'Emma, you weren't a moron,' says Lissy, putting a sympathetic hand on mine. 'You were just trusting.'
'Trusting — moron — it's the same thing.'
'You must know something!' says Jemima. 'You slept with him, for goodness sake! He must have some secret. Some weak point.'
'An Achilles' heel,' puts in Lissy, and Jemima gives her an odd look.
'It doesn't have to be to do with his feet,' she says, and turns to me, pulling a 'Lissy's lost it' face. 'It could be anything. Anything at all. Think back!'
I close my eyes obediently and cast my mind back. But my mind's swirling a bit, from all that schnapps. Secrets … Jack's secrets … think back …
Scotland. Suddenly a coherent thought passes through my mind. I open my eyes, feeling a tingle of exhilaration. I do know one of his secrets. I do!
'What?' says Jemima avidly. 'Have you remembered something?'
'He …' I stop, feeling torn.
I did make a promise to Jack. I did promise.
But then, so what? So bloody what? My chest swells in emotion again. Why on earth am I keeping any stupid promise to him? It's not like he kept my secrets to himself, is it?
'He was in Scotland!' I say triumphantly. 'The first time we met after the plane, he asked me to keep it a secret that he was in Scotland.'
'Why did he do that?' says Lissy.
'I dunno.'
'What was he doing in Scotland?' puts in Jemima.
'I dunno.'
There's a pause.
'Hmm,' says Jemima kindly. 'It's not the most embarrassing secret in the world, is it? I mean, plenty of smart people live in Scotland. Haven't you got anything better? Like … does he wear a chest wig?'
'A chest wig!' Lissy gives an explosive snort of laughter. 'Or a toupee!'
'Of course he doesn't wear a chest wig. Or a toupee,' I retort indignantly. Do they honestly think I'd go out with a man who wore a toupee?
'Well then, you'll have to make something up,' says Jemima. 'You know, before the affair with the scientist, Mummy was treated very badly by some politician chap. So she made up a rumour that he was taking bribes from the Communist party, and passed it round the House of Commons. She always says, that taught Dennis a lesson!'
'Not … Dennis Llewellyn?' Lissy says.
'Er, yes, I think that was him.'
'The disgraced Home Secretary?' Lissy looks aghast. 'The one who spent his whole life fighting to clear his name and ended up in a mental institution?'
'Well, he shouldn't have messed Mummy around, should he?' says Jemima, sticking out her chin. A bleeper goes off in her pocket. 'Time for my footbath!'
As she disappears back into the house, Lissy rolls her eyes.
'She's nuts,' she says. 'Totally nuts. Emma, you are not making anything up about Jack Harper.'
'I won't make anything up!' I say indignantly. 'Who do you think I am? Anyway.' I stare into my schnapps, feeling my exhilaration fade away. 'Who am I kidding? I could never get my revenge on Jack. I could never hurt him. He doesn't have any weak points. He's a huge, powerful millionaire.' I take a miserable slug of my drink. 'And I'm a nothing-special … crappy … ordinary … nothing.'
TWENTY-ONE
The next morning I wake up full of sick dread. I feel exactly like a five-year-old who doesn't want to go to school. A five-year-old with a severe hangover, that is.
'I can't go,' I say, as 8.30 arrives. 'I can't face them.'
'Yes you can,' says Lissy reassuringly, doing up my jacket buttons. 'It'll be fine. Just keep your chin up.'
'What if they're horrid to me?'
'They won't be horrid to you. They're your friends. Anyway, they'll probably all have forgotten about it by now.'
'They won't! Can't I just stay at home with you?' I grab her hand beseechingly. 'I'll be really good, I promise.'
'Emma, I've explained to you,' says Lissy patiently. 'I've got to go to court today.'
She prises my hand out of hers. 'But I'll be here when you get home. And we'll have something really nice for supper. OK?'
'OK,' I say in a small voice. 'Can we have chocolate ice-cream?'
'Of course we can,' says Lissy, opening the front door of our flat. 'Now, go on. You'll be fine!'
Feeling like a dog being shooed out, I go down the stairs and open the front door. I'm just stepping out of the house when a van pulls up at the side of the road. A man gets out in a blue uniform, holding the biggest bunch of flowers I've ever seen, all tied up with dark green ribbon, and squints at the number on our house.
'Hello,' he says. 'I'm looking for an Emma Corrigan.'
'That's me!' I say in surprise.
'Aha!' He smiles, and holds out a pen and clipboard. 'Well, this is your lucky day. If you could just sign here …'
I stare at the bouquet in disbelief. Roses, freesias, amazing big purple flowers … fantastic dark red pompom things … dark green frondy bits … pale green ones which look just like asparagus …