“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.”
Remember Me? Page 17