Remember Me? (8 page)

“It’s true,” Mum puts in unexpectedly. “Like that chap Proust. One whiff of a fairy cake and everything came flooding back into his mind.”

“Go on,” Amy says encouragingly. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

I glance over at Eric, embarrassed. “Would you mind if I…smelled you, Eric?”

“Not at all! It’s worth a go.” He sits on the bed and freeze-frames the DVD. “Should I lift my arms up, or…”

“Um…I guess so…”

Solemnly Eric lifts his arms. I lean forward gingerly and sniff his armpit. I can smell soap, and aftershave, and a mild, manly kind of smell. But nothing’s rushing back into my brain.

Except visions of George Clooney in
Ocean’s Eleven.

I may not mention those.

“Anything?” Eric is frozen, rigid in his arms-up position.

“Nothing yet,” I say after sniffing again. “I mean, nothing very strong…”

“You should smell his crotch,” says Amy.

“Sweetheart,”
Mum says faintly.

I can’t help glancing down at Eric’s crotch. The crotch I’ve married. It looks pretty generous, although you can never quite tell. I wonder—

No. Not the point right now.

“What you two should do is have sex,” Amy says into the awkward silence, then snaps her gum. “You need the pungent smell of each other’s bodily—”

“Amy!” Mum cuts her off. “Darling! That is quite enough!”

“I’m just saying! It’s nature’s own amnesia cure!”

“So.” Eric drops his arms again. “Not exactly the greatest success.”

“No.”

Maybe Amy’s right. Maybe we should have sex. I glance at Eric—and I’m convinced he’s thinking the same thing.

“Never mind. It’s still early days.” Eric smiles as he closes the wedding album, but I can tell he’s disappointed too.

“What if I never remember?” I look around the room. “What if all those memories are lost for good and I can never get them back?
Ever?
”

As I look around at the concerned faces I suddenly feel powerless and vulnerable. It’s like that time my computer crashed and I lost all my e-mail, only a million times worse. The techy guy kept telling me I should have backed up my files. But how do you back up your own brain?

In the afternoon I see a neuropsychologist, Neil. He’s a friendly guy, in jeans. I sit at a table with him, taking tests—and I have to say, I’m pretty good! I remember most of twenty words in a list; I remember a short story; I draw a picture from memory.

“You’re functioning extremely well, Lexi,” Neil says after he fills in the last check box. “Your executive skills are there, your short-term memory is pretty good considering, you have no major cognitive problems…but you’re suffering from a severe focal retrograde amnesia. It’s very unusual, you know.”

“But
why
?”

“Well, it has to do with the way you hit your head.” He leans forward, animated, draws an outline of a head on his pad of paper, and starts to fill in a brain. “You’ve had what we call an acceleration-deceleration injury. When you hit the windshield, your brain was thrown around in your skull, and a small area of your brain was, shall we say, tweaked. It could be you’ve done damage to your warehouse of memories…or it could be that you’ve done damage to your ability to
retrieve
memories. In that case the warehouse is intact, if you like, but you’re unable to open the door.”

His eyes are shining, as though this is all really fabulous and I should be thrilled with myself.

“Can’t you give me an electric shock?” I say in frustration. “Or hit me over the head or something?”

“I’m afraid not.” He looks amused. “Contrary to popular belief, hitting an amnesiac over the head is not going to bring their memory back. So don’t try that at home.” He pushes his chair back. “Let me walk you to your room.”

We arrive back at my room to find Mum and Amy still watching the home DVD while Eric talks on his cell phone. Immediately he finishes his conversation and claps his phone shut. “How did you get on?”

“What did you remember, darling?” Mum chimes in.

“Nothing,” I admit.

“Once Lexi gets back to familiar surroundings, she’ll probably find her memory returns quite naturally,” says Neil reassuringly. “Although it may take time.”

“Right.” Eric nods earnestly. “So, what next?”

“Well.” Neil flips through my notes. “You’re in good shape physically, Lexi. I would say you’ll probably be discharged tomorrow. I’ll make an appointment for you in a month’s time as an outpatient. Until then, the best place for you is home.” He smiles. “I’m sure that’s where you want to be too.”

“Yes!” I say after a pause. “Home. Great.”

Even as I’m saying the words I realize I don’t know what I mean by
home
. Home was my Balham flat. And that’s gone.

“What’s your address?” He takes out a pen. “For my notes.”

“I’m…not sure.”

“I’ll write it down,” Eric says helpfully, and takes the pen.

This is crazy. I don’t know where I live. I’m like some confused old lady.

“Well, good luck, Lexi.” Neil looks at Eric and Mum. “You can help by giving Lexi as much information as possible about her life. Write things down. Take her back to places she’s been. Any problems, just call me.”

The door closes behind Neil and there’s silence, apart from the chatter of the telly. Mum and Eric are exchanging looks. If I was a conspiracy theorist I’d say they were hatching a plan.

“What is it?”

“Sweetheart, your mother and I were talking earlier about how we would”—he hesitates—“tackle your release.”

Tackle my release.
He sounds like I’m a dangerous, psychotic prisoner.

“We’re in a pretty strange situation here,” he continues. “Obviously I would love it if you wanted to come home and resume your life again. But I appreciate that you may find it uncomfortable. After all…you don’t know me.”

“Well, no.” I chew my lip. “I don’t.”

“I said to Eric, you’re very welcome to come and stay with me for a bit,” puts in Mum. “Obviously it will be a
little
disruptive, and you’ll have to share with Jake and Florian, but they’re good dogs.”

“That room smells,” says Amy.

“It does not
smell
, Amy.” Mum seems affronted. “That builder chap said it was simply a question of dry something-or-other.” She makes a vague gesture.

“Rot,” says Amy, without moving her gaze off the television. “And it does smell.”

Mum is blinking hard in annoyance. Meanwhile, Eric has come over, his face showing concern.

“Lexi, please don’t think I’ll be offended. I understand how tough this is for you. I’m a stranger to you, for Christ’s sake.” He spreads his arms. “Why on earth would you want to come home with me?”

I know it’s my cue to answer—but I’ve suddenly been distracted by an image on the TV screen. It’s of me and Eric on a speedboat. God knows where we are, but the sun is shining and the sea is blue. We’re both wearing sunglasses and Eric is smiling at me as he drives the boat and we look totally glamorous, like something out of a James Bond movie.

I can’t help staring at it, mesmerized.
I want this life
rushes through my brain.
It belongs to me. I earned it. I’m not going to let it slip through my fingers.

Eric is still talking. “The last thing I want to do is get in the way of your recovery. Whatever you want to do, I will completely understand.”

“Right. Yes.” I take a sip of water, playing for time. “I’ll just…think about it for a few moments.”

Okay, let’s just get my options absolutely clear here:

1. A rotting room in Kent which I have to share with two whippets.

2. A palatial loft in Kensington with Eric, my good-looking husband who can drive a speedboat.

“You know what, Eric?” I say carefully, measuring out my words. “I think I
should
come and live with you.”

“Are you serious?” His face lights up, but I can tell he’s taken aback.

“You’re my husband,” I say. “I should be with you.”

“But you don’t remember me,” he says uncertainly. “You don’t know me.”

“I’ll get to know you again!” I say with growing enthusiasm. “Surely the best chance I have of remembering my life is to live it. You can tell me about yourself, and me, and our marriage…. I can learn it all again! And that doctor
said
familiar circumstances would help. They’ll trigger my retrieval system or whatever.”

I’m more and more positive about this. So I don’t know anything about my husband or my life. The point is, I’ve married a good-looking multimillionaire who loves me and has a huge penthouse and brought me taupe roses. I’m not going to throw it all away just because of the small detail that I can’t remember him.

Everyone has to work at their marriage in some way or another. I’ll just have to work at the “remembering your husband” part.

“Eric, I really want to come home with you,” I say as sincerely as I can. “I’m sure we have a great, loving marriage. We can work it out.”

“It would be wonderful to have you back.” Eric still looks troubled. “But please don’t feel any sense of obligation—”

“I’m not doing this out of obligation! I’m doing it because…it just feels right.”

“Well, I think it’s a
very
good idea,” Mum puts in.

“That’s it, then,” I say. “Settled.”

“Obviously you won’t want to…” Eric hesitates awkwardly. “I mean…I’ll take the guest suite.”

“I would appreciate that,” I say, trying to match his formal tone. “Thank you, Eric.”

“Well, if you’re sure about this…” His whole face has brightened. “Let’s do this properly, shall we?” He glances questioningly at my wedding ring, still lying on the cabinet, and I follow his gaze.

“Yes, let’s!” I nod, suddenly excited.

He picks up both rings and self-consciously I hold out my left hand. I watch, transfixed, as Eric slips the rings onto my finger. First the wedding band, then the enormous diamond solitaire. There’s a hush in the room as I gaze down at my beringed hand.

Fuck,
that diamond’s huge.

“Are you comfortable, Lexi?” Eric asks. “Does that feel right?”

“It feels…great! Really. Just right.”

A huge smile licks across my face as I turn my hand this way and that. I feel like someone should throw confetti or sing the “Wedding March.” Two nights ago I was being stood up in a crappy club by Loser Dave. And now…I’m married!

Chapter 7

It has to be karma.

I must have been amazingly noble in a previous existence. I must have rescued children from a burning building, or given up my life to help lepers, or invented the wheel or something. It’s the only explanation I can think of for how I’ve landed the dream life.

Here I am, zooming along the Thames Embankment, with my handsome husband,
in his open-top Mercedes
.

I say
zooming.
Actually we’re going at about twenty miles an hour. Eric is being all solicitous and saying he knows how hard it must be for me to get back in a car, and if I feel traumatized to tell him straightaway. But really, I’m fine. I don’t remember anything about the crash. It’s like a story I’ve been told that happened to someone else, the kind where you tilt your head politely and say “Oh no, how awful” but you’ve already stopped listening properly.

I keep glancing down at myself in wonder. I’m wearing a pair of cropped jeans,
two sizes
smaller than I used to wear. And a top by Miu Miu, which is one of those names I only used to know about from magazines. Eric brought me a bag of clothes to choose from, and they were all so posh and designer I hardly dared touch them, let alone put them on.

On the backseat are all the bouquets and presents from my hospital room, including a massive basket of tropical fruit from Deller Carpets. There was a letter attached from someone called Clare, which said she would send me the minutes of the latest board meeting to read at my leisure, and she hoped I was feeling better. And then she signed it “Clare Abrahams, assistant to Lexi Smart.”

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!