Can You Keep A Secret?

'We certainly don't,' says Mum, giving me a hug.

'Shall I take your coat?' says Kerry, as I put the bottle of champagne I've brought into the

fridge. 'And what about a drink?'

This is how Kerry always talks to me. As though I'm a visitor.

But never mind. I'm not going to stress about it. Sacred links in the eternal circle of life.

'It's OK,' I say, trying to sound pleasant. 'I'll get it.' I open the cupboard where glasses are

always kept, to find myself looking at tins of tomatoes.

'They're over here,' says Kerry, on the other side of the kitchen. 'We moved everything

around! It makes much more sense now.'

'Oh right. Thanks.' I take the glass she gives me and take a sip of wine. 'Can I do anything to

help?'

'I don't think so…' says Kerry, looking critically around the kitchen. 'Everything's pretty

much done. So I said to Elaine,' she adds to Mum, '"Where did you get those shoes?" And she

said M S! I couldn't believe it!'

'Who's Elaine?' I say, trying to join in.

'At the golf club,' says Kerry.

Mum never used to play golf. But when she moved to Hampshire, she and Kerry took it up

together. And now all I hear about is golf matches, golf club di

chums from the golf club.

I did once go along, to see what it was all about. But first of all they have all these stupid rules

about what you can wear, which I didn't know, and some old guy nearly had a heart attack

because I was in jeans. So they had to find me a skirt, and a spare pair of those clumpy shoes

with spikes. And then when we got on to the course I couldn't hit the ball. Not I couldn't hit

the ball well: I literally could not make contact with the ball. So in the end they all exchanged

glances and said I'd better wait in the clubhouse.

'Sorry, Emma, can I just get past you…' Kerry reaches over my shoulder for a serving dish.

'Sorry,' I say, and move aside. 'So, is there really nothing I can do, Mum?'

'You could feed Sammy,' she says, giving me a pot of goldfish food. She frowns anxiously.

'You know, I'm a bit worried about Sammy.'

'Oh,' I say, feeling a spasm of alarm. 'Er… why?'

'He just doesn't seem himself.' She peers at him in his bowl. 'What do you think? Does he look

right to you?'

I follow her gaze and pull a thoughtful face, as though I'm studying Sammy's features.

Oh God. I never thought she would notice. I tried as hard as I could to get a fish that looked

just like Sammy. I mean he's orange, he's got two fins, he swims around… What's the

difference?

'He's probably just a bit depressed,' I say at last. 'He'll get over it.'

Please don't let her take him to the vet or anything, I silently pray. I didn't even check if I got

the right sex. Do goldfishes even have sexes?

'Anything else I can do?' I say, sprinkling fish food lavishly over the water in an attempt to

block her view of him.

'We've pretty much got it covered,' says Kerry kindly.

'Why don't you go and say hello to Dad?' says Mum, sieving some peas. 'Lunch won't be for

another ten minutes or so.'

I find Dad and Nev in the sitting room, in front of the cricket. Dad's greying beard is as neatly

trimmed as ever, and he's drinking beer from a silver tankard. The room has recently been

redecorated, but on the wall there's still a display of all Kerry's swimming cups. Mum polishes

them regularly, every week.

Plus my couple of riding rosettes. I think she kind of flicks those with a duster.

'Hi, Dad,' I say, giving him a kiss.

'Emma!' He puts a hand to his head in mock-surprise. 'You made it! No detours! No visits to

historic cities!'

'Not today!' I give a little laugh. 'Safe and sound.'

There was this time, just after Mum and Dad had moved to this house, when I took the wrong

train on the way down and ended up in Salisbury, and Dad always teases me about it.

'Hi, Nev.' I peck him on the cheek, trying not to choke on the amount of aftershave he's

wearing. He's in chinos and a white roll-neck, and has a heavy gold bracelet round his wrist,

plus a wedding ring with a diamond set in it. Nev runs his family's company, which supplies

office equipment all round the country, and he met Kerry at some convention for young

entrepreneurs. Apparently they struck up conversation admiring each other's Rolex watches.

'Hi, Emma,' he says. 'D'you see the new motor?'

'What?' I peer at him blankly — then recall a glossy new car on the drive when I arrived. 'Oh

yes! Very smart.'

'Mercedes 5 Series.' He takes a slug of beer. 'Forty-two grand list price.'

'Gosh.'

'Didn't pay that, though.' He taps the side of his nose. 'Have a guess.'

'Erm… forty?'

'Guess again.'

'Thirty-nine?'

'Thirty-seven-two-fifty,' says Nev triumphantly. 'And free CD changer. Tax deductible,' he

adds.

'Right. Wow.'

I don't really know what else to say, so I perch on the side of the sofa and eat a peanut.

'That's what you're aiming for, Emma!' says Dad. 'Think you'll ever make it?'

'I… don't know. Er… Dad, that reminds me. I've got a cheque for you.' Awkwardly I reach

in my bag and get out a cheque for ?300.

'Well done,' says Dad. 'That can go on the tally.' His green eyes twinkle as he puts it in his

pocket. 'It's called learning the value of money. It's called learning to stand on your own two

feet!'

'Valuable lesson,' says Nev, nodding. He takes a slug of beer and grins at Dad. 'Just remind

me, Emma — what career is it this week?'

When I first met Nev it was just after I'd left the estate agency to become a photographer.

Two and a half years ago. And he makes this same joke every time I see him. Every single

bloody-

OK, calm down. Happy thoughts. Cherish your family. Cherish Nev.

'It's still marketing!' I say brightly. 'Has been for over a year now.'

'Ah. Marketing. Good, good!'

There's silence for a few minutes, apart from the cricket commentary. Suddenly Dad and Nev

simultaneously groan as something or other happens on the cricket pitch. A moment later they

groan again.

'Right,' I say. 'Well, I'll just…'

As I get up from the sofa, they don't even turn their heads.

I go out to the hall and pick up the cardboard box which I brought down with me. Then I go

through the side gate, knock on the a

'Grandpa?'

Grandpa is Mum's dad, and he's lived with us ever since he had his heart operation, ten years

ago. At the old house in Twickenham he just had a bedroom, but this house is bigger, so he

has his own a

He's sitting in his favourite leather armchair, with the radio playing classical music, and on

the floor in front of him are about six cardboard packing cases full of stuff.

'Hi, Grandpa,' I say.

'Emma!' He looks up, and his face lights up. 'Darling girl. Come here!' I bend over to give him

a kiss, and he squeezes my hand tight. His skin is dry and cool, and his hair is even whiter

than it was last time I saw him.

'I've got some more Panther Bars for you,' I say, nodding to my box. Grandpa is completely

addicted to Panther energy bars, and so are all his friends at the bowling club, so I use my

allowance to buy him a boxful for every time I come home.

'Thank you, my love,' Grandpa beams. 'You're a good girl, Emma.'

'Where should I put them?'

We both look helplessly around the cluttered room.

'What about over there, behind the television?' says Grandpa at last. I pick my way across the