Remember Me?

by Sophie Kinsella

  Assistant to Lexi Smart. I have my own personal assistant. I’m on the board of directors. Me!

  My cuts and bruises are a lot better and the plastic staple has been taken out of my head. My hair is freshly washed and glossy and my teeth are as movie-star perfect as ever. I can’t stop smiling at every shiny surface I pass. In fact, I can’t stop smiling, full stop.

  Maybe in a previous life I was Joan of Arc and I got tortured horrifically to death. Or I was that guy in Titanic. Yes. I drowned in a cruel, freezing sea and never got Kate Winslet, and this is my reward. I mean, people don’t just get presented with a perfect life for no good reason. It just doesn’t happen.

  “All right, darling?” Eric briefly puts his hand on mine. His curly hair is all ruffled in the wind and his expensive sunglasses are glinting in the sunshine. He looks like the kind of guy the Mercedes PR people would want to be driving their cars.

  “Yes!” I beam back. “I’m great!”

  I’m Cinderella. No, I’m better than Cinderella, because she only got the prince, didn’t she? I’m Cinderella with fab teeth and a shit-hot job.

  Eric signals left. “Well, here we are…” He pulls off the road into a grand pillared entrance, past a porter in a glass box, into a parking space, and then turns off the engine. “Come and see your home.”

  ***

  You know how some hyped-up things are a total letdown when you actually get to them. Like, you save up for ages to go to an expensive restaurant and the waiters are snooty and the table is too small and the dessert tastes like Mr Whippy.

  Well, my new home is approximately the opposite of that. It’s way better than I imagined. As I walk around, I’m awestruck. It’s massive. It’s light. It has views over the river. There’s a vast, L-shaped cream sofa and the coolest black granite cocktail bar. The shower is a whole marble-clad room, big enough for about five people.

  “Do you remember any of this?” Eric is watching me intently. “Is it triggering anything?”

  “No. But it’s absolutely stunning!”

  We must have some cool parties here. I can just see Fi, Carolyn, and Debs perched at the cocktail bar, tequila shooters going, music blaring over the sound system. I pause by the sofa and run my hand along the plushy fabric. It’s so pristine and plumped up, I don’t think I’ll ever dare sit down on it. Maybe I’ll just have to hover. It’ll be great for my bum muscles.

  “This is an amazing sofa!” I look up at Eric. “It must have cost a packet.”

  He nods. “Ten thousand pounds.”

  Shit. I draw my hand back. How can a sofa cost that much? What’s it stuffed with, caviar? I edge away, thanking God I didn’t sit down on it. Memo to self: do not ever drink red wine on / eat pizza on / ever go near the ten-grand posh cream sofa.

  “I really love this…er…light fitting.” I gesture to a free-standing undulating piece of metal.

  Eric smiles. “That’s a radiator.”

  “Oh right,” I say, confused. “I thought that was a radiator.” I point to an old-fashioned iron radiator that has been painted black and fitted halfway up the opposite wall.

  “That’s a piece of art.” Eric corrects me. “It’s by Hector James-John. Disintegration Falls.”

  I walk over to it, cock my head, and gaze up alongside Eric, with what I hope is an intelligent art-lover’s expression.

  Disintegration Falls. Black radiator. Nope, no idea.

  “It’s so…structural,” I venture after a pause.

  “We were lucky to get this,” Eric says, nodding at the piece. “We tend to invest in a piece of nonrepresentational art about every eight months. The loft can take it. And it’s about the portfolio as much as anything else.” He shrugs as though this is self-explanatory.

  “Of course!” I nod. “I would have thought the portfolio…aspect would be…absolutely…” I clear my throat and turn away.

  Keep your mouth shut, Lexi. You know fuck-all about modern art or portfolios or basically what it’s like being rich and you’re giving it all away.

  I turn away from the radiator-art-thing and focus on a giant screen, which almost fills the opposite wall. There’s a second screen across the room, by the dining table, and I noticed one in the bedroom. Eric clearly likes the telly.

  He notices me looking at it. “What would you like?” He picks up a remote control and flicks it at the screen. “Try this.” The next minute I’m looking at a massive blazing, crackling fire.

  “Wow!” I stare at it in surprise.

  “Or this.” The picture changes to brightly colored tropical fish weaving through fronds of seaweed. “It’s the latest in home screen system technology,” he says proudly. “It’s art, it’s entertainment, it’s communication. You can e-mail on these things, you can listen to music, read books…I have a thousand works of literature stored on the system. You can even have a virtual pet.”

  “A pet?” I’m still gazing at the screen, dazzled.

  “We each have one.” Eric smiles. “This is mine, Titan.” He flicks his control and an image appears on the screen of a massive stripy spider, prowling around a glass box.

  “Oh my God!” I back away, feeling sick. I’ve never been great with spiders, and that one is about ten feet high. You can see the hairs on its horrible legs. You can see its face. “Could you possibly switch that off, please?”

  “What’s wrong?” Eric looks surprised. “I showed Titan to you on your first visit here. You said you thought he was adorable.”

  Great. It was our first date. I said I liked the spider to be polite, and now I’m stuck with it.

  “You know what?” I say, trying to keep my gaze averted from Titan. “The crash could have given me a spider phobia.” I try to sound knowledgeable, like I heard this from a doctor or something.

  “Maybe.” Eric has a slight frown, as though he’s about to pick holes in this theory. As well he might.

  “So I have a pet too?” I say quickly, to distract him. “What is it?”

  “Here you go.” He zaps at the screen. “Here’s Arthur.” A fluffy white kitten appears on the screen and I cry out in delight.

  “He’s so cute!” I watch him playing with a ball of string, batting it and tumbling over. “Does he grow up into a cat?”

  “No.” Eric smiles. “He stays as a kitten indefinitely. All your life, if you want. They have a life capacity of one hundred thousand years.”

  “Oh, right,” I say after a pause. Actually, that’s freakish. A one-hundred-thousand-year-old virtual kitten.

  Eric’s phone beeps and he flips it open, then zaps at the screen again to restore the fish. “Sweetheart, my driver’s here. I’m going to have to go to the office briefly. But Rosalie is on her way to keep you company. Until then, if anything bothers you, just call me at once-or you can e-mail me through the system.” He hands me a rectangular white gadget with a screen. “Here’s your remote control. It controls heating, ventilation, lighting, doors, blinds…Everything here is intelligent. But you shouldn’t need to use it. All the settings are in place.”

  “We have a remote-control house?” I want to laugh.

  “It’s all part of loft-style living!” He makes the parallel hand gesture again, and I nod, trying not to give away how overwhelmed I am.

  I watch as he shrugs on his jacket. “So…how exactly does Rosalie fit in?”

  “She’s the wife of my partner, Clive. You two have a great time together.”

  “Does she hang out with me and the other girls from the office?” I ask. “Like Fi and Carolyn? Do we all go out together?”

  “Who?” Eric looks blank. Maybe he’s one of those guys who doesn’t keep up with his wife’s social life.

  “Never mind,” I say quickly. “I’ll work it all out.”

  “Gianna will be back later too. Our housekeeper. Any problems, she’ll help you.” He comes over, hesitates, then takes my hand. His skin is smooth and immaculate, even up close, and I can just smell a gorgeous sandalwood aftershave.

 
“Thanks, Eric.” I put my hand over his and squeeze it. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Welcome back, darling,” he says a little gruffly. Then he disengages his hand and heads toward the door, and a moment later it closes behind him.

  I’m alone. Alone in my marital home. As I look around the huge space again, taking in the Lucite cube coffee table, the leather chaise, the art books…I realize I can’t see that many signs of me. There are no brightly colored pottery jugs or fairy lights or piles of paperbacks.

  Well, Eric and I probably wanted to start again, choosing things together. And we probably got loads of amazing wedding presents. Those blue-glass vases on the mantelpiece look like they cost a fortune.

  I wander over to the huge windows and peer down at the street below. There’s no noise or draft or anything. I watch a man carry a package into a taxi far below and a woman struggling with a dog on a lead. Then I pull out my phone and start texting Fi. I have to talk to her about all of this. I’ll get her to come around later. We’ll curl up on the sofa and she can fill me in on my life, starting with Eric. I can’t help smiling with anticipation as I press the buttons.

  Hi! Back home-give me a call! Can’t wait to c u!!! Lxxxx

  I send the same text to Carolyn and Debs. Then I put my phone away and swivel around on the shiny wooden floor. I’ve been trying to keep up a nonchalant air in front of Eric, but now that I’m alone I can feel a beam of elation popping through. I never thought I’d live anywhere like this, ever.

  A laugh suddenly bubbles to my lips. I mean, it’s crazy. Me. In this place!

  I swivel again on the floor, then start twirling, my arms out, laughing madly. I, Lexi Smart, live here in this state-of-the-art remote-controlled palace!

  Sorry, Lexi Gardiner.

  This thought makes me giggle even more. I didn’t even know my own married name when I woke up. What if it had been Pratt-Bottom? What would I have said then? “Sorry, Eric, you seem a lovely guy, but there’s absolutely no way on earth…”

  Crash. The sound of breaking glass interrupts my thoughts. I stop twirling in horror. Somehow I accidentally caught my hand on a glass leopard that was leaping through the air on a display shelf. Now it’s lying on the floor in two pieces.

  I’ve broken a priceless ornament, and I’ve only been in the place about three minutes.

  Shit.

  I cautiously bend down and touch the bigger tail-end piece. There’s a nasty jagged edge and some splinters of glass on the floor. There’s no way this can be mended.

  I’m hot with panic. What am I going to do? What if it was worth ten thousand quid, like the sofa? What if it’s some family heirloom of Eric’s? What was I thinking, twirling around?

  Gingerly I pick up the first piece, and then the second. I’ll have to sweep up the splinters of glass and then-

  An electronic beep interrupts me and my head jerks up. The giant screen opposite has turned bright blue with a message in green capitals.

  HI, LEXI-HOW ARE YOU DOING?

  Fuck! He can see me. He’s watching me. It’s Big Brother!

  In terror I leap to my feet and shove the two pieces of glass under a cushion on the sofa.

  “Hi,” I say to the blue screen, my heart pounding. “I didn’t mean to do that, it was an accident…”

  There’s silence. The screen isn’t moving or reacting in any way.

  “Eric?” I try again.

  There’s no reply.

  Okay…maybe he can’t see me after all. He must be typing this from the car. Cautiously I venture over to the screen and notice a wall-mounted keyboard and tiny silver mouse, discreetly tucked away to the side. I click on Reply and slowly type FINE, THANKS!

  I could leave it there. I could find a way to fix the leopard…or replace it somehow…

  No. Come on. I can’t start off my brand-new marriage by keeping secrets from my husband. I have to be brave and own up. HAVE BROKEN GLASS LEOPARD BY MISTAKE, I type. REALLY SORRY. HOPE IS NOT IRREPLACEABLE?

  I press Send and pace about as I wait for the reply, telling myself over and over not to worry. I mean, I don’t know for certain that it’s a priceless ornament, do I? Maybe we won it in a raffle. Maybe it’s mine, and Eric’s always hated it. How am I supposed to know?

  How am I supposed to know anything?

  I sink down onto a chair, suddenly overwhelmed by how little I know about my own life. If I’d known I was going to get amnesia, I would have at least written myself a note. Given myself a few tips. Be careful of the glass leopard, it’s worth a bloody fortune. P.S., you like spiders.

  There’s a beep from the screen. I catch my breath and look up. OF COURSE IS NOT IRREPLACEABLE! DON’T WORRY.

  I feel a huge whoosh of relief. It’s all right.

  THANKS! I type, smiling. WON’T BREAK ANYTHING ELSE, PROMISE!

  I can’t believe I overreacted like that. I can’t believe I hid the pieces under a cushion. What am I, five years old? This is my own house. I’m a married woman. I have to start behaving like it. Still beaming to myself, I lift up the cushion to retrieve the pieces-and freeze.

  Fuck.

  The bloody glass has ripped the bloody cream sofa. I must have caught it as I shoved the pieces underneath. The plushy fabric’s all ragged.

  The ten-thousand-pound sofa.

  I automatically glance up at the screen-then quickly look away, hollow with fear. I can’t tell Eric I’ve ruined the sofa too. I can’t.

  Okay. What I’ll do is…is…I won’t tell him today. I’ll wait for a better moment. Flustered, I rearrange the cushions so the rip isn’t visible. There. Good as new. No one looks under cushions, do they?

  I grab the bits of glass leopard and head into the kitchen, which is all glossy gray-lacquer cupboards and rubber floor. I locate a roll of kitchen paper, wrap up the leopard, manage to track down the trash behind a streamlined unit door, and chuck the bits in. Okay. That’s it. I am not wrecking anything else.

  A buzzer sounds through the apartment and I look up, my spirits lifting. This must be Rosalie, my new best friend. I can’t wait to meet her.

  ***

  Rosalie turns out to be even skinnier than she looked on the wedding DVD. She’s dressed in black capri pants, a pink cashmere V neck, and huge Chanel sunglasses pushing her blond hair back. As I open the door she gives a small shriek and drops the Jo Malone gift bag she’s holding.

  “Oh my God, Lexi. Look at your poor face.”

  “It’s fine!” I say reassuringly. “Honestly, you should have seen me six days ago. I had a plastic staple in my head.”

  “You poor thing. What a nightmare.” She retrieves her gift bag, then kisses me on each cheek. “I would have come around earlier, only you know how long I waited to get that slot at Cheriton Spa.”

  “Come in.” I gesture to the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Sweetie…” She looks puzzled. “I don’t drink coffee. Dr. André banned me. You know that.”

  “Oh right.” I pause. “The thing is…I don’t remember. I have amnesia.”

  Rosalie is gazing at me, politely blank. Doesn’t she know? Didn’t Eric tell her?

  “I don’t remember anything about the last three years,” I try again. “I hit my head and it’s all been wiped from my memory.”

  “Oh my God.” Rosalie’s hand goes to her mouth. “Eric kept saying things about amnesia and you wouldn’t know me. I thought he was joking!”

  I want to giggle at her horrified expression. “No, he wasn’t joking. To me you’re…a stranger.”

  “I’m a stranger?” She sounds hurt.

  “Eric was a stranger too,” I add hastily. “I woke up and I didn’t know who he was. I still don’t, really.”

  There’s a short silence during which I can see Rosalie processing this information. Her eyes widen and her cheeks puff out and she chews her lip.

  “Oh my God,” she says at last. “Nightmare.”

  “I don’t know this place.” I spread my arms around
. “I don’t know my own home. I don’t know what my life is like. If you could help me out, or…tell me a few things…”

  “Absolutely! Let’s sit down…” She leads the way into the kitchen area. She dumps the Jo Malone bag on the counter and sits down at the trendy steel breakfast table-and I follow suit, wondering if I chose this table, or Eric chose it, or we both chose it together.

  I look up to see Rosalie staring at me. At once she smiles-but I can see she’s freaked out.

  “I know,” I say. “It’s a weird situation.”

  “So, is it permanent?”

  “Apparently my memory could come back, but no one knows if it will. Or when it will, or how much.”

  “And apart from that, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, except one of my hands is a bit slow.” I lift up my left hand to show her. “I’ve got physio exercises to do.” I flex my hand like the physiotherapist taught me, and Rosalie watches in fascinated horror.

  “Nightmare,” she breathes.

  “But the real problem is…I don’t know anything about my life since 2004. It’s just a big black hole. The doctors said I should try and talk to my friends and build up a picture, and maybe that’ll trigger something.”

  “Of course.” Rosalie nods. “Let me fill you in. What do you want to know?” She leans forward expectantly.

  “Well…” I think for a moment. “How did we two meet?”

  “It was about two and a half years ago.” Rosalie nods firmly. “I was at a drinks party, and Eric said, ‘This is Lexi.’ And I said, ‘Hi!’ And that’s how we met!” She beams.

  “Right.” I shrug apologetically. “I don’t remember.”

  “We were at Trudy Swinson’s? You know, who used to be an air hostess, but she met Adrian on a flight to New York, and everyone says she zeroed in on him as soon as she spotted his black Amex…” She trails off, as if the enormity of the situation is hitting her for the first time. “So you don’t remember any gossip?”