Can You Keep A Secret?

you crazy?'

'Of course I'm not crazy!'

'I knew you fancied him,' says Lissy for about the millionth time. 'I knew it. Right from the

moment you started talking about him.' She looks at my reflection. 'I'd leave that right

eyebrow alone now.'

'Really?' I peer at my face.

'Emma, you don't tell men all about yourself! You have to keep something back! Mummy

always told me, you should never let a man see your feelings or the contents of your handbag.'

'Well, too late,' I say, slightly defiantly. 'He's seen it all.'

'Then it's never going to work,' says Jemima. 'He'll never respect you.'

'Yes he will.'

'Emma,' says Jemima, almost pityingly. 'Don't you understand? You've already lost.'

'I haven't lost!'

Sometimes I think Jemima sees men not as people, but as alien robots, who must be

conquered by any means possible.

'You're not being very helpful, Jemima,' puts in Lissy. 'Come on. You've been on loads of

dates with rich businessmen. You must have some good advice!'

'All right.' Jemima sighs, and puts her bag down. 'It's a hopeless cause, but I'll do my best.'

She starts ticking off on her fingers. 'The first thing is to look as well groomed as possible.'

'Why do you think I'm plucking my eyebrows?' I say with a grimace.

'Fine. OK, the next thing is, you can show an interest in his hobbies. What does he like?'

'Dunno. Cars, I think. He has all these vintage cars on his ranch, apparently.'

'Well then!' Jemima brightens. 'That's good. Pretend you like cars, suggest visiting a car show.

You could flick through a car magazine on the way there.'

'I can't,' I say, taking a glug from my pre-date relaxer glass of Harvey's Bristol Cream. 'I told

him on the plane that I hate vintage cars.'

'You did what?' Jemima looks as if she wants to hit me. 'You told the man you're dating that

you hate his favourite hobby?'

'I didn't know I would be going on a date with him then, did I?' I say defensively, reaching for

my foundation. 'And anyway, it's the truth. I hate vintage cars. The people in them always

look so smug and pleased with themselves.'

'What's the truth got to do with anything?' Jemima's voice rises in agitation. 'Emma, I'm sorry,

I can't help you. This is a disaster. You're completely vulnerable. It's like going into battle in a

nightie.'

'Jemima, this is not a battle,' I retort, rolling my eyes. 'And it's not a chess game. It's dinner

with a nice man!'

'You're so cynical, Jemima,' chimes in Lissy. 'I think it's really romantic! They're going to

have the perfect date, because there won't be any of that awkwardness. He knows what Emma

likes. He knows what she's interested in. They're obviously already completely compatible.'

'Well, I wash my hands of it,' says Jemima, still shaking her head. 'What are you going to

wear?' Her eyes narrow. 'Where's your outfit?'

'My black dress,' I say innocently. 'And my strappy sandals.' I gesture to the back of the door,

where my black dress is hanging up.

Jemima's eyes narrow even further. She would have made a really good SS officer, I often

think.

'You're not going to borrow anything of mine.'

'No!' I say indignantly. 'Honestly Jemima, I do have my own clothes, you know.'

'Fine. Well. Have a good time.'

Lissy and I wait until her footsteps have tapped down the corridor and the front door has

slammed.

'Right!' I say excitedly, but Lissy lifts a hand.

'Wait.'

We both sit completely still for a couple of minutes. Then we hear the sound of the front door

being opened very quietly.

'She's trying to catch us out,' hisses Lissy. 'Hi!' she says, raising her voice. 'Is anyone there?'

'Oh hi,' says Jemima, appearing at the door of the room. 'I forgot my lip-gloss.' Her eyes do a

quick sweep of the room.

'I don't think you'll find it in here,' says Lissy innocently.

'No. Well.' Her eyes travel suspiciously round the room again. 'OK. Have a nice evening.'

Again her footsteps tap down the corridor, and again the front door slams.

'Right!' says Lissy. 'Let's go.'

We unpeel the Sellotape from Jemima's door, and Lissy makes a little mark where it was.

'Wait!' she says, as I'm about to push the door open. 'There's another one at the bottom.'

'You should have been a spy,' I say, watching her carefully peel it off.

'OK,' she says, her brow furrowed in concentration. 'There have to be some more booby traps.'

'There's Sellotape on the wardrobe, too,' I say. 'And… Oh my God!' I point up. A glass of

water is balanced on top of the wardrobe, ready to drench us if we open the door.

'That cow!' says Lissy as I reach up for it. 'You know, I had to spend all evening fielding calls

for her the other night, and she wasn't even grateful.'

She waits until I've put the water down safely, then reaches for the door. 'Ready?'

'Ready.'

Lissy takes a deep breath, then opens the wardrobe door. Immediately, a loud, piercing siren

begins to wail. 'Wee-oo wee-oo wee-oo…'

'Shit!' she says, banging the door shut. 'Shit! How did she do that?'

'It's still going!' I say agitatedly. 'Make it stop. Make it stop!'

'I don't know how to! You probably need a special code!'

We're both jabbing frantically at the wardrobe, patting it, searching for an off-switch.

'I can't see a button, or a switch or anything…'

Abruptly the noise stops, and we stare at each other, panting slightly.

'Actually,' says Lissy after a long pause. 'Actually, I think that might have been a car alarm

outside.'

'Oh,' I say. 'Oh right. Yes, maybe it was.'

Looking a bit sheepish, Lissy reaches for the door again, and this time it's silent. 'OK,' she

says. 'Here goes.'

'Wow,' we breathe as one as she swings the door open.

Jemima's wardrobe is like a treasure chest. It's like a Christmas stocking. It's new, shiny,

gorgeous clothes, one after another, all neatly folded and hung on scented hangers, like in a

shop. All the shoes in shoe-boxes with Polaroids on the front. All the belts hanging neatly

from hooks. All the bags are neatly lined up on a shelf. It's a while since I borrowed anything

from Jemima, and every single item seems to have changed since then.

'She must spend about an hour a day keeping this tidy,' I say with a slight sigh, thinking of the

jumble of my own wardrobe.

'She does,' says Lissy. 'I've seen her.'

Mind you, Lissy's wardrobe is even worse. It consists of a chair in her room, on which