Can You Keep A Secret?

But the minute I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents. I hated saying

things like 'a lovely aspect'. And I hated the way if someone said they could afford ?300,000

we were supposed to give them details of houses costing at least ?400,000, and then kind of

look down our noses, like, 'You only have ?300,000? God, you complete loser.'

So after six months I a

instead. It was such a fantastic moment, like in a film or something. My dad lent me the

money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new

creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life…

Except it didn't quite happen like that.

I mean, for a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer's assistant gets paid?

Nothing. It's nothing.

Which, you know, I wouldn't have minded if anyone had actually offered me a photographer's

assistant's job.

I heave a heavy sigh, and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. As well

as everything else, my hair, which I carefully straightened with serum this morning, has gone

all frizzy. Typical.

At least I wasn't the only one who didn't get anywhere. Out of the eight people on my course,

one became instantly successful and now takes photos for Vogue and stuff, one became a

wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went travelling, one had a baby,

one works at Snappy Snaps and one is now at Morgan Stanley.

Meanwhile I got more and more into debt, and started temping and applying for jobs which

actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at

the Panther Corporation.

The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me, and gives me a quizzical look. 'Cheer

up!' he says. 'It can't be that bad!'

'Thanks,' I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better. I'm just taking a second sip

when my mobile starts to ring.

My stomach gives a nervous flip. If it's the office, I'll just pretend I didn't hear.

But it's not, it's our home number flashing on the little screen.

'Hi,' I say, pressing green.

'Hiya!' comes Lissy's voice. 'Only me! So how did it go?'

Lissy is my flatmate and my oldest friend in the world. She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of

about 600 and is the sweetest person I know.

'It was a disaster,' I say miserably.

'What happened? Didn't you get the deal?'

'Not only did I not get the deal, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Oil in cranberry

drink.'

Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the

whole world knows.

'Oh dear.' I can almost feel Lissy trying to think of something positive to say. 'Well, at least

you got their attention,' she says at last. 'At least they won't forget you in a hurry.'

'I suppose,' I say morosely. 'So, did I have any messages?'

'Oh! Erm… no. I mean, your dad did phone, but… um… you know… it wasn't…' She tails

off evasively.

'Lissy. What did he want?'

There's a pause.

'Apparently your cousin's won some industry award,' she says apologetically. 'They're going

to be celebrating it on Saturday as well as your mum's birthday.'

'Oh. Great.'

I slump deeper in my chair. That's all I need. My cousin Kerry triumphantly clutching some

silver Best-travel-agent-in-the-world-no-make-that-universe trophy.

'And Co

said he didn't want to ring your mobile during your meeting in case it disturbed you.'

'Really?'

For the first time today, I feel a lift in spirits.

Co

'He's such a sweetheart!' Lissy is saying. 'He said he's tied up in a big meeting all afternoon

but he's cancelled his squash game especially, so do you want to go out to supper tonight?'

'Oh,' I say, with a flicker of pleasure. 'Oh well, that'll be nice. Thanks, Lissy.'

I click off and take another sip of vodka, feeling much more cheerful.

My boyfriend.

It's just like Julie Andrews said. When the dog bites, when the bee stings… I simply

remember I have a boyfriend — and suddenly things don't seem quite so completely shit.

Or however she put it.

And not just any boyfriend. A tall, handsome, clever boyfriend, whom Marketing Week called

'one of the brightest sparks in marketing research today.'

I sit nursing my vodka, allowing thoughts of Co

The way his blond hair shines in the sunshine, and the way he's always smiling. And the way

he upgraded all the software on my computer the other day without me even asking, and the

way he… he…

My mind's gone blank. This is ridiculous. I mean, there's so much that is wonderful about

Co

me when I had the flu. I mean, how many boyfriends do that? Exactly.

I'm so lucky, I really am.

I put the phone away, run my fingers through my hair, and glance at the clock behind the bar.

Forty minutes to go before the flight. Not long now. Nerves are starting to creep over me like

little insects, and I take a deep gulp of vodka, draining my glass.

It'll be fine, I tell myself for the zillionth time. It'll be absolutely fine.

I'm not frightened. I'm just… I'm just…

OK. I am frightened.

16. I'm scared of flying.

I've never told anyone I'm scared of flying. It just sounds so lame. And I mean, it's not like I'm

phobic or anything. It's not like I can't get on a plane. It's just… all things being equal, I

would prefer to be on the ground.

I never used to be scared. But over the last few years, I've gradually got more and more

nervous. I know it's completely irrational. I know thousands of people fly every day and it's

practically safer than lying in bed. You have less chance of being in a plane crash than… than

finding a man in London, or something.

But still. I just don't like it.

Maybe I'll have another quick vodka.

By the time my flight is called, I've drunk two more vodkas and am feeling a lot more positive.

I mean, Lissy's right. At least I made an impression, didn't I? At least they'll remember who I

am. As I stride towards the gate, clutching my briefcase, I almost start to feel like a confident

businesswoman again. A couple of people smile at me as they pass, and I smile broadly back,

feeling a warm glow of friendliness. You see. The world's not so bad after all. It's all just a

question of being positive. Anything can happen in life, can't it? You never know what's

round the next corner.

I reach the entrance to the plane, and there at the door, taking boarding passes, is the air

hostess with the French plait who was sitting at the bar earlier.

'Hi again,' I say smiling. 'This is a coincidence!'

The air hostess stares at me.

'Hi. Erm…'

'What?'

Why does she look embarrassed?

'Sorry. It's just… did you know that…' She gestures awkwardly to my front.

'What is it?' I say, pleasantly. I look down, and freeze, aghast.

Somehow my silky shirt has been unbuttoning itself while I've been walking along. Three

buttons have come undone and it's gaping at the front.

My bra shows. My pink lacy bra. The one that went a bit blobby in the wash.

That's why those people were smiling at me. Not because the world is a nice place, but

because I'm Pink-Blobby-Bra-Woman.