Twenty
“Are you OK? Emma?”
I’ve been sitting on the bench for about five minutes, not seeing anything, my mind a whirl of confusion. Now there’s a voice in my ear, above the everyday street sounds of people walking by and buses grinding and cars hooting. It’s a man’s voice. I open my eyes and find myself looking into a pair of green eyes that seem familiar.
Then suddenly I realize. It’s Aidan from the smoothie bar.
“Is everything all right?” he’s saying. “Are you OK?”
For a few moments I can’t quite reply. I feel like all my emotions have been scattered on the floor like a dropped tea tray, and I’m not sure which one to pick up first.
“I think that would have to be a no,” I say at last.
“Oh.” He looks alarmed. “Well, is there anything I can—”
“Would you be OK if all your secrets had been revealed on television by a man you thought you could trust?” I say shakily. “Would you be OK if you’d just been mortified in front of all your friends and colleagues and family?”
There’s a bewildered silence.
“Would you?”
“Er, probably not?” he hazards.
“Exactly! I mean, how would you feel if someone revealed in public that you … you wore women’s underwear?”
He turns pale with shock. “I don’t wear women’s underwear!”
“I know you don’t wear women’s underwear! Or, rather … I don’t know that you don’t … But just assuming for a moment that you did … how would you like it if someone just told everyone in a so-called business interview on television?”
Aidan frowns, as though his mind is suddenly putting two and two together. “Wait a moment. That interview with Jack Harper. Is that what you’re talking about? We had it on in the smoothie bar.”
“Oh, great!” I throw my hands in the air. “Just great! Because you know, it would be a shame if anyone in the entire universe had missed it—”
“So … that’s you? Who reads fifteen horoscopes a day and lies about her …” He breaks off at my expression. “Sorry. Sorry. You must be feeling very hurt.”
“Yes. I am. I’m feeling hurt. And angry. And embarrassed.”
And I’m confused, I add silently. I’m so confused and shocked, I feel as though I can barely keep my balance on this bench. In the space of a few minutes, my entire world has turned upside down.
I thought Jack loved me. I thought he and I—
I bury my head in my hands.
“So … how did he know so much about you?” Aidan’s asking. “Are you and he … an item?”
“We met on a plane.” I look up, trying to keep control of myself. “And … I spent the entire trip telling him everything about myself. And then we went on a few dates, and I honestly thought it might be … you know.” I feel my cheeks flame crimson. “The real thing. But the truth is … he was never interested in me, was he? Not really. He just wanted to find out what an ordinary girl-on-the-street was like. For his stupid target market. For his stupid new women’s line.”
The realization hits me properly for the first time, and I feel a tear roll down my cheek, swiftly followed by another.
Jack used me.
That’s why he asked me out to dinner. That’s why he was so fascinated with me. That’s why he found everything I said so interesting. That’s why he was gripped.
It wasn’t love. It was business.
“I’m sorry.” I gulp. “I’m sorry. I just … It’s just been such a shock.”
“Don’t worry,” says Aidan sympathetically. “It’s a completely natural reaction.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know much about big business, but it seems to me these guys don’t get to the top without trampling over a few people on the way. They’d have to be pretty ruthless to be so successful.” He pauses, watching as I try only half successfully to stop my tears. “Emma, can I offer a word of advice?”
“What?” I look up, wiping my eyes.
“Take it out in your kickboxing. Use the aggression. Use the hurt.”
I blink in total disbelief. Was he not listening?
“Aidan … I don’t do kickboxing!” I hear myself crying shrilly. “I don’t kickbox, OK? I never have!”
“You don’t?” He looks confused. “But you said—”
“I was lying!”
There’s a short pause.
“Right,” says Aidan at last. “Well … no worries! You could go for something with lower impact. Tai chi, maybe.” He gazes at me uncertainly. “Listen, do you want a drink? Something to calm you down? I could make you a mango-banana blend with chamomile flowers, throw in some soothing nutmeg.”
“No, thanks.” I blow my nose, take a deep breath, then reach for my bag. “I think I’ll go home, actually.”
“Will you be OK?”
“I’ll be fine.” I force a smile. “I’m fine.”
But of course that’s a lie, too. I’m not fine at all. As I sit on the tube going home, tears pour down my face one by one and land in big, wet drips on my skirt. People are whispering, but I don’t care. Why would I care? I’ve already suffered the worst embarrassment possible; a few extra people gawking is neither here nor there.
I feel so stupid.
Of course we weren’t soul mates. Of course he wasn’t genuinely interested in me. Of course he never loved me.
“Don’t worry, darling!” says a large lady sitting to my left, wearing a voluminous print dress covered with pineapples. “He’s not worth it! Now, you just go home, wash your face, have a nice cup of tea …”
“How do you know she’s crying over a man?” chimes in a woman in a dark suit. “That is such a clichéd, counterfeminist perspective. She could be crying over anything! A piece of music, a line of poetry, world famine, the political situation in the Middle East.…” She looks at me in expectation.
“Actually, I was crying over a man,” I admit.
The tube stops, and the woman in the dark suit rolls her eyes at us and gets out. The pineapple lady rolls her eyes back.
“World famine!” she says scornfully, and I can’t help giggling. “Now, don’t you worry, love.” She gives me a comforting pat on the shoulder as I dab at my eyes. “Have a nice cup of tea, and a few nice chocolate digestives, and have a nice chat with your mum. You’ve still got your mum, haven’t you?”
“Actually … we’re not really speaking at the moment,” I confess.
“Well, then, your dad?”
I shake my head.
“Well … how about your best friend? You must have a best friend!” The pineapple lady gives me a comforting smile.
“Yes, I have got a best friend.” I gulp. “But she’s just been informed on national television that I’ve been having secret lesbian fantasies about her.”
The pineapple lady regards me silently for a few moments.
“Have a nice cup of tea …” she says at last with less conviction. “And … good luck, dear.”
I make my way slowly back from the tube station to our street. As I reach the corner I stop, blow my nose, and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves.
How am I going to face Lissy after what Jack said on television? How?
This is worse than the time that I threw up in her parents’ bathroom. This is worse than the time she saw me kissing my reflection in the mirror and saying “Ooh, baby” in a sexy voice. This is even worse than the time she caught me writing a valentine to our math teacher Mr. Blake.
I’m hoping against hope that she might have suddenly decided to go out for the day or something. But as I open the front door of the flat, there she is, coming out of the kitchen into the hall. And as she looks at me, I can already see it in her face. She’s completely freaked out.
Not only has Jack betrayed me. He’s ruined my best friendship, too. Things will never be the same between me and Lissy again. It’s just like When Harry Met Sally. Sex has gotten in the way of our relationship, and now we can’t be friends a
nymore, because we want to sleep together.
No. Scratch that. We don’t want to sleep together. We want to—No, the point is we don’t want to—
Anyway. Whatever. It’s not good.
“Oh!” she says, staring at the floor. “Gosh! Um, hi, Emma!”
“Hi!” I reply in a strangled voice. “I thought I’d come home. The office was just too … too awful …”
I trail off, and there’s the most excruciating, prickling silence.
“So … I guess you saw it,” I say at last.
“Yes, I saw it. And I …” Lissy clears her throat. “I just wanted to say that … that if you want me to move out, then I will.”
After twenty-one years, our friendship is over. One tiny secret comes out—and that’s the end of everything.
“It’s OK,” I say, trying not to burst into tears. “I’ll move out.”
“No!” says Lissy awkwardly. “I’ll move out. This isn’t your fault, Emma. It’s been me who’s been … leading you on.”
“What? Lissy, you haven’t been leading me on!”
“Yes, I have.” She looks stricken. “I feel terrible. I just never realized you had … those kind of feelings …”
“I don’t!”
“But I can see it all now! I’ve been walking around half dressed. No wonder you were frustrated!”
“Lissy, I wasn’t frustrated,” I say quickly. “Lissy, I’m not a lesbian.”
“Bisexual, then. Or ‘multi-oriented.’ Whatever term you want to use.”
“I’m not bisexual, either! Or multi-whatever-it-was!”
“Emma, please!” Lissy grabs my hand. “Don’t be ashamed of your sexuality. And I promise—I’ll support you a hundred percent, whatever choice you decide to make—”
“Lissy, I’m not bisexual!” I cry. “I don’t need support! I just had one dream, OK? It wasn’t a fantasy. It was just a weird dream, which I didn’t intend to have, and it doesn’t mean I’m a lesbian, and it doesn’t mean I fancy you, and it doesn’t mean anything!”
“Oh.” There’s silence. Lissy looks taken aback. “Oh, right. I thought it was a … a … you know.” She clears her throat. “That you wanted to …”
“No! I just had a dream. Just one, stupid dream.”
“Oh. Right.”
There’s a long pause, during which Lissy looks intently at her fingernails, and I study the buckle of my watch.
“So … did we actually …” says Lissy at last.
Oh, God. “Kind of,” I admit.
“And … was I any good?”
“What?” I gape at her.
“In the dream.” She looks straight at me, her cheeks bright pink. “Was I any good?”
“Lissy—”
“I was crap, wasn’t I? I was crap! I knew it—”
“No, of course you weren’t crap!” I exclaim. “You were … you were really …”
I cannot believe I’m seriously having a conversation about my best friend’s sexual prowess as a dream lesbian. “Look, can we just … leave the subject? My day has been embarrassing enough already.”’
“Oh. Oh, God, yes,” says Lissy, suddenly full of remorse. “Sorry, Emma. You must be feeling really …”
“Totally and utterly humiliated and betrayed?” I try to smile. “Yup, that’s pretty much how I feel.”
“Did anyone at the office see it, then?” says Lissy sympathetically.
“Did anyone at the office see it? Lissy, they all saw it. They all knew it was me! And they were all laughing at me, and I just wanted to curl up and die.”
“Really?” says Lissy in distress.
“It was awful.” I close my eyes as fresh mortification washes over me. “I have never felt more … exposed. The whole world knows I find G-strings uncomfortable and I don’t really kickbox, and I’ve never read Dickens …” My voice is wobbling more and more, and suddenly I begin to sob. “Oh, God, Lissy. You were right. I feel such a complete … fool. He was just using me, right from the beginning. He was never really interested in me. I was just a … a market research project.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I do! Of course I do! That’s why he was gripped. That’s why he was so fascinated by everything I said. It wasn’t because he loved me. It was because he realized he had his target customer, right next to him. The kind of normal, ordinary girl-on-the-street he wouldn’t normally give the time of day to! I mean, he said it on the television, didn’t he? I’m just a nothing-special girl.”
“You are not,” says Lissy fiercely. “You are not nothing special!”
“I am! That’s exactly what I am! I’m just an ordinary nothing. And I was so stupid, I believed it all. I honestly thought Jack loved me. I mean, maybe not exactly loved me.” I feel myself color. “But … you know. Felt about me like I felt about him.”
“I know.” Lissy looks like she wants to cry herself. “I know you did.” She leans forward and gives me a huge hug.
Then she draws awkwardly away. “This isn’t making you feel uncomfortable, is it? I mean, it’s not … turning you on or anything—”
“Lissy, for the last time, I’m not a lesbian!” I cry in exasperation.
“OK!” she says hurriedly. “OK. Sorry.” She gives me another tight hug, then stands up. “Come on,” she says. “You need a drink.”
We go onto the tiny, overgrown balcony—which was described as “spacious roof terrace” by the landlord when we first rented this flat—and sit in a patch of sun, drinking the brandy that Lissy got duty-free last year. Each sip makes my mouth burn unbearably but, five seconds later, sends a lovely, soothing warmth all over my body.
“I should have known,” I say, turning my glass around and around. “I should have known a big, important millionaire like that would never really be interested in me.”
“I just … can’t believe it,” says Lissy, sighing for the thousandth time. “I can’t believe it was all made-up. It was all so romantic. Changing his mind about going to America … and the bus … and bringing you that pink cocktail.”
“But that’s the point.” I can feel tears rising again, and fiercely blink them back. “That’s what makes it so … humiliating. He knew exactly what I would like. I told him on the plane I was bored with Connor. He knew I wanted excitement and intrigue and a big romance. He just fed me everything he knew I’d like. And I believed it … because I wanted to believe it.”
“You honestly think the whole thing was one big plan?”
“Of course it was a plan! He deliberately followed me around; he watched everything I did. He wanted to get into my life! Look at the way he came and poked around my bedroom! No wonder he seemed so bloody interested. I expect he was taking notes all the time. I expect he had a Dictaphone in his pocket. And I just … invited him in.” The next gulp of brandy makes me shudder. “I am never going to trust a man again. Never.”
“But he seemed so … nice!” says Lissy. “I just can’t believe he was being so cynical.”
“Lissy …” I look up. “The truth is, a man like that doesn’t get to the top without being ruthless and trampling over people. It just doesn’t happen.”
“Doesn’t it?” Her brow crumples. “Maybe you’re right. God, how depressing.”
“Is that Emma?” comes a piercing voice, and Jemima appears on the balcony in a white robe and a face mask, her eyes narrowed. “So! Miss I-never-borrow-your-clothes. What have you got to say about my Prada slingbacks?”
Oh, God. There’s no point lying about it, is there?
“They’re really pointy and uncomfortable?” I say with a little shrug, and Jemima inhales sharply.
“I knew it! I knew it all along. You do borrow my clothes. What about my Joseph jumper? What about my Gucci bag?”
“Which Gucci bag?” I shoot back.
For a moment Jemima flounders for words. “All of them!” she says at last. “You know, I could sue you for this. I could take you to the cleaners!” She brandishes a piece of paper
at me. “I’ve got a list here of items of apparel that I fully suspect have been worn by someone other than me during the last three months—”
“Oh, shut up about your stupid clothes!” says Lissy. “Emma’s really upset! She’s been completely betrayed and humiliated by the man she thought loved her!”
“Well, surprise, surprise, let me just faint with shock,” says Jemima tartly. “I could have told you that was going to happen. I did tell you! Never tell a man all about yourself; it’s bound to lead to trouble. Did I not warn you?”
“You said she wouldn’t get a rock on her finger!” exclaims Lissy. “You didn’t say he would pitch up on television, telling the nation all her private secrets! You know, Jemima, you could be a bit more sympathetic—”
“No, Lissy, she’s right,” I say miserably. “She was completely right all along. If I’d just kept my stupid mouth shut, then none of this would have happened!” I reach for the brandy bottle and pour myself another glass. “Relationships are a battle. They are a chess game. And what did I do? I just threw all my chess pieces down on the board at once and said, ‘Here! Have them all!’ ” I take a gulp of my drink. “The truth is, men and women should tell each other nothing. Nothing.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” says Jemima. “I’m planning to tell my future husband as little as possible—” She breaks off as the cordless phone in her hand rings.
“Hi!” she says, switching it on. “Camilla? Oh. Er, OK. Just hang on a moment.”
She puts her hand over the receiver and looks at me, wide-eyed. “It’s Jack!” she mouths.
I’m frozen in shock.
Somehow I’d almost forgotten Jack existed in real life. All I can see is that face on the television screen, smiling and nodding and slowly leading me to my humiliation.
“Tell him Emma doesn’t want to speak to him!” hisses Lissy.
“No! She should speak to him!” whispers Jemima. “Otherwise, he’ll think he’s won!”
“But surely—”
“Give it to me!” I say, and grab the phone out of Jemima’s hand.
“Hi,” I say in as curt a tone as I can muster.
“Emma, it’s me,” comes Jack’s familiar voice, and I feel a rush of emotion that almost overwhelms me. I want to cry. I want to hit him, hurt him.…