There's something in his gaze which makes my throat feel a bit tight. I stare back at him, feeling blood rising in my cheeks.

'Are you going in?' comes a bright voice. We jump, and look up to see a woman in black jeans approaching. 'The performance is about to start!' she says with a beam.

I feel like she's slapped me awake from a dream.

'I … I have to go and watch Lissy dancing,' I say dazedly.

'Right. Well, I'll leave you then. That was really all I had to say.' Slowly Jack gets to his feet, then turns back. 'There's one more thing.' He looks at me for a few silent moments. 'Emma, I realize these last few days can't have been easy for you. You have been the model of discretion throughout, whereas I … have not. And I just wanted to apologize. Again.'

'That's … that's OK,' I manage.

Jack turns again, and I watch him walking slowly away over the gravel, feeling completely torn.

He came all the way here to tell me his secret. His big, precious secret.

He didn't have to do that.

Oh God. Oh God …

'Wait!' I hear myself calling out, and Jack immediately turns. 'Would you … would you like to come too?' And I feel a ripple of pleasure as his face creases into a smile.

As we crunch over the gravel together, I pluck up the courage to speak.

'Jack, I've got something to say too. About … about what you were just saying. I know I said you ruined my life the other day.'

'I remember,' says Jack wryly.

'Well, I may possibly have been wrong about that.' I clear my throat awkwardly. 'In fact … I was wrong.' I look at him frankly. 'Jack, you didn't ruin my life.'

'I didn't?' says Jack. 'Do I get another shot?'

In spite of myself, a giggle rises inside me.

'No!'

'No? Is that your final answer?'

As he looks at me there's a bigger question in his eyes, and I feel a little shaft, half hope, half apprehension. For a long while neither of us says anything. I'm breathing rather fast.

Suddenly Jack's gaze falls with interest on my hand. 'I am over Jack,' he reads aloud.

Fuck.

My entire face flames with colour.

I am never writing anything on my hand again. Ever.

'That's just …' I clear my throat again. 'That was just a doodle … it didn't mean …'

A shrill ring from my mobile interrupts me. Thank God. Whoever this is, I love them. I hastily pull it out and press green.

'Emma, you're going to love me for ever!' come Jemima's piercing tones.

'What?' I stare at the phone.

'I've sorted everything out for you!' she says triumphantly. 'I know, I'm a total star, you don't know what you'd do without me—'

'What?' I feel a twinge of alarm. 'Jemima, what are you talking about?'

'Getting your revenge on Jack Harper, silly! Since you were just sitting there like a total wimp, I've taken matters into my own hands.'

For moment I can't quite move.

'Er, Jack … excuse me a minute.' I shoot him a bright smile. 'I just need to … take this call.'

With trembling legs I hurry to the corner of the courtyard, well away from earshot.

'Jemima, you promised you wouldn't do anything!' I hiss. 'You swore on your Miu Miu ponyskin bag, remember?'

'I haven't got a Miu Miu ponyskin bag!' she crows triumphantly. 'I've got a Fendi ponyskin bag!'

She's mad. She's completely mad.

'Jemima, what have you done?' I manage. 'Tell me what you've done.'

My heart is thudding in apprehension. Please don't say she's scraped his car. Please.

'An eye for an eye, Emma! That man totally betrayed you, and we're going to do the same to him. Now, I'm sitting here with a very nice chap called Mick. He's a journalist, he writes for the Daily World …'

My blood runs cold.

'A tabloid journalist?' I manage at last. 'Jemima, are you insane?'

'Don't be so narrow-minded and suburban,' retorts Jemima reprovingly. 'Emma, tabloid journalists are our friends. They're just like private detectives … but for free! Mick's done loads of work for Mummy before. He's marvellous at tracking things down. And he's very interested in finding out Jack Harper's little secret. I've told him all we know, but he'd like to have a word with you.'

I feel quite faint. This cannot be happening.

'Jemima, listen to me,' I say in quick, low tones, as though trying to persuade a lunatic down off the roof. 'I don't want to find out Jack's secret, OK? I just want to forget it. You have to stop this guy.'

'I won't!' she says like a petulant six-year-old. 'Emma, don't be so pathetic! You can't just let men walk all over you and do nothing in return. You have to show them. Mummy always says—' There's the sudden screeching of tyres. 'Oops! Tiny prang. I'll call you back.'

The phone goes dead.

I am numb with horror.

Frantically I jab her number into my phone, but it clicks straight on to messages.

'Jemima,' I say as soon as it beeps. 'Jemima, you have to stop this! You have to—' I stop abruptly as Jack appears in front of me, with a warm smile.

'It's about to start,' he says, and gives me a curious look. 'Everything all right?'

'Fine,' I say in a strangled voice, and put my phone away. 'Everything's … fine.'


TWENTY-FIVE


As I walk into the auditorium I'm almost lightheaded with panic.

What have I done? What have I done?

I have given away Jack's most precious secret in the world to a morally warped, revenge-wreaking, Prada-wearing nutcase.

OK. Just calm down, I tell myself for the zillionth time. She doesn't actually know anything. This journalist probably won't find out anything. I mean, what facts does he actually have?

But what if he does find out? What if he somehow stumbles on the truth? And Jack discovers it was me who pointed them in the right direction?

I feel ill at the thought. My stomach is curdling. Why did I ever mention Scotland to Jemima? Why?

New resolution: I am never giving away a secret again. Never, ever, ever. Even if it doesn't seem important. Even if I am feeling angry.

In fact … I am never talking again, full stop. All talking ever seems to do is get me into trouble. If I hadn't opened my mouth on that stupid plane in the first place, I wouldn't be in this mess now.

I will become a mute. A silent enigma. When people ask me questions I will simply nod, or scribble cryptic notes on pieces of paper. People will take them away and puzzle over them, searching them for hidden meanings—

'Is this Lissy?' says Jack, pointing to a name in the programme, and I jump in fright. I follow his gaze, then give a silent nod, my mouth clamped shut.

'Do you know anyone else in the show?' he asks.

I give a mute 'who knows?' shrug.

'So … how long has Lissy been practising?'

I hesitate, then hold up three fingers.

'Three?' Jack peers at me uncertainly. 'Three what?'

I make a little gesture with my hands which is supposed to indicate 'months'. Then I make it again. Jack looks totally baffled.

'Emma, is something wrong?'

I feel in my pocket for a pen — but I haven't got one.

OK, forget not talking.

'About three months,' I say out loud.

'Right.' Jack nods, and turns back to the programme. His face is calm and unsuspecting, and I can feel guilty nerves rising through me again.

Maybe I should just tell him.

No. I can't. I can't. How would I put it? 'By the way, Jack. You know that really important secret you asked me to keep? Well, guess what …'

Containment is what I need. Like in those military films where they bump off the person who knows too much. But how do I contain Jemima? I've launched some crazed human Exocet missile, fizzing around London, bent on causing as much devastation as she can, and now I want to call her back, but the button doesn't work any more.

OK. Just think rationally. There's no need to panic. Nothing's going to happen tonight. I'll just keep trying her mobile and as soon as I get through I'll explain in words of one syllable that she has to call this guy off and if she doesn't I will break her legs.

A low, insistent drumbeat starts playing over the loudspeakers, and I give a start of fright. I'm so distracted, I'd actually forgotten what we were here for. The auditorium is becoming completely dark, and around us the audience falls silent with anticipation. The beating increases in volume, but nothing happens on stage; it's still pitch black.

The drumming becomes even louder, and I'm starting to feel tense. This is all a bit spooky. When are they going to start dancing? When are they going to open the curtains? When are they going to—

Pow! Suddenly there's a gasp as a dazzling light fills the auditorium, nearly blinding me. Thumping music fills the air, and a single figure appears on stage in a black, glittering costume, twirling and leaping. Gosh, whoever it is, they're amazing. I'm blinking dazedly against the bright light, trying to see. I can hardly tell if it's a man or a woman or a—

Oh my God. It's Lissy.

I am pinioned to my seat by shock. Everything else has been swept away from my mind. I cannot keep my eyes off Lissy.

I had no idea she could do this. No idea! I mean, we did a bit of ballet together. And a bit of tap. But we never … I never … How can I have known someone for over twenty years and have no idea they could dance?

She just did this amazing slow, sinewy dance with a guy in a mask who I guess is Jean-Paul, and now she's leaping and spinning around with this ribbon thing, and the whole audience is staring at her, agog, and she looks so completely radiant. I haven't seen her look so happy for months. I'm so proud of her.