Remember Me?

Chapter 13

I’ve tried. I really have tried. I’ve done everything I can think of to show the department that I’m not a bitch.

I’ve put up a poster asking for suggestions for a fun department outing-but no one’s filled any in. I’ve put flowers on the windowsills, but no one’s even mentioned them. Today I brought in a massive basket of blueberry, vanilla, and chocolate-chip muffins and put it on the photocopier, together with a sign saying From Lexi-Help Yourself!

I took a stroll into the office a few minutes ago and not a single muffin had been taken. But never mind, it’s still early. I’ll leave it another ten minutes before I go and check again.

I turn a page in the file I’ve been reading, then click on the onscreen document. I’m working through paper files and computer files at the same time, trying to cross-reference everything. Without meaning to, I give an enormous yawn and lean my head on the desk. I’m tired. I mean, I’m knackered.

I’ve been coming in every morning at seven, just to get through some more of this mountain of paperwork. My eyes are red from all the endless reading.

I nearly didn’t come back here at all. The day after Eric and I “kind of” had sex, I woke up with a pale face, the most crashing headache, and absolutely no desire to go to work again, ever. I staggered into the kitchen, made a cup of tea with three spoonfuls of sugar, then sat down and wrote out on a sheet of paper, wincing at every movement:

OPTIONS

1. Give up.

2. Don’t give up.

I stared at it for ages. Then at last I put a line through Give up.

The thing with giving up is you never know. You never know whether you could have done the job. And I’m sick of not knowing about my life. So here I am, in my office, reading through a debate on carpet-fiber cost trends, dating from 2005. Just in case it’s important.

No. Come on. It can’t be important. I close the file, stand up, shake out my legs, then tiptoe to my door. I open it a crack and peek hopefully out at the main office. I can just glimpse the basket through the window. It’s still intact.

I feel totally squashed. What’s wrong? Why is no one taking any? Maybe I’ll just make it absolutely clear that these muffins are for everyone. I head out of my room, into the main open-plan office.

“Hi there!” I say brightly. “I just wanted to say, these muffins are from me to all of you. Fresh from the bakery this morning. So…go ahead! Help yourself!”

No one answers. No one even acknowledges my presence. Did I suddenly become invisible?

“So, anyway.” I force myself to smile. “Enjoy!” I swivel on my heel and walk out.

I’ve done my bit. If they want the muffins, they want them. If they don’t, they don’t. End of subject. I really don’t care either way. I sit back down at my desk, open a recent financial report, and start running my finger down the relevant columns. After a few moments I lean back, rubbing my eyes with my fists. These figures are just confirming what I already know: the department performance is terrible.

Sales went up in the last year by a bit, but they’re still far, far too low. We’re going to be in real trouble if we don’t turn things around. I mentioned it to Byron the other day-and he didn’t even seem bothered. How can he be so blasé? I make a memo on a Post-it-“Discuss sales with Byron.” Then I put my pen down.

Why don’t they want my muffins?

I was really optimistic when I bought them this morning. I imagined everyone’s faces lighting up at the sight, and people saying “What a nice thought, Lexi. Thanks!” But now I’m crestfallen. They must totally hate me. I mean, you’d have to loathe someone to refuse a muffin, wouldn’t you? And these are really deluxe ones. They’re fat and fresh and the blueberry ones have even got lemon icing on them.

A tiny, sensible voice in my head is telling me to leave it. Forget about it. It’s only a basket of muffins, for God’s sake.

But I can’t. I can’t just sit here. On impulse I leap to my feet again and head into the main office. There’s the basket, still untouched. Everyone is typing away or on the phone, ignoring both me and the muffins.

“So!” I try to sound relaxed. “Nobody wants a muffin? They’re really nice ones!”

“Muffin?” Fi says at last, her brow wrinkled. “I can’t see any muffins.” She looks around the office as though baffled. “Anyone seen any muffins?”

Everyone shrugs, as though equally baffled.

“Do you mean an English muffin?” Carolyn’s brow is wrinkled. “Or a French muffin?”

“They do muffins at Starbucks. I could send out if you like,” Debs says, barely hiding her giggles.

Ha-ha. Really funny.

“Fine!” I say, trying to hide my hurt. “If you want to be childish about it, then that’s fine. Just forget it. I was only trying to be nice.”

Breathing hard, I stalk out again. I can hear the sniggers and giggles behind me, but I try to block my ears. I have to keep my dignity; I have to be calm and bosslike. I mustn’t rise. I mustn’t react.

Oh God. I can’t help it. Hurt and anger are rising through me like a volcano. How can they be so mean?

“Actually, it’s not fine.” I march back into the office, my face burning. “Look, I went to a lot of time and trouble to get these muffins, because I thought it would be nice to give you a treat, and now you’re pretending you can’t even see them…”

“I’m sorry, Lexi.” Fi appears blank and apologetic. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Carolyn snorts with laughter-and something inside me snaps.

“I’m talking about this!” I grab a chocolate-chip muffin and brandish it at Fi’s face, and she shrinks away. “It’s a muffin! It’s a bloody muffin! Well, fine! If you’re not going to eat it, then I will!” I stuff the muffin into my mouth and start chewing it furiously, then take another bite. Huge crumbs are falling all over the floor, but I don’t care. “In fact, I’ll eat all of them!” I add. “Why not?” I grab an iced blueberry muffin and cram that in my mouth too. “Mmm, yum!”

“Lexi?” I turn and my insides shrivel up. Simon Johnson and Byron are standing at the door to the office.

Byron looks like he wants to burst with delight. Simon’s regarding me as though I’m the crazy gorilla throwing its food around at the zoo.

“S-Simon!” I splutter muffin crumbs in horror. “Um…hi! How are you?”

“I just wanted a quick word, if you’re not…busy?” Simon raises his eyebrows.

“Of course not!” I smooth my hair down, desperately trying to swallow my mouthful. “Come through to my office.”

As I pass by the glass door I catch my reflection and wince at my eyes, all red from tiredness. My hair looks a bit all over the place too. Maybe I should have put it up. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now.

“So, Lexi,” Simon says as I close the door and dump my half-eaten muffins on the desk. “I just had a good meeting with Byron about June ’07. I’m sure he’s been filling you in on developments.”

“Sure.” I nod, trying to look like I know what he’s referring to. But “June ’07” means absolutely nothing to me. Is something happening then?

“I’m scheduling in a final decision meeting for Monday. I won’t say any more just now. Obviously discretion is crucial…” Simon breaks off, his forehead suddenly furrowed. “I know you’ve had reservations, Lexi. We all have. But really, there are no more options.”

What’s he talking about? What?

“Well, Simon, I’m sure we can work it out,” I bluff, desperately hoping he won’t ask me to elaborate.

“Good girl, Lexi. Knew you’d come around.” He raises his voice again, sounding more cheerful. “I’m seeing James Garrison later on, the new guy at Southeys. What do you make of him?”

Thank God. At last, something I’ve heard of.

“Ah yes,” I say briskly. “Well, unfortunately I gather Southeys isn’t up to scratch, Simon. We’ll have to look elsewhere for a distributor.”

“I beg to differ, Lexi!” Byron cuts in with a laugh. “Southeys has just offered us an improved rate and service package.” He turns to Simon. “I was with them all day last week, along with Keith from Soft Furnishings. James Garrison has turned the place around. We were impressed.”

My face is burning. Bastard.

“Lexi, don’t you agree with Byron?” Simon turns to me in surprise. “Have you met James Garrison?”

“I…um…no, I haven’t.” I swallow. “I’m…I’m sure you’re right, Byron.”

He has completely shafted me. On purpose.

There’s a horrible pause. I can see Simon regarding me with puzzled disappointment. “Right,” he says at last. “Well, I must be off. Good to see you, Lexi.”

“Bye, Simon.” I usher him out of my office, trying my best to sound confident and senior-management-like. “Look forward to catching up again soon. Maybe we can do that lunch sometime…”

“Hey, Lexi,” Byron says suddenly, gesturing at my bum. “There’s something on your skirt.” I grope behind me, and find myself peeling off a Post-it. I look at it-and the ground seems to swivel beneath me like quicksand. Someone’s printed, in pink felt-tip: I fancy Simon Johnson.

I can’t look at Simon Johnson. My head feels like it’s about to explode.

Byron snorts with laughter. “There’s another one.” He jerks his head and numbly I peel off a second Post-it: Simon, do it to me!

“Just a silly prank!” I crumple up the Post-its desperately. “The staff having a bit of…fun…”

Simon Johnson doesn’t look amused.

“Right,” he says after a pause. “Well, I’ll see you, Lexi.”

He turns on his heel and heads away, down the corridor, with Byron. After a moment I hear Byron saying, “Simon, now do you see? She’s absolutely…”

I stand there, watching them go, still quivering in shock. That’s it. My career’s ruined before I’ve even had a chance to try it out. In a daze I walk back into my office and sink into my chair. I can’t do this job. I’m knackered. Byron’s shafted me. No one wants my muffins.

At that last thought I feel an enormous pang of hurt-and then suddenly I can’t help it, a tear is running down my face. I bury my face in my arms and soon I’m convulsing with sobs. I thought it was going to be so great. I thought being boss would be fun and exciting. I never realized…I never thought…

“Hi.” A voice pierces my thoughts and I raise my head to see Fi standing just inside the doorway.

“Oh. Hi.” I wipe my eyes roughly. “Sorry. I was just…”

“Are you okay?” she says awkwardly.

“I’m fine. Fine.” I scrabble in my desk drawer for a tissue and blow my nose. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Sorry about the Post-its.” She bites her lip. “We never thought Simon would come down. It was just supposed to be a laugh.”

“’S all right.” My voice is shaky. “You weren’t to know.”

“What did he say?”

“He wasn’t impressed.” I sigh. “But he’s not impressed with me anyway, so what’s the difference?” I tear off a bit of chocolate-chip muffin, stuff it in my mouth, and feel immediately better. For about a nanosecond.

Fi is just staring at me.

“I thought you didn’t eat carbs anymore,” she says at last.

“Yeah, right. Like I could live without chocolate.” I take another massive bite of muffin. “Women need chocolate. It’s a scientific fact.”

There’s silence, and I look up to see Fi still gazing at me uncertainly. “It’s so strange,” she says. “You sound like the old Lexi.”

“I am the old Lexi.” I feel suddenly weary at having to explain all over again. “Fi…imagine you woke up tomorrow and it was suddenly 2010. And you had to slot into some new life and be some new person. Well, that’s what this is like for me.” I break off another piece of muffin and survey it for a few moments, then put it down again. “And I don’t recognize the new person. I don’t know why she is like she is. And it’s kind of…it’s hard.”

There’s a long silence. I’m staring fixedly at the desk, breathing hard, crumbling the muffin into little pieces. I don’t dare look up, in case Fi says something else sarcastic or laughs at me and I burst into tears again.

“Lexi, I’m sorry.” When she speaks, her voice is so quiet, I barely hear it. “I didn’t…we didn’t realize. I mean, you don’t look any different.”

“I know.” I give her a rueful smile. “I look like a brunette Barbie.” I lift a strand of chestnut hair and let it fall. “When I saw myself in the mirror in hospital, I nearly died of shock. I didn’t know who I was.”

“Look…” She’s chewing her lip and twisting her bangles. “I’m sorry. About the muffins, and the Post-its and…everything. Why don’t you have lunch with us today?” She comes toward the desk with a sudden eagerness. “Let’s start again.”

“That’d be nice.” I give her a grateful smile. “But I can’t today. I’m seeing Loser Dave for lunch.”

“Loser Dave?” She sounds so shocked, I can’t help laughing. “Why are you seeing him? Lexi, you’re not thinking of-”

“No! Of course not! I’m just trying to work out what’s happened in my life during the last three years. Put the pieces together.” I hesitate, suddenly realizing that Fi probably has the answers to all my questions. “Fi, do you know how it ended with me and Loser Dave?”

“No idea.” Fi shrugs. “You never told us how you broke up. You shut us all out. Even me. It was like…all you cared about was your career. So in the end we stopped trying.”

I can see a flicker of hurt in her face.

“I’m sorry, Fi,” I say awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to shut you out. At least, I don’t think I did…” It’s surreal, apologizing for something I have no memory of. Like I’m a werewolf or something.

“Don’t worry. It wasn’t you. I mean, it was you… but it wasn’t you…” Fi trails off. She seems pretty confused too.

“I’d better go.” I glance at my watch and get to my feet. “Maybe Loser Dave will have some answers.”

“Hey, Lexi,” says Fi, looking embarrassed. “You missed one.” She jerks her thumb at my skirt. I reach behind and pull off yet another Post-it. It reads Simon Johnson: I would.

“I so wouldn’t,” I say, crumpling it.

“Wouldn’t you?” Fi grins wickedly. “I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t!” I can’t help a giggle at her expression.

“I reckon he’s quite fit.”

“He’s ancient! He probably can’t even do it anymore.” I catch her eye and suddenly we’re both laughing helplessly, like in the old days. I drop my jacket and sit on the arm of the sofa, clutching my stomach, unable to stop. I don’t think I’ve laughed like this since the accident. It’s like all my strains and tensions are coming out; everything’s being laughed away.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Fi says at last, still gulping.

“I’ve missed you too.” I take a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts. “Fi, really. I’m sorry for whatever I was like…or whatever I did-”

“Don’t be a sap.” Fi cuts me off kindly but firmly, handing me my jacket. “Go and see Loser Dave.”

Loser Dave’s done really well for himself, it turns out. I mean, really well. He now works for Auto Repair Workshop at their head office, and has some quite senior sales role. As he gets out of the lift, he’s all dapper in a pin-striped suit, with much longer hair than the buzz cut he used to have, and rimless glasses. I can’t help jumping up from my seat in the lobby and exclaiming,

“Loser Dave! Look at you!”

Immediately he winces, and looks warily around the lobby. “No one calls me Loser Dave anymore,” he snaps in a low voice. “I’m David, okay?”

“Oh, right. Sorry…er…David. Not Butch?” I can’t resist adding, and he shoots me a glare.

His paunch has disappeared too, I notice as he leans against the foyer desk to talk to the receptionist. He must be working out properly these days, as opposed to his old routine, which was five heaves of a dumbbell, followed by cracking open a beer and turning on the soccer.

Now I look back, I can’t believe I put up with him. Scuzzy boxer shorts littered over his flat. Crude, antifeminist jokes. Complete paranoia that I was desperate to trap him into marriage and three kids and domestic drudgery.

I mean. He should be so lucky.

“You’re looking good, Lexi.” As he turns away from the reception desk he eyes me up and down. “It’s been a while. Saw you on the telly, of course. That Ambition show. Kind of program I might have wanted to take part in once.” He shoots me a pitying glance. “But I’ve leapfrogged over that level now. I’m on the fast track. Shall we go?”

I’m sorry, I just can’t take Loser Dave seriously as “David the fast-track businessman.” We head out of the office toward what Loser Dave calls a “good local eatery,” and all the while he’s on his phone, talking loudly about “deals” and “mill,” his eyes constantly sliding toward me.

“Wow,” I say as he puts his phone away at last. “You’re really senior now.”

“Got a Ford Focus.” He casually shoots his cuffs. “Company AmEx card. Use of the corporate ski chalet.”

“That’s great!” We’ve reached the restaurant now, which is a small Italian place. We sit down and I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands. Loser Dave seems a bit edgy, fiddling with the plastic menu and endlessly checking his phone.

“David,” I begin. “I don’t know if you got the message about why I wanted to meet up?”

“My secretary told me you wanted to talk over old times?” he says cautiously.

“Yeah. The thing is, I had this car accident. And I’m trying to piece together my life, work out what happened, talk about our breakup…”

Loser Dave sighs.

“Sweetheart, is this really a good idea, dredging all that up again? We both had our say at the time.”

“Dredging up all what?”

“You know…” He looks around and catches the eye of a nearby lounging waiter. “Could we get some service here? Some vino? Bottle of house red, please.”

“But I don’t know! I have no idea what happened!” I lean farther forward, trying to get his attention. “I have amnesia. Didn’t your secretary explain? I don’t remember anything.”

Very slowly Loser Dave turns back and stares at me, as though suspecting a joke.

“You’ve got amnesia?”

“Yes! I’ve been in hospital, everything.”

“Fuck me.” He shakes his head as a waiter comes over and goes through the rigamarole of pouring and tasting. “So you don’t remember anything?”

“Nothing from the last three years. And what I want to know is, why did we split? Did something happen…or did we drift apart…or what?”

Loser Dave doesn’t answer straightaway. He’s eyeing me over his glass. “So is there anything you do remember?”

“The last thing is the night before my dad’s funeral. I was in this nightclub, and I was really pissed off with you because you didn’t turn up…and then I fell down some steps in the rain… And that’s all I remember.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s nodding thoughtfully. “I remember that night. Well, in fact…that’s why we split up.”

“Why?” I say, puzzled.

“Because I never turned up. You chucked me. Finito.” He takes a gulp of wine, visibly relaxing.

“Really?” I say, astonished. “I chucked you?”

“Next morning. You’d had enough, so that was it. We were over.”

I frown as I try to imagine the scene. “So, did we have a big row?”

“Not so much a row,” Loser Dave says after a moment’s consideration. “More like a mature discussion. We agreed it was right to end things and you said you might be making the biggest mistake in the world, but you couldn’t stop your jealous, possessive nature.”

“Really?” I say dubiously.

“Yeah. I offered to come along to your dad’s funeral, show support, but you turned me down, said you couldn’t bear the sight of me.” He takes a gulp of wine. “I didn’t bear you a grudge, though. I said, ‘Lexi, I will always care for you. Whatever you want, I want.’ I gave you a single rose and a final kiss. Then I walked away. It was beautiful.”

I put my glass down and survey him. His gaze is as open and blameless as it used to be when he conned customers into taking extra-premium total-scam insurance on their cars.

“So that’s exactly what happened?” I say.

“Word for word.” He picks up the menu. “Fancy some garlic bread?”

Is it my imagination or does he seem a whole lot more cheerful since he’s heard I have amnesia?

“Loser Dave…is that really what happened?” I give him my severest, most penetrating look.

“Of course,” he says in an injured tone. “And stop calling me Loser Dave.”

“Sorry.” I sigh, and start unwrapping a bread stick. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Or a Loser-Dave version of it, at least. Maybe I did chuck him. I was certainly pissed off with him.

“So…did anything else happen back then?” I snap the bread stick in two and start nibbling it. “Is there anything you can remember? Like, why did I suddenly get so career-oriented? Why did I shut my friends out? What was going on in my head?”

“Search me.” Loser Dave is perusing the specials menu. “D’you fancy sharing the lasagne for two?”

“It’s all just so…confusing.” I rub my brow. “I feel like I’ve been plonked in the middle of a map, with one of those big arrows pointing to me. ‘You Are Here.’ And what I want to know is, how did I get here?”

At last Loser Dave lifts his eyes from the specials menu.

“What you want is GPS,” he says, like the Dalai Lama making a pronouncement on top of a mountain.

“That’s it! Exactly!” I lean forward eagerly. “I feel lost. And if I could just trace the path, if I could navigate back somehow…”

Loser Dave is nodding wisely. “I can do you a deal.”

“What?” I say, not understanding.

“I can do you a deal on GPS.” He taps his nose. “We’re branching out at Auto Repair.”

For a moment I think I might explode with frustration.

“I don’t literally need GPS!” I almost yell. “It’s a metaphor! Me-ta-phor!”

“Right, right. Yeah, of course.” Loser Dave nods, his brow furrowed as though he’s digesting my words and mulling them over. “Is that a built-in system?”

I don’t believe it. Did I actually go out with this guy?

“Yeah, that’s right,” I say finally. “Honda makes it. Let’s have the garlic bread.”

When I arrive home later, I’m planning to ask Eric what he knows about my breakup with Loser Dave. We must have talked about all our old relationships, surely. But when I walk into the loft, I sense straightaway that this isn’t the moment. He’s striding around, on the phone, looking stressed.

“Come on, Lexi.” He puts his hand briefly over the phone. “We’ll be late.”

“For what?”

“For what?” echoes Eric, looking as though I’ve asked him what gravity is. “For the launch!”

Shit. It’s the Blue 42 launch party tonight. I did know that; it just slipped my mind.

“Of course,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll just go and get ready.”

“Shouldn’t your hair be up?” Eric casts a critical eye over me. “It looks unprofessional.”

“Oh. Er…right. Yes.”

Totally flustered, I change into a black silk tailored suit, put on my highest black pumps, and quickly shove my hair up into its chignon. I accessorize with diamonds, then turn to survey myself.

Aargh. I look so boring. Like an actuary or something. I need…something else. Don’t I have any brooches anymore? Or any silk flowers or scarves or sparkly hair clips? Anything fun? I root around for a bit in my drawers, but can’t find anything except a plain quilted beige hair band. Great. That’s a real style statement.

“Ready?” Eric strides in. “You look fine. Let’s go.”

Jeez Louise. I’ve never seen him so tense and hyper before. All the way there, he’s on the phone, and when at last he puts it away, he taps his fingers on it, staring out the car window.

“I’m sure it’ll go really well,” I say encouragingly.

“It has to,” he says without turning toward me. “This is our big sales push. Lots of ultra-highs. Lots of press. This is where we turn Blue 42 into the talk of the city.”

As we turn in at the entrance gates I can’t help gasping. Burning torches lead the way to the front doors. Lasers are sweeping the night sky. There’s a red carpet for guests to walk down and even a couple of photographers waiting. It looks like a film premiere.

“Eric, this is amazing.” Impulsively I squeeze his hand. “It’s going to be a triumph.”

“Let’s hope.” For the first time Eric turns to give me a quick, tight smile. The driver opens my door, and I pick up my bag to leave.

“Oh, Lexi.” Eric is feeling in his pocket. “Before I forget. I’ve been meaning to give you this.” He hands me a piece of paper.

“What’s this?” I smile as I unfold it. Then my smile kind of melts away. It’s an invoice. At the top is Eric’s name, but he’s crossed it out and written “Assigned to Lexi Gardiner.” I scan the words in disbelief. Chelsea Bridge Glass Objets. Large Blown Leopard: quantity 1. To pay: £3,200.

“I ordered a replacement,” Eric is saying. “You can settle up anytime. Check is fine, or just put a transfer into my bank account…”

He’s invoicing me?

“You want me to pay for the leopard?” I force a little laugh, just to see if he’s joking. “Out of my own money?”

“Well, you broke it.” Eric sounds surprised. “Is there a problem?”

“No! That’s…that’s fine.” I swallow. “I’ll write you a check. As soon as we get home.”

“No hurry.” Eric smiles, and gestures at the waiting driver, holding the door. “We’d better get going.”

It’s fine, I tell myself firmly. It’s fair for him to invoice me. It’s obviously how our marriage works.

That’s not how a marriage should work.

No. Stop it. It’s fine. It’s lovely.

I stuff the paper into my bag and smile as brightly as I can at the driver, then get out and follow Eric along the red carpet.