Chapter Nine
Nine
As I leave the office in the evening, I feel all agitated, like one of those snow globes you see resting peacefully on shop counters.
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 until I don’t know what I think anymore.
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 little 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 all-wooden floors and shutters and granite work tops. So there.
So there.
I arrive home to find Lissy on her knees in the sitting room. She’s still in her smart suit and white shirt from court and is 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.
Her skin is golden brown with Saint-Tropez tan, her hair is smooth blond, and her makeup has the kind of perfection you only get with time and very expensive brushes. All to get a rock on her finger.
“Did you go to work today?” inquires Lissy.
“Of course I did.” Jemima gives her a scathing look. “Till three.”
“How on earth do you get away with it?”
“I sold a seventy-thousand-pound painting yesterday, thank you very much.” Jemima speaks in short snatches, gasping for breath in between. “This dress is my commission.”
“Jemima, what happens if you need to go to the loo?” I ask.
“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. “Mummy says that’s not the way to…” She struggles for breath. “…to get a rock on your finger.”
Jemima’s mother is her total role model.
She’s taller than Jemima, thinner than Jemima, and has a 10.
5-carat rock on her finger, which in Jemima’s world makes her God.
Living with Jemima, I’ve gotten to know Mummy’s opinions on pretty much all subjects, including tattoos (vulgar), gays (“as long as they dress well”), and whether one should wear a backless gown when entertaining minor royalty at a charity ball (no).
“But what if you get carried away with desire for each other?” Lissy is needling Jemima.
“What if he gropes you in the taxi?” I join in.
“He’s not like that,” says Jemima. “He happens to be the First Assistant Under-Secretary to the Secretary of the Treasury, actually.”
I meet Lissy’s eyes and can’t help giggling.
“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 crosses Jemima’s face, then disappears. “He won’t,” she says scornfully. “Englishmen never suggest dancing.”
“Fair point. Have a good time.”
As Jemima vanishes out of the door, I sit down and flick on the telly. A Cindy Blaine show is just starting, with the tag line “I’m Going to Propose to the Father of My Twins!” and I settle back comfortably on the sofa.
“Look, Liss,” I say. “It’s your favorite show.”
Lissy always tries to be appalled when I watch Cindy Blaine. She says it’s all so demeaning for everyone involved and she’s going to go and do some work. (She usually reaches the door, and watches the rest from there.)
But Lissy isn’t listening. She has 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 brainpower, Lissy spends her whole time doing crosswords and games of chess by correspondence, and special brainy puzzles that 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?”
“Watching Cindy, of course,” I say, gesturing to the screen. “There’s no finer entertainment.”
“Oh, right. So you won’t be interested in this…” She fishes in her bag and slowly pulls out a large, rusty key ring, to which a brand-new Yale is attached.
“What’s that?” Suddenly I realize. “No!”
“Yes! I’m in!”
“Oh, my God! Lissy!”
“I know!” Lissy beams at me. “Isn’t it fab?”
The key that 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…except someone at Lissy’s chambers is on the founding committee.
“Lissy, you’re a star!”
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.
“Apparently Madonna’s a member!” I look up.
“And Jude Law! 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.
“Actually, I was just thinking how it probably spoils the atmosphere if the place is stuffed full of celebrities,” I say.
“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 consider this.
“So,” says Lissy casually, “we might as well go and get ready.”
“Why not,” I say with equal nonchalance.
—
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 study Lissy’s face. “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. “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 diamanté heart on my shoulder blade.
“Oh, this. Yes, it just sticks on. I thought I’d wear it for fun.
” I reach for my halter neck 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 to get from Islington to Clerkenwell. Lissy leads me down an empty road near 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.