Remember Me?

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Right.” I nod in as bosslike a way as I can. “Well, keep me posted.” We’ve reached my office and I open the door. “See you later, Byron.”

  I close the door, dump my gift bags on the sofa, open the filing cabinet, and take out an entire drawer’s worth of files. Trying not to feel daunted, I sit down at the desk and open the first one, which contains minutes of departmental meetings.

  Three years. I can catch up on three years. It’s not that long.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, my brain is already aching. I haven’t read anything serious or heavy for what seems like months-and this stuff is as dense as treacle. Budget discussions. Contracts up for renewal. Performance evaluations. I feel like I’m back at college, doing about six degrees at once.

  I’ve started a sheet of paper: Questions to ask, and already I’m onto the second side.

  “How are you doing?” The door has opened silently and Byron is looking in. Doesn’t he knock?

  “Fine,” I say defensively. “Really well. I just have a couple of tiny questions…”

  “Fire away.” He leans against the doorjamb.

  “Okay. First, what’s QAS?”

  “That’s our new accounting system software. Everyone’s been trained in it.”

  “Well, I can get trained too,” I say briskly, scribbling on my sheet. “And what’s Services.com?”

  “Our online customer service provider.”

  “What?” I wrinkle my brow, confused. “But what about the customer services department?”

  “All made redundant years ago,” says Byron, sounding bored. “The company was restructured and a load of departments were contracted out.”

  “Right.” I nod, trying to take all this in, and glance down at my sheet again. “So what about BD Brooks? What’s that?”

  “They’re our ad agency,” Byron says with exaggerated patience. “They make advertisements for us, on the radio and the TV-”

  “I know what an ad agency is!” I snap, more hotly than I intended. “So, what happened to Pinkham Smith? We’ve had such a great relationship with them-”

  “They don’t exist anymore.” Byron rolls his eyes. “They went bust. Jesus, Lexi, you don’t know a bloody thing, do you?”

  I open my mouth to retort-but I can’t. He’s right. It’s as if the landscape I knew has been swept away by some kind of hurricane. Everything’s been rebuilt and I don’t recognize any of it.

  “You’re never going to pick all this up again.” Byron is surveying me pityingly.

  “Yes, I am!”

  “Lexi, face it. You’re mentally ill. You shouldn’t be putting your head under this kind of strain-”

  “I’m not mentally ill!” I exclaim furiously, and get to my feet. I push roughly past Byron and out the door, and Clare looks up in alarm, snapping her mobile phone shut.

  “Hi, Lexi. Did you want something? A cup of coffee?”

  She looks terrified, like I’m about to bite her head off or fire her or something. Okay, now is my chance to show her I’m not a bitch-boss-from-hell. I’m me.

  “Hi, Clare!” I say in my most friendly, warm manner, and perch on the corner of her desk. “Everything okay?”

  “Um…yes.” Her eyes are wide and wary.

  “I just wondered if you’d like me to get you a coffee?”

  “You?” She stares as though suspecting a trick. “Get me a coffee?”

  “Yes! Why not?” I beam, and she flinches.

  “It’s…it’s okay.” She slides out of her chair, her eyes fixed on me as though she thinks I really am a cobra. “I’ll get one.”

  “Wait!” I say almost desperately. “You know, Clare, I’d like to get to know you better. Maybe one day we could have lunch together…hang out…go shopping…”

  Clare looks even more pole-axed than before.

  “Um…yeah. Okay, Lexi,” she mumbles, and scuttles down the corridor. I turn to see Byron still in the doorway, cracking up.

  “What?” I snap.

  “You really are a different person, aren’t you?” He raises his eyebrows in wonder.

  “Maybe I just want to be friendly with my staff and treat them with respect,” I say defiantly. “Anything wrong with that?”

  “No!” Byron lifts his hands. “Lexi, that’s a great idea.” He runs his eyes over me, that sarcastic smile still at his lips, then clicks his tongue as though remembering something. “That reminds me. Before I shoot off, there’s one thing I left for you to deal with as director of the department. I thought it only right.”

  At last. He’s treating me like the boss.

  “Oh, yes?” I lift my chin. “What is it?”

  “We’ve had an e-mail from on high about people abusing lunch hours.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a piece of paper. “SJ wants all directors to give their teams a bollocking. Today, preferably.” Byron raises his eyebrows innocently. “Can I leave that one to you?”

  ***

  Bastard. Bastard.

  I’m pacing about my office, sipping my coffee, my stomach churning with nerves. I’ve never told anyone off before. Let alone a whole department. Let alone while simultaneously trying to prove that I’m really friendly and not a bitch-boss-from-hell.

  I look yet again at the printed-out e-mail from Natasha, Simon Johnson’s personal assistant.

  Colleagues. It has come to Simon’s attention that members of staff are regularly pushing the limit of lunchtime well beyond the standard hour. This is unacceptable. He would be grateful if you could make this plain to your teams ASAP, and enforce a stricter policy of checks.

  Thanks.

  Natasha

  Okay. The point is, it doesn’t actually say “give your department a bollocking.” I don’t need to be aggressive or anything. I can make the point while still being pleasant.

  Maybe I can be all jokey and friendly! I’ll start off, “Hey, guys! Are your lunch hours long enough?” I’ll roll my eyes to show I’m being ironic and everyone will laugh, and someone will say, “Is there a problem, Lexi?” And I’ll smile ruefully and say, “It’s not me, it’s the stuffed shirts upstairs. So let’s just try and make it back on time, yeah?” And a few people will nod as though to say “fair enough.” And it’ll all be fine.

  Yes. That sounds good. Taking a deep breath, I fold the paper and put it away in my pocket, then head out of my office, into the open-plan main Flooring office.

  There’s the chatter and buzz of people on the phone and typing and chatting to each other. For about a minute no one even notices me. Then Fi looks up and nudges Carolyn, and she prods a girl I don’t recognize, who brings her phone conversation to an end. Around the room, receivers go down and people look up from their screens and chairs swivel around, until gradually the whole office has come to a standstill.

  “Hi, everyone!” I say, my face prickling. “I…um…Hey, guys! How’s it going?”

  No one replies, or even acknowledges that I’ve spoken. They’re all just staring up with the same mute, get-on-with-it expression.

  “Anyway!” I try to sound bright and cheerful. “I just wanted to say…Are your lunch hours long enough?”

  “What?” The girl at my old desk looks blank. “Are we allowed longer ones?”

  “No!” I say hurriedly. “I mean…they’re too long.”

  “I think they’re fine.” She shrugs. “An hour’s just right for a bit of shopping.”

  “Yeah,” agrees another girl. “You can just make it to the King’s Road and back.”

  Okay, I am really not getting my point across here. And now two girls in the corner have started talking again.

  “Listen, everyone! Please!” My voice is becoming shrill. “I have to tell you something. About lunch hours. Some people in the company…um…I mean, not necessarily any of you-”

  “Lexi,” says Carolyn clearly. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Fi and Debs explode with laughter and my face flames with color.

  “Look, guys,” I try t
o keep my composure. “This is serious.”

  “Seriousssss,” someone echoes, and there are sniggers about the room. “It’s sssseriousssss.”

  “Very funny!” I try to smile. “But listen, seriously…”

  “Sssseriousssly…”

  Now almost everyone in the room seems to be hissing or laughing or both. All the faces are alive; everyone’s enjoying the joke, except me. All of a sudden a paper airplane flies past my ear and lands on the floor. I jump with shock and the entire office erupts with gales of laughter.

  “Okay, well, look, just don’t take too long over lunch, okay?” I say desperately.

  No one’s listening. Another paper airplane hits me on the nose, followed by an eraser. In spite of myself, tears spring to my eyes.

  “Anyway, I’ll see you guys!” I manage. “Thanks for…for all your hard work.” With laughter following me I turn and stumble out of the office. In a daze, I head toward the ladies’ room, passing Dana on the way.

  “Going to the bathroom, Lexi?” she says in surprise as I’m pushing my way in. “You know, you have a key to the executive washroom! Much nicer!”

  “I’m fine in here.” I force a smile. “Really.”

  I head straight for the end cubicle, slam the door shut, and sink down with my head in my hands, feeling the tension drain from my body. That was the single most humiliating experience of my life.

  Except for the white swimsuit episode.

  Why did I ever want to be a boss? Why? All that happens is you lose your friends and have to give people bollockings and everyone hisses at you. And for what? A sofa in your office? A posh business card?

  At last, wearily, I lift my head, and find myself focusing on the back of the cubicle door, which is covered in graffiti as usual. We’ve always used this door like a kind of message board, to vent, or make jokes or just silly conversation. It gets fuller and fuller, then someone scrubs it clean and we start again. The cleaners have never said anything, and none of the executives ever comes in here-so it’s pretty safe.

  I’m running my eye down the messages, smiling at some libelous story about Simon Johnson, when a new message in blue marker catches my eye. It’s in Debs’s handwriting and it reads: “The Cobra’s back.”

  And underneath, in faint black Biro: “Don’t worry, I spat in her coffee.”

  ***

  There’s only one way to go. And that’s to get really, really, really drunk. An hour later and I’m slumped at the bar at the Bathgate Hotel, around the corner from work, finishing my third mojito. Already the world has turned a little blurry-but that’s fine by me. As far as I’m concerned, the blurrier the better. Just as long as I can keep my balance on this bar stool.

  “Hi.” I lift my hand to get the attention of the barman. “I’d like another one, please.”

  The barman raises his eyebrows very slightly, then says, “Of course.”

  I watch him a touch resentfully as he gets out the mint. Isn’t he going to ask me why I want another one? Isn’t he going to offer me some homespun barman wisdom?

  He puts the cocktail on a coaster and adds a bowl of peanuts, which I push aside scornfully. I don’t want anything soaking up the alcohol. I want it right in my bloodstream.

  “Can I get you anything else? A snack, perhaps?”

  He gestures at a small menu, but I ignore it and take a deep gulp of the mojito. It’s cold and tangy and limey and perfect.

  “Do I look like a bitch to you?” I say as I look up. “Honestly?”

  “No.” The barman smiles.

  “Well, I am, apparently.” I take another slug of mojito. “That’s what all my friends say.”

  “Some friends.”

  “They used to be.” I put my cocktail down and stare at it morosely. “I don’t know where my life went wrong.”

  I sound slurred, even to my own ears.

  “That’s what they all say.” A guy sitting at the end of the bar looks up from his Evening Standard. He has an American accent and dark, receding hair. “No one knows where it went wrong.”

  “No, but I really don’t know.” I lift a finger impressively. “I have a car crash…and boom! I wake up and I’m trapped in the body of a bitch.”

  “Looks like you’re trapped in the body of a babe to me.” The American guy edges along to the next bar stool, a smile on his face. “I wouldn’t trade that body for anything.”

  I gaze at him in puzzlement for a moment-until realization dawns.

  “Oh! You’re flirting with me! Sorry. But I’m already married. To a guy. My husband.” I lift up my left hand, locate my wedding ring after a few moments, and point at it. “You see. Married.” I think intently for a moment. “Also, I may have a lover.”

  There’s a muffled snort from the barman. I look up suspiciously, but his face is straight. I take another gulp of my drink and feel the alcohol kicking in, dancing around my head. My ears are buzzing and the room is starting to sway.

  Which is a good thing. Rooms should sway.

  “You know, I’m not drinking to forget,” I say conversationally to the barman. “I already forgot everything.” This suddenly strikes me as being so funny, I start giggling uncontrollably. “I had one bang on the head and I forgot everything.” I’m clutching my stomach; tears are edging out of my eyes. “I even forgot I had a husband. But I do!”

  “Uh-huh.” The barman is exchanging glances with the American guy.

  “And they said there isn’t a cure. But you know, doctors can be wrong, can’t they?” I appeal to the bar. Quite a few people seem to be listening now, and a couple of them nod.

  “Doctors are always wrong,” the American guy says emphatically. “They’re all assholes.”

  “Exactly!” I swivel to him. “You are so right! Okay.” I take a deep gulp of my mojito, then turn back to the barman. “Can I ask you a small favor? Can you take that cocktail shaker and hit me over the head with it? They said it wouldn’t work, but how do they know?”

  The barman smiles, as if he thinks I’m joking.

  “Great.” I sigh impatiently. “I’ll have to do it myself.” Before he can stop me, I grab the cocktail shaker and whack myself on the forehead. “Ow!” I drop the shaker and clutch my head. “Ouch! That hurt!”

  “Did you see that?” I can hear someone exclaiming behind me. “She’s a nutter!”

  “Miss, are you all right?” The barman looks alarmed. “Can I call you a-”

  “Wait!” I lift a hand. For a few moments I’m poised, completely still, waiting for memories to flood into my brain. Then I subside in disappointment. “It didn’t work. Not even one. Bugger.”

  “I’d get her a strong black coffee,” I can hear the American guy saying in an undertone to the barman. Bloody nerve. I don’t want a coffee. I’m about to tell him this, when my phone beeps. After a small struggle with the zipper of my bag I get my phone out-and it’s a text from Eric.

  Hi, on my way home. E

  “That’s from my husband,” I inform the barman as I put away my phone. “You know, he can drive a speedboat.”

  “Great,” says the barman politely.

  “Yeah. It is.” I nod emphatically, about seven times. “It is great. It’s the perfect, perfect marriage…” I consider for a moment. “Except we haven’t had sex.”

  “You haven’t had sex?” the American guy echoes in astonishment.

  “We have had sex.” I take a slug of mojito and lean toward him confidentially. “I just don’t remember it.”

  “That good, huh?” He starts to laugh. “Blew your mind, huh?”

  Blew my mind. His words land in my mind like a big neon flashing light. Blew my mind.

  “You know what?” I say slowly. “You may not realize it, but that’s very sig…sigficant…significant.”

  I’m not sure that word came out quite right. But I know what I mean. If I have sex, maybe it’ll blow my mind. Maybe that’s just what I need! Maybe Amy was right all along, it’s nature’s own amnesia-cure.

&
nbsp; “I’m going to do it.” I put my glass down with a crash. “I’m going to have sex with my husband!”

  “You go, girl!” says the American, laughing. “Have fun.”

  ***

  I’m going to have sex with Eric. This is my mission. As I ride home in a taxi I’m quite excited. As soon as I get back, I’ll jump him. And we’ll have amazing sex and my mind will be blown and suddenly everything will be clear.

  The only tiny snag I can think of is I don’t have the marriage manual on me. And I can’t totally remember the order of foreplay.

  I close my eyes, trying to ignore my dizzy head and recall exactly what Eric wrote. Something was in a clockwise direction. And something else was with “gentle, then urgent tongue strokes.” Thighs? Chest? I should have memorized it. Or written it on a Post-it; I could have stuck it on the headboard.

  Okay, I think I have it. Buttocks first, then inner thighs, then scrotum…

  “Sorry?” says the taxi driver.

  Oops. I didn’t realize I was speaking aloud.

  “Nothing!” I say hastily.

  Earlobes came in somewhere, I suddenly remember. Maybe that was the urgent tongue strokes. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What I can’t remember I’ll make up. I mean, it can’t be that we’re some boring old married couple and do it exactly the same way each time, can it?

  Can it?

  I feel a tiny qualm, which I ignore. It’s going to be great. Plus, I have fantastic underwear on. Silky and matching, and everything. I don’t even possess anything scaggy anymore.

  We draw up in front of the building and I pay the taxi driver. As I travel up in the lift I remove the chewing gum that I’ve been chewing for fresh breath, and unbutton my shirt a bit.

  Too far. You can see my bra.

  I do it up again, let myself into the apartment, and call out, “Eric!”

  There’s no answer, so I head toward the office. I am quite drunk, to tell the truth. I’m lurching on my heels, and the walls are going backward and forward in my field of vision. We’d better not try and do it standing up.