Chapter Twelve
Twelve
I have never seen Jemima look so appalled.
“He knows all your secrets?” She’s looking at me as though I’ve just told her I’m going out with a mass murderer. “What on earth do you mean?”
“I sat next to him on a plane, and I told him everything about myself.”
I frown at my reflection in my mirror and tweak out another eyebrow hair. It’s seven o’clock, I’ve had my bath, and now I’m sitting in my robe, putting on my makeup.
“And now he’s asked her out,” says Lissy, reaching for my new mascara and studying it. “Isn’t it romantic?”
“You are joking, aren’t you?” says Jemima. “Tell me this is a joke.” She’s standing at the door of my room, wearing a new, dark green dress. Tonight she’s got a date with the guy who bought the seventy-thousand-pound painting. Apparently he loves green.
“Of course I’m not joking! What’s the problem?”
“You’re going out with a man who knows everything about you.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re asking me what’s the problem?” she says incredulously. “Are you crazy?”
“Of course I’m not crazy!”
“I knew you fancied him,” says Lissy for about the millionth time. “I knew it. Right from the moment you started talking about him.” She looks at my reflection. “I’d leave that right eyebrow alone now.”
“Really?” I peer at my face.
“Emma, you don’t tell men all about yourself! You have to keep something back! Mummy always says you should never let a man see your feelings or the contents of your handbag.”
“Well, too late. He’s seen it all.”
“Then it’s never going to work,” says Jemima. “He’ll never respect you.”
“Yes, he will!”
“Emma,” says Jemima in a pitying voice. “Don’t you understand? You’ve already lost.”
“I haven’t lost!”
Sometimes I think Jemima sees men as alien robots who must be conquered by any means possible.
“You’re not being very helpful, Jemima,” puts in Lissy. “Come on. You’ve been on loads of dates with rich businessmen. You must have some good advice!”
“All right.” Jemima sighs and puts her bag down. “It’s a hopeless cause, but I’ll do my best.” She starts ticking off on her fingers. “The first thing is to look as well groomed as possible.”
“Why do you think I’m plucking my eyebrows?” I say with a grimace.
“Fine. OK, the next thing is, you can show an interest in his hobbies. What does he like?”
“Er…dunno. Cars, I think. He has all these vintage cars on his ranch, apparently.”
“Well, then!” Jemima brightens. “That’s good. Pretend you like cars. Suggest visiting a car show…. You could flick through a car magazine on the way there…”
“I can’t,” I say, taking a sip from my pre-date relaxer glass of Harveys Bristol Cream. “I told him on the plane that I hate vintage cars.”
“You did what?” Jemima looks like she wants to hit me. “You told the man you’re dating that you hate his favorite hobby?”
“I didn’t know I would be going on a date with him then, did I?” I say defensively, reaching for my foundation. “And anyway, it’s the truth! I hate vintage cars! The people in them always look so pleased with themselves…”
“What’s the truth got to do with anything?” Jemima’s voice rises in agitation. “Emma, I’m sorry; I can’t help you. This is a disaster. You’re completely vulnerable. It’s like going into battle in a nightie.”
“Jemima, this is not a battle!” I retort. “And it’s not a chess game! It’s dinner with a nice man!”
“You’re so cynical, Jemima!” chimes in Lissy. “I think it’s really romantic! They’re going to have the perfect date, because there won’t be any of that awkwardness. He knows what Emma likes. He knows what she’s interested in. They’re already compatible!”
“Well, I wash my hands of it,” says Jemima, still shaking her head. “What are you going to wear?” Her eyes suddenly narrow. “Where’s your outfit?”
“My black dress. And my strappy sandals.” I gesture to the back of the door, where my black dress is hanging up.
Jemima’s eyes narrow even further. She would have made a really good SS officer, I often think.
“You’re not going to borrow anything of mine.”
“No!” I say in indignant tones. “Honestly, Jemima, I do have my own clothes, you know.”
“Fine. Well. Have a good time.”
Lissy and I wait until her footsteps have tapped down the corridor and the front door has slammed.
“Right!” I say, but Lissy lifts a hand.
“Wait.”
We both sit still for about five minutes. Suddenly there’s the sound of the front door being opened very quietly.
“She’s trying to catch us out,” whispers Lissy. “Hi!” she says, raising her voice. “Is anyone there?”
“Oh, hi,” says Jemima, appearing at the door of the room. “I forgot my lip gloss.” Her eyes do a quick sweep of the room.
“I don’t think you’ll find it in here,” says Lissy innocently.
“No. Well.” Her eyes travel around the room again. “OK. Have a nice evening.”
Again her footsteps tap down the corridor, and again the front door slams.
“Right!” says Lissy. “Let’s go.”
—
We unpeel the Sellotape from Jemima’s door, and Lissy makes a little mark where it was. “Wait!” she says as I’m about to push the door open. “There’s another one at the bottom.”
“You should have been a spy,” I say, watching her carefully peel it off.
“OK,” she says, her forehead furrowed with concentration. “There have to be some more booby traps.”
“There’s Sellotape on the wardrobe, too,” I say. “And…look!” I point up. A glass of water is balanced on top of the wardrobe, ready to drench us if we open the door.
“That cow!” says Lissy as I reach up for it. “You know, I had to spend all evening fielding calls for her the other night, and she wasn’t even grateful.”
She waits until I’ve put the water down safely, then reaches for the door. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Lissy takes a deep breath, then opens the wardrobe door. Immediately a loud, piercing siren begins to wail. “Wee-oo wee-oo wee-oo…”
“Shit!” she says, banging the door shut. “Shit! How did she do that?”
“It’s still going! Make it stop! Make it stop!”
“I don’t know how to! You probably need a special code!”
We’re both jabbing at the wardrobe, patting it, searching for an off switch.
“I can’t see a button or a switch or anything….”
Abruptly the noise stops, and we both stare at each other, panting.
“Actually,” says Lissy after a long pause. “Actually, I think that might have been a car alarm outside.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh, right. Yes, maybe it was.”
Looking a bit sheepish, Lissy reaches for the door again—and this time it’s silent. “OK,” she says. “Here goes.”
“Wow,” we breathe as one as she swings the door open.
Jemima’s wardrobe is like a treasure chest. New, shiny, gorgeous clothes, all neatly folded and hung on padded hangers.
All the shoes in shoe boxes with Polaroids on the front.
All the belts are hanging neatly from hooks.
All the bags are neatly lined up on a shelf.
It’s been a while since I borrowed anything from Jemima, but every single item seems to have changed since then.
“She must spend about an hour a day keeping this tidy,” I say, thinking of the jumble that is my own wardrobe.
“She does,” says Lissy. “I’ve seen her.”
Mind you, Lissy is even worse. She has all these good intentions—but when she’s working hard on a case, her wardrobe basically ends up being a chair in her room, on which all her garments get heaped.
“So!” says Lissy with a grin, and reaches for a white sparkly dress. “What look would Madam like this evening?”
—
I don’t wear the white sparkly dress. But I do try it on. In fact, we both try on quite a lot of stuff, and then have to put it all back, very carefully. At one point another car alarm goes off outside, and we both jump in terror, then immediately pretend we weren’t fazed.
In the end, I go for this amazing new red top with slashed shoulders, over my own black DKNY chiffon trousers (twenty-five pounds from the Notting Hill Housing Trust shop), and Jemima’s silver high heels from Prada.
And then, although I wasn’t intending to, at the last minute, I grab a little black Gucci bag.
“You look amazing!” says Lissy as I do a little twirl. “Completely fab!”
“Do I look too smart?”
“Of course not! Come on—you’re going out to dinner with a multimillionaire!”
“Don’t say that!” I exclaim, feeling a clutch of nerves. I look at my watch. It’s almost eight o’clock.
Oh, God. In the fun of getting ready, I’d almost forgotten what it was all for.
Keep calm, I tell myself. It’s just dinner. That’s all it is. Nothing out of the—
“Fuck!” Lissy’s looking out the window in the sitting room. “Fuck! There’s a great big car outside!”
“What? Where?” I hurry to join her. As I follow her gaze, I almost can’t breathe.
An enormous, posh car is waiting outside our house. I mean enormous. It’s all silver and shiny and looks incredibly conspicuous in our tiny little street. In fact, I can see some curious neighbors looking out of the house opposite.
What am I doing? This is a world I know nothing about. When we were sitting in the plane, Jack and I were just two people on an equal level. But now, look at the world he lives in—and look at the world I live in.
“Lissy,” I say in a tiny voice. “I don’t want to go.”
“Yes, you do!” says Lissy—but I can see she’s just as freaked out as I am.
The buzzer goes, and we both jump.
I feel like I might throw up.
OK. OK. Here I go. “Hi,” I say into the intercom. “I’ll…I’ll be right down.” I replace the phone and look at Lissy.
“Well,” I say. “This is it!”
“Emma.” Lissy grabs my hands. “Before you go. Don’t take any notice of what Jemima said. Just have a lovely time.” She hugs me tightly. “Call me if you get a chance!”
“I will!”
I take one last look at myself in the mirror, then make my way down the stairs.
I open the front door, and Jack’s standing there, wearing a jacket and tie. His hair is brushed. He looks tidy. For an instant, I feel even more nervous.
Then he smiles—and all my fears fly away like butterflies. Jemima’s wrong. This isn’t me against him. This is me with him.
“Hi,” he says. “You look very nice.”
“Thanks.”
I reach for the door handle, but a man in a peaked cap rushes forward to open it for me.
“Silly me!” I say with a nervous laugh.
I can’t quite believe I’m getting into this car. Me. Emma Corrigan. I feel like a princess. I feel like a movie star.
I sit down on the plushy seat, trying not to think how different this is from any car I’ve ever been in, ever.
“Are you OK?” says Jack.
“Yes! I’m fine!” My voice is a squeak.
“Emma,” says Jack. “We’re going to have fun. I promise. Did you have your pre-date sweet sherry?”
How did he know—
Oh, yes. I told him on the plane. “Yes, I did, actually,” I admit.
“Would you like some more?” He opens the bar, and I see a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream sitting on a silver platter.
“Did you get that especially for me?” I say in disbelief.
“No, it’s my favorite tipple.” His expression is so deadpan, I can’t help laughing.
“I’ll join you,” he says as he hands me a glass. “I’ve never tasted this before.” He pours himself a deep measure, takes a sip, and splutters. “Are you serious?”
“It’s yummy! It tastes like Christmas!”
“It tastes like…” He shakes his head. “I don’t even want to tell you what it tastes like. I’ll stick to whisky, if you don’t mind.”
“You’re missing out.” I take another sip and grin happily at him.
I’m completely relaxed already.
This is going to be the perfect date.