were in my head.

'… gave him this lovely leather watch for Christmas, but he wears this orange digital thing

because it can tell him the temperature in Poland or something stupid…'

'… took me to all these jazz concerts and I pretended to enjoy them to be polite, so now he

thinks I love jazz…'

'… every single Woody Allen film off by heart and says each line before it comes and it

drives me crackers…'

'… just looks at me as though I'm speaking some foreign language…'

'… determined to find my G spot, so we spent the whole weekend doing it in different

positions, and by the end I was just knackered, all I wanted was a pizza and Friends …'

'… he kept saying, what was it like, what was it like? So in the end I just made some stuff up,

I said it was absolutely amazing, and it felt as though my whole body was opening up like a

flower, and he said, what sort of flower, so I said a begonia…'

'… can't expect the initial passion to last. But how do you tell if the passion's faded in a good,

long-term-commitment way or in a crap, we-don't-fancy-each-other-any-more way…'

'… knight in shining armour is not a realistic option. But there's a part of me that wants a huge,

amazing romance. I want passion. I want to be swept off my feet. I want an earthquake, or a

… I don't know, a huge whirlwind… something exciting. Sometimes I feel as if there's this

whole new, thrilling life waiting for me out there, and if I can just-'

'Excuse me, miss?'

'What?' I look up dazedly. 'What is it?' The air hostess with the French plait is smiling down at

me.

'We've landed.' I stare at her.

'We've landed?'

This doesn't make sense. How can we have landed? I look around — and sure enough, the

plane's still. We're on the ground.

I feel like Dorothy. A second ago I was swirling around in Oz, clicking my heels together, and

now I've woken up all flat and quiet and normal again.

'We aren't bumping any more,' I say stupidly.

'We stopped bumping quite a while ago,' says the American man.

'We're… we're not going to die.'

'We're not going to die,' he agrees.

I look at him as though for the first time — and it hits me. I've been blabbering non-stop for an

hour to this complete stranger. God alone knows what I've been saying.

I think I want to get off this plane right now.

'I'm sorry,' I say awkwardly. 'You should have stopped me.'

'That would have been a little difficult.' There's a tiny smile at his lips. 'You were on a bit of a

roll.'

'I'm so embarrassed!' I try to smile, but I can't even look this guy in the eye. I mean, I told him

about my knickers. I told him about my G spot.

'Don't worry about it. We were all stressed out. That was some flight.' He picks up his

knapsack and gets up from his seat — then looks back at me. 'Will you be OK getting back

home?'

'Yes. I'll be fine. Thanks. Enjoy your visit!' I call after him, but I don't think he hears.

Slowly I gather my things together and make my way off the plane. I feel sweaty, my hair's all

over the place, and my head is starting to throb.

The airport seems so bright and still and calm after the intense atmosphere of the plane. The

ground seems so firm. I sit quietly on a plastic chair for a while, trying to get myself together,

but as I stand up at last, I still feel dazed. I walk along in a slight blur, hardly able to believe

I'm here. I'm alive. I honestly never thought I'd make it back on the ground.

'Emma!' I hear someone calling as I come out of Arrivals, but I don't look up. There are loads

of Emmas in this world.

'Emma! Over here!'

I raise my head in disbelief. Is that…

No. It can't be, it can't-

It's Connor.

He looks heart-breakingly handsome. His skin has that Scandinavian tan, and his eyes are

bluer than ever, and he's running towards me. This makes no sense. What's he doing here? As

we reach each other he grabs me and pulls me tight to his chest.

'Thank God,' he says huskily. 'Thank God. Are you OK?'

'Connor, what— what are you doing here?'

'I phoned the airline to ask what time you'd be landing, and they told me the plane had hit

terrible turbulence. I just had to come to the airport.' He gazes down at me. 'Emma, I watched

your plane land. They sent an ambulance straight out to it. Then you didn't appear. I thought

…' He swallows hard. 'I don't know exactly what I thought.'

'I'm fine. I was just… trying to get myself together. Oh God, Connor, it was terrifying.' My

voice is suddenly all shaky, which is ridiculous, because I'm perfectly safe now. 'At one point

I honestly thought I was going to die.'

'When you didn't come through the barrier…' Connor breaks off and stares at me silently for

a few seconds. 'I think I realized for the first time quite how deeply I feel about you.'

'Really?' I falter.

My heart's thumping. I think I might fall over at any moment.

'Emma, I think we should…'

Get married? My heart jumps in fear. Oh my God. He's going to ask me to marry him, right

here in the airport. What am I going to say? I'm not ready to get married. But if I say no he'll

stalk off in a huff. Shit. OK. What I'll say is, Gosh, Connor, I need a little time to…

'… move in together,' he finishes.

I am such a deluded moron. Obviously he wasn't going to ask me to marry him.

'What do you think?' he strokes my hair gently.

'Erm…' I rub my dry face, playing for time, unable to think straight. Move in with Connor. It

kind of makes sense. Is there a reason why not? I feel all confused. Something's tugging at my

brain; trying to send me a message…

And into my head slide some of the things I said on the plane. Something about never having

been properly in love. Something about Connor not really understanding me.

But then… that was just drivel, wasn't it? I mean, I thought I was about to die, for God's sake.

I wasn't exactly at my most lucid.

'Connor, what about your big meeting?' I say, suddenly recalling.

'I cancelled it.'

'You cancelled it?' I stare at him. 'For me?'

I feel really wobbly now. My legs are barely holding me up. I don't know if it's the aftermath

of the plane journey or love.

Oh God, just look at him. He's tall and he's handsome, and he cancelled a big meeting, and he

came to rescue me.

It's love. It has to be love.

'I'd love to move in with you, Connor,' I whisper, and to my utter astonishment, burst into

tears.

THREE

I wake up the next morning with sunlight dazzling my eyelids and a delicious smell of coffee

in the air.

'Morning!' comes Connor's voice from far above.

'Morning,' I mumble, without opening my eyes.

'D'you want some coffee?'

'Yes please.'

I turn over and bury my throbbing head in the pillow, trying to sink into sleep again for a

couple of minutes. Which normally I would find very easy. But today, something's niggling at

me. Have I forgotten something?

As I half listen to Connor clattering around in the kitchen, and the tinny background sound of

the telly, my mind gropes blearily around for clues. It's Saturday morning. I'm in Connor's bed.

We went out for supper — oh God, that awful plane ride… he came to the airport, and he said

…

We're moving in together!

I sit up, just as Connor comes in with two mugs and a cafetiere. He's dressed in a white waffle

robe and looks completely gorgeous. I feel a prickle of pride, and reach over to give him a

kiss.

'Hi,' he says, laughing. 'Careful.' He hands me my coffee. 'How are you feeling?'

'All right.' I push my hair back off my face. 'A bit groggy.'

'I'm not surprised.' Connor raises his eyebrows. 'Quite a day yesterday.'

'Absolutely.' I nod, and take a sip of coffee. 'So. We're… going to live together!'

'If you're still on for it?'

'Of course! Of course I am!' I smile brightly.

And it's true. I am.

I feel as though overnight, I've turned into a grownup. I'm moving in with my boyfriend.

Finally my life is going the way it should!

'I'll have to give Andrew notice…' Connor gestures towards the wall, on the other side of

which is his flatmate's room.

'And I'll have to tell Lissy and Jemima.'

'And we'll have to find the right place. And you'll have to promise to keep it tidy.' He gives

me a teasing grin.

'I like that!' I feign outrage. 'You're the one with fifty million CDs.'

'That's different!'

'How is it different, may I ask?' I plant my hand on my hip, like someone in a sitcom, and

Connor laughs.

There's a pause, as though we've both run out of steam, and we take a sip of coffee.

'So anyway,' says Connor after a while, 'I should get going.' Connor is attending a course on

computers this weekend. 'I'm sorry I'll miss your parents,' he adds.

And he really is. I mean, as if he wasn't already the perfect boyfriend, he actually enjoys

visiting my parents.

'That's OK,' I say benevolently. 'It doesn't matter.'

'Oh, and I forgot to tell you.' Connor gives me a mysterious grin. 'Guess what I've got tickets

for?'

'Ooh!' I say excitedly. 'Um…'

I'm about to say 'Paris!'

'The jazz festival!' Connor beams. 'The Dennisson Quartet! It's their last concert of the year.

Remember we heard them at Ronnie Scott's?'

For a moment I can't quite speak.

'Wow!' I manage at last. 'The… Dennisson Quartet! I do remember.'

They played clarinets. On and on and on, for about two hours, without even taking a breath.

'I knew you'd be pleased.' Connor touches my arm affectionately, and I give him a feeble

smile.

'Oh, I am!'

The thing is, I probably will get to like jazz one day. In fact, I'm positive I will.

I watch fondly as he gets dressed, flosses his teeth and picks up his briefcase.

'You wore my present,' he says with a pleased smile, glancing at my discarded underwear on

the floor.

'I… often wear them,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'They're so gorgeous!'

'Have a lovely day with your family.' Connor comes over to the bed to kiss me, and then

hesitates. 'Emma?'

'Yes?'

He sits down on the bed and gazes seriously at me. Gosh, his eyes are so blue.

'There's something I wanted to say.' He bites his lip. 'You know we always speak frankly to

each other about our relationship.'

'Er… yes,' I say, feeling a little apprehensive.

'This is just an idea. You may not like it. I mean… it's completely up to you.'

I gaze at Connor in puzzlement. His face is growing pink, and he looks really embarrassed.

Oh my God. Is he going to start getting kinky? Does he want me to dress up in outfits and

stuff?

I wouldn't mind being a nurse, actually. Or Catwoman from Batman. That would be cool. I

could get some shiny boots…

'I was thinking that… perhaps… we could…' He stops awkwardly.

'Yes?' I put a supportive hand on his arm.

'We could…' He stops again.

'Yes?'

There's another silence. I almost can't breathe. What does he want us to do? What?

'We could start calling each other "darling",' he says in an embarrassed rush.

'What?' I say blankly.

'It's just that…' Connor flushes pinker. 'We're going to be living together. It's quite a

commitment. And I noticed recently, we never seem to use any… terms of endearment.'

I stare at him, feeling caught out.

'Don't we?'

'No.'

'Oh.' I take a sip of coffee. Now I think about it, he's right. We don't. Why don't we?

'So what do you think? Only if you want to.'

'Absolutely!' I say quickly. 'I mean, you're right. Of course we should.' I clear my throat.

'Darling!'

'Thanks, darling,' he says, with a loving smile, and I smile back, trying to ignore the tiny

protests inside my head.

This doesn't feel right.

I don't feel like a darling.

Darling is a married person with pearls and a four-wheel-drive.

'Emma?' Connor's staring at me. 'Is something wrong?'

'I'm not sure!' I give a self-conscious laugh. 'I just don't know if I feel like a "darling". But…

you know. It may grow on me.'

'Really? Well, we can use something else. What about "dear"?'

Dear? Is he serious?

'No,' I say quickly. 'I think "darling" is better.'

'Or "sweetheart"… "honey"… "angel"

'Maybe. Look, can we just leave it?'

Connor's face falls, and I feel bad. Come on. I can call my boyfriend 'darling', for God's sake.

This is what growing up's all about. I'm just going to have to get used to it.

'Connor, I'm sorry,' I say. 'I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I'm still a bit tense after

that flight.' I take his hand. 'Darling.'

'That's all right, darling.' He smiles back at me, his sunny expression restored, and gives me a

kiss. 'See you later.'

You see. Easy.

Oh God.

Anyway. It doesn't matter. I expect all couples have this kind of awkward-ish moment. It's

probably perfectly normal.

It takes me about half an hour to get from Connor's place in Maida Vale to Islington, which is

where I live, and as I open the door I find Lissy on the sofa. She's surrounded by papers and

has a frown of concentration on her face. She works so hard, Lissy. She really overdoes it

sometimes.

'What are you working on?' I say sympathetically. 'Is it that fraud case?'

'No, it's this article,' says Lissy abstractly, and lifts up a glossy magazine. 'It says since the

days of Cleopatra, the proportions of beauty have been the same, and there's a way to work

out how beautiful you are, scientifically. You do all these measurements…'

'Oh right!' I say interestedly. 'So what are you?'

'I'm just working it out.' She frowns at the page again. 'That makes 53… subtract 20…

makes… Oh my God!' She stares at the page in dismay. 'I only got 33!'

'Out of what?'

'A hundred! 33 out of a hundred!'

'Oh Lissy. That's crap.'

'I know,' says Lissy seriously. 'I'm ugly. I knew it. You know, all my life I've kind of secretly

known, but-'

'No!' I say, trying not to laugh. 'I meant the magazine's crap! You can't measure beauty with

some stupid index. Just look at you!' I gesture at Lissy, who has the biggest grey eyes in the

world, and gorgeous clear pale skin and is frankly stunning, even if her last haircut was a bit

severe. 'I mean, who are you going to believe? The mirror or a stupid mindless magazine

article?'

'A stupid mindless magazine article,' says Lissy, as though it's perfectly obvious.

I know she's half joking. But ever since her boyfriend Simon chucked her, Lissy's had really

low self-esteem. I'm actually a bit worried about her.

'Is that the golden proportion of beauty?' says our other flatmate Jemima, tapping into the

room in her kitten heels. She's wearing pale pink jeans and a tight white top and as usual, she

looks perfectly tanned and groomed. In theory, Jemima has a job, working in a sculpture

gallery. But all she ever seems to do is have bits of her waxed and plucked and massaged, and

go on dates with city bankers, whose salary she always checks out before she says yes.

I do get on with Jemima. Kind of. It's just that she tends to begin all her sentences 'If you want

a rock on your finger,' and 'If you want an SW3 address,' and 'If you want to be known as a

seriously good dinner-party hostess.'

I mean, I wouldn't mind being known as a seriously good dinner-party hostess. You know. It's

just not exactly highest on my list of priorities right now.

Plus, Jemima's idea of being a seriously good dinner-party hostess is inviting lots of rich

friends over, decorating the whole flat with twiggy things, getting caterers to cook loads of

yummy food and telling everyone she made it herself, then sending her flatmates (me and

Lissy) out to the cinema for the night and looking affronted when they dare creep back in at

midnight and make themselves a hot chocolate.

'I did that quiz,' she says now, picking up her pink Louis Vuitton bag. Her dad bought it for

her as a present when she broke up with a guy after three dates. Like she was heartbroken.

Mind you, he had a yacht, so she probably was heart-broken.

'What did you get?' says Lissy.

'Eighty-nine.' She spritzes herself with perfume, tosses her long blond hair back and smiles at

herself in the mirror. 'So Emma, is it true you're moving in with Connor?' I gape at her.

'How did you know that?'

'Word on the street. Andrew called Rupes this morning about cricket, and he told him.'

'Are you moving in with Connor?' says Lissy incredulously. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I was about to, honestly. Isn't it great?'

'Bad move, Emma.' Jemima shakes her head. 'Very bad tactics.'

'Tactics?' says Lissy, rolling her eyes. 'Tactics? Jemima, they're having a relationship, not

playing chess!'

'A relationship is a game of chess,' retorts Jemima, brushing mascara onto her lashes.

'Mummy says you always have to look ahead. You have to plan strategically. If you make the

wrong move, you've had it.'

'That's rubbish!' says Lissy defiantly. 'A relationship is about like minds. It's about soulmates

finding each other.'

'Soulmates!' says Jemima dismissively, and looks at me. 'Just remember, Emma, if you want a

rock on your finger, don't move in with Connor.'

Her eyes give a swift, Pavlovian glance to the photograph on the mantelpiece of her meeting

Prince William at a charity polo match.

'Still holding out for Royalty?' says Lissy. 'How much younger is he than you, again,

Jemima?'

'Don't be stupid!' she snaps, colour tinging her cheeks. 'You're so immature sometimes, Lissy.'

'Anyway, I don't want a rock on my finger,' I retort.

Jemima raises her perfectly arched eyebrows as though to say, 'you poor, ignorant fool', and

picks up her bag.

'Oh,' she suddenly adds, her eyes narrowing. 'Has either of you borrowed my Joseph jumper?'

There's a tiny beat of silence.

'No,' I say innocently.

'I don't even know which one it is,' says Lissy, with a shrug.

I can't look at Lissy. I'm sure I saw her wearing it the other night.

Jemima's blue eyes are running over me and Lissy like some kind of radar scanners.

'Because I have very slender arms,' she says warningly, 'and I really don't want the sleeves