NINE

As I leave the office that evening I feel all agitated, like one of those snow globes. I was

perfectly happy being an ordinary, dull little Swiss village. But now Jack Harper's come and

shaken me up, and there are snowflakes all over the place, whirling around, not knowing what

they think any more.

And bits of glitter, too. Tiny bits of shiny, secret excitement.

Every time I catch his eye or hear his voice, it's like a dart to my chest.

Which is ridiculous. Ridiculous.

Connor is my boyfriend. Connor is my future. He loves me and I love him and I'm moving in

with him. And we're going to have wooden floors and shutters and granite worktops. So there.

So there.

I arrive home to find Lissy on her knees in the sitting room, helping Jemima into the tightest

black suede dress I've ever seen.

'Wow!' I say, as I put down my bag. 'That's amazing!'

'There!' pants Lissy, and sits back on her heels. 'That's the zip done. Can you breathe?'

Jemima doesn't move a muscle. Lissy and I glance at each other.

'Jemima!' says Lissy in alarm. 'Can you breathe?'

'Kind of,' says Jemima at last. 'I'll be fine.' Very slowly, with a totally rigid body, she totters

over to where her Louis Vuitton bag is resting on a chair.

'What happens if you need to go to the loo?' I say, staring at her.

'Or go back to his place?' says Lissy with a giggle.

'It's only our second date! I'm not going to go back to his place!' Jemima says in horror. 'That's

not the way to -' she struggles for breath '— to get a rock on your finger.'

'But what if you get carried away with desire for each other?'

'What if he gropes you in the taxi?'

'He's not like that,' says Jemima, with a roll of her eyes. 'He happens to be the First Assistant

Undersecretary to the Secretary of the Treasury, actually.'

I meet Lissy's eyes and I can't help it, I give a snort of laughter.

'Emma, don't laugh,' says Lissy, deadpan. 'There's nothing wrong with being a secretary. He

can always move up, get himself a few qualifications…'

'Oh ha ha, very funny,' says Jemima crossly. 'You know, he'll be knighted one day. I don't

think you'll be laughing then.'

'Oh, I expect I will,' says Lissy. 'Even more so.' She suddenly focuses on Jemima, who is still

standing by the chair, trying to reach her bag. 'Oh my God! You can't even pick up your bag,

can you?'

'I can!' says Jemima, making one last desperate effort to bend her body. 'Of course I can.

There!' She manages to scoop up the strap on the end of one of her acrylic fingernails, and

triumphantly swings it onto her shoulder. 'You see?'

'What if he suggests dancing?' says Lissy slyly. 'What will you do then?'

A look of total panic briefly crosses Jemima's face, then disappears.

'He won't,' she says scornfully. 'Englishmen never suggest dancing.'

'Fair point.' Lissy grins. 'Have a good time.'

As Jemima disappears out of the door, I sink down heavily onto the-sofa and reach for a

magazine. I glance up at Lissy, but she's staring ahead with a preoccupied look on her face.

'Conditional!' she says suddenly. 'Of course! How could I have been so stupid?'

She scrabbles around under the sofa, pulls out several old newspaper crosswords and starts

searching through them.

Honestly. As if being a top lawyer didn't use up enough brain power, Lissy spends her whole

time doing crosswords and games of chess by correspondence, and special brainy puzzles

which she gets from her geeky society of extra-clever people. (It's not called that, of course.

It's called something like 'Mindset — for people who like to think'. Then at the bottom it

casually mentions that you need an IQ of 600 in order to join.)

And if she can't solve a clue, she doesn't just throw it out, saying 'stupid puzzle' like I would.

She saves it. Then about three months later, when we're watching EastEnders or something,

she'll suddenly come up with the answer. And she's ecstatic! Just because she gets the last

word in the box, or whatever.

Lissy's my oldest friend, and I really love her. But sometimes I really do not understand her.

'What's that?' I say, as she writes in the answer. 'Some crossword from 1993?'

'Ha ha,' she says absently. 'So what are you doing this evening?'

'I thought I'd have a quiet evening in,' I say, flicking through the magazine. 'In fact, I might go

through my clothes,' I add, as my eyes fall on an article entitled 'Essential Wardrobe Upkeep'.

'Do what?'

'I thought I'd check them all for missing buttons and drooping hems,' I say, reading the article.

'And brush all my jackets with a clothes brush.'

'Have you got a clothes brush?'

'With a hairbrush then.'

'Oh right.' She shrugs. 'Oh well. Because I was just wondering, do you want to go out?'

'Ooh!' My magazine slithers to the floor. 'Where?'

'Guess what I've got?' She raises her eyebrows tantalizingly, then fishes in her bag. Very

slowly she pulls out a large, rusty keyring, to which a brand new Yale is attached.

'What's that?' I begin, puzzledly — then suddenly realize. 'No!'

'Yes! I'm in!'

'Oh my God Lissy!'

'I know!' Lissy beams at me. 'Isn't it fab?'

The key which Lissy is holding is the coolest key in the world. It opens the door to a private

members' club in Clerkenwell, which is completely happening and impossible to get into.

And Lissy got in!

'Lissy, you're the coolest!'

'No I'm not,' she says, looking pleased. 'It was Jasper at my chambers. He knows everyone on

the committee.'

'Well I don't care who it was. I'm so impressed!'

I take the key from her and look at it in fascination, but there's nothing on it. No name, no

address, no logo, no nothing. It looks a bit like the key to my dad's garden shed, I find myself

thinking. But obviously way, way cooler, I add hastily.

'So who do you think'll be there?' I look up. 'You know, apparently Madonna's a member.

And Jude and Sadie! And that gorgeous new actor from EastEnders. Except everyone says

he's gay really…'

'Emma,' interrupts Lissy. 'You do know celebrities aren't guaranteed.'

'I know!' I say, a little offended.

Honestly. Who does Lissy think I am? I'm a cool and sophisticated Londoner. I don't get

excited by stupid celebrities. I was just mentioning it, that's all.

'In fact,' I add after a pause, 'it probably spoils the atmosphere if the place is stuffed full of

famous people. I mean, can you think of anything worse than sitting at a table, trying to have

a nice normal conversation, while all around you are movie stars and supermodels and… and

pop stars…'

There's a pause while we both think about this.

'So,' says Lissy casually. 'We might as well go and get ready.'

'Why not?' I say, equally casually.

Not that it will take long. I mean, I'm only going to throw on a pair of jeans. And maybe

quickly wash my hair, which I was going to do anyway.

And maybe do a quick face-mask.

An hour later Lissy appears at the door of my room, dressed in jeans, a tight black corset top

and her Bertie heels which I happen to know always give her a blister.

'What do you think?' she says, in the same casual voice. 'I mean, I haven't really made much

effort-'

'Neither have I,' I say, blowing on my second coat of nail polish. 'I mean, it's just a relaxed

evening out. I'm hardly even bothering with makeup.' I look up and stare at Lissy. 'Are those

false eyelashes?'

'No! I mean… yes. But you weren't supposed to notice. They're called natural look.' She goes

over to the mirror and bats her eyelids at herself worriedly. 'Are they really obvious?'

'No!' I say reassuringly, and reach for my blusher brush. When I look up again, Lissy is

staring at my shoulder.

'What's that?'

'What?' I say innocently, and touch the little diamante heart on my shoulder blade. 'Oh this.

Yes, it just sticks on. I thought I'd just put it on for fun.' I reach for my halterneck top, tie it on,

and slide my feet into my pointy suede boots. I got them in a Sue Ryder shop a year ago, and

they're a bit scuffed up, but in the dark you can hardly tell.

'Do you think we look too much?' says Lissy as I go and stand next to her in front of the

mirror. 'What if they're all in jeans?'

'We're in jeans!'

'But what if they're in big thick jumpers and we look really stupid?'

Lissy is always completely paranoid about what everyone else will be wearing. When it was

her first chambers Christmas party and she didn't know whether 'black tie' meant long dresses

or just sparkly tops, she made me come and stand outside the door with about six different

outfits in carrier bags, so she could quickly change. (Of course the original dress she'd put on

was fine. I told her it would be.)

'They won't be wearing big thick jumpers,' I say. 'Come on, let's go.'

'We can't!' Lissy looks at her watch. 'It's too early.'

'Yes we can. We can be just having a quick drink on our way to another celebrity party.'

'Oh yes.' Lissy brightens. 'Cool. Let's go!'

It takes us about fifteen minutes by bus to get from Islington to Clerkenwell. Lissy leads me

down an empty road near to Smithfield Market, full of warehouses and empty office buildings.

Then we turn a corner, and then another corner, until we're standing in a small alley.

'Right,' says Lissy, standing under a street lamp and consulting a tiny scrap of paper. 'It's all

hidden away somewhere.'

'Isn't there a sign?'

'No. The whole point is, no-one except members knows where it is. You have to knock on the

right door and ask for Alexander.'

'Who's Alexander?'

'Dunno.' Lissy shrugs. 'It's their secret code.'

Secret code! This gets cooler and cooler. As Lissy squints at an intercom set in the wall, I

look idly around. This street is completely nondescript. In fact, it's pretty shabby. Just rows of

identical doors and blanked-out windows and barely any sign of life. But just think. Hidden

behind this grim facade is the whole of London celebrity society!

'Hi, is Alexander there?' says Lissy nervously. There's a moment's silence, then as if by magic,

the door clicks open.

Oh my God. This is like Aladdin or something. Looking apprehensively at each other, we

make our way down a lit corridor pulsing with music. We come to a flat, stainless steel door,

and Lissy reaches for her key. As it opens, I quickly tug at my top and casually rearrange my

hair.

'OK,' Lissy mutters. 'Don't look. Don't stare. Just be cool.'

'All right,' I mutter back, and follow Lissy into the club. As she shows her membership card to

a girl at a desk, I stare studiously at her back, and as we walk through into a large, dim room, I

keep my eyes fixed on the beige carpet. I'm not going to gawp at the celebrities. I'm not going

to stare. I'm not going to-

'Lookout!'

Oops. I was so busy gazing at the floor, I blundered right into Lissy.

'Sorry,' I whisper. 'Where shall we sit down?'

I don't dare look around the room for a free seat, in case I see Madonna and she thinks I'm

staring at her. 'Here,' says Lissy, gesturing to a wooden table with an odd little jerk of her

head.

Somehow we manage to sit down, stow our bags and pick up the lists of cocktails, all the time

rigidly staring at each other.

'Have you seen anyone?' I murmur.

'No. Have you?'

'No.' I open the cocktail menu and run my eyes down it. God this is a strain. My eyes are

starting to ache. I want to look around. I want to see the place.

'Lissy,' I hiss. 'I'm going to have a look round.'

'Really?' Lissy stares at me anxiously, as though I'm Steve McQueen announcing he's going

over the wire. 'Well… OK. But be careful. Be discreet.'

'I will. I'll be fine!'

OK. Here we go. A quick, non-gawping sweep. I lean back in my chair, take a deep breath,

then allow my eyes to skim swiftly round the room, taking in as much detail as quickly as I

can. Low lighting… lots of purple sofas and chairs… a couple of guys in T-shirts… three

girls in jeans and jumpers, God, Lissy's going to freak… a couple whispering to each other

… a guy with a beard reading Private Eye … and that's it.

That can't be it.

This can't be right. Where's Robbie Williams? Where's Jude and Sadie? Where are all the

supermodels?

'Who did you see?' hisses Lissy, still staring at the cocktail menu.

'I'm not sure,' I whisper uncertainly. 'Maybe that guy with the beard is some famous actor?'

Casually, Lissy turns in her seat and gives him a look.

'I don't think so,' she says at last, turning back.

'Well, how about the guy in the grey T-shirt?' I say, gesturing hopefully. 'Is he in a boy band

or something?'

'Mmm… no. I don't think so.'

There's silence as we look at each other.

'Is anyone famous here?' I say at last.

'Celebrities aren't guaranteed!' says Lissy defensively.

'I know! But you'd think-'

'Hi!' A voice interrupts us and we both look round, to see two of the girls in jeans approaching

our table. One of them is smiling at me nervously. 'I hope you don't mind, but my friends and

I were just wondering — aren't you that new one in Hollyoaks?'

Oh, for God's sake.

Anyway. I don't care. We didn't come here to see tacky celebrities taking coke and showing

off. We just came to have a nice quiet drink together.

We order strawberry daiquiris and some luxury mixed nuts (?4.50, for a small bowl. Don't

even ask how much the drinks cost). And I have to admit, I feel a bit more relaxed now I

know there's no-one famous to impress.

'How's your work going?' I ask, as I sip my drink.

'Oh, it's fine,' says Lissy with a vague shrug. 'I saw the Jersey Fraudster today.'

The Jersey Fraudster is this client of Lissy's who keeps being charged with fraud and

appealing and — because Lissy's so brilliant — getting let out. One minute he's wearing

handcuffs, the next he's dressed in hand-made suits and taking her to lunch at the Ritz.

'He tried to buy me a diamond brooch,' says Lissy, rolling her eyes. 'He had this Asprey's

catalogue and he kept saying "That one's rather jolly." And I was like, "Humphrey, you're in

prison! Concentrate!"' She shakes her head, takes a sip of her drink, and looks up. 'So… what

about your man?'

I know at once she means Jack, but I don't want to admit that's where my mind has leapt to, so

I attempt a blank look and say, 'Who, Connor?'

'No, you dope! Your stranger on the plane. The one who knows everything about you.'

'Oh him.' I feel a flush coming to my cheeks, and look down at my embossed paper coaster.

'Yes, him! Have you managed to avoid him?'

'No,' I admit. 'He won't bloody leave me alone.'

I break off as a waiter puts two fresh strawberry daiquiris on the table. When he's gone, Lissy

gives me a close look.

'Emma, do you fancy this guy?'

'No, of course I don't fancy him,' I say hotly. 'He just… disconcerts me, that's all. It's a

completely natural reaction. You'd be the same. Anyway, it's fine. I only have to get through

until Friday. Then he'll be gone.'

'And then you'll be moving in with Connor.' Lissy takes a sip of her daiquiri and leans

forward. 'You know, I reckon he's going to ask you to marry him!'

I feel a tiny lurch in my stomach, which is probably just my drink going down or something.

'You're so lucky,' says Lissy wistfully. 'You know, he put up those shelves in my room the

other day without even asking! How many men would do that?'

'I know. He's just… great.' There's a pause, and I start to shred my paper coaster into little

bits. 'I suppose the only tiny little thing would be that it's not that romantic any more.'

'You can't expect it to be romantic for ever,' says Lissy. 'Things change. It's natural to become

a bit more steady.'

'Oh, I know that!' I say. 'We're two mature, sensible people, and we're having a loving, steady

relationship! Which, you know, is just what I want out of life. Except…' I clear my throat

awkwardly. 'We don't have sex that often any more…'

'That's a common problem in long-term relationships,' says Lissy knowledgeably. 'You need

to spice it up.'

'With what?'

'Have you tried handcuffs?'

'No! Have you?' I stare at Lissy, riveted.

'A long time ago,' she says with a dismissive shrug. 'They weren't all that… Um… why not

try doing it somewhere different. Try doing it at work!'

At work! Now, that's a good idea. Lissy is so clever.

'OK!'I say. 'I'll try that!'

I reach for my bag, get out a pen and write 'shag@work' on my hand, next to where I've

written 'nb: darling'.

Suddenly I'm filled with fresh enthusiasm. This is a brilliant plan. I'll shag Connor at work

tomorrow, and it will be the best sex we've ever had, and the sparkle will come back, and

we'll be madly in love again. Easy. And that will show Jack Harper.

No. This is nothing to do with Jack Harper. I don't know why that slipped out.

There's only one tiny hitch to my scheme. Which is that it's not quite as easy to shag your

boyfriend at work as you'd think. I hadn't quite appreciated before how open everything is in

our office. And how many glass partitions there are. And how many people there are, walking

around all the time.

By eleven o'clock the next morning I still haven't managed to put a game plan together. I think

I'd kind of pictured doing it behind a pot plant somewhere. But now I actually look at them,

pot plants are tiny! And all frondy. There's no way Connor and I would be able to hide behind

one, let alone risk any… movement.

We can't do it in the loos. The girls' loos always have people in there, gossiping and putting

on their makeup, and the men's loos… yuck. No way.

We can't do it in Connor's office because the walls are completely made of glass and there

aren't any blinds or anything. Plus people are always coming in and out of it to get stuff out of

his filing cabinet.

Oh, this is ridiculous. People having affairs must have sex at the office all the time. Is there

some special secret shagging room I don't know about?

I can't email Connor and ask for suggestions, because it's crucial that I surprise him. The

shock element will be a huge turn-on and make it really sizzling hot and romantic. Plus there's

a tiny risk that if I wrarn him he'll go all corporate on me and insist we take an hour's unpaid

leave for it, or something.

I'm just wondering whether we could creep out onto the fire escape, when Nick comes out of

Paul's office saying something about margins.

My head jerks up, and I feel a twinge of apprehension. There's something I've been trying to

pluck up courage to say to him since that big meeting yesterday.

'Hey Nick,' I say as he walks by my desk. 'Panther Bars are your product, aren't they?'

'If you can call them a product,' he says, rolling his eyes.

'Are they going to axe them?'

'More than likely.'

'Well, listen,' I say quickly. 'Can I have a tiny bit of the marketing budget to put a coupon ad

in a magazine?' Nick puts his hands on his hips and stares at me.

'Do what?'

'Put in an ad. It won't be very expensive, I promise. No-one will even notice.'

'Where?'

'Bowling Monthly,' I say, flushing slightly. 'My grandpa gets it.'

'Bowling what?'

'Please! Look, you don't have to do anything. I'll sort it all out. It'll be a drop in the ocean

compared to all the other ads you've run.' I stare at him entreatingly. 'Please… please…'

'Oh all right!' he says impatiently. 'It's a dead duck, anyway.'

'Thanks!' I beam at him, then as he walks off, reach for the phone and dial Grandpa's number.

'Hi Grandpa!' I say as his answermachine beeps. 'I'm putting a money-off coupon ad for

Panther Bars in Bowling Monthly. So tell all your friends! You can stock up cheaply. I'll see

you soon, OK?'

'Emma?' Grandpa's voice suddenly booms into my ear. 'I'm here! Just screening.'

'Screening?' I echo, trying not to sound too surprised. Grandpa screens?

'It's my new hobby. Have you not heard of it? You listen to your friends leaving messages and

laugh at them. Most amusing. Now Emma, I was meaning to ring you. I saw a very alarming

piece on the news yesterday, about muggings in central London.'

Not this again.

'Grandpa-'

'Promise me you don't take London transport, Emma.'

'I er… promise,' I say, crossing my fingers. 'Grandpa, I have to go, really. But I'll call again

soon. Love you.'

'Love you too, darling girl.'

As I put the phone down I feel a tiny glow of satisfaction. That's one thing done.

But what about Connor?

'I'll just have to go and fish it out of the archives,' Caroline is saying across the office, and my

head pops up.

The archive room. Of course. Of course! No-one goes to the archive room unless they

absolutely have to. It's way down in the basement, and it's all dark with no windows and loads

of old books and magazines, and you end up grovelling on the floor to get what you want.

It's perfect.

'I'll go,' I say, trying to sound nonchalant. 'If you like. What do you have to find?'

'Would you?' says Caroline gratefully. 'Thanks, Emma. It's an old ad in some defunct

magazine. This is the reference…' She hands me a piece of paper and I take it, feeling a thrill

of excitement. As she walks away, I demurely pick up my phone and dial Connor's number.

'Hey Connor,' I say in a low, husky voice. 'Meet me in the archive room. I've got something I

want to show you.'

'What?'

'Just… be there,' I say, feeling like Sharon Stone.

Ha! Office shag here I come!

I hurry down the corridor as quickly as I can, but as I pass Admin I'm accosted by Wendy

Smith, who wants to know if I'd like to play in the netball team. So I don't actually get to the

basement for a few minutes, and when I open the door, Connor is standing there, looking at

his watch.

That's rather annoying. I'd planned to be waiting for him. I was going to be sitting on a pile of

books which I would have quickly constructed, one leg crossed over the other and my skirt

hitched up seductively.

Oh well.

'Hi,' I say, in the same husky voice.

'Hi,' says Connor, with a frown. 'Emma, what is this? I'm really busy this morning.'

'I just wanted to see you. A lot of you.' I push the door shut with an abandoned gesture and

trail my finger down his chest, like an aftershave commercial. 'We never make love

spontaneously any more.'

'What?' Connor stares at me.

'Come on.' I start unbuttoning his shirt with a sultry expression. 'Let's do it. Right here, right

now.'

'Are you crazy?' says Connor, pushing my fingers out of the way and hastily rebuttoning his

shirt. 'Emma, we're in the office!'

'So what? We're young, we're supposed to be in love…' I trail a hand even further down, and

Connor's eyes widen.

'Stop!' he hisses. 'Stop right now! Emma, are you drunk or something?'

'I just want to have sex! Is that too much to ask?'

'Is it too much to ask that we do it in bed like normal people?'

'But we don't do it in bed! I mean, hardly ever!'

There's a sharp silence.

'Emma,' says Connor at last. 'This isn't the time or the place-'

'It is! It could be! This is how we get the spark back! Lissy said-'