'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 Häagen-Dazs ice-cream.'
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?'