“What would you like me to cook for dinner tonight?” she says, starting to plump up the cushions on the sofa.
“Oh,” I say, looking up in horror. “Nothing! Really!”
I know Eric and I are all rich and everything, but I can’t ask someone else to cook my supper. It’s obscene.
“Nothing?” She pauses. “Are you going out?”
“No! I just thought…maybe I’d do the cooking myself tonight.”
“Oh, I see,” she says. “Well, it’s up to you.” Her face set, she picks up a cushion and bangs it out with more vigor. “I hope you enjoyed the soup last night,” she adds, without looking at me.
“It was delicious!” I say hastily. “Thanks! Lovely…flavors.”
“Good,” she says in a stiff voice. “I do my best.”
Oh God. She isn’t offended, is she?
“Let me know what you’d like me to buy for you to cook,” she continues, slapping the cushion down. “If you’re after something new, or different…”
Shit. She is offended.
“Or…er…well.” My voice is scratchy with nerves. “Actually, on second thought…maybe you could make a little something. But I mean, don’t make any effort. Just a sandwich would be fine.”
“A sandwich?” She raises her head incredulously. “For your dinner?”
“Or…whatever you like! Whatever you enjoy cooking!” Even as I say the words I know how stupid this sounds. I back away, pick up a property magazine that’s lying on a side table, and open it at a piece about fountains.
How am I ever going to get used to all this? How did I turn into someone with a housekeeper, for God’s sake?
“Aiee! The sofa has been damaged!” Gianna’s accent suddenly sounds far more Italian than cockney. She yanks her iPod speakers out of her ears and gestures at the torn fabric in horror. “Look! Ripped! Yesterday morning it was perfect.” She looks at me defensively. “I tell you-I left it in good condition, no rips, no marks…”
The blood rushes to my head. “That…that was me.” I stammer. “I did it.”
“You?”
“It was a mistake,” I gabble. “I didn’t mean to. I broke this glass leopard and…” I’m breathing hard. “I’ll order another sofa cover, I promise. But please don’t tell Eric. He doesn’t know.”
“He doesn’t know?” Gianna seems bewildered.
“I put the cushion over the rip.” I swallow. “To hide it.”
Gianna stares at me for a few disbelieving moments. I stare back pleadingly, unable to breathe. Then her severe face creases into a laugh. She puts down the cushion she’s holding and pats me on the arm.
“I’ll sew it. Little tiny stitches. He’ll never know.”
“Really?” I feel a wash of relief. “Oh, thank God. That would be wonderful. I’d be so grateful.”
Gianna is surveying me with a perplexed frown, her broad arms folded across her chest. “You’re sure nothing happened when you bumped your head?” she says at last. “Like…personality transplant?”
“What?” I give an uncertain laugh. “I don’t think so…” The door buzzer goes off. “Oh, I’d better get this.” I hurry to the front door and lift the answer phone. “Hello?”
“Hello?” comes a guttural voice. “Car delivery for Gardiner.”
***
My new car is parked in a place at the front of the building, which according to the porter is my own private spot. It’s a silver Mercedes, which I can tell from the badge-thing on the front. And it’s a convertible. Apart from that, I couldn’t tell you much about it-except I’m guessing it cost a fortune.
“Sign here…and here…” The deliveryman is holding out a clipboard.
“Okay.” I scribble on the paper.
“Here’s your keys…all your paperwork. Cheers, love.” The guy retrieves his pen from my hand and heads out the gates, leaving me alone with the car, a bundle of papers, and a set of shiny car keys. I dangle them in my fingers, feeling a frisson of excitement.
I’ve never been a car person.
But then, I’ve never been this close to a glossy, brand-new Mercedes before. A brand-new Mercedes which is all mine.
Maybe I’ll just check it over inside. With an instinctive gesture I hold out the key fob and press the little button-then jump as the car bleeps and all the lights flash on.
Well, I’ve obviously done that before. I open the door, slide into the driver’s seat, and inhale deeply.
Wow. Now, this is a car. This knocks Loser Dave’s crappy Renault out of the park. It has the most wonderful, intoxicating scent of new leather. The seats are wide and comfortable. The dashboard is gleaming wood veneer. Cautiously I place my hands on the steering wheel. They seem to grip it quite naturally-in fact, they seem to belong there. I really don’t want to take them off.
I sit there for a few moments, watching the entry gates rise and fall as a BMW drives out.
The thing is…I can drive. At some stage I must have passed my test, even if I don’t remember doing it.
And this is such a cool car. It would be a shame not to have a go.
Experimentally I push the key into the slot beside the steering wheel-and it fits! I rotate it forward, like I’ve seen people do, and there’s a kind of roar of protest from the engine. Shit. What did I do? I turn it forward again, more cautiously, and this time there’s no roar, but a few lights pop on around the dashboard.
Now what? I survey the controls hopefully for inspiration, but none comes. I have no idea how to work this thing, is the truth. I have no memory of driving a car in my life.
But the point is…I have done it. It’s like walking in heels-it’s a skill locked away inside me. What I need is to let my body take over. If I can just distract myself enough, then maybe I’ll find myself driving automatically.
I place my hands firmly on the steering wheel. Here we go. Think about other things. La la la. Don’t think about driving. Just let your body do what comes naturally. Maybe I should sing a song-that worked before.
“‘Land of hope and gloree,’” I begin tunelessly, “‘mother of the freeee…’”
Oh my God. It’s working. My hands and feet are moving in synch. I don’t dare look at them; I don’t dare register what they’re doing. All I know is I’ve switched on the engine and pushed down on one of the pedals and there’s a kind of rumbling and…I did it! I switched on the car!
I can hear the engine throbbing, as if it wants to get going. Okay, keep calm. I take a deep breath-but deep inside I’m already a bit panicky. I’m sitting at the controls of a Mercedes and the engine’s running and I’m not even sure how that happened.
Right. Collect yourself, Lexi.
Hand brake. I know what that is. And the gear stick. Cautiously I release both-and at once the car moves forward.
Hastily I press my foot down on one of the pedals, to stop it, and the car bucks with an ominous grinding noise. Shit. That didn’t sound good. I release my foot-and the car creeps forward again. I’m not sure I want it doing that. Trying to stay calm, I press my foot down again, hard. But this time it doesn’t even stop, it just keeps going inexorably forward. I thrust again-and it revs up like a racing car.
“Shit!” I say, almost gibbering in fear. “Okay, just…stop. Stay!” I’m pulling back on the wheel, but it’s making no difference. I don’t know how to control this thing. We’re slowly heading toward an expensive-looking sports car parked opposite and I don’t know how to stop. In desperation I thrust both feet down again, hitting two pedals at once with a shrieking, engine-breaking sound.
Oh God, Oh God…My face is hot; my hands are sweating. I never should have gotten into this car. If I crash it, Eric will divorce me and I won’t blame him…
“Stop!” I cry again. “Please!”
Suddenly I notice a dark-haired man in jeans coming in at the gates. He sees me gliding forward toward the sports car and his whole face jolts.
“Stop!” he yells, his voice faint through the window.
/> “I can’t stop!” I yell back desperately.
“Steer!” He mimes steering.
The steering wheel. Of course. I’m a moron. I wrench it around to the right, nearly dragging my arms out of my sockets, and manage to turn the car off course. Only now I’m heading straight toward a brick wall.
“Brake!” The guy is running alongside me. “Brake, Lexi!”
“But I don’t-”
“For God’s sake, brake!” he yells.
The hand brake, I suddenly remember. Quick. I yank it back with both hands and the car stops with a judder. The engine is still running, but at least the car is stationary. And at least I haven’t hit anything.
My breath is coming fast and hoarse; my hands are still clenched around the hand brake. I’m never driving again. Never.
“Are you okay?” The guy is at my window. After a few moments I manage to unclench one of my hands from the hand brake. I jab randomly at the buttons on the car door until the window winds down. “What happened?” he says.
“I…panicked. I can’t actually drive a car. I thought I’d remember how to, but I had a bit of a panic attack.” Suddenly, with no warning, I feel a tear running down my face. “I’m sorry,” I gulp. “I’m a bit freaked out. I’ve had amnesia, you see…”
I look up to see the guy just staring at me as if I’m talking a foreign language. He’s got a pretty striking face, now that I come to notice it. High cheekbones, dark gray eyes, and slanted eyebrows gathered in a frown, with dark brown untidy hair. He’s wearing a plain gray T-shirt over his jeans, and he looks a bit older than me, maybe early thirties.
He also seems totally dumbfounded. Which I guess is not surprising, bearing in mind he’s just come into a car park, minding his own business, to find a girl crashing a car and saying she has amnesia.
Maybe he doesn’t believe me, I think, suddenly alarmed. Maybe he thinks I’m drunk-driving and this is all some invented excuse.
“I was in a car crash a few days ago,” I explain hurriedly. “I really was. I hit my head. Look.” I point to the remaining cuts on my face.
“I know you were in a car crash,” he says at last. He has a very distinctive voice, dry and kind of intense. As though every word he speaks really, really matters. “I heard about it.”
“Wait a minute!” I click my tongue, suddenly realizing. “You called out my name. Do we know each other?”
A jolt of shock passes over the guy’s face. I can see his eyes studying me almost as though he doesn’t believe me; as though he’s searching for something.
“You don’t remember me?” he says at last.
“Um, no,” I say with an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, I’m not being rude; I don’t remember anyone I’ve met in the last three years. My friends…my husband, even. He was a total stranger to me! My own husband! Can you believe it?”
I smile-but the guy doesn’t smile back or express sympathy. In fact, his expression almost makes me nervous.
“Do you want me to park that for you?” he says abruptly.
“Oh. Yes, please.” I glance anxiously at my left hand, still clutching the hand brake. “Can I let go of this? Will the car roll away?”
A tiny smile flickers over his face. “No. It won’t roll away. You can let go.”
Cautiously I unfurl my hand, which had practically seized up, and shake out the stiffness.
“Thanks so much,” I say, getting out. “This is my brand-new car. If I’d crashed it, I can’t even think…” I wince at the idea. “My husband got it for me, to replace the other one. Do you know him? Eric Gardiner?”
“Yes,” he says after a pause. “I know him.”
He gets into the car, shuts the door, and signals to me to get out of the way. The next moment he’s expertly reversed the car safely back into its parking spot.
“Thanks,” I say fervently as he gets out. “I really appreciate it.”
I wait for the guy to say “It’s no trouble” or “Any time,” but he seems lost in thought.
“What did they say about the amnesia?” he says, suddenly looking up. “Have your memories gone forever?”
“They might come back anytime,” I explain. “Or they might not. No one knows. I’m just trying to learn about my life again. Eric’s being really helpful and teaching me all about our marriage and everything. He’s the most perfect husband!” I smile again, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. “So…where do you fit into the picture?”
There’s no response at all from the dark-haired guy. He’s shoved his hands in his pockets and is staring up at the sky. I really don’t know what his problem is.
At last he lowers his head and surveys me again, his face all screwed up, as though he’s in pain. Maybe he is. Maybe he has a headache or something.
“I have to go,” he says.
“Oh, right. Well, thanks again,” I say politely. “And very nice to meet you. I mean, I know we’ve met before in my previous life, but…you know what I mean!” I hold out a hand to shake his-but he just looks at it as though it makes no sense to him at all.
“Bye, Lexi.” He turns on his heel.
“Bye…” I call after him, then trail off. What a weird guy. He never even told me his name.
Chapter 9
Fi is one of the most straightforward people I know. We met at the age of six, when I was the new girl in the school playground. She was already a head taller than me, her dark hair in bunches, her voice booming and confident. She told me my plastic skipping rope was rubbish and loudly listed all its faults. Then, just as I was about to start crying, she offered me hers to play with.
That’s Fi. She can upset people with her bluntness, and she knows it. When she’s said the wrong thing she rolls her eyes and claps a hand over her mouth. But underneath it all, she’s warmhearted and kind. And she’s great in meetings. When other people waffle on, she gets right to the point, no bullshit.
It was Fi who gave me the idea of applying to Deller Carpets. She’d been working there for two years when Frenshaws, the company I was at before, got taken over by a Spanish company and a bunch of us were laid off. There was an opening in the Flooring department, and Fi suggested I bring my CV in to show Gavin, her boss…and that was it. I had a job.
Since working together, Fi and I have become even closer. We have lunch together, we go to the cinema on the weekend, we send text messages to each other while Gavin is trying to give one of his “team bollockings,” as he calls them. I’m close to Carolyn and Debs too-but Fi’s the one I ring up first with news; the one I think of when something funny happens.
Which is why it’s so weird that she hasn’t been in touch. I’ve texted her several more times since I got out of hospital. I’ve left two messages on voice mail. I’ve sent a few jokey e-mails and even written a card thanking her for the flowers. But I haven’t heard a word back. Maybe she’s just busy, I keep telling myself. Or she’s been on some work residential seminar thing, or she’s got the flu… There’s a million good reasons.
Anyway, I’m going in to work today, so I’ll see her. And everyone.
I stare at myself in the huge mirror in my dressing room. 2004-Lexi used to show up at the office in a pair of black trousers from Next, a shirt from the bargain bin at New Look, and a pair of loafers with chewed-up heels.
Not anymore. I’m in the crispest shirt I’ve ever worn in my life, all expensive Prada double cuffs. I’m wearing a black suit with a pencil skirt and a nipped-in waist. My legs are gleaming in Charnos sheer gloss tights. My shoes are patent and spiky. My hair is blow-dried and twisted up into my signature chignon. I look like an illustration from a child’s picture book. Boss Lady.
Eric comes into the room and I do a twirl.
“How do I look?”
“Great!” He nods, but doesn’t seem surprised at my appearance. I suppose to him this kind of outfit is normal. Whereas I can’t imagine this ever feeling like anything other than dressing up.
“All set?”
“I gues
s!” I pick up my bag-a black Bottega Veneta tote I found in the cupboard.
I tried asking Eric about Fi yesterday-but he barely seemed to know who she was, even though she’s my oldest friend and was at our wedding and everything. The only friend of mine he seems to know about is Rosalie, which is because she’s married to Clive.
Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll see Fi today, and there’ll be some explanation, and everything will fall back into place. I expect we’ll all go out for a drink at lunchtime and have a good old catch-up.
“Now, don’t forget this!” Eric is opening a cupboard in the corner. He retrieves a sleek black briefcase and hands it to me. “I gave it to you when we were married.”
“Wow, this is beautiful!” It’s made of buttery-soft calfskin and on the front are discreetly embossed initials: L.G.
“I know you still use your maiden name for work,” says Eric, “but I wanted you to take a little piece of me to the office with you every day.”
He is so romantic. He is so perfect.
“I must go. The car will be here to pick you up in five minutes. Have a good time.” He kisses me and heads out.
As I hear the front door close I pick up my briefcase and look at it, wondering what to put in it. I’ve never used a briefcase before-I always just shoved everything into my bag. Eventually I take a packet of tissues and some Polos out of my bag and put them into the briefcase. Then I add a pen. I feel like I’m packing for my first day at a new school. As I’m sliding the pen into a silk pocket, my fingers bump against something thin, like a card, and I pull it out.
It’s not a card; it’s an old photo of me, Fi, Debs, and Carolyn. Before I had my hair done. When my teeth were still all snaggly. We’re in a bar, all dressed up in glittery tops with rosy cheeks and party-popper streamers over our heads. Fi has her arm clenched around my neck and I have a cocktail umbrella in my teeth, and we’re all in hysterics. I can’t help grinning at the sight.
I remember that evening really well. Debs had chucked her awful banker boyfriend, Mitchell, and we were on a mission to help her forget. Halfway through the evening, when Mitchell called Debs’s mobile, Carolyn answered and pretended to be a £1,000 Russian call girl who thought she was being booked. Carolyn took Russian in school, so she was quite convincing, and Mitchell got genuinely rattled, no matter what he claimed later. We were all listening on speakerphone and I thought I’d die of laughter.
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