teenagers were questioned on aspects of the Panther Bar. Unfortunately, the results were
inconclusive.'
He presses his remote control. A graph appears on the screen behind him, and we all stare at it
obediently.
'Seventy-four per cent of 10-14-year-olds felt the texture could be more chewy,' says Connor
earnestly. 'However, 67 per cent of 15-18-year-olds felt the texture could be more crunchy,
while 22 per cent felt it could be less crunchy…'
I glance over Artemis's shoulder and see she's written 'Chewy/crunchy??' on her notepad.
Connor presses the remote control again, and another graph appears.
'Now, 46 per cent of 10-14-year-olds felt the flavour was too tangy. However, 33 per cent of
15-18-year-olds felt it was not tangy enough, while…'
Oh God. I know it's Connor. And I love him and everything. But can't he make this sound a
bit more interesting?
I glance over to see how Jack Harper is taking it and he raises his eyebrows at me.
Immediately I flush, feeling disloyal.
He'll think I was laughing at Connor. Which I wasn't. I wasn't.
'And 90 per cent of female teenagers would prefer the calorie content to be reduced,' Connor
concludes. 'But the same proportion would also like to see a thicker chocolate coating.' He
gives a helpless shrug.
'They don't know what the hell they want,' says someone.
'We polled a broad cross-section of teenagers,' says Connor, 'including Caucasians, Afro-
Caribbeans, Asians, and… er…' he peers at the paper. 'Jedi knights.'
'Teenagers!' says Artemis, rolling her eyes.
'Briefly remind us of our target market, Connor,' says Paul with a frown.
'Our target market…' Connor consults another clipboard, 'is aged 10— 18, in full or part time
education. He/she drinks Panther Cola four times a week, eats burgers three times a week,
visits the cinema twice a week, reads magazines and comics but not books, is most likely to
agree with the lifestyle statement "It's more important to be cool than rich"…' he looks up.
'Shall I go on?'
'Does he/she eat toast for breakfast?' says somebody thoughtfully. 'Or cereal?'
'I… I'm not sure,' says Connor, riffling quickly through his pages. 'We could do some more
research…'
'I think we get the picture,' says Paul. 'Does anyone have any thoughts on this?'
All this time, I've been plucking up courage to speak, and now I take a deep breath.
'You know, my grandpa really likes Panther Bars!' I say. Everyone swivels in their chairs to
look at me, and I feel my face grow hot.
'What relevance does that have?' says Paul with a frown.
'I just thought I could…' I swallow. 'I could maybe ask him what he thinks…'
'With all due respect, Emma,' says Connor, with a smile which verges on patronizing, 'your
grandfather is hardly in our target demographic!'
'Unless he started very young,' quips Artemis.
I flush, feeling stupid, and pretend to be reorganizing the teabags.
To be honest, I feel a bit hurt. Why did Connor have to say that? I know he wants to be all
professional and proper when we're at work. But that's not the same as being mean, is it? I'd
always stick up for him.
'My own view,' Artemis is saying, 'is that if the Panther Bar isn't performing, we should axe it.
It's quite obviously a problem child.'
I look up in slight dismay. They can't axe the Panther Bar! What will Grandpa take to his
bowling tournaments?
'Surely a fully cost-based, customer-oriented re-branding-' begins somebody.
'I disagree.' Artemis leans forward. 'If we're going to maximise our concept innovation in a
functional and logistical way, then surely we need to focus on our strategic competencies-'
'Excuse me,' says Jack Harper, lifting a hand. It's the first time he's spoken, and everyone
turns to look. There's a prickle of anticipation in the air, and Artemis glows smugly. 'Yes, Mr
Harper?' she says.
'I have no idea what you're talking about,' he says.
The whole room reverberates in shock, and I give a snort of laughter without quite meaning to.
'As you know, I've been out of the business arena for a while.' He smiles. 'Could you please
translate what you just said into standard English?'
'Oh,' says Artemis, looking discomfited. 'Well, I was simply saying, that from a strategic point
of view, notwithstanding our corporate vision…' she tails off at his expression.
'Try again,' he says kindly. 'Without using the word strategic.'
'Oh,' says Artemis again, and rubs her nose. 'Well, I was just saying that… we should…
concentrate on… on what we do well.'
'Ah!' Jack Harper's eyes gleam. 'Now I understand. Please, carry on.'
He glances at me, rolls his eyes and grins, and I can't help giving a tiny grin back.
After the meeting, people trickle out of the room, still talking, and I go round the table,
picking up coffee cups.
'It was very good to meet you, Mr Harper,' I can hear Connor saying eagerly. 'If you'd like a
transcript of my presentation…'
'You know, I don't think that will be necessary,' Jack says in that dry, quizzical voice. 'I think
I more or less got the gist.'
Oh God. Doesn't Connor realize he's trying too hard?
I balance all the cups in precarious piles on the trolley, then start collecting up the biscuit
wrappers.
'Now, I'm due in the design studio right about now,' Jack Harper's saying, 'but I don't quite
remember where it is…'
'Emma!' says Paul sharply. 'Can you please show Jack to the design studio? You can clear up
the rest of the coffee later.'
I freeze, clutching an orange cream wrapper.
Please, no more.
'Of course,' I manage at last. 'It would be a… pleasure. This way.'
Awkwardly, I usher Jack Harper out of the meeting room and we begin to walk down the
corridor, side by side. My face is tingling slightly as people try not to stare at us, and I'm
aware of everyone else in the corridor turning into self-conscious robots as soon as they see
him. People in adjacent offices are nudging each other excitedly, and I hear at least one
person hissing 'He's coming!'
Is it like this everywhere Jack Harper goes?
'So,' he says conversationally after a while. 'You're moving in with Ken.'
'It's Connor,' I say. 'And yes.'
'Looking forward to it?'
'Yes. Yes, lam.'
We've reached the lifts and I press the button. I can feel his quizzical eyes on me. I can feel
them.
'What?' I say defensively, turning to look at him.
'Did I say anything?' He raises his eyebrows. As I see the expression on his face I feel stung.
What does he know about it?
'I know what you're thinking,' I say, lifting my chin defiantly. 'But you're quite wrong.'
'I'm wrong?'
'Yes! You're… misapprehended.'
'Misapprehended?'
He looks as if he wants to laugh, and a small voice inside my head is telling me to stop. But I
can't. I have to explain to him how it is.
'Look. I know I might have made certain… comments to you on the plane,' I begin, clenching
my fists tightly at my side. 'But what you have to know is that that conversation took place
under duress, in extreme circumstances, and I said a lot of things I didn't really mean. A lot of
things, actually!'
There! That tells him.
'I see,' says Jack thoughtfully. 'So… you don't like double chocolate chip Haagen-Dazs icecream.'
I gaze at him, discomfited.
'I…' I clear my throat several times. 'Some things, obviously, I did mean-'
The lift doors ping, and both our heads jerk up.
'Jack!' says Cyril, standing on the other side of the doors. 'I wondered where you were.'
'I've been having a nice chat with Emma here,' says Jack. 'She kindly offered to show me the
way.'
'Ah.' Cyril's eyes run dismissively over me. 'Well, they're waiting for you in the studio.'
'So, um… I'll just go, then,' I say awkwardly.
'See you later,' says Jack with a grin. 'Good talking to you, Emma.'
NINE
TEN
inconclusive.'
He presses his remote control. A graph appears on the screen behind him, and we all stare at it
obediently.
'Seventy-four per cent of 10-14-year-olds felt the texture could be more chewy,' says Connor
earnestly. 'However, 67 per cent of 15-18-year-olds felt the texture could be more crunchy,
while 22 per cent felt it could be less crunchy…'
I glance over Artemis's shoulder and see she's written 'Chewy/crunchy??' on her notepad.
Connor presses the remote control again, and another graph appears.
'Now, 46 per cent of 10-14-year-olds felt the flavour was too tangy. However, 33 per cent of
15-18-year-olds felt it was not tangy enough, while…'
Oh God. I know it's Connor. And I love him and everything. But can't he make this sound a
bit more interesting?
I glance over to see how Jack Harper is taking it and he raises his eyebrows at me.
Immediately I flush, feeling disloyal.
He'll think I was laughing at Connor. Which I wasn't. I wasn't.
'And 90 per cent of female teenagers would prefer the calorie content to be reduced,' Connor
concludes. 'But the same proportion would also like to see a thicker chocolate coating.' He
gives a helpless shrug.
'They don't know what the hell they want,' says someone.
'We polled a broad cross-section of teenagers,' says Connor, 'including Caucasians, Afro-
Caribbeans, Asians, and… er…' he peers at the paper. 'Jedi knights.'
'Teenagers!' says Artemis, rolling her eyes.
'Briefly remind us of our target market, Connor,' says Paul with a frown.
'Our target market…' Connor consults another clipboard, 'is aged 10— 18, in full or part time
education. He/she drinks Panther Cola four times a week, eats burgers three times a week,
visits the cinema twice a week, reads magazines and comics but not books, is most likely to
agree with the lifestyle statement "It's more important to be cool than rich"…' he looks up.
'Shall I go on?'
'Does he/she eat toast for breakfast?' says somebody thoughtfully. 'Or cereal?'
'I… I'm not sure,' says Connor, riffling quickly through his pages. 'We could do some more
research…'
'I think we get the picture,' says Paul. 'Does anyone have any thoughts on this?'
All this time, I've been plucking up courage to speak, and now I take a deep breath.
'You know, my grandpa really likes Panther Bars!' I say. Everyone swivels in their chairs to
look at me, and I feel my face grow hot.
'What relevance does that have?' says Paul with a frown.
'I just thought I could…' I swallow. 'I could maybe ask him what he thinks…'
'With all due respect, Emma,' says Connor, with a smile which verges on patronizing, 'your
grandfather is hardly in our target demographic!'
'Unless he started very young,' quips Artemis.
I flush, feeling stupid, and pretend to be reorganizing the teabags.
To be honest, I feel a bit hurt. Why did Connor have to say that? I know he wants to be all
professional and proper when we're at work. But that's not the same as being mean, is it? I'd
always stick up for him.
'My own view,' Artemis is saying, 'is that if the Panther Bar isn't performing, we should axe it.
It's quite obviously a problem child.'
I look up in slight dismay. They can't axe the Panther Bar! What will Grandpa take to his
bowling tournaments?
'Surely a fully cost-based, customer-oriented re-branding-' begins somebody.
'I disagree.' Artemis leans forward. 'If we're going to maximise our concept innovation in a
functional and logistical way, then surely we need to focus on our strategic competencies-'
'Excuse me,' says Jack Harper, lifting a hand. It's the first time he's spoken, and everyone
turns to look. There's a prickle of anticipation in the air, and Artemis glows smugly. 'Yes, Mr
Harper?' she says.
'I have no idea what you're talking about,' he says.
The whole room reverberates in shock, and I give a snort of laughter without quite meaning to.
'As you know, I've been out of the business arena for a while.' He smiles. 'Could you please
translate what you just said into standard English?'
'Oh,' says Artemis, looking discomfited. 'Well, I was simply saying, that from a strategic point
of view, notwithstanding our corporate vision…' she tails off at his expression.
'Try again,' he says kindly. 'Without using the word strategic.'
'Oh,' says Artemis again, and rubs her nose. 'Well, I was just saying that… we should…
concentrate on… on what we do well.'
'Ah!' Jack Harper's eyes gleam. 'Now I understand. Please, carry on.'
He glances at me, rolls his eyes and grins, and I can't help giving a tiny grin back.
After the meeting, people trickle out of the room, still talking, and I go round the table,
picking up coffee cups.
'It was very good to meet you, Mr Harper,' I can hear Connor saying eagerly. 'If you'd like a
transcript of my presentation…'
'You know, I don't think that will be necessary,' Jack says in that dry, quizzical voice. 'I think
I more or less got the gist.'
Oh God. Doesn't Connor realize he's trying too hard?
I balance all the cups in precarious piles on the trolley, then start collecting up the biscuit
wrappers.
'Now, I'm due in the design studio right about now,' Jack Harper's saying, 'but I don't quite
remember where it is…'
'Emma!' says Paul sharply. 'Can you please show Jack to the design studio? You can clear up
the rest of the coffee later.'
I freeze, clutching an orange cream wrapper.
Please, no more.
'Of course,' I manage at last. 'It would be a… pleasure. This way.'
Awkwardly, I usher Jack Harper out of the meeting room and we begin to walk down the
corridor, side by side. My face is tingling slightly as people try not to stare at us, and I'm
aware of everyone else in the corridor turning into self-conscious robots as soon as they see
him. People in adjacent offices are nudging each other excitedly, and I hear at least one
person hissing 'He's coming!'
Is it like this everywhere Jack Harper goes?
'So,' he says conversationally after a while. 'You're moving in with Ken.'
'It's Connor,' I say. 'And yes.'
'Looking forward to it?'
'Yes. Yes, lam.'
We've reached the lifts and I press the button. I can feel his quizzical eyes on me. I can feel
them.
'What?' I say defensively, turning to look at him.
'Did I say anything?' He raises his eyebrows. As I see the expression on his face I feel stung.
What does he know about it?
'I know what you're thinking,' I say, lifting my chin defiantly. 'But you're quite wrong.'
'I'm wrong?'
'Yes! You're… misapprehended.'
'Misapprehended?'
He looks as if he wants to laugh, and a small voice inside my head is telling me to stop. But I
can't. I have to explain to him how it is.
'Look. I know I might have made certain… comments to you on the plane,' I begin, clenching
my fists tightly at my side. 'But what you have to know is that that conversation took place
under duress, in extreme circumstances, and I said a lot of things I didn't really mean. A lot of
things, actually!'
There! That tells him.
'I see,' says Jack thoughtfully. 'So… you don't like double chocolate chip Haagen-Dazs icecream.'
I gaze at him, discomfited.
'I…' I clear my throat several times. 'Some things, obviously, I did mean-'
The lift doors ping, and both our heads jerk up.
'Jack!' says Cyril, standing on the other side of the doors. 'I wondered where you were.'
'I've been having a nice chat with Emma here,' says Jack. 'She kindly offered to show me the
way.'
'Ah.' Cyril's eyes run dismissively over me. 'Well, they're waiting for you in the studio.'
'So, um… I'll just go, then,' I say awkwardly.
'See you later,' says Jack with a grin. 'Good talking to you, Emma.'
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-'
'You discussed our sex life with Lissy?' Connor looks aghast.
'Obviously I didn't mention us,' I say, hastily backtracking. 'We were just talking about…
about couples in general, and she said doing it at work can be… sexy! Come on, Connor!' I
shimmy close to him and pull one of his hands inside my bra. 'Don't you find this exciting?
Just the thought that someone could be walking down the corridor right now…' I come to a
halt as I hear a sound.
I think someone is walking down the corridor right now.
Oh shit.
'I can hear footsteps!' Connor hisses, and pulls sharply away from me, but his hand stays
exactly where it is, inside my bra. He stares at it in horror. 'I'm stuck! My bloody watch. It's
snagged on your jumper!' He yanks at it. 'Fuck! I can't move my arm!'
'Pull it!'
'I am pulling it!' He looks frantically around. 'Where are some scissors?'
'You're not cutting my jumper,' I say in horror.
'Do you have any other suggestions?' He yanks sharply again, and I give a muffled shriek.
'Ow! Stop it! You'll ruin it!'
'Oh I'll ruin it. And that's our major concern, is it?'
'I've always hated that stupid watch! If you'd just worn the one I gave you-'
I break off. There are definitely footsteps approaching. They're nearly outside the door.
'Fuck!' Connor's looking around distractedly. 'Fucking… fucking…'
'Calm down! We'll just shuffle into the corner,' I hiss. 'Anyway, they might not even come in.'
'This was a great idea, Emma,' he mutters furiously, as we do a hasty, awkward shuffle across
the room together. 'Really great.'
'Don't blame me!' I retort. 'I just wanted to get a bit of passion back into our-' I freeze as the
door opens.
No. God, no.
I feel lightheaded with shock.
Jack Harper is standing in the doorway, holding a big bundle of old magazines.
Slowly, his eyes run over us, taking in Connor's angry expression, his hand inside my bra, my
agonized face.
'Mr Harper,' Connor begins to stutter. 'I'm so very, very sorry. We're… we didn't…' He
clears his throat. 'Can I just say how mortified I am… we both are…'
'I'm sure you are,' says Jack. His face is blank and unreadable; his voice as dry as ever.
'Perhaps the pair of you could adjust your dress before returning to your desks?'
The door closes behind him, and we stand motionless, like waxworks.
'Look, can you just get your bloody hand out of my top?' I say at last, suddenly feeling
irritated beyond belief with Connor. All my desire for sex has vanished. I feel completely
livid with myself. And Connor. And everybody.
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-'
'You discussed our sex life with Lissy?' Connor looks aghast.
'Obviously I didn't mention us,' I say, hastily backtracking. 'We were just talking about…
about couples in general, and she said doing it at work can be… sexy! Come on, Connor!' I
shimmy close to him and pull one of his hands inside my bra. 'Don't you find this exciting?
Just the thought that someone could be walking down the corridor right now…' I come to a
halt as I hear a sound.
I think someone is walking down the corridor right now.
Oh shit.
'I can hear footsteps!' Connor hisses, and pulls sharply away from me, but his hand stays
exactly where it is, inside my bra. He stares at it in horror. 'I'm stuck! My bloody watch. It's
snagged on your jumper!' He yanks at it. 'Fuck! I can't move my arm!'
'Pull it!'
'I am pulling it!' He looks frantically around. 'Where are some scissors?'
'You're not cutting my jumper,' I say in horror.
'Do you have any other suggestions?' He yanks sharply again, and I give a muffled shriek.
'Ow! Stop it! You'll ruin it!'
'Oh I'll ruin it. And that's our major concern, is it?'
'I've always hated that stupid watch! If you'd just worn the one I gave you-'
I break off. There are definitely footsteps approaching. They're nearly outside the door.
'Fuck!' Connor's looking around distractedly. 'Fucking… fucking…'
'Calm down! We'll just shuffle into the corner,' I hiss. 'Anyway, they might not even come in.'
'This was a great idea, Emma,' he mutters furiously, as we do a hasty, awkward shuffle across
the room together. 'Really great.'
'Don't blame me!' I retort. 'I just wanted to get a bit of passion back into our-' I freeze as the
door opens.
No. God, no.
I feel lightheaded with shock.
Jack Harper is standing in the doorway, holding a big bundle of old magazines.
Slowly, his eyes run over us, taking in Connor's angry expression, his hand inside my bra, my
agonized face.
'Mr Harper,' Connor begins to stutter. 'I'm so very, very sorry. We're… we didn't…' He
clears his throat. 'Can I just say how mortified I am… we both are…'
'I'm sure you are,' says Jack. His face is blank and unreadable; his voice as dry as ever.
'Perhaps the pair of you could adjust your dress before returning to your desks?'
The door closes behind him, and we stand motionless, like waxworks.
'Look, can you just get your bloody hand out of my top?' I say at last, suddenly feeling
irritated beyond belief with Connor. All my desire for sex has vanished. I feel completely
livid with myself. And Connor. And everybody.
TEN
Jack Harper leaves today.
Thank God. Thank God. Because I really couldn't cope with any more of… of him. If I can
just keep my head down and avoid him until five o'clock and then run out of the door, then
everything will be fine. Life will be back to normal and I will stop feeling as if my radar's
been skewed by some invisible magnetic force.
I don't know why I'm in such a jumpy, irritable mood. Because although I nearly died of
embarrassment yesterday, things are pretty good. First of all, it doesn't look like' Connor and I
are going to get the sack for having sex at work, which was my immediate fear. And secondly,
my brilliant plan worked. As soon as we got back to our desks, Connor started sending me
apologetic emails. And then last night we had sex. Twice. With scented candles.
I think Connor must have read somewhere that girls like scented candles during sex. Maybe in
Cosmo. Because every time he brings them out, he gives me this 'aren't I considerate?' look,
and I have to say 'Oh! Scented candles! How lovely!'
I mean, don't get me wrong. I don't mind scented candles. But it's not as if they actually do
anything, is it? They just stand there and burn. And then at crucial moments I find myself
thinking 'I hope the scented candle doesn't fall over', which is a bit distracting.
Anyway. So we had sex.
And tonight we're going to look at a flat together. It doesn't have a wooden floor or shutters -
but it has a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, which is pretty cool. So my life is coming together nicely.
I don't know why I'm feeling so pissed off. I don't know what's-
I don't want to move in with Connor, says a tiny voice in my brain before I can stop it.
No. That can't be right. That cannot possibly be right. Connor is perfect. Everyone knows that.
But I don't want to—
Shut up. We're the Perfect Couple. We have sex with scented candles. And we go for walks
by the river. And we read the papers on Sundays with cups of coffee in pyjamas. That's what
perfect couples do.
But—
Stop it!
I swallow hard. Connor is the one good thing in my life. If I didn't have Connor, what would I
have?
The phone rings on my desk, interrupting my thoughts, and I pick it up.
'Hello, Emma?' comes a familiar dry voice. 'This is Jack Harper.'
My heart gives an almighty leap of fright and I nearly spill my coffee. I haven't seen him
since the hand-in-bra incident. And I really don't want to.
I should never have answered my phone.
In fact, I should never have come into work today.
'Oh,' I say.'Er… hi!'
'Would you mind coming up to my office for a moment?'
'What… me?' I say nervously.
'Yes, you.'
I clear my throat.
'Should I… bring anything?'
'No, just yourself.'
He rings off, and I stare at my phone for a few moments, feeling a coldness in my spine. I
should have known it was too good to be true. He's going to fire me after all. Gross…
negligence… negligent grossness.
I mean, it is pretty gross, getting caught with your boyfriend's hand in your top at work.
OK. Well, there's nothing I can do.
I take a deep breath, stand up and make my way up to the eleventh floor. There's a desk
outside his door, but no secretary is sitting there, so I go straight up to the door and knock.
'Come in.'
Cautiously I push the door open. The room is huge and bright and panelled, and Jack is sitting
at a circular table with six people gathered round on chairs. Six people I've never seen before,
I suddenly realize. They're all holding pieces of paper and sipping water, and the atmosphere
is a bit tense.
Have they gathered to watch me being fired? Is this some kind of how-to-fire-people training?
'Hello,' I say, trying to keep as composed as possible. But my face is hot and I know I look
flustered.
'Hi.' Jack's face crinkles in a smile. 'Emma… relax. There's nothing to worry about. I just
wanted to ask you something.'
'Oh, right,' I say, taken aback.
OK, now I'm totally confused. What on earth could he have to ask me?
Jack reaches for a piece of paper and holds it up so I can see it clearly. 'What do you think this
is a picture of?' he says.
Oh fucketty fuck.
This is your worst nightmare. This is like when I went for that interview at Laines Bank and
they showed me a squiggle and I said I thought it looked like a squiggle.
Everyone is staring at me. I so want to get it right. If only I knew what right was.
I stare at the picture, my heart beating quickly. It's a graphic of two round objects. Kind of
irregular in shape. I have absolutely no idea what they're supposed to be. None at all. They
look like… they look like…
Suddenly I see it.
'It's nuts! Two walnuts!'
Jack explodes with laughter, and a couple of people give muffled giggles which they hastily
stifle.
'Well, I think that proves my point,' says Jack.
'Aren't they walnuts?' I look helplessly around the table.
'They're supposed to be ovaries,' says a man with rimless spectacles tightly.
'Ovaries?' I stare at the page. 'Oh, right! Well, yes. Now you say it, I can definitely see a… an
ovary-like…'
'Walnuts.' Jack wipes his eyes.
'I've explained, the ovaries are simply part of a range of symbolic representations of
womanhood," says a thin guy defensively. 'Ovaries to represent fertility, an eye for wisdom,
this tree to signify the earth mother…'
'The point is, the images can be used across the entire range of products,' says a woman with
black hair, leaning forward. 'The health drink, clothing, a fragrance…'
'The target market responds well to abstract images,' adds Rimless Spectacle Guy. 'The
research has shown-'
'Emma.' Jack looks at me again. 'Would you buy a drink with ovaries on it?'
'Er…' I clear my throat, aware of a couple of hostile faces pointing my way. 'Well…
probably not.'
A few people exchange glances.
'This is so irrelevant,' someone is muttering.
'Jack, three creative teams have been at work at this,' the black-haired woman says earnestly.
'We can't start from scratch. We simply cannot.'
Jack takes a swig of water from an Evian bottle, wipes his mouth and looks at her.
'You know I came up with the slogan "Don't Pause" in two minutes on a bar napkin?'
'Yes, we know,' mutters the guy in rimless spectacles.
'We are not selling a drink with ovaries on it.' He exhales sharply, and runs a hand through his
dishevelled hair. Then he pushes his chair back. 'OK, let's take a break. Emma, would you be
kind enough to assist me in carrying some of these folders down to Sven's office?'
God, I wonder what all that was about. But I don't quite dare ask. Jack marches me down the
corridor, and into a lift and presses the ninth-floor button, without saying anything. After
we've descended for about two seconds he presses the emergency button, and we grind to a
halt. Then, finally, he looks at me.
'Are you and I the only sane people in this building?'
'Um…'
'What happened to instincts?' His face is incredulous. 'No-one knows a good idea from a
terrible one any more. Ovaries.' He shakes his head. 'Fucking ovaries!'
I can't help it. He looks so outraged, and the way he says 'ovaries!' suddenly seems the
funniest thing in the world, and before I know it, I've started laughing. For an instant Jack
looks astounded, and then his face kind of crumples, and suddenly he's laughing too. His nose
screws right up when he laughs, just like a baby's and somehow this makes it seem about a
Thank God. Thank God. Because I really couldn't cope with any more of… of him. If I can
just keep my head down and avoid him until five o'clock and then run out of the door, then
everything will be fine. Life will be back to normal and I will stop feeling as if my radar's
been skewed by some invisible magnetic force.
I don't know why I'm in such a jumpy, irritable mood. Because although I nearly died of
embarrassment yesterday, things are pretty good. First of all, it doesn't look like' Connor and I
are going to get the sack for having sex at work, which was my immediate fear. And secondly,
my brilliant plan worked. As soon as we got back to our desks, Connor started sending me
apologetic emails. And then last night we had sex. Twice. With scented candles.
I think Connor must have read somewhere that girls like scented candles during sex. Maybe in
Cosmo. Because every time he brings them out, he gives me this 'aren't I considerate?' look,
and I have to say 'Oh! Scented candles! How lovely!'
I mean, don't get me wrong. I don't mind scented candles. But it's not as if they actually do
anything, is it? They just stand there and burn. And then at crucial moments I find myself
thinking 'I hope the scented candle doesn't fall over', which is a bit distracting.
Anyway. So we had sex.
And tonight we're going to look at a flat together. It doesn't have a wooden floor or shutters -
but it has a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, which is pretty cool. So my life is coming together nicely.
I don't know why I'm feeling so pissed off. I don't know what's-
I don't want to move in with Connor, says a tiny voice in my brain before I can stop it.
No. That can't be right. That cannot possibly be right. Connor is perfect. Everyone knows that.
But I don't want to—
Shut up. We're the Perfect Couple. We have sex with scented candles. And we go for walks
by the river. And we read the papers on Sundays with cups of coffee in pyjamas. That's what
perfect couples do.
But—
Stop it!
I swallow hard. Connor is the one good thing in my life. If I didn't have Connor, what would I
have?
The phone rings on my desk, interrupting my thoughts, and I pick it up.
'Hello, Emma?' comes a familiar dry voice. 'This is Jack Harper.'
My heart gives an almighty leap of fright and I nearly spill my coffee. I haven't seen him
since the hand-in-bra incident. And I really don't want to.
I should never have answered my phone.
In fact, I should never have come into work today.
'Oh,' I say.'Er… hi!'
'Would you mind coming up to my office for a moment?'
'What… me?' I say nervously.
'Yes, you.'
I clear my throat.
'Should I… bring anything?'
'No, just yourself.'
He rings off, and I stare at my phone for a few moments, feeling a coldness in my spine. I
should have known it was too good to be true. He's going to fire me after all. Gross…
negligence… negligent grossness.
I mean, it is pretty gross, getting caught with your boyfriend's hand in your top at work.
OK. Well, there's nothing I can do.
I take a deep breath, stand up and make my way up to the eleventh floor. There's a desk
outside his door, but no secretary is sitting there, so I go straight up to the door and knock.
'Come in.'
Cautiously I push the door open. The room is huge and bright and panelled, and Jack is sitting
at a circular table with six people gathered round on chairs. Six people I've never seen before,
I suddenly realize. They're all holding pieces of paper and sipping water, and the atmosphere
is a bit tense.
Have they gathered to watch me being fired? Is this some kind of how-to-fire-people training?
'Hello,' I say, trying to keep as composed as possible. But my face is hot and I know I look
flustered.
'Hi.' Jack's face crinkles in a smile. 'Emma… relax. There's nothing to worry about. I just
wanted to ask you something.'
'Oh, right,' I say, taken aback.
OK, now I'm totally confused. What on earth could he have to ask me?
Jack reaches for a piece of paper and holds it up so I can see it clearly. 'What do you think this
is a picture of?' he says.
Oh fucketty fuck.
This is your worst nightmare. This is like when I went for that interview at Laines Bank and
they showed me a squiggle and I said I thought it looked like a squiggle.
Everyone is staring at me. I so want to get it right. If only I knew what right was.
I stare at the picture, my heart beating quickly. It's a graphic of two round objects. Kind of
irregular in shape. I have absolutely no idea what they're supposed to be. None at all. They
look like… they look like…
Suddenly I see it.
'It's nuts! Two walnuts!'
Jack explodes with laughter, and a couple of people give muffled giggles which they hastily
stifle.
'Well, I think that proves my point,' says Jack.
'Aren't they walnuts?' I look helplessly around the table.
'They're supposed to be ovaries,' says a man with rimless spectacles tightly.
'Ovaries?' I stare at the page. 'Oh, right! Well, yes. Now you say it, I can definitely see a… an
ovary-like…'
'Walnuts.' Jack wipes his eyes.
'I've explained, the ovaries are simply part of a range of symbolic representations of
womanhood," says a thin guy defensively. 'Ovaries to represent fertility, an eye for wisdom,
this tree to signify the earth mother…'
'The point is, the images can be used across the entire range of products,' says a woman with
black hair, leaning forward. 'The health drink, clothing, a fragrance…'
'The target market responds well to abstract images,' adds Rimless Spectacle Guy. 'The
research has shown-'
'Emma.' Jack looks at me again. 'Would you buy a drink with ovaries on it?'
'Er…' I clear my throat, aware of a couple of hostile faces pointing my way. 'Well…
probably not.'
A few people exchange glances.
'This is so irrelevant,' someone is muttering.
'Jack, three creative teams have been at work at this,' the black-haired woman says earnestly.
'We can't start from scratch. We simply cannot.'
Jack takes a swig of water from an Evian bottle, wipes his mouth and looks at her.
'You know I came up with the slogan "Don't Pause" in two minutes on a bar napkin?'
'Yes, we know,' mutters the guy in rimless spectacles.
'We are not selling a drink with ovaries on it.' He exhales sharply, and runs a hand through his
dishevelled hair. Then he pushes his chair back. 'OK, let's take a break. Emma, would you be
kind enough to assist me in carrying some of these folders down to Sven's office?'
God, I wonder what all that was about. But I don't quite dare ask. Jack marches me down the
corridor, and into a lift and presses the ninth-floor button, without saying anything. After
we've descended for about two seconds he presses the emergency button, and we grind to a
halt. Then, finally, he looks at me.
'Are you and I the only sane people in this building?'
'Um…'
'What happened to instincts?' His face is incredulous. 'No-one knows a good idea from a
terrible one any more. Ovaries.' He shakes his head. 'Fucking ovaries!'
I can't help it. He looks so outraged, and the way he says 'ovaries!' suddenly seems the
funniest thing in the world, and before I know it, I've started laughing. For an instant Jack
looks astounded, and then his face kind of crumples, and suddenly he's laughing too. His nose
screws right up when he laughs, just like a baby's and somehow this makes it seem about a