'Pull it!'

'I am pulling it!' He looks frantically around. 'Where are some scissors?'

'You're not cutting my jumper,' I say in horror.

'Do you have any other suggestions?' He yanks sharply again, and I give a muffled shriek. 'Ow! Stop it! You'll ruin it!'

'Oh I'll ruin it. And that's our major concern, is it?'

'I've always hated that stupid watch! If you'd just worn the one I gave you—'

I break off. There are definitely footsteps approaching. They're nearly outside the door.

'Fuck!' Connor's looking around distractedly. 'Fucking … fucking …'

'Calm down! We'll just shuffle into the corner,' I hiss. 'Anyway, they might not even come in.'

'This was a great idea, Emma,' he mutters furiously, as we do a hasty, awkward shuffle across the room together. 'Really great.'

'Don't blame me!' I retort. 'I just wanted to get a bit of passion back into our—' I freeze as the door opens.

No. God, no.

I feel lightheaded with shock.

Jack Harper is standing in the doorway, holding a big bundle of old magazines.

Slowly, his eyes run over us, taking in Connor's angry expression, his hand inside my bra, my agonized face.

'Mr Harper,' Connor begins to stutter. 'I'm so very, very sorry. We're … we didn't …' He clears his throat. 'Can I just say how mortified I am … we both are …'

'I'm sure you are,' says Jack. His face is blank and unreadable; his voice as dry as ever. 'Perhaps the pair of you could adjust your dress before returning to your desks?'

The door closes behind him, and we stand motionless, like waxworks.

'Look, can you just get your bloody hand out of my top?' I say at last, suddenly feeling irritated beyond belief with Connor. All my desire for sex has vanished. I feel completely livid with myself. And Connor. And everybody.


TEN


Jack Harper leaves today.

Thank God. Thank God. Because I really couldn't cope with any more of … of him. If I can just keep my head down and avoid him until five o'clock and then run out of the door, then everything will be fine. Life will be back to normal and I will stop feeling as if my radar's been skewed by some invisible magnetic force.

I don't know why I'm in such a jumpy, irritable mood. Because although I nearly died of embarrassment yesterday, things are pretty good. First of all, it doesn't look like' Connor and I are going to get the sack for having sex at work, which was my immediate fear. And secondly, my brilliant plan worked. As soon as we got back to our desks, Connor started sending me apologetic emails. And then last night we had sex. Twice. With scented candles.

I think Connor must have read somewhere that girls like scented candles during sex. Maybe in Cosmo. Because every time he brings them out, he gives me this 'aren't I considerate?' look, and I have to say 'Oh! Scented candles! How lovely!'

I mean, don't get me wrong. I don't mind scented candles. But it's not as if they actually do anything, is it? They just stand there and burn. And then at crucial moments I find myself thinking 'I hope the scented candle doesn't fall over', which is a bit distracting.

Anyway. So we had sex.

And tonight we're going to look at a flat together. It doesn't have a wooden floor or shutters — but it has a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, which is pretty cool. So my life is coming together nicely. I don't know why I'm feeling so pissed off. I don't know what's—

I don't want to move in with Connor, says a tiny voice in my brain before I can stop it.

No. That can't be right. That cannot possibly be right. Connor is perfect. Everyone knows that.

But I don't want to—

Shut up. We're the Perfect Couple. We have sex with scented candles. And we go for walks by the river. And we read the papers on Sundays with cups of coffee in pyjamas. That's what perfect couples do.

But—

Stop it!

I swallow hard. Connor is the one good thing in my life. If I didn't have Connor, what would I have?

The phone rings on my desk, interrupting my thoughts, and I pick it up.

'Hello, Emma?' comes a familiar dry voice. 'This is Jack Harper.'

My heart gives an almighty leap of fright and I nearly spill my coffee. I haven't seen him since the hand-in-bra incident. And I really don't want to.

I should never have answered my phone.

In fact, I should never have come into work today.

'Oh,' I say.'Er … hi!'

'Would you mind coming up to my office for a moment?'

'What … me?' I say nervously.

'Yes, you.'

I clear my throat.

'Should I … bring anything?'

'No, just yourself.'

He rings off, and I stare at my phone for a few moments, feeling a coldness in my spine. I should have known it was too good to be true. He's going to fire me after all. Gross … negligence … negligent grossness.

I mean, it is pretty gross, getting caught with your boyfriend's hand in your top at work.

OK. Well, there's nothing I can do.

I take a deep breath, stand up and make my way up to the eleventh floor. There's a desk outside his door, but no secretary is sitting there, so I go straight up to the door and knock.

'Come in.'

Cautiously I push the door open. The room is huge and bright and panelled, and Jack is sitting at a circular table with six people gathered round on chairs. Six people I've never seen before, I suddenly realize. They're all holding pieces of paper and sipping water, and the atmosphere is a bit tense.

Have they gathered to watch me being fired? Is this some kind of how-to-fire-people training?

'Hello,' I say, trying to keep as composed as possible. But my face is hot and I know I look flustered.

'Hi.' Jack's face crinkles in a smile. 'Emma … relax. There's nothing to worry about. I just wanted to ask you something.'

'Oh, right,' I say, taken aback.

OK, now I'm totally confused. What on earth could he have to ask me?

Jack reaches for a piece of paper and holds it up so I can see it clearly. 'What do you think this is a picture of?' he says.

Oh fucketty fuck.

This is your worst nightmare. This is like when I went for that interview at Laines Bank and they showed me a squiggle and I said I thought it looked like a squiggle.

Everyone is staring at me. I so want to get it right. If only I knew what right was.

I stare at the picture, my heart beating quickly. It's a graphic of two round objects. Kind of irregular in shape. I have absolutely no idea what they're supposed to be. None at all. They look like … they look like …

Suddenly I see it.

'It's nuts! Two walnuts!'

Jack explodes with laughter, and a couple of people give muffled giggles which they hastily stifle.

'Well, I think that proves my point,' says Jack.

'Aren't they walnuts?' I look helplessly around the table.

'They're supposed to be ovaries,' says a man with rimless spectacles tightly.

'Ovaries?' I stare at the page. 'Oh, right! Well, yes. Now you say it, I can definitely see a … an ovary-like …'

'Walnuts.' Jack wipes his eyes.

'I've explained, the ovaries are simply part of a range of symbolic representations of womanhood," says a thin guy defensively. 'Ovaries to represent fertility, an eye for wisdom, this tree to signify the earth mother …'

'The point is, the images can be used across the entire range of products,' says a woman with black hair, leaning forward. 'The health drink, clothing, a fragrance …'

'The target market responds well to abstract images,' adds Rimless Spectacle Guy. 'The research has shown—'

'Emma.' Jack looks at me again. 'Would you buy a drink with ovaries on it?'

'Er …' I clear my throat, aware of a couple of hostile faces pointing my way. 'Well … probably not.'

A few people exchange glances.

'This is so irrelevant,' someone is muttering.

'Jack, three creative teams have been at work at this,' the black-haired woman says earnestly. 'We can't start from scratch. We simply cannot.'

Jack takes a swig of water from an Evian bottle, wipes his mouth and looks at her.

'You know I came up with the slogan "Don't Pause" in two minutes on a bar napkin?'

'Yes, we know,' mutters the guy in rimless spectacles.

'We are not selling a drink with ovaries on it.' He exhales sharply, and runs a hand through his dishevelled hair. Then he pushes his chair back. 'OK, let's take a break. Emma, would you be kind enough to assist me in carrying some of these folders down to Sven's office?'

God, I wonder what all that was about. But I don't quite dare ask. Jack marches me down the corridor, and into a lift and presses the ninth-floor button, without saying anything. After we've descended for about two seconds he presses the emergency button, and we grind to a halt. Then, finally, he looks at me.

'Are you and I the only sane people in this building?'

'Um …'

'What happened to instincts?' His face is incredulous. 'No-one knows a good idea from a terrible one any more. Ovaries.' He shakes his head. 'Fucking ovaries!'

I can't help it. He looks so outraged, and the way he says 'ovaries!' suddenly seems the funniest thing in the world, and before I know it, I've started laughing. For an instant Jack looks astounded, and then his face kind of crumples, and suddenly he's laughing too. His nose screws right up when he laughs, just like a baby's and somehow this makes it seem about a million times funnier.

Oh God. I really am laughing now. I'm giving tiny little snorts, and my ribs hurt, and every time I look at him I give another gurgle. My nose is running, and I haven't got a tissue … I'll have to blow my nose on the picture of the ovaries …

'Emma, why are you with that guy?'

'What?' I look up, still laughing, until I realize that Jack's stopped. He's looking at me, with an unreadable expression on his face.

'Why are you with that guy?' he repeats.

My gurgles peter out, and I push my hair back off my face.

'What do you mean?' I say, playing for time.

'Connor Martin. He's not going to make you happy. He's not going to fulfil you.'

I stare at him, feeling wrong-footed.

'Who says?'

'I've got to know Connor. I've sat in meetings with him. I've seen how his mind works. He's a nice guy — but you need more than a nice guy.' Jack gives me a long, shrewd look. 'My guess is, you don't really want to move in with him. But you're afraid of ducking out.'

I feel a swell of indignation. How dare he read my mind and get it so … so wrong. Of course I want to move in with Connor.

'Actually, you're quite mistaken,' I say cuttingly. 'I'm looking forward to moving in with him. In fact … in fact, I was just sitting at my desk, thinking how I can't wait!'

So there.

Jack's shaking his head.

'You need someone with a spark. Who excites you.'

'I told you, I didn't mean what I said on the plane. Connor does excite me!' I give him a defiant look. 'I mean … when you saw us last, we were pretty passionate, weren't we?'

'Oh, that.' Jack shrugs. 'I assumed that was a desperate attempt to spice up your love life.'

I stare at him in fury.

'That was not a desperate attempt to spice up my love life!' I almost spit at him. 'That was simply a … a spontaneous act of passion.'

'Sorry,' says Jack mildly. 'My mistake.'

'Anyway, why do you care?' I fold my arms. 'What does it matter to you whether I'm happy or not?'

There's a sharp silence, and I find I'm breathing rather quickly. I meet his dark eyes, and quickly look away again.

'I've asked myself that same question,' says Jack. He shrugs. 'Maybe it's because we experienced that extraordinary plane ride together. Maybe it's because you're the only person in this whole company who hasn't put on some kind of phoney act for me.'

I would have put on an act! I feel like retorting. If I'd had a choice!

'I guess what I'm saying is … I feel as if you're a friend,' he says. 'And I care what happens to my friends.'

'Oh,' I say, and rub my nose.

I'm about to say politely that he feels like a friend, too, when he adds, 'Plus anyone who recites Woody Allen films line for line has to be a loser.'

I feel a surge of outrage on Connor's behalf.

'You don't know anything about it!' I exclaim. 'You know, I wish I'd never sat next to you on that stupid plane! You go around, saying all these things to wind me up, behaving as though you know me better than anyone else—'