Remember Me?

Chapter 11

It can’t be true.

Morning light is creeping in around the blinds and I’ve been awake for a while, but I haven’t got out of bed. I’m gazing straight up at the ceiling, breathing evenly in and out. My theory is that if I lie still enough, maybe the maelstrom of my mind will calm down and everything will fall neatly into place.

So far it’s turning out to be a pretty crap theory.

Every time I replay the events of yesterday I feel giddy. I thought I was coming to grips with this new life of mine. I thought it was all falling into place. But now it’s like everything is slipping and sliding away. Fi says I’m a bitch-boss-from-hell. Some guy says I’m his secret lover. What next? I discover I’m an FBI agent?

It cannot be true. End of story. Why would I cheat on Eric? He’s good-looking and caring and a multimillionaire and knows how to drive a speedboat. Whereas Jon is scruffy. And kind of…spiky.

As for saying “You don’t know anything about your life”-what a nerve! I know plenty about my life, thank you. I know where I get my hair done, I know what dessert I had at my wedding, I know how often Eric and I have sex…It’s all in the manual.

And anyway, how rude is that? You don’t just pitch up in someone’s house and say “We’re lovers” when they’re trying to host a dinner party with their husband. You…you choose a different moment. You write a note.

No, you don’t write a note. You-

Anyway. Stop thinking about it.

I sit up, press the button for the window blinds to retract, and run my fingers through my hair, wincing at the tangles. The screen in front of me is blank and the room is eerily silent. I still find it weird, after my drafty bedroom in Balham, to be living in such a hermetically sealed box. According to the manual we’re not supposed to open the windows because it messes up the air-conditioning system if you do.

This Jon guy is probably a psycho. He probably makes a habit of targeting people with amnesia and telling them he’s their lover. There’s no evidence we’re having an affair. None. I haven’t seen any mention of him, no scribbled notes, no photos, no mementos.

But then…I’d hardly leave them around for Eric to find, would I? says a tiny voice at the back of my brain.

I sit perfectly still for a moment, letting my thoughts swirl around. Then on impulse I get up and head into my clothes room. I hurry to the dressing table and wrench open the top drawer. It’s full of Chanel makeup, arranged in neat rows by Gianna. I shut the drawer and pull open the next, which is full of folded scarves. The next contains a jewelry roll and a suede photo album, both empty.

Slowly I shut the drawer. Even here, in my very own private sanctum, everything’s so tidy and sterile and kind of nothing-y. Where’s the mess? Where’s the stuff? Where’s the letters and the photos? Where’s all my studded belts and free lipsticks off crappy magazines? Where’s…me?

I lean forward on my elbows, chewing my nail for a moment. Then inspiration hits me. Underwear drawer. If I was going to hide anything, it would be there. I open the wardrobe and pull open my knicker drawer. I reach down among the satiny sea of La Perla -but I can’t feel anything. Nor in my bra drawer…

“Looking for something?” Eric’s voice makes me jump. I turn my head to see him standing at the door, watching me search, and at once my cheeks stain pink.

He knows.

No, he doesn’t. Don’t be stupid. There’s nothing to know.

“Hi, Eric!” I withdraw my hands from the cupboard as nonchalantly as I can. “I just thought I’d look for…some bras!”

Okay, this is the main reason why I can’t be having an affair. I’m the most crap liar in the world. Why would I need “some bras”? Do I suddenly have six boobs?

“Actually, I was wondering,” I continue hastily. “Is there any more of my stuff anywhere?”

“Stuff?” Eric wrinkles his brow.

“Letters, diaries, that kind of thing?”

“There’s your desk in the office. That’s where you keep all your work files.”

“Of course.” I’d forgotten about the office. Or rather, I thought it was more Eric’s domain than mine.

“It was a marvelous evening last night, I thought.” Eric comes a couple of steps into the room. “Bravo, darling. Can’t have been easy for you.”

“It was good fun.” I sit back on my haunches, fiddling with my watch strap. “There were some…interesting people there.”

“You weren’t too overwhelmed?”

“A little.” I shoot him a bright smile. “There’s still so much to learn.”

“Well, you know you can ask me anything about your life. That’s what I’m here for.” Eric spreads his arms. “Is there anything particular on your mind?”

I stare back at him for a moment, speechless.

Have I been shagging your architect, do you happen to know?

“Well.” I clear my throat. “Since you ask, I was just wondering. We are happy together, aren’t we? We do have a happy…faithful…marriage?”

I’m thinking I dropped in faithful quite subtly there, but Eric’s keen ears pick it up straightaway.

“Faithful?” He frowns. “Lexi, I’ve never been unfaithful to you. I would never think of being unfaithful to you. We made vows. We made a commitment.”

“Of course!” I exclaim quickly. “Absolutely.”

“I can’t even imagine how such an idea came to you.” He looks quite shocked. “Has someone been saying otherwise? One of our guests? Because whoever it was-”

“No! No one said anything! I just…everything’s still so new and strange.” I’m floundering, my face hot. “I just…thought I’d ask. Just out of interest.”

Okay, so we don’t have some open, groovy marriage. Just in case I needed that point clarified.

I shut the bra drawer, open another at random, and stare at three rows of rolled-up tights, my mind whirling. I should move away from this whole subject area. But I can’t help it, I have to probe.

“So, um, that guy…” I wrinkle my brow artificially as though I can’t remember his name. “The architect guy.”

“Jon.”

“Jon. Of course. He seems like a pretty good guy.” I shrug, trying to appear as casual as possible.

“Oh, one of the best,” says Eric firmly. “He’s been a massive part of our success. That guy has more imagination than anyone I know.”

“Imagination?” I seize on this with slight hope. “So is he maybe overimaginative sometimes? Like…a bit of a fantasist?”

“No.” Eric seems puzzled. “Not at all. He’s my right-hand man. You’d trust Jon with your life.”

To my relief, the phone suddenly gives a shrill ring, before Eric can ask why I’m so interested in Jon.

Eric disappears into the bedroom to answer it and I shut the tights drawer. I’m about to give up on searching in my cupboard when suddenly I see something I never noticed before. A concealed drawer, at the base of the unit, with a tiny keypad located to the right.

I have a secret drawer?

My heart starts to thump. Slowly I reach down and punch in the PIN number I’ve always used-4591. There’s a tiny click-and the drawer opens. Glancing at the door to make sure Eric isn’t there, I gingerly stretch out my hand and clasp my hand around something hard, like the handle of a…

It’s a whip.

For a moment I’m too gobsmacked to move. It’s a little whip, with strands of black leather, like something straight out of a bondage shop. I’m totally transfixed by the sight of it in my hand. Is this my adultery whip? Have I turned into a completely different person? Am I now a fetishist and go to S &M bars to drag men around while wearing a studded corset?

Suddenly I can feel eyes on me and turn to see Eric leaning in the doorway. His gaze falls on the whip and he raises his eyebrows quizzically.

“Oh!” I say, starting in panic. “I just…I found that here! I didn’t know…”

“You’d better not leave that around for Gianna to find.” He sounds amused.

I stare back, my befuddled brain working overtime. Eric knows about the whip. He’s smiling. That, therefore, would mean…

No. Way.

No way no way no way.

“This wasn’t in the manual, Eric!” I’m aiming to sound light and jokey, but my voice is shrill.

“Not everything’s in the manual.” His eyes twinkle.

Okay, this is changing the rules. I thought everything was supposed to be in the manual.

I glance at the whip nervously. So…what happens? Do I whip him? Or does he-

No. I can’t think about it anymore. I shove it back in the drawer and bang it shut, my hands sweaty.

“That’s right.” Eric gives me a tiny wink. “Keep it safe. See you later.” He heads out and a few moments later I hear the front door bang.

I think I might need a small vodka.

In the end I settle for a cup of coffee and two biscuits Gianna gives me from her private stash. God, I’ve missed biscuits. And bread. And toast. I could die for some toast, all chewy and golden, slathered in butter…

Anyway, stop fantasizing about carbs. And stop thinking about the whip. One teeny whip. So what?

Mum’s coming over to visit at eleven, and I have nothing to do till then. I wander into the sitting room, sit down on the arm of the immaculate sofa, and open a magazine. After two minutes I close it again. I’m too edgy to read. It’s as if tiny cracks are appearing in my perfect life. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what to do.

I put down my coffee cup and stare at my immaculate nails. I was a normal girl with frizzy hair and snaggle teeth and a crap boyfriend. And a fairly crap job, and friends who I had a laugh with, and a cozy little flat.

And now…I still do a double take whenever I catch my reflection in the mirror. I don’t see my personality reflected anywhere in this apartment. The TV show…the high heels…my friends refusing to hang out with me…a guy saying he’s my secret lover…I just don’t know who I’ve turned into. I don’t get what the fuck’s happened to me.

On impulse I head into the office. There’s my desk, all spick-and-span with the chair pushed under tidily. I’ve never owned a desk that looked like that in my life; no wonder I didn’t realize it was mine. I sit down and open the first drawer. It’s full of letters, tidily clipped together in plastic files. The second is full of bank statements, threaded onto a piece of blue string.

Jeez Louise. Since when did I become so anal?

I open the last, biggest drawer, expecting to find neatly stacked bottles of Wite-Out or something-but it’s empty except for two scraps of paper.

I pull the bank statements out of the other drawer and flick through them, my eyes widening as I clock my monthly salary, which is at least three times what I used to earn. Most of my money seems to be going out of my single account into the joint account I hold with Eric, except one big sum every month, going to something called “Unito Acc.” I’ll have to find out what that is.

I put the bank statements away and reach into the bottom drawer for the scraps of paper. One is covered in my own handwriting-but so abbreviated I can’t make anything out. It’s almost in code. The other is torn out of a foolscap pad and has my writing scrawled across it, only three words in pencil.

I just wish

I stare at it, riveted. What? What did I wish?

As I turn the scrap over in my fingers I try to imagine myself writing those words. I even try-though I know it’s pointless-to remember myself writing them. Was it a year ago? Six months? Three weeks? What was I talking about?

The buzzer rings, interrupting my thoughts. I fold the scrap of paper carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I bang the empty drawer shut and head out.

Mum has brought three of the dogs along with her. Three huge, energetic whippets. To an immaculate apartment full of immaculate things.

“Hi, Mum!” I take her tatty quilted jacket and try to kiss her as two of the dogs slip out of her grasp and bound toward the sofa. “Wow. You brought…dogs!”

“The poor things looked so lonely as I was leaving.” She embraces one of them, rubbing her cheek against its face. “Agnes is feeling rather vulnerable at the moment.”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound sympathetic. “Poor old Agnes. Could she maybe go in the car?”

“Darling, I can’t just abandon her!” Mum raises her eyes with a martyred air. “You know, it wasn’t easy organizing this trip to London.”

Oh for God’s sake. I knew she didn’t really want to come today. This whole visit arose out of cross-purposes. All I said on the phone was that I felt a bit weird being surrounded by strangers, and the next thing Mum was getting all defensive and saying of course she was planning to visit. And we ended up making this arrangement.

To my horror I notice a dog putting its paws up on the glass coffee table, while the other is on the sofa grabbing a cushion in its jaws.

Jesus. If the sofa’s worth ten grand, then that cushion is probably worth about a thousand quid on its own.

“Mum…could you possibly get that dog off the sofa?”

“Raphael won’t do any harm!” says Mum, looking hurt. She lets go of Agnes, who bounces over to join Raphael and whatever the other one is called.

There are now three whippets romping joyfully on Eric’s sofa. He’d better not turn on the cameras.

“Have you got any diet Coke?” Amy has sauntered in behind Mum, hands in her pockets.

“In the kitchen, I think,” I say distractedly, holding out my hand. “Here, dogs! Off the sofa!”

All three dogs ignore me.

“Come here, darlings!” Mum produces some dog biscuits out of her cardigan pockets, and the dogs magically stop chewing the upholstery. One sits at her feet and the other two snuggle up beside her, resting their heads on her faded print skirt.

“There,” says Mum. “No harm done.”

I look at the mangled cushion that Raphael has just dropped. It’s really not worth saying anything.

“There’s no diet Coke.” Amy reappears from the kitchen, unwrapping a Chupa Chups lollipop, her legs endless in white skinny jeans tucked into boots. “Have you got any Sprite?”

“We might have…” I look at her, suddenly distracted. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“No.” Amy pops the lolly in her mouth with a defiant shrug.

“Why not?” I look from her to Mum, sensing a sudden tension in the air.

No one answers immediately. Mum is adjusting her velvet Alice band on her hair, her eyes distant, as though positioning it just right is her absolute priority.

“Amy’s in a teeny bit of trouble,” she says at last. “Isn’t she, Raphael?”

“I’ve been suspended from school.” With a swagger, Amy heads over to a chair, sits down, and puts her feet up on the coffee table.

“Suspended? Why?”

There’s silence. Mum doesn’t appear to have heard me. “Mum, why?”

“I’m afraid Amy’s been up to her old tricks again,” Mum says with a little wince.

“Old tricks?”

The only tricks I can ever remember Amy doing are card tricks from a magic set she once got in her Christmas stocking. I can see her now, in her pink gingham pajamas and bunny slippers in front of the fireplace, asking us to pick a card while we all pretended not to notice the one she had hidden up her sleeve.

I feel a pang of nostalgia. She was such a sweet little thing.

“What did you do, Ame?”

“It was nothing! They so totally overreacted.” Amy takes her lolly out of her mouth and sighs with exaggerated patience. “All I did was bring this psychic into school.”

“A psychic?”

“Well.” Amy meets my eye with a smirk. “This woman I met in a club. I don’t know exactly how psychic she is. But everyone believed us. I charged ten quid each and she told all the girls they’d meet a boy tomorrow. Everyone was happy. Until some teacher found out.”

“Ten quid each?” I stare at her in disbelief. “No wonder you got in trouble!”

“I’m on my final warning,” she says proudly.

“Why? Amy, what else have you done?”

“Nothing much! Just…over the holidays I collected money for this math teacher, Mrs. Winters, who was in the hospital.” Amy shrugs. “I said she was on the way out and everyone gave loads. I raised over five hundred quid.” She snuffles with laughter. “It was so cool!”

“Darling, it’s extorting money under false pretenses.” Mum’s twisting her amber beads obsessively with one hand, while stroking one of the dogs with the other. “Mrs. Winters was very upset.”

“I gave her some chocolates, didn’t I?” retorts Amy, unrepentant. “And anyway, I wasn’t lying. You could die from liposuction.”

I’m trying to find something to say, but I’m too gobsmacked. How did my sister turn from cute, innocent little Amy into…this?

“I need some lip salve,” Amy says, swinging her legs down off the sofa. “Can I get some off your dressing table?”

“Um, sure.” As soon as she’s out of the room I turn to Mum. “What’s going on? How long has Amy been getting into trouble?”

“Oh…for the last couple of years.” Mum doesn’t look at me and instead addresses the dog on her lap. “She’s a good, sweet girl, really, isn’t she, Agnes? She just gets led astray. Some older girls encouraged her into the stealing; that really wasn’t her fault…”

“Stealing?” I echo in horror.

“Yes. Well.” Mum looks pained. “It was an unfortunate incident. She took a jacket from a fellow pupil and sewed her own name-tape into the back. But she really was very repentant.”

“But…why?”

“Darling, nobody knows. She took her father’s death quite badly and ever since then…it’s been one thing after another.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Maybe all teens who lose their fathers go off the rails for a bit.

“That reminds me. I’ve got something for you, Lexi.” Mum reaches into her canvas bag and produces a DVD in a plain plastic case. “This is the last message from your father. He did a farewell recording before the operation, just in case. It was played at the funeral. If you don’t remember it, you should probably see it.” She hands it over with two fingers as though it’s contaminated.

I take the DVD and stare at it. The last surviving message from Dad. I still can’t quite believe he’s been dead for over three years.

“It’ll be like seeing him again.” I turn the disc over in my hands. “How amazing that he did a recording.”

“Yes. Well.” Mum’s got that twitchy look again. “You know your father. Always had to be the center of attention.”

“Mum! It’s fair enough to be the center of attention at your own funeral.”

Again Mum appears not to have heard. That’s always her trick whenever anyone starts talking about a topic she doesn’t like. She just blanks the whole conversation and changes the subject. Sure enough, a moment later she looks up and says,

“Maybe you could help Amy, darling. You were going to find her an internship at your office.”

“An internship?” I frown doubtfully. “Mum, I’m not sure about that.”

My work situation is complicated enough right now without Amy flouncing around the place.

“Just for a week or two. You said you’d spoken to the right people about it and it was all set up-”

“Maybe I did.” I cut her off hastily. “But everything’s different now. I’m not even back at work yet. I need to relearn my job-”

“You’ve done so well in your career,” says Mum persuasively.

Yup, I’ve done great. From junior sales manager to bitch-boss-from-hell, in one seamless leap.

There’s silence for a few moments, apart from the sound of dogs skittering in the kitchen. I dread to think what they’re doing.

“Mum, I was wondering about that,” I say. “I’m trying to put all the pieces of my life together…and it doesn’t make sense. Why did I go on that TV show? Why did I become all hard and ambitious overnight? I don’t get it.”

“I have no idea.” Mum seems preoccupied, searching in her bag for something. “Natural career advancement.”

“But it wasn’t natural.” I lean forward, trying to get her attention. “I was never a high-powered career woman-you know I wasn’t. Why would I suddenly change?”

“Darling, it was all so long ago, I really can’t remember… Aren’t you a good girl? Aren’t you the most beautiful girl in the world?”

She’s addressing one of the dogs, I suddenly realize. She isn’t even listening to me. Typical.

I look up to see Amy coming back into the room, still sucking her lollipop.

“Amy, Lexi was just talking about you doing an internship at her office!” Mum says brightly. “Would you like that?”

“Maybe,” I put in quickly. “When I’ve been back at work for a while.”

“Yeah. S’pose.”

She doesn’t even look grateful.

“There’d have to be some ground rules,” I say. “You can’t rip off my colleagues. Or steal from them.”

“I don’t steal!” Amy looks stung. “It was one jacket, and there was a mix-up. Jesus.”

“Sweetheart, it wasn’t just the jacket, was it?” says Mum, after a pause. “It was the makeup, too.”

“Everyone thinks the worst of me. Every time anything goes missing, I’m the scapegoat.” Amy’s eyes are glittering in her pale face. She hunches her thin shoulders and suddenly I feel bad. She’s right. I’ve judged her without even knowing the facts.

“I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly. “I’m sure you don’t steal.”

“Whatever.” Her face is averted. “Just blame me for everything, like everyone else.”

“No. I won’t.” I head over to where she’s standing by the window. “Amy, I really want to apologize. I know things have been hard for you since Dad died… Come here.” I hold my arms out for a hug.

“Leave me alone,” she says almost savagely.

“But Amy-”

“Go away!” She backs away urgently, raising her arms as though to fend me off.

“But you’re my little sister!” I lean forward and give her a tight hug-then draw back almost immediately, rubbing my ribs. “Ow! What the hell…You’re all lumpy!”

“No, I’m not,” Amy says after a fraction of a beat.

“Yes, you are!” I peer at her bulky denim jacket. “What on earth have you got in your pockets?”

“Tins of food,” says Amy seamlessly. “Tuna and sweet corn.”

“Sweet corn?” I stare at her, baffled.

“Not again.” Mum shuts her eyes. “Amy, what have you taken from Lexi?”

“Give me a break!” Amy yells. “I haven’t taken anything!” She throws her hand up in a defensive motion and two Chanel lipsticks fly out of the sleeve of her jacket, followed by a powder compact. They land on the floor with a clatter and we all stare at them.

“Are those mine?” I say at last.

“No,” Amy says belligerently, but she’s turned pink.

“Yes, they are!”

“Like you’d even notice.” She shrugs sulkily. “You’ve got thousands of bloody lipsticks.”

“Oh, Amy,” Mum says sorrowfully. “Turn out your pockets.”

Shooting Mum a murderous glance, Amy starts unpacking her pockets, laying all the contents on the coffee table with a series of little crashes. Two unopened moisturizers. A Jo Malone candle. A load of makeup. A Christian Dior perfume gift set. I watch her in silence, goggling at her haul.

“Now take off your T-shirt,” Mum orders, like some kind of immigration official.

“This is so unfair,” mutters Amy. She struggles out of the T-shirt and my jaw drops. Underneath, she’s wearing an Armani slip dress that I recognize from my wardrobe, all scrunched up under her jeans. She has about five La Perla bras worn around her middle, and dangling from them, like charms from a bracelet, are two beaded evening bags.

“You took a dress?” I suppress a giggle. “And bras?”

“Fine. You want your dress back. Fine.” She peels everything off and dumps it on the table. “Satisfied?” She looks up and catches the expression on my face. “It’s not my fault. Mum won’t give me any money for clothes.”

“Amy, that’s nonsense!” Mum exclaims sharply. “You have plenty of clothes!”

“They’re all out of date!” she instantly yells back at Mum, in a way that suggests they’ve had this argument before. “We don’t all live in a bloody fashion time-warp like you do! When are you going to realize it’s the twenty-first century?” She gestures at Mum’s dress. “It’s tragic!”

“Amy, stop it!” I say hastily. “That’s not the point. And anyway, those bras don’t even fit you!”

“You can sell bras on eBay,” she retorts scathingly. “Fancy overpriced bras, that is.”

She shoves on her T-shirt, sinks down onto the floor, and starts texting something on her phone.

I’m totally flummoxed by all of this. “Amy,” I say at last, “maybe we should have a little talk. Mum, why don’t you go and make some coffee or something?”

Mum looks totally flustered, and seems grateful to head out to the kitchen. When she’s gone I sit down on the floor, across from where Amy has plonked herself. Her shoulders are tensed angrily and she doesn’t look up.

Okay. I have to be understanding and sympathetic. I know there’s a big age gap between me and Amy. I know I can’t even remember a whole chunk of her life. But surely we have a sisterly rapport?

“Amy, listen,” I say in my best understanding-grown-up-sister-but-still-pretty-cool voice. “You can’t steal, okay? You can’t extort money from people.”

“Fuck off,” Amy says without raising her head.

“You’ll get in trouble. You’ll get chucked out of school!”

“Fuck,” Amy says conversationally. “Off. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…”

“Look!” I say, trying to keep my patience. “I know things can be difficult. And you’re probably lonely with just you and Mum at home. But if you ever want to talk about anything, if you’ve got any problems, I’m here for you. Just call me, or text me, anytime. We could go out for a coffee, or see a film together…” I trail away.

Amy’s still texting with one hand. With the other she has slowly moved her thumb and index finger into the “Loser” sign.

“Oh fuck off, yourself!” I exclaim furiously, and hug my knees. Stupid little cow. If Mum thinks I’m having her in my office on some internship, she has to be joking.

We sit there in grouchy silence for a bit. Then I reach for the DVD of Dad’s funeral message, slide across the floor, and plug it into the machine. The huge screen opposite lights up, and after a few moments my father’s face appears.

I stare at the screen, gripped. Dad’s sitting in an armchair, wearing a red plushy dressing gown. I don’t recognize the room-but then, I never did get to see many of Dad’s homes. His face is gaunt, the way I remember it after he got ill. It was as though he was slowly deflating. But his green eyes are twinkling and there’s a cigar in his hand.

“Hello,” he says, his voice hoarse. “It’s me. Well, you know that.” He gives a little laugh, then breaks into a hacking cough, which he relieves by taking a puff on his cigar as if it was a drink of water. “We all know this operation has a fifty-fifty chance of survival. My own fault for buggering up my body. So I thought I’d do a little message to you, my family, just in case.”

He pauses and takes a deep slug from a tumbler of whisky. His hand is shaking as he puts it down, I notice. Did he know he was going to die? Suddenly there’s a hard lump in my throat. I glance over at Amy. She’s let go of her phone and is watching, too, transfixed.

“Live a good life,” Dad is saying to the camera. “Be happy. Be kind to one another. Barbara, stop living your life through those bloody dogs. They’re not human. They’re never going to love you or support you or go to bed with you. Unless you’re very desperate.”

I clap my hand over my mouth. “He didn’t say that!”

“He did.” Amy gives a little snort of laughter. “Mum walked out of the room.”

“You only get one life, loves. Don’t waste it.” He looks at the camera with glittering green eyes, and I suddenly remember him when I was much younger, picking me up from school in a sports car. I was pointing him out to everyone: That man there is my daddy! All the kids were gasping at the car and all the mothers were shooting surreptitious glances at him, in his smart linen jacket and Spanish tan.

“I know I’ve fucked up here and there,” Dad’s saying. “I know I haven’t been the best family man. But hand on heart, I did my best. Cheers, m’dears. See you on the other side.” He raises his glass to the camera and drinks. Then the screen goes blank.

The DVD clicks off, but neither Amy nor I moves. As I gaze at the blank screen I feel even more marooned than before. My dad’s dead. He’s been dead three years. I can never talk to him again. I can never give him a birthday present. I can never ask him for advice. Not that you’d ask Dad’s advice on anything except where to buy sexy underwear for a mistress-but still. I glance over at Amy, who meets my gaze with a tiny shrug.

“That was a really nice message,” I say, determined not to be sentimental or cry or anything. “Dad came good.”

“Yeah.” Amy nods. “He did.”

The frostiness between us seems to have melted. Amy reaches in her bag for a tiny makeup case with Babe embossed on the lid in diamante. She takes out a lip pencil and expertly outlines her lips, peering into a tiny mirror. I’ve never seen her put on makeup before, except as a dressing-up game.

Amy’s not a child anymore, I think as I watch her. She’s on the brink of being an adult. I know things haven’t gone that well between us today-but maybe in the past she’s been my friend.

My confidante, even.

“Hey, Amy,” I say in a low, cautious voice. “Did we talk much before the accident? The two of us, I mean. About…stuff.” I glance toward the kitchen to make sure Mum can’t hear.

“A bit.” She shrugs. “What stuff?”

“I was just wondering.” I keep my voice natural. “Out of interest, did I ever mention anyone called…Jon?”

“Jon?” Amy pauses, lipstick in hand. “You mean the one you had sex with?”

“What?” My voice shoots out like a rocket. “Are you sure?”

Oh my God. It’s true.

“Yeah.” Amy seems surprised by my reaction. “You told me at New Year’s Eve. You were quite pissed.”

“What else did I tell you?” My heart is thumping wildly. “Tell me everything you can remember.”

“You told me everything!” Her eyes light up. “All the gory details. It was your first-ever time, and he lost the condom, and you were freezing to death on the school field…”

“School field?” I stare at Amy, my mind trying to make sense of this. “Do you mean…are you talking about James?”

“Oh yeah!” She clicks her tongue in realization. “That’s who I meant. James. The guy in the band when you were at school. Why, who are you talking about?” She finishes her lipstick and regards me with fresh interest. “Who’s Jon?”

“He’s no one,” I say hastily. “Just…some guy. He’s nothing.”

You see-there’s no evidence. If I was really having an affair I would have left a trail. A note, or a photo, or a diary entry. Or Amy would know, or something…

And the point is, I’m happily married to Eric. That’s the point.

It’s much later that evening. Mum and Amy left a while ago, after we finally managed to cajole one whippet off the balcony and another out of Eric’s Jacuzzi, where it was having a fight with one of the towels. And now I’m in the car with Eric, zipping along the Embankment. He’s having a meeting with Ava, his interior designer, and suggested I come along and see the show flat of his latest development, Blue 42.

All Eric’s buildings are called “Blue” and then some number. It’s the company’s brand. It turns out that having a brand is a crucial part of selling loft-style living, as is having the right music on when you walk in, and the right cutlery on the show table. Apparently Ava is a genius at choosing the right cutlery.

I learned about Ava from the marriage manual. She’s forty-eight, divorced, worked in LA for twenty years, has written a series of books called things like Tassel and Fork, and designs all the show homes for Eric’s company.

“Hey, Eric,” I say as we drive along. “I was looking at my bank statement today. I seem to pay all this regular money to something called Unito. I rang up the bank, and they said it’s an offshore account.”

“Uh-huh.” Eric nods as though he’s not remotely interested. I wait for him to say something else, but he turns on the radio.

“Don’t you know anything about it?” I say over the sound of the news.

“No.” He shrugs. “Not a bad idea, though, putting some of your money offshore.”

“Right.” I’m dissatisfied by his response; I almost feel like I want to pick a fight about it. But I don’t know why.

“I just need to get some petrol.” Eric swings off the road into a BP station. “I won’t be a moment…”

“Hey,” I say as he opens the door. “Could you get me some chips in the shop? Salt ’n’ vinegar if they have them.”

“Chips?” He turns back and stares at me as though I’ve asked for some heroin.

“Yes, chips.”

“Darling.” Eric looks perplexed. “You don’t eat chips. It was all in the manual. Our nutritionist has recommended a low-carb, high-protein diet.”

“Well…I know. But everyone’s allowed a little treat once in a while, aren’t they? And I really feel like some chips.”

For a moment Eric seems lost for an answer.

“The doctors warned me you might be irrational, and make odd, out-of-character gestures,” he says, almost to himself.

“It’s not irrational to eat a packet of chips!” I protest. “They’re not poison.”

“Sweetheart…I’m thinking of you.” Eric adopts a loving tone. “I know how hard you’ve worked at reducing those two dress sizes. We invested a lot in your personal trainer. If you want to throw it away on a bag of chips, then that’s your choice. Do you still want the chips?”

“Yes,” I say, a bit more defiantly than I meant to.

I see a flash of annoyance pass over Eric’s face, which he manages to convert into a smile.

“No problem.” He shuts the car door with a heavy clunk. A few minutes later I see him walking briskly back from the garage, holding a packet of chips.

“Here you are.” He drops them on my lap and starts the engine.

“Thank you!” I smile gratefully, but I’m not sure he notices. As he drives off, I try to open the packet-but my left hand is still clumsy after the accident and I can’t get a proper grip on the plastic. At last I put the packet between my teeth, yank as hard as I can with my right hand…and the entire packet explodes.

Shit. There are chips everywhere. All over the seats, all over the gear stick, and all over Eric.

“Jesus!” He shakes his head in annoyance. “Are those in my hair?”

“Sorry,” I gasp, brushing at his jacket. “I’m really, really sorry…”

The reek of salt and vinegar has filled the car. Mmm. That’s a good smell.

“I’ll have to have the car valeted.” Eric’s nose is wrinkled in distaste. “And my jacket will be covered in grease.”

“I’m sorry, Eric,” I say again, humbly, brushing the last crumbs off his shoulder. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.” I sit back, reach for a massive chip that landed on my lap, and put it in my mouth.

“Are you eating that?” Eric sounds like this is the last straw.

“It only landed on my lap,” I protest. “It’s clean!”

We drive on awhile in silence. Surreptitiously I eat a few more chips, trying to crunch them as quietly as possible.

“It’s not your fault,” says Eric, staring ahead at the road. “You had a bump on the head. I can’t expect normality yet.”

“I feel perfectly normal,” I say.

“Of course you do.” He pats my hand patronizingly and I stiffen. Okay, I may not be totally recovered. But I do know that eating one packet of chips doesn’t make you mentally ill. I’m about to tell that to Eric, when he signals and turns in at a pair of electric gates that has opened for us. We drive into a shallow forecourt and Eric turns off the engine.

“Here we are.” I can hear the pride crackling in his voice. He gestures out the window. “This is our latest baby.”

I stare up, totally overcome, forgetting all about chips. In front of us is a brand-new white building. It has curved balconies, an awning, and black granite steps up to a pair of grand silver-framed doors.

“You built this?” I say at last.

“Not personally.” Eric laughs. “Come on.” He opens his door, brushing the last few chips off his trousers, and I follow, still in awe. A uniformed porter opens the door for us. The foyer is all palest marble and white pillars. This place is a palace.

“It’s amazing. It’s so glamorous!” I keep noticing tiny details everywhere, like the inlaid borders and the sky-painted ceiling.

“The penthouse has its own lift.” With a nod to the porter, Eric ushers me to the rear of the lobby and into a beautiful marquetry-lined lift. “There’s a pool in the basement, a gym, and a residents’ cinema. Although of course most apartments have their own private gyms and cinemas as well,” he adds.

I look up sharply to see if he’s joking-but I don’t think he is. A private gym and cinema? In a flat?

“And here we are…” The lift opens with the tiniest of pings and we walk into a circular, mirrored foyer. Eric presses gently on one of the mirrors, which turns out to be a door. It swings open and I just gape.

I’m looking at the most massive room. No, space. It has floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in fireplace on one wall-and on another wall there’s a gigantic steel sheet down which are cascading endless streams of water.

“Is that real water?” I say stupidly. “Inside a house?” Eric laughs.

“Our customers like a statement. It’s fun, huh?” He picks up a remote and jabs it at the waterfall-and at once the water is bathed in blue light. “There are ten pre-programmed light shows. Ava?” He raises his voice, and a moment later a skinny blond woman in rimless glasses, gray trousers, and a white shirt appears from some recessed doorway next to the waterfall.

“Hi there!” she says in a mid-Atlantic accent. “Lexi! You’re up and about!” She grasps my hand with both of hers. “I heard all about it. You poor thing.”

“I’m fine, really.” I smile. “Just piecing my life back together again.” I gesture around the room. “This place is amazing! All that water…”

“Water is the theme of the show apartment,” says Eric. “We’ve followed feng shui principles pretty closely, haven’t we, Ava? Very important for some of our ultra-high net worths.”

“Ultra-what?” I say, confused.

“The very rich,” Eric translates. “Our target market.”

“Feng shui is vital for ultra-highs.” Ava nods earnestly. “Eric, I’ve just taken delivery of the fish for the master suite. They’re stunning!” She adds to me, “Each fish is worth three hundred pounds. We hired them especially.”

Ultra-high whatevers. Fish for hire. It’s a different world. Lost for words, I look around again at the massive apartment: at the curved cocktail bar and the sunken seating area and the glass sculpture hanging from the ceiling. I have no idea how much this place costs. I don’t want to know.

“Here you are.” Ava hands me an intricate scale model made of paper and tiny wooden sticks. “This is the whole building. You’ll notice I’ve mirrored the curved balconies in the scalloped edges of the scatter pillows,” she adds. “Very art deco meets Gaultier.”

“Er…excellent!” I rack my brains for something to say about art deco meets Gaultier, and fail. “So, how did you think of it all?” I gesture at the waterfall, which is now bathed in orange light. “Like, how did you come up with this?”

“Oh, that wasn’t me.” Ava shakes her head emphatically. “My area is soft furnishings, fabrics, sensual details. The big concept stuff was all down to Jon.”

I feel a tiny lurch inside.

“Jon?” I tilt my head, adopting the vaguest expression I can muster, as if Jon is some unfamiliar word from an obscure foreign language.

“Jon Blythe,” Eric prompts helpfully. “The architect. You met him at the dinner party, remember? In fact, weren’t you asking me about him earlier on?”

“Was I?” I say after an infinitesimal pause. “I…don’t really remember.” I start turning over the model in my fingers, trying to ignore the slight flush rising up my neck.

This is ridiculous. I’m behaving like a guilty adulterous wife.

“Jon, there you are!” Ava calls out. “We were just talking about you!”

He’s here? My hands clench involuntarily around the model. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want him to see me. I have to make an excuse and leave-

But too late. Here he is, loping across the floor, wearing jeans and a navy V-neck and consulting some bit of paper.

Okay, stay calm. Everything’s fine. You’re happily married and have no evidence of any secret fling, affair, or liaison with this man.

“Hi, Eric, Lexi.” He nods politely as he approaches-then stares at my hands. I look down and feel a jerk of dismay. The model’s totally crushed. The roof’s broken and one of the balconies has become detached.

“Lexi!” Eric has just noticed it. “How on earth did that happen?”

“Jon.” Ava’s brow crumples in distress. “Your model!”

“I’m really sorry!” I say, flustered. “I don’t know how it happened. I was just holding it, and somehow…”

“Don’t worry.” Jon shrugs. “It only took me a month to make.”

“A month?” I echo, aghast. “Look, if you give me some Scotch tape I’ll fix it…” I’m patting at the crushed roof, desperately trying to prod it back into shape.

“Maybe not quite a month,” Jon says, watching me. “Maybe a couple of hours.”

“Oh.” I stop patting. “Well, anyway, I’m sorry.”

Jon shoots me a brief glance. “You can make it up to me.”

Make it up to him? What does that mean? Without quite meaning to I slip my arm through Eric’s. I need some reassurance. I need ballast. I need a sturdy husband by my side.

“So, the apartment’s very impressive, Jon.” I adopt a bland, corporate-wife-type manner, sweeping an arm around the space. “Many congratulations.”

“Thank you. I’m pleased with it,” he replies in equally bland tones. “How’s the memory doing?”

“Pretty much the same as before.”

“You haven’t remembered anything new?”

“No. Nothing.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yeah.”

I’m trying to stay natural-but there’s an electric atmosphere growing between us as we face each other. My breath is coming just slightly short. I glance up at Eric, convinced he must have noticed something-but he hasn’t even flickered. Can’t he feel it? Can’t he see it?

“Eric, we need to talk about the Bayswater project,” says Ava, who has been riffling through her soft leather handbag. “I went to see the site yesterday and made some notes-”

“Lexi, why don’t you look around the apartment while Ava and I talk?” Eric cuts her off, loosening his arm from mine. “Jon will show you.”

“Oh.” I stiffen. “No, don’t worry.”

“I’d be happy to show you.” Jon’s voice is dry and kind of bored. “If you’re interested.”

“Really, there’s no need…”

“Darling, Jon designed the whole building,” Eric says reprovingly. “It’s a great opportunity for you to find out the vision of the company.”

“Come this way and I’ll explain the initial concept.” Jon gestures toward the other side of the room.

I can’t get out of this.

“That would be great,” I say at last.

Fine. If he wants to talk, I’ll talk. I follow Jon across the room and we pause next to the tumbling streams of the waterfall. How could anyone live with water thundering down the wall like this?

“So,” I say politely. “How do you think of all these ideas? All these ‘statements’ or whatever they are.”

Jon frowns thoughtfully and my heart sinks. I hope he’s not going to come up with a load of pretentious stuff about his artistic genius. I’m really not in the mood.

“I just ask myself, what would a wanker like?” he says at last. “And I put it in.”

I can’t help a half-laugh of shock. “Well, if I were a wanker I’d love this.”

“There you go.” He takes a step nearer and lowers his voice beneath the sound of the water. “So you really haven’t remembered anything?”

“No. Nothing at all.”

“Okay.” He exhales sharply. “We have to meet. We have to talk. There’s a place we go, the Old Canal House in Islington.” In a much louder voice he adds, “You’ll notice the high ceilings, Lexi. They’re a trademark feature of all our developments.” He glances over and catches my expression. “What?”

“Are you crazy?” I hiss, glancing over to make sure Eric can’t hear. “I’m not meeting you! For your information, I haven’t found a single piece of evidence that you and I are having an affair. Not one. What a great sense of space!” I add at full volume.

“Evidence?” Jon looks as if he doesn’t understand. “Like what?”

“Like…I don’t know. A love note.”

“We didn’t write each other love notes.”

“Or trinkets.”

“Trinkets?” Jon looks like he wants to laugh. “We weren’t much into trinkets, either.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been much of a love affair, then!” I retort. “I’ve looked in my dressing table-nothing. I looked in my diary-nothing. I asked my sister-she’d never even heard of you.”

“Lexi.” He pauses as though working out how to explain the situation to me. “It was a secret affair. That would mean an affair that you keep secret.”

“So you have no proof. I knew it.”

I turn on my heel and stride away toward the fireplace, Jon following closely behind.

“You want proof?” I can hear him muttering in low, incredulous tones. “What, like…you have a strawberry mark on your left buttock?”

“I don’t-” I swivel around in triumph, then stop abruptly as Eric glances across the room at us. “I don’t know how you came up with this amazing use of light!” I wave at Eric, who waves back and continues his conversation.

“I know you don’t have a birthmark on your buttock.” Jon rolls his eyes. “You don’t have any birthmarks at all. Just a mole on your arm.”

I’m briefly silenced. He’s right. But so what?

“That could be a lucky guess.” I fold my arms.

“I know. But it’s not.” He looks at me steadily. “Lexi, I’m not making it up. We’re having an affair. We love each other. Deeply and passionately.”

“Look.” I thrust my hands through my hair. “This is just…mad! I wouldn’t have an affair. Not with you or anyone. I’ve never been unfaithful to anybody in my life-”

“We had sex on that floor four weeks ago,” he cuts me off. “Right there.” He nods at a huge fluffy white sheepskin.

I stare at it speechlessly.

“You were on top,” he adds.

“Stop it!” Flustered, I wheel around and stride away toward the far end of the space, where a trendy Lucite staircase rises to a mezzanine level.

“Let’s take a look at the wet room complex,” Jon says loudly as he follows me up. “I think you’ll like it…”

“No, I won’t,” I shoot over my shoulder. “Leave me alone.”

We both reach the top of the staircase and turn to look over the steel balustrade. I can see Eric on the level below, and beyond, the lights of London through the massive windows. I have to hand it to him, it’s a staggering apartment.

Beside me, Jon is sniffing the air.

“Hey,” he says. “Have you been eating salt and vinegar chips?”

“Maybe.” I give him a suspicious look.

Jon’s eyes open wide. “I’m impressed. How did you sneak those past the food fascist?”

“He’s not a food fascist,” I say, feeling an immediate need to defend Eric. “He just…cares about nutrition.”

“He’s Hitler. If he could round up every loaf of bread and put it in a camp, he would.”

“Stop it.”

“He’d gas them all. Finger rolls first. Then croissants.”

“Stop it.” My mouth twists with an urge to giggle and I turn away.

This guy is funnier than I thought at first. And he’s kind of sexy, close up, with his rumpled dark hair.

But then, lots of things are funny and sexy. Friends is funny and sexy. It doesn’t mean I’m having an affair with it.

“What do you want?” At last I turn to face Jon, helpless. “What do you expect me to do?”

“What do I want?” He pauses, his brow knitted as though he’s thinking it through. “I want you to tell your husband you don’t love him, come home with me, and start a new life together.”

He’s serious. I almost want to laugh.

“You want me to come and live with you,” I say, as though to clarify arrangements. “Right now. Just like that.”

“In, say, five minutes.” He glances at his watch. “I have a few things to do first.”

“You’re a total psycho.” I shake my head.

“I’m not a psycho,” he says patiently. “I love you. You love me. Really. You have to take my word on that.”

“I don’t have to take your word on anything!” I suddenly resent his confidence. “I’m married, okay? I have a husband whom I love, whom I’ve promised to love forever. Here’s the proof!” I brandish my wedding ring at him. “This is proof!”

“You love him?” Jon ignores the ring. “You feel love for him? Right deep down here?” He thumps his chest.

I want to snap “Yes, I’m desperately in love with Eric” and shut him up for good. But for some ridiculous reason I can’t quite bring myself to lie.

“Maybe it’s not quite there yet…but I’m sure it will be,” I say, sounding more defiant than I meant to. “Eric’s a fantastic guy. Everything’s wonderful between us.”

“Uh-huh.” Jon nods politely. “You haven’t had sex since the accident, have you?”

I stare at him mistrustfully.

“Have you?” There’s a glint in his eye.

“I…we…” I flounder. “Maybe we have, maybe we haven’t! I’m not in the habit of discussing my private life with you.”

“Yeah, you are.” There’s a sudden wryness in his face. “You are. That’s the point.” To my surprise he reaches for one of my hands. He just holds it for a moment, looking at it. Then, very slowly, he starts tracing over the skin with his thumb.

I can’t bring myself to move. My skin is fizzing; his thumb is leaving a trail of delicious sensation wherever it goes. I can feel tiny prickles up the back of my neck.

“So what do you think?” Eric’s booming voice heralds us from below and I jump a mile, whipping my hand away. What was I thinking?

“It’s great, darling!” I trill back over the balustrade, my voice unnaturally high. “We’ll just be a couple more seconds…” I draw back, out of sight of the floor below, and beckon Jon to follow. “Look, I’ve had enough,” I say in a swift undertone. “Leave me alone. I don’t know you. I don’t love you. Things are hard enough for me right now. I just want to get on with my life, with my husband. Okay?” I make to head down the stairs.

“No! Not okay!” Jon grabs hold of my arm. “Lexi, you don’t know the whole picture. You’re unhappy with Eric. He doesn’t love you, he doesn’t understand you-”

“Of course Eric loves me!” Now I’m really rattled. “He sat by my hospital bed night and day, he brought me these amazing taupe roses…”

“You think I didn’t want to sit by your hospital bed night and day?” Jon’s eyes darken. “Lexi, it nearly killed me.”

“Let me go.” I try to pull my arm free, but Jon holds firm.

“You can’t throw us away.” He’s scanning my face desperately. “It’s in there. It’s all in there somewhere, I know it is-”

“You’re wrong!” With a huge effort I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “It’s not!” I clatter down the stairs without looking back, straight into Eric’s arms.

“Hi!” He laughs. “You seem in a rush. Is everything all right?”

“I…don’t feel too good.” I put a hand to my brow. “I’ve got a headache. Can we go now?”

“Of course we can, darling.” He squeezes my shoulders and glances up at the mezzanine level. “Have you said good-bye to Jon?”

“Yes. Let’s just…go.”

As we head to the door I cling to his expensive jacket, letting the feel of him soothe my jangled nerves. This is my husband. This is who I’m in love with. This is reality.