Remember Me?

Chapter 7

It has to be karma.

I must have been amazingly noble in a previous existence. I must have rescued children from a burning building, or given up my life to help lepers, or invented the wheel or something. It’s the only explanation I can think of for how I’ve landed the dream life.

Here I am, zooming along the Thames Embankment, with my handsome husband, in his open-top Mercedes.

I say zooming. Actually we’re going at about twenty miles an hour. Eric is being all solicitous and saying he knows how hard it must be for me to get back in a car, and if I feel traumatized to tell him straightaway. But really, I’m fine. I don’t remember anything about the crash. It’s like a story I’ve been told that happened to someone else, the kind where you tilt your head politely and say “Oh no, how awful” but you’ve already stopped listening properly.

I keep glancing down at myself in wonder. I’m wearing a pair of cropped jeans, two sizes smaller than I used to wear. And a top by Miu Miu, which is one of those names I only used to know about from magazines. Eric brought me a bag of clothes to choose from, and they were all so posh and designer I hardly dared touch them, let alone put them on.

On the backseat are all the bouquets and presents from my hospital room, including a massive basket of tropical fruit from Deller Carpets. There was a letter attached from someone called Clare, which said she would send me the minutes of the latest board meeting to read at my leisure, and she hoped I was feeling better. And then she signed it “Clare Abrahams, assistant to Lexi Smart.”

Assistant to Lexi Smart. I have my own personal assistant. I’m on the board of directors. Me!

My cuts and bruises are a lot better and the plastic staple has been taken out of my head. My hair is freshly washed and glossy and my teeth are as movie-star perfect as ever. I can’t stop smiling at every shiny surface I pass. In fact, I can’t stop smiling, full stop.

Maybe in a previous life I was Joan of Arc and I got tortured horrifically to death. Or I was that guy in Titanic. Yes. I drowned in a cruel, freezing sea and never got Kate Winslet, and this is my reward. I mean, people don’t just get presented with a perfect life for no good reason. It just doesn’t happen.

“All right, darling?” Eric briefly puts his hand on mine. His curly hair is all ruffled in the wind and his expensive sunglasses are glinting in the sunshine. He looks like the kind of guy the Mercedes PR people would want to be driving their cars.

“Yes!” I beam back. “I’m great!”

I’m Cinderella. No, I’m better than Cinderella, because she only got the prince, didn’t she? I’m Cinderella with fab teeth and a shit-hot job.

Eric signals left. “Well, here we are…” He pulls off the road into a grand pillared entrance, past a porter in a glass box, into a parking space, and then turns off the engine. “Come and see your home.”

You know how some hyped-up things are a total letdown when you actually get to them. Like, you save up for ages to go to an expensive restaurant and the waiters are snooty and the table is too small and the dessert tastes like Mr Whippy.

Well, my new home is approximately the opposite of that. It’s way better than I imagined. As I walk around, I’m awestruck. It’s massive. It’s light. It has views over the river. There’s a vast, L-shaped cream sofa and the coolest black granite cocktail bar. The shower is a whole marble-clad room, big enough for about five people.

“Do you remember any of this?” Eric is watching me intently. “Is it triggering anything?”

“No. But it’s absolutely stunning!”

We must have some cool parties here. I can just see Fi, Carolyn, and Debs perched at the cocktail bar, tequila shooters going, music blaring over the sound system. I pause by the sofa and run my hand along the plushy fabric. It’s so pristine and plumped up, I don’t think I’ll ever dare sit down on it. Maybe I’ll just have to hover. It’ll be great for my bum muscles.

“This is an amazing sofa!” I look up at Eric. “It must have cost a packet.”

He nods. “Ten thousand pounds.”

Shit. I draw my hand back. How can a sofa cost that much? What’s it stuffed with, caviar? I edge away, thanking God I didn’t sit down on it. Memo to self: do not ever drink red wine on / eat pizza on / ever go near the ten-grand posh cream sofa.

“I really love this…er…light fitting.” I gesture to a free-standing undulating piece of metal.

Eric smiles. “That’s a radiator.”

“Oh right,” I say, confused. “I thought that was a radiator.” I point to an old-fashioned iron radiator that has been painted black and fitted halfway up the opposite wall.

“That’s a piece of art.” Eric corrects me. “It’s by Hector James-John. Disintegration Falls.”

I walk over to it, cock my head, and gaze up alongside Eric, with what I hope is an intelligent art-lover’s expression.

Disintegration Falls. Black radiator. Nope, no idea.

“It’s so…structural,” I venture after a pause.

“We were lucky to get this,” Eric says, nodding at the piece. “We tend to invest in a piece of nonrepresentational art about every eight months. The loft can take it. And it’s about the portfolio as much as anything else.” He shrugs as though this is self-explanatory.

“Of course!” I nod. “I would have thought the portfolio…aspect would be…absolutely…” I clear my throat and turn away.

Keep your mouth shut, Lexi. You know fuck-all about modern art or portfolios or basically what it’s like being rich and you’re giving it all away.

I turn away from the radiator-art-thing and focus on a giant screen, which almost fills the opposite wall. There’s a second screen across the room, by the dining table, and I noticed one in the bedroom. Eric clearly likes the telly.

He notices me looking at it. “What would you like?” He picks up a remote control and flicks it at the screen. “Try this.” The next minute I’m looking at a massive blazing, crackling fire.

“Wow!” I stare at it in surprise.

“Or this.” The picture changes to brightly colored tropical fish weaving through fronds of seaweed. “It’s the latest in home screen system technology,” he says proudly. “It’s art, it’s entertainment, it’s communication. You can e-mail on these things, you can listen to music, read books…I have a thousand works of literature stored on the system. You can even have a virtual pet.”

“A pet?” I’m still gazing at the screen, dazzled.

“We each have one.” Eric smiles. “This is mine, Titan.” He flicks his control and an image appears on the screen of a massive stripy spider, prowling around a glass box.

“Oh my God!” I back away, feeling sick. I’ve never been great with spiders, and that one is about ten feet high. You can see the hairs on its horrible legs. You can see its face. “Could you possibly switch that off, please?”

“What’s wrong?” Eric looks surprised. “I showed Titan to you on your first visit here. You said you thought he was adorable.”

Great. It was our first date. I said I liked the spider to be polite, and now I’m stuck with it.

“You know what?” I say, trying to keep my gaze averted from Titan. “The crash could have given me a spider phobia.” I try to sound knowledgeable, like I heard this from a doctor or something.

“Maybe.” Eric has a slight frown, as though he’s about to pick holes in this theory. As well he might.

“So I have a pet too?” I say quickly, to distract him. “What is it?”

“Here you go.” He zaps at the screen. “Here’s Arthur.” A fluffy white kitten appears on the screen and I cry out in delight.

“He’s so cute!” I watch him playing with a ball of string, batting it and tumbling over. “Does he grow up into a cat?”

“No.” Eric smiles. “He stays as a kitten indefinitely. All your life, if you want. They have a life capacity of one hundred thousand years.”

“Oh, right,” I say after a pause. Actually, that’s freakish. A one-hundred-thousand-year-old virtual kitten.

Eric’s phone beeps and he flips it open, then zaps at the screen again to restore the fish. “Sweetheart, my driver’s here. I’m going to have to go to the office briefly. But Rosalie is on her way to keep you company. Until then, if anything bothers you, just call me at once-or you can e-mail me through the system.” He hands me a rectangular white gadget with a screen. “Here’s your remote control. It controls heating, ventilation, lighting, doors, blinds…Everything here is intelligent. But you shouldn’t need to use it. All the settings are in place.”

“We have a remote-control house?” I want to laugh.

“It’s all part of loft-style living!” He makes the parallel hand gesture again, and I nod, trying not to give away how overwhelmed I am.

I watch as he shrugs on his jacket. “So…how exactly does Rosalie fit in?”

“She’s the wife of my partner, Clive. You two have a great time together.”

“Does she hang out with me and the other girls from the office?” I ask. “Like Fi and Carolyn? Do we all go out together?”

“Who?” Eric looks blank. Maybe he’s one of those guys who doesn’t keep up with his wife’s social life.

“Never mind,” I say quickly. “I’ll work it all out.”

“Gianna will be back later too. Our housekeeper. Any problems, she’ll help you.” He comes over, hesitates, then takes my hand. His skin is smooth and immaculate, even up close, and I can just smell a gorgeous sandalwood aftershave.

“Thanks, Eric.” I put my hand over his and squeeze it. “I really appreciate it.”

“Welcome back, darling,” he says a little gruffly. Then he disengages his hand and heads toward the door, and a moment later it closes behind him.

I’m alone. Alone in my marital home. As I look around the huge space again, taking in the Lucite cube coffee table, the leather chaise, the art books…I realize I can’t see that many signs of me. There are no brightly colored pottery jugs or fairy lights or piles of paperbacks.

Well, Eric and I probably wanted to start again, choosing things together. And we probably got loads of amazing wedding presents. Those blue-glass vases on the mantelpiece look like they cost a fortune.

I wander over to the huge windows and peer down at the street below. There’s no noise or draft or anything. I watch a man carry a package into a taxi far below and a woman struggling with a dog on a lead. Then I pull out my phone and start texting Fi. I have to talk to her about all of this. I’ll get her to come around later. We’ll curl up on the sofa and she can fill me in on my life, starting with Eric. I can’t help smiling with anticipation as I press the buttons.

Hi! Back home-give me a call! Can’t wait to c u!!! Lxxxx

I send the same text to Carolyn and Debs. Then I put my phone away and swivel around on the shiny wooden floor. I’ve been trying to keep up a nonchalant air in front of Eric, but now that I’m alone I can feel a beam of elation popping through. I never thought I’d live anywhere like this, ever.

A laugh suddenly bubbles to my lips. I mean, it’s crazy. Me. In this place!

I swivel again on the floor, then start twirling, my arms out, laughing madly. I, Lexi Smart, live here in this state-of-the-art remote-controlled palace!

Sorry, Lexi Gardiner.

This thought makes me giggle even more. I didn’t even know my own married name when I woke up. What if it had been Pratt-Bottom? What would I have said then? “Sorry, Eric, you seem a lovely guy, but there’s absolutely no way on earth…”

Crash. The sound of breaking glass interrupts my thoughts. I stop twirling in horror. Somehow I accidentally caught my hand on a glass leopard that was leaping through the air on a display shelf. Now it’s lying on the floor in two pieces.

I’ve broken a priceless ornament, and I’ve only been in the place about three minutes.

Shit.

I cautiously bend down and touch the bigger tail-end piece. There’s a nasty jagged edge and some splinters of glass on the floor. There’s no way this can be mended.

I’m hot with panic. What am I going to do? What if it was worth ten thousand quid, like the sofa? What if it’s some family heirloom of Eric’s? What was I thinking, twirling around?

Gingerly I pick up the first piece, and then the second. I’ll have to sweep up the splinters of glass and then-

An electronic beep interrupts me and my head jerks up. The giant screen opposite has turned bright blue with a message in green capitals.

HI, LEXI-HOW ARE YOU DOING?

Fuck! He can see me. He’s watching me. It’s Big Brother!

In terror I leap to my feet and shove the two pieces of glass under a cushion on the sofa.

“Hi,” I say to the blue screen, my heart pounding. “I didn’t mean to do that, it was an accident…”

There’s silence. The screen isn’t moving or reacting in any way.

“Eric?” I try again.

There’s no reply.

Okay…maybe he can’t see me after all. He must be typing this from the car. Cautiously I venture over to the screen and notice a wall-mounted keyboard and tiny silver mouse, discreetly tucked away to the side. I click on Reply and slowly type FINE, THANKS!

I could leave it there. I could find a way to fix the leopard…or replace it somehow…

No. Come on. I can’t start off my brand-new marriage by keeping secrets from my husband. I have to be brave and own up. HAVE BROKEN GLASS LEOPARD BY MISTAKE, I type. REALLY SORRY. HOPE IS NOT IRREPLACEABLE?

I press Send and pace about as I wait for the reply, telling myself over and over not to worry. I mean, I don’t know for certain that it’s a priceless ornament, do I? Maybe we won it in a raffle. Maybe it’s mine, and Eric’s always hated it. How am I supposed to know?

How am I supposed to know anything?

I sink down onto a chair, suddenly overwhelmed by how little I know about my own life. If I’d known I was going to get amnesia, I would have at least written myself a note. Given myself a few tips. Be careful of the glass leopard, it’s worth a bloody fortune. P.S., you like spiders.

There’s a beep from the screen. I catch my breath and look up. OF COURSE IS NOT IRREPLACEABLE! DON’T WORRY.

I feel a huge whoosh of relief. It’s all right.

THANKS! I type, smiling. WON’T BREAK ANYTHING ELSE, PROMISE!

I can’t believe I overreacted like that. I can’t believe I hid the pieces under a cushion. What am I, five years old? This is my own house. I’m a married woman. I have to start behaving like it. Still beaming to myself, I lift up the cushion to retrieve the pieces-and freeze.

Fuck.

The bloody glass has ripped the bloody cream sofa. I must have caught it as I shoved the pieces underneath. The plushy fabric’s all ragged.

The ten-thousand-pound sofa.

I automatically glance up at the screen-then quickly look away, hollow with fear. I can’t tell Eric I’ve ruined the sofa too. I can’t.

Okay. What I’ll do is…is…I won’t tell him today. I’ll wait for a better moment. Flustered, I rearrange the cushions so the rip isn’t visible. There. Good as new. No one looks under cushions, do they?

I grab the bits of glass leopard and head into the kitchen, which is all glossy gray-lacquer cupboards and rubber floor. I locate a roll of kitchen paper, wrap up the leopard, manage to track down the trash behind a streamlined unit door, and chuck the bits in. Okay. That’s it. I am not wrecking anything else.

A buzzer sounds through the apartment and I look up, my spirits lifting. This must be Rosalie, my new best friend. I can’t wait to meet her.

Rosalie turns out to be even skinnier than she looked on the wedding DVD. She’s dressed in black capri pants, a pink cashmere V neck, and huge Chanel sunglasses pushing her blond hair back. As I open the door she gives a small shriek and drops the Jo Malone gift bag she’s holding.

“Oh my God, Lexi. Look at your poor face.”

“It’s fine!” I say reassuringly. “Honestly, you should have seen me six days ago. I had a plastic staple in my head.”

“You poor thing. What a nightmare.” She retrieves her gift bag, then kisses me on each cheek. “I would have come around earlier, only you know how long I waited to get that slot at Cheriton Spa.”

“Come in.” I gesture to the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sweetie…” She looks puzzled. “I don’t drink coffee. Dr. André banned me. You know that.”

“Oh right.” I pause. “The thing is…I don’t remember. I have amnesia.”

Rosalie is gazing at me, politely blank. Doesn’t she know? Didn’t Eric tell her?

“I don’t remember anything about the last three years,” I try again. “I hit my head and it’s all been wiped from my memory.”

“Oh my God.” Rosalie’s hand goes to her mouth. “Eric kept saying things about amnesia and you wouldn’t know me. I thought he was joking!”

I want to giggle at her horrified expression. “No, he wasn’t joking. To me you’re…a stranger.”

“I’m a stranger?” She sounds hurt.

“Eric was a stranger too,” I add hastily. “I woke up and I didn’t know who he was. I still don’t, really.”

There’s a short silence during which I can see Rosalie processing this information. Her eyes widen and her cheeks puff out and she chews her lip.

“Oh my God,” she says at last. “Nightmare.”

“I don’t know this place.” I spread my arms around. “I don’t know my own home. I don’t know what my life is like. If you could help me out, or…tell me a few things…”

“Absolutely! Let’s sit down…” She leads the way into the kitchen area. She dumps the Jo Malone bag on the counter and sits down at the trendy steel breakfast table-and I follow suit, wondering if I chose this table, or Eric chose it, or we both chose it together.

I look up to see Rosalie staring at me. At once she smiles-but I can see she’s freaked out.

“I know,” I say. “It’s a weird situation.”

“So, is it permanent?”

“Apparently my memory could come back, but no one knows if it will. Or when it will, or how much.”

“And apart from that, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, except one of my hands is a bit slow.” I lift up my left hand to show her. “I’ve got physio exercises to do.” I flex my hand like the physiotherapist taught me, and Rosalie watches in fascinated horror.

“Nightmare,” she breathes.

“But the real problem is…I don’t know anything about my life since 2004. It’s just a big black hole. The doctors said I should try and talk to my friends and build up a picture, and maybe that’ll trigger something.”

“Of course.” Rosalie nods. “Let me fill you in. What do you want to know?” She leans forward expectantly.

“Well…” I think for a moment. “How did we two meet?”

“It was about two and a half years ago.” Rosalie nods firmly. “I was at a drinks party, and Eric said, ‘This is Lexi.’ And I said, ‘Hi!’ And that’s how we met!” She beams.

“Right.” I shrug apologetically. “I don’t remember.”

“We were at Trudy Swinson’s? You know, who used to be an air hostess, but she met Adrian on a flight to New York, and everyone says she zeroed in on him as soon as she spotted his black Amex…” She trails off, as if the enormity of the situation is hitting her for the first time. “So you don’t remember any gossip?”

“Well…no.”

“Oh my God.” She blows out sharply. “I have so much to fill you in on. Where shall I start? Okay, so there’s me.” She pulls a pen out of her bag and starts writing. “And my husband, Clive, and his evil bitch ex, Davina. Wait till you hear about her. And there’s Jenna and Petey-”

“Do we ever hang out with my other friends?” I interrupt her. “Like Fi and Carolyn? Or Debs? Do you know them?”

“Carolyn. Carolyn.” Rosalie taps the pen against her teeth, frowning thoughtfully. “Is she that lovely French girl at the gym?”

“No, Carolyn my friend from work. And Fi. I must have talked about them, surely. I’ve been friends with Fi forever…we go out every Friday night…”

Rosalie looks blank.

“Sweetie, to be honest, I’ve never heard you mention them. As far as I know, you never socialize with colleagues from work.”

“What?” I stare at her. “But…it’s our thing! We go clubbing and we dress up and we have cocktails…”

Rosalie laughs. “Lexi, I’ve never even seen you with a cocktail! You and Eric are both so serious about wine.”

Wine? That can’t be right. All I know about wine is that it comes from Oddbins.

“You look confused,” Rosalie says anxiously. “I’m bombarding you with too much information. Forget the gossip.” She pushes aside her sheet of paper, on which I can see she’s written a list of names with “bitch” and “sweetheart” next to them. “What would you like to do?”

“Maybe we could just do whatever we normally do together?”

“Absolutely!” Rosalie ponders for a moment, then her brow clears. “We should go to the gym.”

“The gym,” I echo, trying to sound enthused. “Of course. So…I go to the gym a lot?”

“Sweetie, you’re addicted! You run for an hour every other morning at six a.m.”

Six a.m.? Running?

I never run. It’s painful and it makes your boobs bounce around. I once did a mile-long fun run with Fi and Carolyn, and I nearly died. Although at least I was better than Fi, who gave up running after two minutes and walked the rest of the way, smoking a cigarette, and then got into a row with the organizers and was banned from any future Cancer Research fund-raisers.

“But don’t worry, we’ll do something lovely and restful today,” Rosalie says reassuringly. “A massage, or a nice gentle stretch class. Just grab your exercise clothes and we’ll go!”

“Okay!” I hesitate. “Actually, this is a bit embarrassing…but I don’t know where my clothes are. All the cupboards in our bedroom are full of Eric’s suits. I can’t find any of mine.”

Rosalie looks utterly pole-axed. “You don’t know where your clothes are?” Tears suddenly spring to her huge blue eyes and she fans her face. “I’m sorry,” she gulps. “But it’s just come home to me how horrific and scary this must be for you. To have forgotten your entire wardrobe.” She takes a deep breath, composing herself, then squeezes my hand. “Come with me, sweetie. I’ll show you.”

So the reason I couldn’t find my clothes is they’re not in a wardrobe, they’re in a whole other room, behind a concealed door which looks like a mirror. And the reason they need a whole other room is because there’s so bloody many of them.

As I stare at the racks I feel faint. I’ve never seen so many clothes, not outside a shop. Crisp white shirts, tailored black trousers, suits in shades of mushroom and taupe. Chiffony evening wear. Tights rolled up in their own special drawer. Folded silky knickers with La Perla labels. I can’t see anything that doesn’t look brand-new and immaculate. There are no baggy jeans, no sloppy sweaters, no comfy old pj’s.

I leaf through a row of jackets, all pretty much identical apart from the buttons. I can’t believe I’ve spent so much money on clothes and they’re all versions of beige.

“What do you think?” Rosalie is watching me, her eyes sparkling.

“Amazing!”

“Ann has a great eye.” She nods sagely. “Ann, your personal shopper.”

“I have a personal shopper?”

“Just for the main pieces each season…” Rosalie pulls out a dark blue dress with spaghetti straps and the tiniest ruffle around the hem. “Look, this is the dress you wore when we first met. I remember thinking, ‘Ah, this is the girl Eric’s smitten with.’ It was the talk of the party! And let me tell you, Lexi, there were a lot of disappointed girls out there when you two got married…” She reaches for a long black evening dress. “This is the dress you wore to my murder mystery evening.” She holds it up against me. “With a little fur shrug and pearls…Don’t you remember?”

“Not really.”

“What about this Catherine Walker? You must remember that…or your Roland Mouret…” Rosalie is whipping out dress after dress, none of which looks remotely familiar. She reaches a pale garment carrier and stops with a gasp. “Your wedding dress!” Slowly, reverently, she unzips the garment carrier and pulls out the silky white sheath I recognize from the DVD. “Doesn’t that bring it all back?”

I stare at the dress, trying as hard as I can to will my memory to return…but nothing.

“Oh my God.” Rosalie suddenly claps a hand over her mouth. “You and Eric should have a renewal of vows! I’ll plan it for you! We could have a Japanese theme, you could wear a kimono-”

“Maybe!” I cut her off. “It’s early days. I’ll…think about it.”

“Hmm.” Rosalie looks disappointed as she packs the wedding dress away. Then her face lights up. “Try the shoes. You have to remember your shoes.”

She heads to the other side of the room and flings open a cupboard door. And I stare in disbelief. I’ve never seen so many shoes. All in neat rows, most of them high-heeled. What am I doing with high-heeled shoes?

“This is unbelievable.” I turn to Rosalie. “I can’t even walk in heels, God knows why I bought them.”

“Yes, you can.” Rosalie looks puzzled. “Of course you can.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve never been able to do heels. I fall over, I twist my ankle, I look stupid…”

“Sweetie.” Rosalie’s eyes are wide. “You live in heels. You were wearing these last time we had lunch.” She pulls out a pair of black pumps with four-inch stiletto heels. The kind I’d never even look at in a shop.

The soles are scuffed. The inside label has been rubbed away. Someone’s been wearing these.

Me?

“Put them on!” says Rosalie.

Cautiously I slip off my loafers and step into the pointy heels. Almost at once I topple over and grab Rosalie. “You see? I can’t balance.”

“Lexi, you can walk in these,” Rosalie says firmly. “I’ve seen you do it.”

“I can’t.” I make to take them off, but Rosalie grabs my arm.

“No! Don’t give up, sweetie. It’s in you, I know it is! You have to…unlock it!”

I try another step, but my ankle bends like plasticine. “It’s no good.” I exhale in frustration. “I wasn’t meant to do this.”

“Yes, you were. Try again! Find the zone!” Rosalie sounds like she’s coaching me for the Olympics. “You can do it, Lexi.”

I totter to the other side of the room and cling to the curtain. “I’ll never crack this,” I say despairingly.

“Of course you will. Just don’t think about it. Distract yourself. I know! We’ll sing a song! ‘Land of hope and gloreeee…’ Come on, Lexi, sing!”

Reluctantly I join in. I really hope Eric doesn’t have a CCTV camera trained on us at this moment.

“Now walk!” Rosalie gives me a little push. “Go!”

“‘Land of hope and gloreeee…’” Trying to keep my mind focused on the song, I take a step forward. Then another. Then another.

Oh my God. I’m doing it. I’m walking in high heels!

“You see?” Rosalie crows in triumph. “I told you! You are a heels girl.”

I get to the other side of the room, swivel around confidently, and walk back, an elated grin on my face. I feel like a model!

“I can do it! It’s easy!”

“Yay!” Rosalie lifts her hand and gives me a high-five. She opens a drawer, scoops up some gym clothes, and pops them into an oversize tote. “Come on, let’s go.”

We drive to the gym in Rosalie’s car. It’s a sumptuous Range Rover with the license plate ROS 1. Designer shopping bags are strewn all over the backseat.

“So, what do you do?” I say as she winds her way between two lanes of traffic.

“I do a lot of volunteer work.” She nods earnestly.

“Wow.” I feel a bit shamefaced. Rosalie didn’t strike me as the volunteer-work type, which just shows how prejudiced I am. “What kind?”

“Event planning, mainly.”

“For a particular charity?”

“No, mostly for friends. You know, if they need a helping hand with the flowers or party favors or whatever…” Rosalie’s smiling winsomely up at a truck driver. “Please let me in, Mr. Lorry-driver…Thank you!” She pulls over into the next lane and blows him a kiss.

“I do the odd bits for the company, too,” she adds. “Eric’s such a sweetie, he always gets me involved in launches, that kind of thing. Oh shit, road works!” She swerves, to a cacophony of angry hooting, and turns the radio up higher.

“So you like Eric?” I try to sound casual, although I’m dying to hear what she thinks of him.

“Oh, he’s the perfect husband. Absolutely perfect.” She draws up at a crosswalk. “Mine’s a monster.”

“Really?” I stare at her.

“Mind you, I’m a monster too.” She turns to face me, her blue eyes deadly serious. “We’re so volatile. It’s a total love-hate relationship. Here we are!” She zooms off again and drives into a tiny car park, pulls up next to a Porsche, and turns off the engine.

“Now, don’t worry,” she says as she ushers me toward the glass double doors. “I know this will be really hard for you, so I’ll do all the talking… Hi there!” She pushes her way into a smart reception area furnished with tan leather seating and a pebbled fountain.

“Hi, ladies.” The receptionist’s face falls as she sees me. “Lexi! You poor thing! We heard about the accident. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I venture a smile. “Thanks very much for the flowers.”

“Poor Lexi has amnesia,” says Rosalie impressively. “She doesn’t remember this place. She doesn’t remember anything.” She casts around as though for a way to illustrate. “Like, she doesn’t remember this door…or…or this plant…” She gestures to a large frondy fern.

“Goodness!”

“I know.” Rosalie is nodding solemnly. “It’s a nightmare for her.” She turns to me. “Is this bringing back any memories, Lexi?”

“Er…not really.”

Everyone in the reception area is staring at me, agog. I feel like a member of the Amnesia Freak Circus.

“Come on!” Rosalie firmly takes hold of my arm. “We’ll get changed. You might remember once you’re in your exercise clothes.”

The changing rooms are the most palatial ones I’ve ever seen, all smooth wood and mosaic showers and gentle music playing over the speakers. I disappear into a cubicle and pull on a pair of leggings. Then I pull on the leotard bit.

It’s got a thong, I realize to my horror. My bum will look massive. I can’t wear this.

But I don’t have anything else. Reluctantly I pull it on, then edge out of the cubicle, hands over my eyes. This could be really, really gross. I count to five, then force myself to take a peek.

Actually…I don’t look too bad. I remove my hands completely and stare at myself. I look all long and lean and…different. Experimentally I flex my arm-and a biceps muscle I’ve never seen before pops up. I stare at it in astonishment.

“So!” Rosalie bustles up to me, dressed in leggings and a crop top. “This way…” She ushers me into a large, airy exercise studio, where rows of well-groomed women are already in position on yoga mats.

“Sorry we’re late,” she says momentously, looking around the room. “But Lexi has got amnesia. She doesn’t remember anything. About any of you.”

I get the feeling Rosalie is enjoying this.

“Hi.” I do a shy wave around the room.

“I heard about your accident, Lexi.” The exercise teacher is coming over wearing a sympathetic smile. She’s a slim woman with cropped blond hair and a headset. “Please take it easy today. Sit out whenever you like. We’re starting with some mat work…”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“We’re trying to trigger her memory,” Rosalie chimes in. “So everyone just act normal.”

As all the others raise their arms, I nervously take a mat and sit down. Gym has never exactly been my strong point. I guess I’ll just follow as best I can. I stretch my legs out in front of me and reach for my toes, although there’s no way I’ll ever be able to-

Bloody hell. I can touch my toes. In fact, I can put my head right down on my knees. What’s happened to me?

In disbelief I follow the next maneuver-and I can do that one too! I’m bendy! My body is moving into each position as if it can remember everything perfectly, even if I can’t.

“And now, for those that are up to it,” the teacher is saying, “the advanced dancer position…”

Cautiously I start tugging on my ankle-and it obeys me! I’m pulling my leg right above my head! I feel like yelling “Look at me, everyone!”

“Don’t overdo it, Lexi.” The teacher looks alarmed. “Maybe take it easy now. I’d leave out splits this week.”

No way. I can do splits?

Afterward in the changing room I’m exhilarated. I sit in front of the mirror, drying my hair, watching as it turns from damp mouse back to shiny glowing chestnut. “I can’t get over it,” I keep saying to Rosalie. “I was always so crap at exercise!”

“Sweetie, you’re a natural!” Rosalie is slathering body lotion all over herself. “You’re the best in the class.”

I switch off the hair dryer, pull my hands through my dry hair, and survey my reflection. For the millionth time, my gaze is drawn to my gleaming white teeth-and my full pink lips. My mouth never looked like that in 2004-I know it didn’t.

“Rosalie.” I lower my voice. “Can I ask you a…a personal question?”

“Of course!” Rosalie whispers back.

“Did I ever have anything done? To my face? Like Botox? Or”-I lower my voice still further, hardly able to believe I’m saying this-“surgery?”

“Sweetie!” Rosalie looks appalled. “Shh!” She puts her finger to her lips.

“But…”

“Shh! Of course we haven’t had anything done! All totally, one-hundred-percent natural.” She winks.

What does that wink mean?

“Rosalie, you have to tell me what I’ve had done…” I trail off suddenly, distracted by my reflection in the mirror. Without noticing what I’ve been doing, I’ve been taking hairpins from the jar in front of me and putting my hair up on autopilot. In about thirty seconds, I’ve constructed the most perfect chignon.

How the fuck did I do that?

As I survey my own hands I can feel slight hysteria rising inside me. What else can I do? Defuse a bomb? Assassinate someone with one blow of my hand?

“What is it?” Rosalie catches my gaze.

“I just put my hair up.” I gesture at the mirror. “Look. It’s incredible. I’ve never done that before in my life.”

“Yes, you have.” She looks puzzled. “You wear it like that for work every day.”

“But I don’t remember. It’s like…it’s like Superwoman’s taken over my body or something. I can walk in heels, I can put my hair up, I can do splits… I’m like this überwoman! It’s not me.”

“Sweetie, it is you.” Rosalie squeezes my arm. “You better get used to it!”

We have lunch in the juice bar and chat with a couple of girls who seem to know me, and then Rosalie drives me home. As we travel up in the lift I’m suddenly exhausted.

“So!” Rosalie says as we enter the apartment. “Do you want to have another look at your clothes? Maybe swim-wear!”

“Actually, I feel pretty wiped out,” I say apologetically. “Do you mind if I go and have a rest?”

“Of course not!” She pats my arm. “I’ll wait out here for you, make sure you’re okay…”

“Don’t be silly.” I smile. “I’ll be fine until Eric comes home, really. And…thanks, Rosalie. You’ve been so kind.”

“Darling girl.” She gives me a hug and picks up her bag. “I’ll give you a call. Look after yourself!” She’s halfway out the door when something occurs to me.

“Rosalie!” I call. “What should I make Eric for dinner tonight?”

She turns and gazes at me uncomprehendingly. I suppose it is quite a strange question, out of the blue.

“I just thought you might know what sort of thing he likes.” I laugh awkwardly.

“Sweetie…” Rosalie blinks several times. “Sweetie, you don’t make the dinner. Gianna makes the dinner. Your housekeeper? She’ll be out shopping right now, then she’ll come back, make dinner, turn down your bed…”

“Oh, right. Of course!” I nod hastily, trying to look like I knew that all along.

But bloody hell. This really is a different life. I’ve never even had a cleaner before, let alone a five-star-hotel-type housekeeper.

“Well, I guess I’ll go to bed, then,” I say. “Bye.”

Rosalie blows me a kiss and closes the door behind her, and I head into the bedroom, which is all cream and luxurious dark wood, with a massive suede-upholstered bed. Eric has insisted that I take the main bedroom, which is very kind and noble of him. Mind you, the spare room is pretty sumptuous too; in fact, I think he gets his own Jacuzzi, so he can’t complain.

I kick off my heels, climb under the duvet, and feel myself instantly relax. This is the most comfortable bed I have ever been in, ever. I wriggle around a bit, luxuriating in the smooth sheets and perfect squashy pillows. Mmm, that’s good. I’ll just close my eyes and have a tiny kip…

I wake to a dim light and the sound of chinking crockery.

“Darling?” comes a voice from outside the door. “Are you awake?”

“Oh.” I struggle to a sitting position and rub my eyes. “Er…hi.”

The door opens and in comes Eric, holding a tray and a shopping bag.

“You’ve been asleep for hours. I’ve brought you some supper.” He heads toward the bed, puts down the tray, and switches on the bedside light. “It’s Thai chicken soup.”

“I love Thai chicken soup!” I say in delight. “Thanks!”

Eric smiles and hands me a spoon. “Rosalie told me you two girls went to the gym today.”

“Yes. It was great.” I take a spoonful of soup and it’s absolutely delicious. God, I’m ravenous. “Eric, you couldn’t get me a piece of bread, could you?” I raise my head. “Just to mop this up?”

“Bread?” Eric frowns, looking puzzled. “Darling, we don’t keep bread in the house. We’re both low-carb.”

Oh, right. I’d forgotten about the low-carb thing.

“No problem!” I smile at him and take another mouthful of soup. I can be low-carb. Easy.

“Which brings me to my little gift,” says Eric. “Or in fact…two gifts. This is the first one…”

He reaches into the shopping bag and produces a laminated ring-bound booklet, which he hands to me with a flourish. The front cover is a color photograph of me and Eric in our wedding outfits, and the title reads: Eric and Lexi Gardiner: Marriage Manual.

“You remember the doctor suggested writing down all the details of our life together?” Eric looks proud. “Well, I’ve compiled this booklet for you. Any question you have about our marriage and life together, the answer should be in there.”

I turn the first page, and there’s a frontispiece.

Eric and Lexi

A better marriage for a better world

“We have a mission statement?” I’m slightly stunned.

“I came up with it just now.” Eric shrugs modestly. “What do you think?”

“It’s great!” I flip through the booklet. There are pages of print, interspersed with headings, photographs, and even some hand-drawn diagrams. I can see sections on holidays, family, laundry, weekends…

“I’ve organized the entries in alphabetical order,” Eric explains. “And indexed them. It should be fairly simple to use.”

I flip to the index and run my eyes down the page at random.

Tomatoes-pp. 5, 23

Tongs-see Barbecue

Tongues-p. 24

Tongues? Immediately I start flipping to page twenty-four.

“Don’t try and read it now.” Eric gently closes the manual. “You need to eat and sleep.”

I’ll look up “tongues” later. When he’s gone.

I finish the rest of the soup and lean back with a contented sigh. “Thank you so much, Eric. That was perfect.”

“It’s no trouble, my darling.” Eric removes the tray and puts it on the dressing table. As he does so, he notices my shoes on the floor. “Lexi!” He flashes me a smile. “Shoes go in your dressing room.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry.”

“No problem. There’s a lot to learn.” He comes back over to the bed and reaches into his pocket. “And this is my other gift…” He produces a little jewelry box made of leather.

My head starts prickling in disbelief as I gaze at it. My husband is giving me a present in a posh jewelry box. Just like grown-up people in movies.

“I’d like you to have something you actually remember me giving you,” Eric says with a rueful smile, then nods at the box. “Open it.”

I pry it open-and find a single diamond strung on a gold chain.

“Like it?”

“It’s…it’s amazing!” I stammer. “I love it! Thank you so much!”

Eric reaches over and strokes my hair. “It’s good to have you home, Lexi.”

“It’s good to be home,” I reply with fervor.

Which is almost true. I can’t honestly say this place feels like home yet. But it feels like a really swish five-star hotel, which is even better. I take out the diamond and look at it in awe. Meanwhile Eric is playing idly with a strand of my hair, a tender expression on his face.

“Eric,” I say, a bit shyly. “When we first met, what did you see in me? Why did you fall in love with me?”

A reminiscent smile flickers across Eric’s face.

“I fell in love with you, Lexi,” he says, “because you’re dynamic. You’re efficient. You’re hungry for success, like me. People call us hard, but we’re not. We’re just intensely competitive.”

“Right,” I say after a slight pause.

To be honest, I’ve never thought of myself as that intensely competitive. But then, maybe I am in 2007.

“And I fell in love with your beautiful mouth.” Eric touches my top lip gently. “And your long legs. And the way you swing your briefcase.”

He called me beautiful.

I’m listening, entranced. I want him to go on forever. No one has ever spoken to me like this, in my whole life.

“I’ll leave you now.” He kisses me on the forehead and picks up the tray. “You sleep well. See you in the morning.”

“See you then,” I murmur. “Good night, Eric. And…thank you!”

He closes the door and I’m left alone with my necklace and my marriage manual and my glow of euphoria. I have the dream husband. No, I have the better-than-a-dream husband. He brought me chicken soup and gave me a diamond and fell in love with the way I swing my briefcase.

I must have been Gandhi.