Remember Me?

Chapter 8

Flossing-p. 19

Food, see also Daily Meals, Kitchen; Eating Out-p. 20

Foreplay-p. 21

No way. He put in a section on foreplay?

I’ve been flicking through the marriage manual ever since I woke up this morning-and it’s totally, utterly riveting. I feel like I’m spying on my own life. Not to mention Eric’s. I know everything, from where he buys his cuff links to what he thinks of the government to the fact that he checks his scrotum for lumps every month. (Which is a bit more than I bargained for. Did he have to mention his scrotum?)

It’s breakfast time, and we’re both sitting in the kitchen. Eric’s reading the Financial Times, and I was consulting the index to see what I normally eat. But Foreplay looks a whole lot more interesting than Food. Surreptitiously I turn to page twenty-one.

Oh my God. He seriously has written three paragraphs on foreplay! Under General Routine.

“…sweeping, regular motion…normally clockwise direction…gentle stimulation of the inner thighs…”

I splutter on my coffee and Eric looks up.

“All right, darling?” He smiles. “Is the manual helpful? Are you finding everything you need?”

“Yes!” I hastily flick to another section, feeling like a kid looking up rude words in the dictionary. “I was just finding out what I usually have for breakfast.”

“Gianna’s left some scrambled egg and bacon in the oven,” says Eric. “And you usually have some green juice.” He gestures at a jug of what looks like sludgy marsh water on the counter. “It’s a vitamin drink and natural appetite suppressant.”

I suppress a shudder. “I think I’ll give that a miss today.” I take some egg and bacon from the oven and try to quell my longing for three slices of granary toast to go with it.

“Your new car should be delivered later on.” Eric takes a sip of coffee. “The replacement for the one that was damaged. Although I’m guessing you won’t want to drive in a hurry.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I say helplessly.

“Well, we’ll see. You can’t yet, anyway, until you’ve retaken your driving test.” He wipes his mouth with a linen napkin and gets up. “There was another thing, Lexi. If you don’t mind, I’d like to schedule a small dinner party for next week. Just a few old friends.”

“A dinner party?” I echo, apprehensive. I’ve never really been the dinner-party-throwing type. Unless you count pasta on the sofa in front of Will & Grace as a dinner party.

“There’s nothing to worry about.” He puts his hands gently on my shoulders. “Gianna will do the catering. All you have to do is look wonderful. But if you’re not up to it, we can forget the idea.”

“Of course I’m up to it!” I say quickly. “I’m tired of everyone treating me like I’m an invalid. I feel great!”

“Well, that brings me to another subject. Work.” Eric shrugs on his jacket. “Obviously you’re not up to returning full-time just yet, but Simon was wondering if you’d like to go into the office for a visit. Simon Johnson,” he clarifies. “Do you remember him?”

“Simon Johnson? The managing director?”

“Uh-huh.” Eric nods. “He called here last night. We had a good chat. Nice guy.”

“I didn’t think he’d even heard of me!” I say in disbelief.

“Lexi, you’re an important member of the senior management team,” Eric says patiently. “Of course he’s heard of you.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

I chew my bacon, trying to look nonchalant-but inside, I want to cheer. This new life of mine gets better and better. I’m an important member of the senior management team! Simon Johnson knows who I am!

Eric is continuing. “We agreed it would be helpful for you to visit the office. It might help bring back your memory-as well as give reassurance to your department.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” I say with enthusiasm. “I could get to know my job again, see all the girls…We could have lunch.”

“Your deputy is standing in for you at the moment,” Eric says, consulting a notepad on the kitchen counter. “Byron Foster. Just till you return, obviously.”

“Byron’s my deputy now?” I say incredulously. “But Byron used to be my boss!”

Everything’s upside down. Everything’s unrecognizable. I can’t wait to get to the office and see what’s been going on.

Eric taps something into his BlackBerry, then puts it away and picks up his briefcase. “Have a good day, darling.”

“You too…er…darling!” I stand up as he turns to face me-and there’s a sudden frisson between us. Eric’s standing only inches away from me. I can just smell his aftershave and see a little nick on his neck where he cut himself shaving.

“I haven’t read the whole manual yet.” I suddenly feel awkward. “Would I normally…kiss you good-bye at this point?”

“You normally would, yes.” Eric sounds stiff too. “But please don’t feel you-”

“No! I want to! I mean…we should do everything just like we usually do.” I’m getting a bit pink in the face here. “So, would I kiss you on the cheek, or…or the lips…”

“The lips.” Eric clears his throat. “That would be the usual.”

“Right.” I nod. “So…um…” I reach out for his waist, trying to appear natural. “Like this? Tell me if it’s not the way I normally do it…”

“Probably just one hand,” Eric says after a moment’s thought. “And it’s usually a bit higher up.”

“Okay!” I shift one hand up to his shoulder and drop the other down, feeling as if I’m ballroom dancing. Then, keeping in position as best I can, I tilt my face up.

Eric has a strange little nodule on the end of his tongue, I suddenly notice. Okay…I won’t look at it. Concentrate on the kiss. He leans forward and his mouth brushes briefly against mine, and I feel…nothing.

I was hoping our first kiss would trigger all sorts of memories or sensations, maybe a sudden image of Paris or our wedding, or our first snog… But as he draws away I feel totally, one hundred percent blank. I can see the anticipation in Eric’s face and quickly search for something encouraging to say.

“That was lovely! Very…”

I trail off, unable to think of a single word other than quick, which I’m not sure hits the right note.

“It didn’t bring back any memories?” Eric is studying my face.

“Well…no,” I say apologetically. “But, I mean, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t really…I mean it was…I feel quite turned on!” The words come out before I can stop them.

What the hell did I say that for? I don’t feel turned on.

“Really?” Eric lights up and he puts his briefcase down.

Oh no. No no no. Nooo.

I cannot possibly have sex with Eric yet. Number one, I don’t even know him, hardly. Number two, I haven’t read what happens after gentle stimulation of the inner thighs.

“Not that turned on,” I amend hastily. “I mean, just enough to know…to realize…I mean obviously we have a great…when it comes to the bedroom…um…arena…”

Stop. Talking. Lexi. Now.

“Anyway.” I smile as brightly as I can manage. “Have a great day.”

“You too.” Eric touches my cheek gently, then turns and strides off. I hear the door close, and subside into a chair. That was a bit close. I reach for the marriage manual and quickly flick to the “F” section. I need to read up on Foreplay.

Not to mention Fellatio, I suddenly notice. And Frequency (Sexual).

This could take me a while.

Two hours and three cups of coffee later, I close the manual and lean back, my head bursting with information. I’ve read it cover to cover, and I’ve pretty much got the whole picture.

I’ve learned that Eric and I often spend weekends away at “luxury boutique hotels.” I’ve learned that we enjoy watching business documentaries and The West Wing. And we had differing views on Brokeback Mountain. Which I’ve also learned was a film about gay cowboys. (Gay cowboys?)

I’ve learned that Eric and I share a love of wine from the Bordeaux region. I’ve learned that I’m “driven” and “focused” and “work 24-7 to get the job done.” I’ve learned I “don’t suffer fools gladly,” “despise time-wasters,” and am “someone who appreciates the finer things in life.”

Which is kind of news to me.

I get up and walk to the window, trying to digest everything I’ve read. The more I learn about twenty-eight-year-old Lexi, the more I feel like she’s a different person from me. She doesn’t just look different. She is different. She’s a boss. She wears beige designer clothes and La Perla underwear. She knows about wine. She never eats bread.

She’s a grown-up. That’s what she is. I gaze into the mirror and my twenty-eight-year-old face stares back.

How on earth did I get from me…to her?

On impulse I get up and head into the bedroom, then through that into the clothes room. There have to be some clues somewhere. I sit down at my smart, minimalist dressing table, and regard it silently.

I mean, look at this, for a start. My old dressing table was painted pink and a total mess-all scarves, necklaces looped over the mirror, and jars of makeup everywhere. But this is immaculate. Silver jars in rows, a single dish containing one pair of earrings, and an art deco hand mirror.

I open a drawer at random and find a pile of neatly folded scarves, on top of which is a shiny DVD marked Ambition: EP1 in felt-tip marker. I pick it up, puzzled-and then suddenly realize what it is. It’s that program Amy was talking about. This is me on the telly!

Oh my God, I have to see this. First because I’m dying to know what I looked like. And second because it’s another piece of the puzzle. This reality show is where Eric first saw me. It gave me my big break at work. I probably had no idea at the time how crucial it was going to be.

I hurry into the living room, eventually manage to locate the DVD player behind a translucent panel, and slot it in. Soon the program titles are rolling on all the wall-mounted screens throughout the flat. I fast-forward until my face appears onscreen, then press Play.

I’m prepared to cringe with embarrassment and duck behind the sofa. But actually…I don’t look that bad! My teeth have already been veneered or capped or whatever-although my mouth looks much thinner than it does now. (I have definitely had collagen injections.) My chestnut hair’s been blow-dried and tied back in a ponytail. I’m wearing a black suit and an aquamarine shirt and I look totally businesslike.

“I need to succeed,” I’m saying to an off-camera interviewer. “I need to win this.”

Blimey. I look so serious. I don’t understand it. Why did I suddenly want to win a reality business show?

“Good morning, Lexi!” A voice makes me practically jump out of my skin. I jab at Stop on the remote and turn around to see a woman in her fifties. She has dark, gray-streaked hair tied back; she’s wearing a flowery overall; and she’s holding a plastic bucket full of cleaning things. An iPod is clipped to her overall pocket and from the speakers in her ears I can just hear the strains of opera.

“You’re up!” she says in a piercing voice. “How you feeling? Any better today?” Her accent is hard to place, kind of cockney mixed with Italian.

“Are you Gianna?” I say cautiously.

“Oh my Lord in heaven.” She crosses herself and kisses her fingers. “Eric warned me. You’re not right in the head, poor girl.”

“I’m fine, really,” I say hurriedly. “I’ve just lost a bit of memory. So I’m having to learn everything about my life again.”

“Well, I am Gianna.” She hits her chest.

“Great! Er…thanks.” I stand aside as Gianna moves past me and starts flicking over the glass surface of the coffee table with a feather duster, humming along to the iPod.

“Watching your TV show, are you?” she says, glancing past me at the huge screen.

“Oh. Er…I was. Just to remind myself.” I hastily turn it off. Meanwhile Gianna has started polishing a display of picture frames.

I twist my fingers awkwardly. How can I just stand here, watching another woman clean my house? Should I offer to help?

“What would you like me to cook for dinner tonight?” she says, starting to plump up the cushions on the sofa.

“Oh,” I say, looking up in horror. “Nothing! Really!”

I know Eric and I are all rich and everything, but I can’t ask someone else to cook my supper. It’s obscene.

“Nothing?” She pauses. “Are you going out?”

“No! I just thought…maybe I’d do the cooking myself tonight.”

“Oh, I see,” she says. “Well, it’s up to you.” Her face set, she picks up a cushion and bangs it out with more vigor. “I hope you enjoyed the soup last night,” she adds, without looking at me.

“It was delicious!” I say hastily. “Thanks! Lovely…flavors.”

“Good,” she says in a stiff voice. “I do my best.”

Oh God. She isn’t offended, is she?

“Let me know what you’d like me to buy for you to cook,” she continues, slapping the cushion down. “If you’re after something new, or different…”

Shit. She is offended.

“Or…er…well.” My voice is scratchy with nerves. “Actually, on second thought…maybe you could make a little something. But I mean, don’t make any effort. Just a sandwich would be fine.”

“A sandwich?” She raises her head incredulously. “For your dinner?”

“Or…whatever you like! Whatever you enjoy cooking!” Even as I say the words I know how stupid this sounds. I back away, pick up a property magazine that’s lying on a side table, and open it at a piece about fountains.

How am I ever going to get used to all this? How did I turn into someone with a housekeeper, for God’s sake?

“Aiee! The sofa has been damaged!” Gianna’s accent suddenly sounds far more Italian than cockney. She yanks her iPod speakers out of her ears and gestures at the torn fabric in horror. “Look! Ripped! Yesterday morning it was perfect.” She looks at me defensively. “I tell you-I left it in good condition, no rips, no marks…”

The blood rushes to my head. “That…that was me.” I stammer. “I did it.”

“You?”

“It was a mistake,” I gabble. “I didn’t mean to. I broke this glass leopard and…” I’m breathing hard. “I’ll order another sofa cover, I promise. But please don’t tell Eric. He doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t know?” Gianna seems bewildered.

“I put the cushion over the rip.” I swallow. “To hide it.”

Gianna stares at me for a few disbelieving moments. I stare back pleadingly, unable to breathe. Then her severe face creases into a laugh. She puts down the cushion she’s holding and pats me on the arm.

“I’ll sew it. Little tiny stitches. He’ll never know.”

“Really?” I feel a wash of relief. “Oh, thank God. That would be wonderful. I’d be so grateful.”

Gianna is surveying me with a perplexed frown, her broad arms folded across her chest. “You’re sure nothing happened when you bumped your head?” she says at last. “Like…personality transplant?”

“What?” I give an uncertain laugh. “I don’t think so…” The door buzzer goes off. “Oh, I’d better get this.” I hurry to the front door and lift the answer phone. “Hello?”

“Hello?” comes a guttural voice. “Car delivery for Gardiner.”

My new car is parked in a place at the front of the building, which according to the porter is my own private spot. It’s a silver Mercedes, which I can tell from the badge-thing on the front. And it’s a convertible. Apart from that, I couldn’t tell you much about it-except I’m guessing it cost a fortune.

“Sign here…and here…” The deliveryman is holding out a clipboard.

“Okay.” I scribble on the paper.

“Here’s your keys…all your paperwork. Cheers, love.” The guy retrieves his pen from my hand and heads out the gates, leaving me alone with the car, a bundle of papers, and a set of shiny car keys. I dangle them in my fingers, feeling a frisson of excitement.

I’ve never been a car person.

But then, I’ve never been this close to a glossy, brand-new Mercedes before. A brand-new Mercedes which is all mine.

Maybe I’ll just check it over inside. With an instinctive gesture I hold out the key fob and press the little button-then jump as the car bleeps and all the lights flash on.

Well, I’ve obviously done that before. I open the door, slide into the driver’s seat, and inhale deeply.

Wow. Now, this is a car. This knocks Loser Dave’s crappy Renault out of the park. It has the most wonderful, intoxicating scent of new leather. The seats are wide and comfortable. The dashboard is gleaming wood veneer. Cautiously I place my hands on the steering wheel. They seem to grip it quite naturally-in fact, they seem to belong there. I really don’t want to take them off.

I sit there for a few moments, watching the entry gates rise and fall as a BMW drives out.

The thing is…I can drive. At some stage I must have passed my test, even if I don’t remember doing it.

And this is such a cool car. It would be a shame not to have a go.

Experimentally I push the key into the slot beside the steering wheel-and it fits! I rotate it forward, like I’ve seen people do, and there’s a kind of roar of protest from the engine. Shit. What did I do? I turn it forward again, more cautiously, and this time there’s no roar, but a few lights pop on around the dashboard.

Now what? I survey the controls hopefully for inspiration, but none comes. I have no idea how to work this thing, is the truth. I have no memory of driving a car in my life.

But the point is…I have done it. It’s like walking in heels-it’s a skill locked away inside me. What I need is to let my body take over. If I can just distract myself enough, then maybe I’ll find myself driving automatically.

I place my hands firmly on the steering wheel. Here we go. Think about other things. La la la. Don’t think about driving. Just let your body do what comes naturally. Maybe I should sing a song-that worked before.

“‘Land of hope and gloree,’” I begin tunelessly, “‘mother of the freeee…’”

Oh my God. It’s working. My hands and feet are moving in synch. I don’t dare look at them; I don’t dare register what they’re doing. All I know is I’ve switched on the engine and pushed down on one of the pedals and there’s a kind of rumbling and…I did it! I switched on the car!

I can hear the engine throbbing, as if it wants to get going. Okay, keep calm. I take a deep breath-but deep inside I’m already a bit panicky. I’m sitting at the controls of a Mercedes and the engine’s running and I’m not even sure how that happened.

Right. Collect yourself, Lexi.

Hand brake. I know what that is. And the gear stick. Cautiously I release both-and at once the car moves forward.

Hastily I press my foot down on one of the pedals, to stop it, and the car bucks with an ominous grinding noise. Shit. That didn’t sound good. I release my foot-and the car creeps forward again. I’m not sure I want it doing that. Trying to stay calm, I press my foot down again, hard. But this time it doesn’t even stop, it just keeps going inexorably forward. I thrust again-and it revs up like a racing car.

“Shit!” I say, almost gibbering in fear. “Okay, just…stop. Stay!” I’m pulling back on the wheel, but it’s making no difference. I don’t know how to control this thing. We’re slowly heading toward an expensive-looking sports car parked opposite and I don’t know how to stop. In desperation I thrust both feet down again, hitting two pedals at once with a shrieking, engine-breaking sound.

Oh God, Oh God…My face is hot; my hands are sweating. I never should have gotten into this car. If I crash it, Eric will divorce me and I won’t blame him…

“Stop!” I cry again. “Please!”

Suddenly I notice a dark-haired man in jeans coming in at the gates. He sees me gliding forward toward the sports car and his whole face jolts.

“Stop!” he yells, his voice faint through the window.

“I can’t stop!” I yell back desperately.

“Steer!” He mimes steering.

The steering wheel. Of course. I’m a moron. I wrench it around to the right, nearly dragging my arms out of my sockets, and manage to turn the car off course. Only now I’m heading straight toward a brick wall.

“Brake!” The guy is running alongside me. “Brake, Lexi!”

“But I don’t-”

“For God’s sake, brake!” he yells.

The hand brake, I suddenly remember. Quick. I yank it back with both hands and the car stops with a judder. The engine is still running, but at least the car is stationary. And at least I haven’t hit anything.

My breath is coming fast and hoarse; my hands are still clenched around the hand brake. I’m never driving again. Never.

“Are you okay?” The guy is at my window. After a few moments I manage to unclench one of my hands from the hand brake. I jab randomly at the buttons on the car door until the window winds down. “What happened?” he says.

“I…panicked. I can’t actually drive a car. I thought I’d remember how to, but I had a bit of a panic attack.” Suddenly, with no warning, I feel a tear running down my face. “I’m sorry,” I gulp. “I’m a bit freaked out. I’ve had amnesia, you see…”

I look up to see the guy just staring at me as if I’m talking a foreign language. He’s got a pretty striking face, now that I come to notice it. High cheekbones, dark gray eyes, and slanted eyebrows gathered in a frown, with dark brown untidy hair. He’s wearing a plain gray T-shirt over his jeans, and he looks a bit older than me, maybe early thirties.

He also seems totally dumbfounded. Which I guess is not surprising, bearing in mind he’s just come into a car park, minding his own business, to find a girl crashing a car and saying she has amnesia.

Maybe he doesn’t believe me, I think, suddenly alarmed. Maybe he thinks I’m drunk-driving and this is all some invented excuse.

“I was in a car crash a few days ago,” I explain hurriedly. “I really was. I hit my head. Look.” I point to the remaining cuts on my face.

“I know you were in a car crash,” he says at last. He has a very distinctive voice, dry and kind of intense. As though every word he speaks really, really matters. “I heard about it.”

“Wait a minute!” I click my tongue, suddenly realizing. “You called out my name. Do we know each other?”

A jolt of shock passes over the guy’s face. I can see his eyes studying me almost as though he doesn’t believe me; as though he’s searching for something.

“You don’t remember me?” he says at last.

“Um, no,” I say with an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, I’m not being rude; I don’t remember anyone I’ve met in the last three years. My friends…my husband, even. He was a total stranger to me! My own husband! Can you believe it?”

I smile-but the guy doesn’t smile back or express sympathy. In fact, his expression almost makes me nervous.

“Do you want me to park that for you?” he says abruptly.

“Oh. Yes, please.” I glance anxiously at my left hand, still clutching the hand brake. “Can I let go of this? Will the car roll away?”

A tiny smile flickers over his face. “No. It won’t roll away. You can let go.”

Cautiously I unfurl my hand, which had practically seized up, and shake out the stiffness.

“Thanks so much,” I say, getting out. “This is my brand-new car. If I’d crashed it, I can’t even think…” I wince at the idea. “My husband got it for me, to replace the other one. Do you know him? Eric Gardiner?”

“Yes,” he says after a pause. “I know him.”

He gets into the car, shuts the door, and signals to me to get out of the way. The next moment he’s expertly reversed the car safely back into its parking spot.

“Thanks,” I say fervently as he gets out. “I really appreciate it.”

I wait for the guy to say “It’s no trouble” or “Any time,” but he seems lost in thought.

“What did they say about the amnesia?” he says, suddenly looking up. “Have your memories gone forever?”

“They might come back anytime,” I explain. “Or they might not. No one knows. I’m just trying to learn about my life again. Eric’s being really helpful and teaching me all about our marriage and everything. He’s the most perfect husband!” I smile again, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. “So…where do you fit into the picture?”

There’s no response at all from the dark-haired guy. He’s shoved his hands in his pockets and is staring up at the sky. I really don’t know what his problem is.

At last he lowers his head and surveys me again, his face all screwed up, as though he’s in pain. Maybe he is. Maybe he has a headache or something.

“I have to go,” he says.

“Oh, right. Well, thanks again,” I say politely. “And very nice to meet you. I mean, I know we’ve met before in my previous life, but…you know what I mean!” I hold out a hand to shake his-but he just looks at it as though it makes no sense to him at all.

“Bye, Lexi.” He turns on his heel.

“Bye…” I call after him, then trail off. What a weird guy. He never even told me his name.