Can You Keep A Secret?

revolting, lurid man-made-fibre costumes I've ever seen. Worse than the party shop. Where

did he get these from?

'No,' I say in panic. 'Really. I'd rather stay as I am.'

'Everybody has to wear a costume,' says Cyril firmly. 'It was in the memo!'

'But… but this is a costume!' I quickly gesture to my dress. 'I forgot to say. It's um… a

twenties summer garden-party costume, very authentic…'

'Emma, this is a fun day,' snaps Cyril. 'And part of that fun derives from seeing our fellow

employees and family in amusing outfits. Which reminds me, where is your family?'

'Oh.' I pull the regretful face I've been practising all week. 'They… actually, they couldn't

make it.'

Which could be because I didn't tell them anything about it.

'You did tell them about it?' He eyes me suspiciously. 'You sent them the leaflet?'

'Yes!' I cross my fingers behind my back. 'Of course I told them. They would have loved to be

here!'

'Well. You'll have to mingle with other families and colleagues. Here we are. Snow White.'

He shoves a horrendous nylon dress with puffy sleeves towards me.

'I don't want to be Snow White-' I begin, then break off as I see Moira from Accounts

miserably being pushed into a big shaggy gorilla costume. 'OK.' I grab the dress. 'I'll be Snow

White.'

I almost want to cry. My beautiful flattering dress is lying in a calico bag, ready for collection

at the end of the day. And I am wearing an outfit which makes me look like a six-year-old. A

six-year-old with zero taste and colour-blindness.

As I emerge disconsolately from the tent, the band is briskly playing the 'Oom-pa-pa' song

from Oliver, and someone is making an incomprehensible, crackly announcement over the

loudspeaker. I look around, squinting against the sun, trying to work out who everyone is

behind their disguises. I spot Paul walking along on the grass, dressed as a pirate, with three

small children hanging off his legs.

'Uncle Paul! Uncle Paul!' one is shrieking. 'Do your scary face again!'

'I want a lolly!' yells another. 'Uncle Paul, I want a lolleeee!'

'Hi, Paul,' I say miserably. 'Are you having a good time?'

'Whoever invented Corporate Family Days should be shot,' he says without a flicker of

humour. 'Get the hell off my foot!' he snaps at one of the children, and they all shriek with

delighted laughter.

'Mummy, I don't need to spend a penny,' mutters Artemis, as she walks by dressed as a

mermaid, in the company of a commanding woman in a huge hat.

'Artemis, there's no need to be so touchy!' booms the woman.

This is so weird. People with their families are completely different. Thank God mine aren't

here.

I wonder where Jack is. Maybe he's in the house. Maybe I should-

'Emma!' I look up, and see Katie heading towards me. She's dressed in a totally bizarre carrot

costume, holding the arm of an elderly man with grey hair. Who must be her father, I suppose.

Which is a bit weird, because I thought she said she was coming with-

'Emma, this is Phillip!' she says radiantly. 'Phillip, meet my friend Emma. She's the one who

brought us together!'

Wh— what?

No. I don't believe it.

This is her new man? This is Phillip? But he has to be at least seventy!

In a total blur, I shake his hand, which is dry and papery, just like Grandpa's, and manage to

make a bit of small talk about the weather. But all the time, I'm in total shock.

Don't get me wrong. I am not ageist. I am not anything-ist. I think people are all the same,

whether they're black or white, male or female, young or-

But he's an old man! He's old!

'Isn't he lovely?' says Katie fondly, as he goes off to get some drinks. 'He's so thoughtful.

Nothing's too much trouble. I've never been out with a man like him before!'

'I can believe that,' I say, my voice a little strangled. 'What exactly is the age gap between you

two?'

'I'm not sure,' says Katie in surprise. 'I've never asked. Why?'

Her face is shiny and happy and totally oblivious. Has she not noticed how old he is?

'No reason!' I clear my throat. 'So… er… remind me. Where exactly did you meet Phillip

again?'

'You know, silly!' says Katie, mock-chidingly. 'You suggested I should try somewhere

different for lunch, remember? Well, I found this really unusual place, tucked away in a little

street. In fact, I really recommend it.'

'Is it… a restaurant? A cafe?'

'Not exactly,' she says thoughtfully. 'I've never been anywhere like it before. You go in and

someone gives you a tray, and you collect your lunch and then eat it, sitting at all these tables.

And it only costs two pounds! And afterwards they have free entertainment! Like sometimes

it's bingo or whist… sometimes it's a singsong round the piano. One time they had this

brilliant tea dance! I've made loads of new friends.'

I stare at her for a few silent seconds.

'Katie,' I say at last. 'This place. It couldn't possibly be — a day care centre for the elderly?'

'Oh!' she says, looking taken aback. 'Erm…'

'Try and think. Is everyone who goes there on the… old side?'

'Gosh,' she says slowly, and screws up her brow. 'Now you mention it, I suppose everyone is

kind of quite… mature. But honestly Emma, you should come along.' Her face brightens. 'We

have a real laugh!'

'You're still going there?' I stare at her.

'I go every day,' she says in surprise. I'm on the social committee.'

'Hello again!' says Phillip cheerily, reappearing with three glasses. He beams at Katie and

gives her a kiss on the cheek, and she beams back. And suddenly I feel quite heart-warmed.

OK, it's weird. But they do seem to make a really sweet couple.

'The man behind the stall seemed rather stressed out, poor chap,' says Phillip, as I take my

first delicious sip of Pimm's, closing my eyes to savour it.

Mmm. There is absolutely nothing nicer on a summer's day than a nice cold glass of-

Hang on a minute. My eyes open. Pimm's.

Shit. I promised to do the Pimm's stall with Connor, didn't I? I glance at my watch and realize

I'm already ten minutes late. Oh, bloody hell. No wonder he's stressed out.

I hastily apologize to Phillip and Katie, then hurry as fast as I can to the stall, which is in the

corner of the garden. There I find Connor manfully coping with a huge queue all on his own.

He's dressed as Henry VIII, with puffy sleeves and breeches, and has a huge red beard stuck

to his face. He must be absolutely boiling.

'Sorry,' I mutter, sliding in beside him. 'I had to get into my costume. What do I have to do?'

'Pour out glasses of Pimm's,' says Connor curtly. 'One pound fifty each. Do you think you can

manage?'

'Yes!' I say, a bit nettled. 'Of course I can manage!'