Remember Me?

Chapter 10

I’m numb with shock.

All the way home from the office, I sat in my taxi in a kind of trance. Somehow I managed to talk to Gianna about the dinner party arrangements and listen to Mum when she called to complain about her latest run-in with the council. And now it’s early evening and I’m in the bath. But all the time my thoughts have been circulating around and around.

I’m a bitch-boss-from-hell. My friends all hate me. What the fuck has happened?

Every time I remember Carolyn’s scathing voice, I flinch. God knows what I’ve done to her-but she obviously has no time for me.

Have I really turned into a bitch over the last three years? But how? Why?

The water is growing tepid and at last I heave myself out. I rub myself briskly, trying to energize myself. I can’t keep obsessing about it. It’s already six, and in an hour I have to host a dinner party.

At least I don’t have to cook. When I arrived home, Gianna was busy in the kitchen with two of her nieces-all singing along to the opera blaring out of the speakers. There were platters of sushi and canapés on every shelf in the fridge and the most amazing smell of roasting meat. I tried to join in-I’m pretty good at garlic bread-but they bustled me away. So I decided I’d be safest in the bath.

I wrap a fresh towel around myself and pad into the bedroom-then double back into the dressing room for my clothes. Jeez Louise. I know why rich people are so thin: it’s from trekking around their humongous houses the whole time. In my Balham flat I could reach the wardrobe from the bed. And the TV. And the toaster.

I pick out a little black dress, some little black underwear, and some minuscule black satin shoes. There’s nothing in my 2007 wardrobe that’s big. No cuddly sweaters, no chunky shoes. Everything’s slimline and tailored, to match me.

As I trail back into the bedroom I let my towel drop onto the floor.

“Hi, Lexi!”

“Aargh!” I jump in fright. The big screen at the base of the bed has lit up with a huge image of Eric’s face. I clap my hands over my chest and duck behind a chair.

I’m naked. And he can see me.

He’s my husband, I remind myself feverishly. He’s seen it all before-it’s fine.

It doesn’t feel fine.

“Eric, can you see me?” I say in a high-pitched, strangled voice.

“Not right now.” He laughs. “Put the setting to Camera.”

“Oh! Okay!” I say in relief. “Just give me a sec…”

I sling on a dressing gown, then quickly start gathering the clothes I’ve dropped about the room. Something I’ve learned pretty quickly is that Eric doesn’t like things lying around on the floor. Or on chairs. Or basically any kind of mess at all. I shove them all under the duvet as quickly as possible, plonk a cushion on top, and smooth it down as best I can.

“Ready!” I head to the screen and swivel the dial to Camera.

“Move back,” Eric instructs me, and I back away from the screen. “Now I can see you! So, I’ve got one more meeting, then I’ll be on my way home. Is everything set up for dinner?”

“I think so!”

“Excellent.” His huge pixellated mouth spreads in a jerky beam. “And how was work?”

“It was great!” Somehow I manage a cheerful tone. “I saw Simon Johnson and all my department, and my friends…”

I trail off, suddenly feeling a burn of humiliation. Can I even describe them as friends anymore?

“Marvelous.” I’m not sure Eric’s even listening. “Now you really should be getting ready. I’ll see you later, darling.”

“Wait,” I say on impulse. “Eric.”

This is my husband. I may barely know him-but he knows me. He loves me. If there’s anyone I should confide in about my problems, if anyone can reassure me, it’s him.

“Fire away.” Eric nods, his screen movements slow and jerky.

“Today, Fi said…” I can hardly bring myself to say the words. “She said I was a bitch. Is that true?”

“Of course you’re not a bitch.”

“Really?” I feel a pang of hope. “So I’m not a horrible bitch-boss-from-hell?”

“Darling, there’s no way you’re horrible. Or a bitch-boss-from-hell.”

Eric sounds so sure, I relax in relief. There’ll be an explanation. Maybe some wires have got crossed-there’s been a misunderstanding, it’ll all be fine-

“I’d say you were…tough,” he adds.

My relieved smile freezes on my face. Tough? I don’t like the sound of tough.

“Do you mean tough in a good way?” I try to sound casual. “Like, tough, but still really friendly and nice?”

“Sweetheart, you’re focused. You’re driven. You drive your department hard. You’re a great boss.” He smiles. “Now, I must go. I’ll see you later.”

The screen goes dark and I stare at it, totally unreassured. In fact, I’m more alarmed than ever.

Tough. Isn’t that just another way of saying “bitch-boss-from-hell”?

Whatever the truth is, I can’t let all this get to me. I have to keep everything in perspective. It’s an hour later, and my spirits have risen a little. I’ve put on my new diamond necklace. I’ve sprayed myself with lots of expensive scent. And I’ve had a sneaky little glass of wine, which has made everything look a lot better.

So maybe things aren’t as perfect as I thought. Maybe I’ve fallen out with my friends; maybe Byron is after my job; maybe I don’t have a clue who Tony Dukes is. But I can put it all right. I can learn my job. I can build bridges with Fi and the others. I can google Tony Dukes.

And the point is, I’m still the luckiest girl in the world. I have a gorgeous husband, a wonderful marriage, and a stunning apartment. I mean, just look around! Tonight the place looks even more jaw-dropping than ever. The florist has been and gone-and there are arrangements of lilies and roses everywhere. The dining table has been extended and laid for dinner with gleaming silverware and crystal and a centerpiece like at weddings. There are even place cards written out in calligraphy!

Eric said it was a “casual little supper.” God knows what we do when it’s formal. Maybe have ten butlers in white gloves or something.

I carefully apply my Lancôme lipstick and blot it. When I’ve finished I can’t help staring at myself in the mirror. My hair is up and my dress fits to perfection and there are diamonds at my ears and throat. I look like some elegant girl in an ad. Like any minute a caption will appear on the screen below me.

Ferrero Rocher. For the finer things in life.

British Gas. Keeping you warm in your million-billion-pound trendy loft apartment.

I step back and automatically the lights change from the mirror spotlight to more of an ambient glow. The “intelligent lighting” in this room is like magic: it figures out where you are from heat sensors and then adjusts accordingly.

I quite like trying to catch it out by running around the room and shouting, “Ha! Not so intelligent now, are you?”

When Eric’s out, obviously.

“Darling!” I jump, and turn to see him standing at the door, in his business suit. “You look wonderful.”

“Thanks!” I glow with pleasure and pat my hair.

“One tiny thing. Briefcase in the hall. Good idea?” His smile doesn’t waver, but I can hear the annoyance in his voice.

Shit. I must have left it there. I was so preoccupied when I arrived home, I didn’t think.

“I’ll move it,” I say hastily. “Sorry.”

“Good.” He nods. “But first, taste this.” He hands me a glass of ruby-red wine. “It’s the Château Branaire Ducru. We bought it on our last trip to France. I’d like your opinion.”

“Right.” I try to sound confident. “Absolutely.”

Oh no. What am I going to say? Cautiously I take a sip and swill it around my mouth, racking my brain for all the wine-buff words I can think of. Leathery. Oaky. A fine vintage.

Come to think of it, they all just bullshit, don’t they? Okay, I’ll say it’s a divinely full-bodied vintage with hints of strawberries. No, blackcurrants. I swallow the mouthful and nod knowledgeably at Eric.

“You know, I think this is a div-”

“It’s shocking, isn’t it?” Eric cuts me off. “Corked. Totally off.”

Off?

“Oh! Er…yes!” I regain my composure. “Way past the sell-by date. Urggh.” I make a face. “Revolting!”

That was a close shave. I put the glass down on a side table and the intelligent lighting adjusts again.

“Eric,” I say, trying not to give away my exasperation. “Can we have a lighting mix that just stays the same all night? I don’t know if that’s possible-”

“Anything is possible.” Eric sounds a bit offended. “We have infinite choice. That’s what loft-style living is all about.” He passes me a remote control. “Here. You can override the system with this. Pick a mood. I’ll go and sort out the wine.”

I head into the sitting room, find Lighting on the remote, and start experimenting with moods. Daylight is too bright. Cinema is too dark. Relax is dull… I scroll much farther down. Reading…Disco…

Hey. We have disco lights? I press the remote-and laugh out loud as the room is suddenly filled with pulsating multicolored lights. Now let’s try Strobe. A moment later the room is flashing black and white and I gleefully start robotic dancing around the coffee table. This is like a club! Why didn’t Eric tell me we had this before? Maybe we have dry ice, too, and a mirror ball…

“Jesus Christ, Lexi, what are you doing!” Eric’s voice pierces the flashing room. “You put the whole fucking apartment on Strobe Light! Gianna nearly chopped her arm off!”

“Oh no! Sorry.” Guiltily I fumble for the remote and jab it until we’re back on disco. “You never told me we had disco and strobe lights! This is fantastic!”

“We never use them.” Eric’s face is a multicolored whirl. “Now find something sensible, for God’s sake.” He turns and disappears.

How can we have disco lights and never use them? What a waste! I have to have Fi and the others around for a party. We’ll get some wine and nibbles, and we’ll clear the floor and ramp up the volume-

And then my heart constricts as I remember. That won’t be happening anytime soon. Or maybe ever.

Deflated, I switch the lighting to Reception Area One, which is as good as anything else. I put down the remote, walk over to the window, and stare out at the street below, suddenly determined. I’m not giving up. These are my friends. I’m going to find out what’s been going on. And then I’m going to make up with them.

My plan for the dinner party was to memorize each guest’s face and name using visualization techniques. But this scheme disintegrates almost at once when three golfing buddies of Eric’s arrive together in identical suits, with identical faces and even more identical wives. Their names are things like Greg and Mick and Suki and Pooky, and they immediately start discussing a skiing holiday we all apparently went on once.

I sip my drink and smile a lot, and then about ten more guests arrive at once and I have no idea who anyone is except Rosalie, who dashed up, introduced her husband, Clive (who doesn’t seem like a monster at all, just a mild-mannered guy in a suit), and then rushed off again.

After a bit my ears are ringing and I feel dizzy. Gianna is serving drinks and her niece is handing out canapés and everything seems under control. So I murmur an excuse to the balding guy who’s telling me about Mick Jagger’s electric guitar, which he’s just bought at a charity auction, and slip away and head out to the terrace.

I take a few lungfuls of clean air, my head still spinning. A blue-gray dusk is falling and the streetlamps are just coming on. As I gaze out over London I don’t feel real. I feel like someone playing the part of a girl in a dress standing on a posh balcony with a glass of champagne in her hand.

“Darling! There you are!”

I turn to see Eric pushing the sliding doors open. “Hi!” I call back. “I was just getting some air.”

“Let me introduce Jon, my architect.” Eric ushers out a dark-haired man in black jeans and a charcoal linen jacket.

“Hello,” I begin automatically, then stop. “Hey, we know each other!” I exclaim, relieved to have found a familiar face. “Don’t we? You’re the guy from the car.”

An odd expression flickers across the man’s face. Almost like disappointment. Then he nods.

“That’s right. I’m the guy from the car.”

“Jon’s our creative spirit,” says Eric, slapping him on the back. “He’s the talent. I may have the financial sense, but this is the man who brings the world”-he pauses momentously-“loft-style living.” As he says the words, he does the parallel-hands-sweeping-bricks gesture again.

“Great!” I try to sound enthused. I know it’s Eric’s business and everything, but that phrase “loft-style living” is really starting to bug me.

“Thanks again for the other day.” I smile politely at Jon. “You really saved my life!” I turn to Eric. “I didn’t tell you, darling, but I tried to drive the car and nearly hit the wall. Jon helped me.”

“It was my pleasure.” Jon takes a sip of his drink. “So, you still don’t remember anything?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head.

“That must be strange for you.”

“It is…but I’m getting used to it. And Eric’s really helpful. He’s made me this book to help me remember. It’s like a marriage manual. With sections and everything.”

“A manual?” Jon echoes, and his nose starts twitching. “You’re serious. A manual.”

“Yes, a manual.” I stare at him suspiciously.

“Ah, there’s Graham.” Eric isn’t even listening to the conversation. “I must just have a word. Excuse me.” He heads off inside, leaving me and Jon the architect guy alone.

I don’t know what it is about this man. I mean, I don’t even know him, but he rankles me.

“What’s wrong with a marriage manual?” I hear myself demanding.

“No. Nothing. Nothing at all.” He shakes his head gravely. “It’s a very sensible move. Because otherwise you might not know when you were supposed to kiss each other.”

“Exactly! Eric’s put in a whole section on-” I break off. Jon’s mouth is crinkled up as if he’s trying not to laugh. Does he think this is funny? “The manual covers all sorts of areas,” I say rather stonily. “And it’s been very helpful for both of us. You know, it’s difficult for Eric, too, having a wife who doesn’t remember the first thing about him! Or perhaps you hadn’t appreciated that?”

There’s silence. All the humor has melted out of his face.

“Believe me,” he says at last. “I appreciate it.” He drains his glass, then stares into the bottom of it for a few moments. He looks up and seems about to speak-then, as the sliding doors open, changes his mind.

“Lexi!” Rosalie comes tottering over toward us, glass in hand. “Wonderful canapés!”

“Oh, well…thanks!” I say, embarrassed to be receiving praise for something I had absolutely nothing to do with. “I haven’t had any yet. Do they taste good?”

Rosalie appears perplexed. “I’ve no idea, sweetie. But they look marvelous. And Eric says dinner’s about to begin.”

“Oh God,” I say guiltily. “I’ve just left him to it. We’d better go in. D’you two know each other?” I add as we start walking in.

“Sure,” says Jon.

“Jon and I are old friends,” Rosalie says sweetly. “Aren’t we, darling?”

“See you.” Jon nods, picks up his pace, and disappears through the glass doors.

“Awful man.” Rosalie makes a face at his departing back.

“Awful?” I echo in surprise. “Eric seems to like him.”

“Oh, Eric likes him,” she says disdainfully. “And Clive thinks he’s the bees’ knees. He’s visionary and wins prizes, blah blah blah…” She tosses her head. “But he’s the rudest man I ever met. When I asked him to donate to my charity last year, he refused. In fact, he laughed.”

“He laughed?” I say, shocked. “That’s terrible! What was the charity?”

“It was called An Apple a Day,” she says proudly. “I thought the whole idea up myself. The idea was, once a year we’d give an apple to every schoolchild in an inner-city borough. Full of lovely nutrients! Isn’t that so simple, it’s brilliant?”

“Er…great idea,” I say cautiously. “So, did it work out?”

“Well, it started off well,” Rosalie says rather crossly. “We gave out thousands of apples and we had special T-shirts and a van with an apple logo to drive about in. It was such fun! Until the council started sending us stupid letters about fruit being abandoned in the street and causing vermin.”

“Oh dear.” I bite my lip. The truth is, now I want to laugh.

“You know, this is the trouble with charity work,” she says darkly, lowering her voice. “The local bureaucrats don’t want you to help.”

We’ve reached the sliding doors and I stare in at the crowd. Twenty faces I don’t recognize are laughing and talking and exclaiming at each other. I can see jewels flashing and hear the rumble of men’s laughter.

“Now, don’t worry.” Rosalie’s hand is on my arm. “Eric and I have a plan. Everyone’s going to stand up and introduce themselves to you at dinner.” Her brow wrinkles. “Sweetie, you look freaked.”

“No!” I manage a smile. “Not freaked!”

This is a lie. I’m totally freaked. As I find my place at the long glass dining table, nodding and smiling as people greet me, I feel like I’m in some weird dream. These people are allegedly my friends. They all know me. And I’ve never even seen them before.

“Lexi, darling.” A dark woman draws me aside as I’m approaching my chair. “Can I have a quick word?” She lowers her voice almost to a whisper. “I was with you all day on the fifteenth and the twenty-first, okay?”

“Were you?” I say blankly.

“Yes. If Christian asks. Christian, my husband?” She gestures at the balding Mick-Jagger-guitar guy, who’s taking his seat opposite.

“Oh, right.” I digest this for a moment. “Were we really together?”

“Of course!” she says after a brief pause. “Of course we were, darling!” She squeezes my hand and moves away.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Eric is standing at the other end of the gleaming table, and the chatter dies to a hush as everyone sits down. “Welcome to our home. Lexi and I are delighted you could make it.”

All eyes swivel to me, and I give an embarrassed smile.

“As you know, Lexi is suffering the aftereffects of her recent accident, which means her memory’s not too hot.” Eric gives a rueful smile. A man opposite laughs, then is shushed by his wife. “So what I propose is that each of you reintroduce yourselves to Lexi. Stand up, give your name, and maybe some memorable event that links you.”

“Do the doctors think this will trigger Lexi’s memory?” asks an earnest-looking guy to my right.

“No one knows,” Eric says gravely. “But we have to try. So…who wants to start?”

“Me! I’ll start!” Rosalie says, leaping to her feet. “Lexi, I’m your best friend, Rosalie, which you already know. And our memorable incident was that time we both got waxed and the girl got a bit carried away…” She breaks into a giggle. “Your face…”

“What happened?” says a girl in black.

“I’m not saying in public!” Rosalie looks offended. “But honestly, it was totally memorable.” She beams around the table, then sits down.

“Right,” says Eric, sounding a bit taken aback. “Who’s next? Charlie?”

“I’m Charlie Mancroft.” A gruff man next to Rosalie stands up and nods at me. “I suppose our memorable incident would be the time we were all at Wentworth for that corporate do. Montgomerie made a birdie on the eighteenth. Stunning play.” He looks at me expectantly.

“Of course!” I have no idea what he’s talking about. Golf? Or snooker, maybe. “Er…thanks.”

He sits down and a thin girl next to him gets to her feet.

“Hi, Lexi.” She gives me a little wave. “I’m Natalie. And my most memorable event would be your wedding day.”

“Really?” I say, surprised and touched. “Wow.”

“It was such a happy day!” She bites her lip. “And you looked so beautiful and I thought, ‘That’s what I want to look like when I get married.’ I actually thought Matthew would propose to me that day, but…he didn’t.” Her smile tightens.

“Jesus, Natalie,” mutters a guy across the table. “Not this again.”

“No! It’s fine!” she exclaims brightly. “We’re engaged now! It only took three years!” She flashes her diamond at me. “I’m having your dress! Exactly the same Vera Wang, in white-”

“Well done, Natalie!” Eric chimes in heartily. “I think we should move on… Jon? Your turn.”

Across the table from me, Jon gets to his feet.

“Hi,” he says in his dry voice. “I’m Jon. We met earlier.” He lapses into silence.

“So, Jon?” prompts Eric. “What’s your memorable event involving Lexi?”

Jon surveys me for a moment with those dark, intense eyes, and I find myself wondering what he’s going to say. He scratches his neck, frowns, and takes a slug of wine, as though thinking hard. At last he spreads his arms. “Nothing comes to mind.”

“Nothing?” I’m slightly stung, despite myself.

“Anything at all!” Eric says encouragingly. “Just some special moment the two of you shared…”

Everyone is watching Jon. He frowns again, then shrugs, apparently stumped.

“I don’t recall anything,” he says at last. “Nothing I could describe.”

“There must be something, Jon,” a girl opposite says eagerly. “It could trigger her memory!”

“I doubt it.” He gives a brief half-smile.

“Well, all right,” says Eric, sounding a bit impatient. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s move on.”

By the time everyone around the table has stood up and recounted their anecdote, I’ve forgotten who the first people were. But it’s a start, I suppose. Gianna and her helper serve tuna carpaccio, arugula salad, and baked pears, and I talk to someone called Ralph about his divorce settlement. And then the plates are cleared, and Gianna is making her way around the table, taking coffee orders.

“I’ll make the coffee,” I say, jumping up. “You’ve done so much tonight, Gianna. Have a break.”

I’ve grown increasingly uncomfortable seeing her and her niece scurrying around the table with heavy plates. And the way no one even looks at them as they take their food. And the way that awful man Charlie barked at her when he wanted some more water. It’s so rude.

“Lexi!” Eric says with a laugh. “That’s hardly necessary.”

“I want to,” I say stubbornly. “Gianna, sit down. Have a biscuit or something. I can easily make a few cups of coffee. Really, I insist.”

Gianna looks perplexed. “I’ll go and turn down your bed,” she says at last, and heads off toward the bedroom, her niece in her wake.

That’s not exactly what I meant by having a break. But anyway.

“There.” I smile around the table. “Now, who would like coffee? Hands up…” I start counting the hands. “And anyone for mint tea?”

“I’ll help,” Jon says suddenly, pushing his chair back.

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well…okay. Thanks.”

I head into the kitchen, fill the kettle, and switch it on. Then I start looking in cupboards for cups. Maybe we have some special posh coffee cups for dinner parties. I briefly consult the marriage manual, but can’t find anything.

Meanwhile Jon is just pacing around the kitchen, his face screwed up as though in some distant daydream, not helping at all.

“Are you okay?” I say at last, with a flash of irritation. “I don’t suppose you know where the coffee cups are, do you?”

Jon doesn’t even seem to hear the question.

“Hello?” I wave at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping?”

At last he stops pacing and regards me, an even stranger expression on his face.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” he says. “So I’m just going to tell you.” He takes a breath-then he seems to change his mind and comes over close, studying my face. “You really don’t remember? This isn’t some kind of game you’re playing with me?”

“Remember what?” I say, totally bewildered.

“Okay, okay.” He turns and resumes pacing, thrusting his hands through his dark hair, leaving it spiky on top. At last he turns to face me again. “Here’s the thing. I love you.”

“What?” I look at him in confusion.

“And you love me,” he continues, without giving me time to say anything more. “We’re lovers.”

“Sweetie!” The door bursts open and Rosalie’s face appears. “Two more orders for mint tea and a decaf for Clive.”

“Coming up!” I say, my voice sounding strangled.

Rosalie disappears and the kitchen door swings shut. There’s silence between us, the most prickling silence I’ve ever known. I can’t move or speak. My eyes keep flicking ludicrously to the marriage manual still lying on the counter, as though the answer might be in there.

Jon follows my gaze.

“I’m guessing,” he says in a dry, confidential tone, “that I’m not in the manual.”

Okay. I have to get a grip.

“I…don’t understand,” I say, trying to summon some composure. “What do you mean, lovers? You’re trying to tell me we’ve been having an affair?”

“We’ve been seeing each other for eight months.” His dark gaze is fixed on me. “You’re planning to leave Eric for me.”

I can’t stop a gurgle of laughter. At once I clap my hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but…leave Eric? For you?”

Before Jon can react, the door opens again.

“Hi, Lexi!” A red-faced man comes in. “Can I grab some more sparkling water?”

“Here.” I thrust two bottles into his arms. The door closes again and Jon shoves his hands in his pockets.

“You were about to tell Eric you couldn’t be with him anymore,” he says, speaking faster. “You were about to leave him. We’d made plans…” He breaks off and exhales. “Then you had the accident.”

His face is deadly serious. He really means all this.

“But…that’s ludicrous!”

For an instant Jon looks like I’ve hit him. “Ludicrous?”

“Yes, ludicrous! I’m not the unfaithful type. Plus, I have a great marriage, a fantastic husband, I’m happy-”

“You’re not happy with Eric.” Jon interrupts me. “Believe me.”

“Of course I’m happy with Eric!” I say in astonishment. “He’s lovely! He’s perfect!”

“Perfect?” Jon looks as if he’s trying to stop himself from going further. “Lexi, he’s not perfect.”

“Well, near enough,” I retort, suddenly rattled. Who does this guy think he is, interrupting my dinner party to say he’s my lover? “Listen, Jon…whoever you are. I don’t believe you. I would never have an affair, okay? I have the dream marriage. I have the dream life!”

“The dream life?” Jon rubs his forehead as though trying to gather his thoughts. “That’s what you think?”

Something about this guy is getting under my skin.

“Of course!” I swing my arms around the kitchen. “Look at this place! Look at Eric! It’s all fantastic! Why would I throw it all away on some-”

I break off abruptly as the kitchen door swings open.

“Sweetheart.” Eric beams at me from the doorway. “How are those coffees going?”

“They’re…on their way,” I say, flustered. “Sorry, darling.” I turn away to hide the blood pumping through my cheeks, and start spooning coffee messily into the cafetiere. I just want this man to leave.

“Eric, I’m afraid I have to go,” Jon says behind me, as though reading my mind. “Thanks for a great evening.”

“Jon! Good man.” I can hear Eric clapping Jon on the back. “We should hook up tomorrow, talk about the planning meeting.”

“Let’s do it,” Jon replies. “Good-bye, Lexi. Nice to make your acquaintance again.”

“Good-bye, Jon.” Somehow I force myself to turn and present a hostessy smile. “Lovely to see you.” He bends forward and kisses me lightly on the cheek.

“You don’t know anything about your life,” he murmurs in my ear, then strides out of the kitchen without looking back.