Remember Me?

Chapter 4

Edward. Ethan. Errol.

It’s an hour later and I’m still in a state of shock. I keep looking in disbelief at my wedding ring resting on the bedside cabinet. I, Lexi Smart, have a husband. I don’t feel old enough to have a husband.

Elliott. Eamonn. Egbert.

Please, God, not Egbert.

I’ve ransacked the Louis Vuitton bag. I’ve looked all the way through the diary. I’ve skimmed through all my stored mobile numbers. But I still haven’t found out what E stands for. You’d think I’d remember my own husband’s name. You’d think it would be engraved in my psyche.

When the door opens, I stiffen, almost expecting it to be him. But it’s Mum again, looking pink and harassed.

“Those traffic wardens have no hearts. I was only twenty minutes at the vet, and-”

“Mum, I’ve got amnesia.” I cut her off in a rush. “I’ve lost my memory. I’ve lost a whole chunk of my life. I’m really…freaked out.”

“Oh. Yes, the nurse mentioned it.” Her gaze briefly meets mine, then flicks away again. Mum’s not the greatest at eye contact; she never has been. I used to get quite frustrated by it when I was younger, but now I just see it as one of those Mum things. Like the way she won’t learn the names of TV programs properly, even after you’ve told her five hundred times it’s not The Simpsons Family.

Now she’s sitting down and peeling off her waistcoat. “I know exactly how you feel,” she begins. “My memory gets worse every day. In fact, the other day-”

“Mum…” I inhale deeply, trying to stay calm. “You don’t know how I feel. This isn’t like forgetting where you put something. I’ve lost three years of my life! I don’t know anything about myself in 2007. I don’t look the same, none of my things are the same, and I found these rings which apparently belong to me, and I just have to know something…” My voice is jumping about with apprehension. “Mum…am I really married?”

“Of course you’re married!” Mum appears surprised that I need to ask. “Eric will be here any minute. I told you that earlier.”

“Eric’s my husband?” I stare at her. “I thought Eric was a dog.”

“A dog?” Mum raises her eyebrows. “Goodness, darling! You did get a bump on the head!”

Eric. I’m rolling the name around my head experimentally. My husband, Eric.

It means nothing to me. It’s not a name I feel either way about.

I love you, Eric.

With my body I thee worship, Eric.

I wait for some sort of reaction in my body. Surely I should respond? Surely all my love cells should be waking up? But I feel totally blank and nothing-y.

“He had a very important meeting this morning. But otherwise he’s been here with you night and day.”

“Right.” I digest this. “So…so what’s he like?”

“He’s very nice,” says Mum, as though she’s talking about a sponge cake.

“Is he…” I stop.

I can’t ask if he’s good-looking. That would be really shallow. And what if she avoids the question and says he has a wonderful sense of humor?

What if he’s obese?

Oh God. What if I got to know his beautiful inner soul as we exchanged messages over the Internet, only now I’ve forgotten all about that and I’ll have to pretend his looks don’t matter to me?

We lapse into silence and I find myself eyeing up Mum’s dress-Laura Ashley, circa 1975. Frills come in and out of fashion, but somehow she doesn’t notice. She still wears the same clothes she wore when she first met my dad, and the same long flicky hair, the same frosted lipstick. It’s like she thinks she’s still in her twenties.

Not that I would ever mention this to her. We’ve never been into cozy mother-daughter chats. I once tried to confide in her, when I split up with my first boyfriend. Big mistake. She didn’t sympathize, or hug me, or even really listen. Instead she got all pink and defensive and sharp with me, as if I was deliberately trying to wound her by talking about relationships. I felt like I was negotiating a land-mine site, treading on sensitive bits of her life I didn’t even realize existed.

So I gave up and called Fi instead.

“Did you manage to order those sofa covers for me, Lexi?” Mum interrupts my thoughts. “Off the Internet,” she adds at my blank look. “You were going to do it last week.”

Did she listen to anything I said?

“Mum, I don’t know,” I say, slowly and clearly. “I don’t remember anything about the last three years.”

“Sorry, darling.” Mum hits her head. “I’m being stupid.”

“I don’t know what I was doing last week, or last year…or even who my own husband is.” I spread my arms. “To be honest, it’s pretty scary.”

“Of course. Absolutely.” Mum is nodding, a distant look in her eyes, as though she’s processing my words. “The thing is, darling, I don’t remember the name of the Web site. So if you did happen to recall-”

“I’ll let you know, okay?” I can’t help snapping. “If my memory returns, the first thing I’ll do is call you about your sofa covers. Jesus!”

“There’s no need to raise your voice, Lexi!” she says, opening her eyes wide.

Okay. So in 2007 Mum still officially drives me up the wall. Surely I’m supposed to have grown out of being irritated by my mother? Automatically I start picking at my thumbnail. Then I stop. Twenty-eight-year-old Lexi doesn’t shred her nails.

“So, what does he do?” I return to the subject of my so-called husband. I still can’t really believe he’s real.

“Who, Eric?”

“Yes! Of course Eric!”

“He sells property,” Mum says, as though I ought to know. “He’s rather good at it, actually.”

I’ve married a real-estate agent called Eric.

How?

Why?

“Do we live in my flat?”

“Your flat?” Mum looks bemused. “Darling, you sold your flat a long time ago. You have a marital home now!”

“I sold it?” I feel a pang. “But I’ve only just bought it!”

I love my flat. It’s in Balham and is tiny but cozy, with blue-painted window frames which I did myself, and a lovely squashy velvet sofa, and piles of colorful cushions everywhere, and fairy lights around the mirror. Fi and Carolyn helped me move in two months ago, and we spray-painted the bathroom silver, and then spray-painted our jeans silver too.

And now it’s all gone. I live in a marital home. With my marital husband.

For the millionth time I look at the wedding ring and diamond solitaire. Then I automatically shoot a glance at Mum’s hand. She still wears Dad’s ring, despite the way he’s behaved toward her over the years-

Dad. Dad’s funeral.

It’s like a hand has gripped hold of my stomach, tight.

“Mum…” I venture cautiously. “I’m really sorry I missed Dad’s funeral. Did it…you know, go all right?”

“You didn’t miss it, darling.” She peers at me as though I’m crazy. “You were there.”

“Oh.” I stare at her, confused. “Right. Of course. I just don’t remember anything about it.”

Heaving a massive sigh, I lean back on my pillows. I don’t remember my own wedding and I don’t remember my dad’s funeral. Two of the most important events in my life, and I feel like I’ve missed out on them. “So, how was it?”

“Oh, it all went off as well as these things ever do…” Mum’s looking twitchy, the way she always is when the subject of Dad comes up.

“Were many people there?”

A pained expression comes to her face.

“Let’s not dwell on it, darling. It was years ago.” She gets up as though to remove herself from my questioning. “Now, have you had any lunch? I didn’t have time to eat anything, just a snatch of a boiled egg and toast. I’ll go and find something for us both. And make sure you eat properly, Lexi,” she adds. “None of this no-carbs obsession. A potato won’t kill you.”

No carbs? Is that how I got this shape? I glance down at my unfamiliar toned legs. It has to be said, they look as if they don’t know what a potato is.

“I’ve changed in appearance quite a lot, haven’t I?” I can’t help saying, a bit self-consciously. “My hair…my teeth…”

“I suppose you are different.” She peers at me vaguely. “It’s been so gradual, I haven’t really noticed.”

For God’s sake. How can you not even notice when your daughter turns from a manky, overweight Snaggletooth into a thin, tanned, groomed person?

“I won’t be long.” Mum picks up her embroidered shoulder bag. “And Amy should be here any moment.”

“Amy’s here?” My spirits lift as I visualize my little sister in her pink fleecy vest and flower-embroidered jeans and those cute sneakers that light up when she dances.

“She was just buying some chocolate downstairs.” Mum opens the door. “She loves those mint Kit Kats.”

The door closes behind her and I stare at it. They’ve invented mint Kit Kats?

2007 really is a different world.

Amy’s not my half sister or stepsister, like most people assume. She’s my full, one-hundred-percent sister. But people get confused because: 1. There’s thirteen years between us. 2. My mum and dad had split up before she was born.

Maybe “split up” is too strong. I’m not sure what went on exactly-all I know is, my dad was never around much when I was growing up. The official reason was that his business was based abroad. The real reason was that he was a feckless chancer. I was only eight when I heard him described like that by one of my aunts at a Christmas party. When they saw me they got flustered and changed the subject, so I figured feckless was some really terrible swear word. It’s always stuck in my mind. Feckless.

The first time he left home, I was seven. Mum said he’d gone on a business trip to America, so when Melissa at school said she’d seen him in the co-op with a woman in red jeans, I told her she was a fat liar. He came back home a few weeks later, looking tired-from the jet lag, he said. When I pestered him for a souvenir, he produced a pack of Wrigley’s gum. I called it my American gum and showed everyone at school-until Melissa pointed out the co-op price sticker. I never told Dad I knew the truth, or Mum. I’d kind of known all along that he wasn’t in America.

A couple of years later he disappeared again, for a few months this time. Then he started up a property business in Spain, which went bust. Then he got involved in some dodgy pyramid scheme and tried to get all our friends involved. Somewhere along the line he became an alcoholic…then he moved in for a bit with some Spanish woman… But Mum kept taking him back. Then, at last, about three years ago, he moved to Portugal for good, apparently to get away from the tax man.

Mum had various other “gentlemen friends” over the years, but she and Dad never divorced-never really let go of each other at all. And, evidently, on one of his jovial, the-drinks-are-on-me-darlings Christmas visits, she and he must have…

Well. I don’t exactly want to picture it. We got Amy, that’s the point. And she’s the most adorable little thing, always playing on her disco dance mat and wanting to plait my hair a million times over.

The room is quiet and dim since Mum left. I pour myself a glass of water and sip it slowly. My thoughts are all cloudy, like a bomb site after the blast. I feel like a forensics expert, picking through the different strands, trying to work out the full picture.

There’s a faint knocking at the door and I look up. “Hello? Come in!”

“Hi, Lexi?”

An unfamiliar girl of about fifteen has edged into the room. She’s tall and skinny, with jeans falling off her midriff, a pierced navel, spiky blue-streaked hair, and about six coats of mascara. I have no idea who she is. As she sees me, she grimaces.

“Your face still looks fucked up.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. The girl’s eyes narrow as she surveys me.

“Lexi…it’s me. You do know it’s me, don’t you?”

“Right!” I make an apologetic face. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve had this accident and I’m having some problems with my memory. I mean, I’m sure we have met-”

“Lexi?” She sounds incredulous; almost hurt. “It’s me! It’s Amy.”

I’m speechless. I’m beyond speechless. This cannot be my baby sister.

But it is. Amy’s turned into a tall, sassy teenager. Practically an adult. As she saunters around the room, picking things up and putting them down, I’m mesmerized by the height of her. The confidence of her.

“Is there any food here? I’m starving.” She has the same sweet, husky voice she always did-but modulated. Cooler and more street-wise.

“Mum’s getting me some lunch. You can share if you like.”

“Great.” She sits down in a chair and swings her long legs over the arm, displaying gray suede ankle boots with spiky heels. “So, you don’t remember anything? That’s so cool.”

“It’s not cool,” I retort. “It’s horrible. I remember up to just before Dad’s funeral…and then it just goes fuzzy. I don’t remember my first few days in hospital, either. It’s like I woke up for the first time last night.”

“Way out.” Her eyes are wide. “So, you don’t remember me visiting you before?”

“No. All I remember is you being twelve. With your ponytail and braces. And those cute hair clips you used to wear.”

“Don’t remind me.” Amy mimes puking, then frowns in thought. “So…let me get this straight. The whole of the last three years is a total blank.”

“Like a big black hole. And even before that it’s a bit foggy. Apparently I’m married?” I laugh nervously. “I had no idea! Were you a bridesmaid at the wedding or anything?”

“Yeah,” she says distractedly. “It was cool. Hey, Lexi, I don’t want to bring this up when you’re feeling so ill and everything, but…” She twists a strand of hair, looking awkward.

“What?” I look at her in surprise. “Tell me.”

“Well, it’s just that you owe me seventy quid.” She shrugs apologetically. “You borrowed it last week when your cash card wasn’t working and you said you’d pay me back. I don’t suppose you’ll remember…”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Of course. Just help yourself.” I gesture at the Louis Vuitton bag. “I don’t know if there’s any cash in there…”

“There will be,” Amy says, swiftly unzipping it with a tiny smile. “Thanks!” She pockets the notes and swings her legs over the arm of the chair again, playing with her collection of silver bangles. Then she looks up, suddenly alert. “Wait a minute. Do you know about-” She stops herself.

“What?”

She surveys me with narrowed, disbelieving eyes. “No one’s told you, have they?”

“Told me what?”

“Jesus. I suppose they’re trying to break things to you gradually, but, I mean…” She shakes her head, nibbling her nails. “Personally, I think you should know sooner rather than later.”

“Know what?” I feel a beat of alarm. “What, Amy? Tell me!”

For a moment Amy seems to debate with herself, then she gets up.

“Wait here.” She disappears for a few moments. Then the door opens again and she reappears, clutching an Asian-looking baby about a year old. He’s wearing overalls and holding a beaker of juice, and he gives me a sunny smile.

“This is Lennon,” she says, her expression softening. “This is your son.”

I stare at them both, frozen in terror. What’s she talking about?

“I guess you don’t remember?” Amy strokes his hair fondly. “You adopted him from Vietnam six months ago. It was quite a story, actually. You had to smuggle him out in your rucksack. You nearly got arrested!”

I adopted a baby?

I feel cold to my guts. I can’t be a mum. I’m not ready. I don’t know anything about babies.

“Say hello to your child!” She carts him over to the bed, clicking in her spiky heels. “He calls you Moo-mah, by the way.”

Moo-mah?

“Hi, Lennon,” I say at last, my voice stiff with self-consciousness. “It’s…it’s Moo-mah!” I try to adopt a motherly, cooing voice. “Come to Moo-mah!”

I look up to see Amy’s lips trembling strangely. Suddenly she gives a snort of laughter and claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry!”

“Amy, what’s going on?” I stare at her, suspicion dawning. “Is this really my baby?”

“I saw him in the corridor before,” she splutters. “I couldn’t resist it. Your face!” She’s in paroxysms of laughter. “‘Come to Moo-mah!’”

I can hear muffled cries and shouts coming from outside the door.

“That must be his parents!” I hiss in consternation. “You bloody little…Put him back!”

I collapse on my pillows in relief, my heart pounding. Thank fuck. I don’t have a child.

And I cannot get over Amy. She used to be so sweet and innocent. She used to watch Barbie Sleeping Beauty over and over with her thumb in her mouth. What’s happened to her?

“I nearly had a heart attack,” I say reproachfully as she comes back in, holding a can of diet Coke. “If I died, it would be your fault.”

“Well, you need to get savvy,” she retorts with an unrepentant grin. “People could feed you all kinds of bullshit.”

She takes out a stick of chewing gum and starts unwrapping it. Then she leans forward.

“Hey, Lexi,” she says in a low voice. “Have you really got amnesia or are you just making it up? I won’t tell.”

“What? Why would I make it up?”

“I thought there might be something you wanted to get out of. Like a dentist’s appointment.”

“No! This is genuine!”

“Okay. Whatever.” She shrugs and offers me the gum.

“No, thanks.” I wrap my arms around my knees, suddenly daunted. Amy’s right. People could take total advantage of me. I have so much to learn and I don’t even know where to start.

Well, I could start with the obvious.

“So.” I try to sound casual. “What’s my husband like? What does he…look like?”

“Wow.” Amy’s eyes open wide. “Of course! You have no idea what he’s like!”

“Mum said he was nice…” I try to hide my apprehension.

“He is lovely.” She nods seriously. “He has a real sense of humor. And they’re going to operate on his hump.”

“Yeah. Nice try, Amy.” I roll my eyes.

“Lexi! He’d be really hurt if he heard that!” Amy looks taken aback. “This is 2007. We don’t discriminate because of looks. And Eric is such a sweet, loving guy. It’s not his fault his back was damaged when he was a baby. And he’s achieved so much. He’s awe-inspiring.”

Now I’m hot with shame. Maybe my husband does have a hump. I shouldn’t be hump-ist. Whatever he looks like, I’m sure I chose him for a very good reason.

“Can he walk?” I ask nervously.

“He walked for the first time at your wedding,” says Amy, her eyes distant with memory. “He got up out of his wheelchair to say his vows. Everyone was in tears…the vicar could hardly speak…” Her mouth is twitching again.

“You little cow!” I exclaim. “He doesn’t bloody well have a hump, does he?”

“I’m sorry.” She starts giggling helplessly. “But this is such a good game.”

“It’s not a game!” I clutch at my hair, forgetting my injuries, and wince. “It’s my life. I have no idea who my husband is, or how I met him, or anything…”

“Okay.” She appears to relent. “What happened was, you got talking to this grizzled old tramp on the street. And his name was Eric-”

“Shut up! If you won’t tell me, I’ll ask Mum.”

“All right!” She lifts her hands in surrender. “You seriously want to know?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, then. You met him on a TV show.”

“Try again.” I lift my eyes to heaven.

“It’s true! I’m not bullshitting now. You were on that reality show Ambition. Where people want to get to the top in business. He was one of the judges and you were a contestant. You didn’t get very far on the show, but you met Eric, and you hit it off.”

There’s silence. I’m waiting for her to crack up laughing and produce some punch line, but she just swigs from the can of diet Coke.

“I was on a reality show?” I say skeptically.

“Yeah. It was really cool. All my friends watched, and we all voted for you. You should have won!”

I eye her closely, but her face is totally serious. Is she telling the truth? Was I really on the telly?

“Why on earth did I go on a show like that?”

“To be the boss?” Amy shrugs. “To get ahead. That’s when you had your teeth and hair done, to look good on TV.”

“But I’m not ambitious. I mean, I’m not that ambitious…”

“Are you kidding?” Amy opens her eyes wide. “You’re, like, the most ambitious person in the world! As soon as your boss resigned you went for his job. All the bigwigs at your company had seen you on telly and they were really impressed. So they gave it to you.”

My mind flashes back to those business cards in my diary. Lexi Smart, Director.

“You’re the youngest director they’ve ever had in the company. It was so cool when you got the job,” Amy adds. “We all went out to celebrate, and you bought us all champagne…” She pulls her chewing gum out of her mouth in a long strand. “You don’t remember any of this?”

“No! Nothing!”

The door opens and Mum appears, holding a tray bearing a covered plate, a pot of chocolate mousse, and a glass of water.

“Here we are,” she says. “I’ve brought you some lasagne. And guess what? Eric’s here!”

“Here?” The blood drains from my face. “D’you mean…here in the hospital?”

Mum nods. “He’s on his way up right now to see you! I told him to give you a few moments to get ready.”

A few moments? I need more than a few moments. This is all happening way too fast. I’m not even ready to be twenty-eight yet. Let alone meet some husband I allegedly have.

“Mum, I’m not sure I can do this,” I say, panicked. “I mean…I don’t feel up to meeting him yet. Maybe I should see him tomorrow. When I’m a bit more adjusted.”

“Lexi, darling!” remonstrates Mum. “You can’t turn your husband away. He’s rushed here from his business especially to see you!”

“But I don’t know him! I won’t know what to say or what to do…”

“Darling, he’s your husband.” She pats my hand reassuringly. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“He might trigger your memory,” chimes in Amy, who has helped herself to the chocolate mousse pot and is ripping the top off. “You might see him and go ‘Eric! My love! It all comes back to me!’”

“Shut up,” I snap. “And that’s my chocolate mousse.”

“You don’t eat carbs,” she retorts. “Have you forgotten that too?” She waves the spoon tantalizingly in front of my face.

“Nice try, Amy,” I say, rolling my eyes. “There’s no way I would ever have given up chocolate.”

“You never eat chocolate anymore. Does she, Mum? You didn’t eat any of your own wedding cake because of the calories!”

She has to be bullshitting me. I wouldn’t have given up chocolate, not in a million years. I’m about to tell her to piss off and hand over the mousse, when there’s a knock at the door and a muffled male voice calls, “Hello?”

“Oh my God.” I look wildly from face to face. “Oh my God. Is that him? Already?”

“Hold on a moment, Eric!” Mum calls through the door, then she whispers to me. “Tidy yourself up a bit, sweetheart! You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge.”

“Give her a break, Mum,” says Amy. “She was dragged through the wreckage of a car, remember?”

“I’ll just comb your hair quickly…” Mum comes over with a tiny handbag comb and starts jerking at my head.

“Ow!” I protest. “You’ll make my amnesia worse!”

“There.” She gives a final tug, and wipes at my face with the corner of a hanky. “Ready?”

“Shall I open the door?” says Amy.

“No! Just…wait a sec.”

My stomach is churning in dread. I can’t meet some total stranger who’s apparently my husband. It’s just…too freaky.

“Mum, please.” I turn to her. “It’s too soon. Tell him to come back later. Tomorrow. Or we could leave it a few weeks, even.”

“Don’t be silly, darling!” Mum laughs. How can she laugh? “He’s your husband. And you’ve just been in a car accident and he’s been worried sick, and we’ve kept him waiting long enough, poor chap!”

As Mum heads toward the door I’m gripping the sheets so hard, the blood is squashed out of my fingertips.

“What if I hate him? What if there’s no chemistry between us?” My voice shoots out in terror. “I mean, does he expect me to go back and live with him?”

“Just play it by ear,” Mum says vaguely. “Really, Lexi, there’s nothing to worry about. He’s very nice.”

“As long as you don’t mention his toupee,” puts in Amy. “Or his Nazi past.”

“Amy!” Mum clicks her tongue in reproof and opens the door. “Eric! I’m so sorry to keep you. Come in.”

There’s an unbearably long pause. Then into the room, carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers, walks the most drop-dead gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.