Remember Me? (12 page)

“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 guess!” 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.

Still smiling, I slide the photo back into the pocket and snap the briefcase shut. I pick it up and regard myself in the mirror. Boss Lady Goes to Work.

“Hi,” I say to my reflection, trying to adopt a businesslike tone. “Hi, there. Lexi Smart, Director of Flooring. Yup, hi. I’m the boss.”

Oh God. I don’t feel like a boss. Maybe I’ll snap back into it when I get there.

Deller Carpets is the company everyone remembers from the TV ads back in the eighties. The first one showed a woman lying on some blue swirling patterned carpet in a shop, pretending it was so soft and luxurious she immediately had to have sex on it with the nerdy sales assistant. Then there was the follow-up ad where she married the nerdy assistant and had the whole aisle carpeted in flowery Deller carpet. And then they had twins, who couldn’t sleep unless they had blue and pink Deller carpet in their cribs.

They were pretty tacky ads, but they did make Deller Carpets a household name. Which is part of its trouble. The company tried to change its name a few years ago, to just Deller. There was a new logo and mission statement and everything. But nobody took any notice of that. You say you work at Deller and people frown and then they say, “You mean Deller Carpets?”

It’s even more ironic because carpet is only a fraction of the company these days. About ten years ago the maintenance department started producing a carpet cleaner that was sold by mail order and became incredibly popular. They expanded into all sorts of cleaning products and gadgets, and now the mail-order business is huge. So are soft furnishings and fabrics. But poor old carpets have fallen by the wayside. Trouble is, they’re not cool these days. It’s all slate and laminate wood flooring. We do sell laminate flooring—but hardly anyone realizes we do, because they think we’re still called Deller Carpets. It’s like one big vicious circle that all leads back to shag.

I know carpets aren’t cool. And I know patterned carpets are even less cool. But secretly, I really love them. Especially all the old retro designs from the seventies. I’ve got an old pattern book on my desk, which I always flick through when I’m in the middle of a long, tedious phone conversation. And once I found a whole box of old samples at the warehouse. No one wanted them, so I took them back to the office and pinned them up on the wall next to my desk.

That’s to say, my old desk. I guess I’ve been upgraded now. As I head toward the familiar building on Victoria Palace Road, I feel a fizz of anticipation in my stomach. It’s the same as it ever was: a tall, pale gray block with granite pillars at the entrance. I push open the glass doors to reception—and stop in surprise. The foyer is different. It looks really cool! They’ve moved the desk, and there are glass partitions where there used to be a wall…and the flooring is blue metallic-effect vinyl. There must be a new range out.

“Lexi!” A plump woman in a pink shirt and tapered black trousers is bustling toward me. She has highlights and fuchsia lipstick and pumps and she’s called…I know her…head of human resources…

“Dana.” I gasp the name in relief. “Hi.”

“Lexi.” She holds out a hand to shake mine. “Welcome back! You poor thing! We were all
so
upset to hear what happened…”

“I’m fine, thanks. A lot better.” I follow her over the shiny vinyl floor, take a security pass from her, and swipe my way through the security entrance. This is all new too. We didn’t use to have barriers, just a guard called Reg.

“Good! Well, come this way…” Dana’s ushering me along. “I thought we could have a short chat in my office, pop in on the budget meeting, and then you’ll want to see your department!”

“Great! Good idea.”

My department
. I used to just have a desk and a stapler.

We travel up in the lift and get out at the second floor, and Dana ushers me into her office.

“Take a seat.” She pulls out a plushy chair and sits down at her desk. “So now, obviously, we need to talk about your…
condition
.” She lowers her voice discreetly as though I have some embarrassing ailment. “You have amnesia.”

“That’s right. Apart from that, I’m pretty much okay.”

“Good!” She scribbles something on her pad of paper. “And is this amnesia permanent or temporary?”

“Well…the doctors said I might start remembering things at any time.”

“Marvelous!” Her face brightens. “Obviously, from
our
point of view it would be great if you could remember everything by the twenty-first. That’s when our sales conference is,” she adds, giving me an expectant look.

“Right,” I say after a pause. “I’ll do my best.”

“You can’t do better than that!” She trills with laughter and pushes back her chair. “Now, let’s go and say hello to Simon and the others. You remember Simon Johnson, the MD?”

“Of course!”

How could I not remember the boss of the whole company? I remember him giving a speech at the Christmas party. I remember him appearing in our office and asking our names while Gavin, our department head then, followed him around like a lackey. And now I go to meetings with him!

Trying to conceal my nerves, I follow Dana down the corridor and up in the lift again to the eighth floor. She leads me briskly to the boardroom, knocks on the heavy door, and pushes it open.

“Sorry to interrupt! Only Lexi’s popped in for a visit.”

“Lexi! Our superstar!” Simon Johnson stands up from his seat at the head of the table. He has a tall, broad-shouldered, ex-army-officer frame and thinning brown hair. He comes over, clasps my hand as if we’re old friends, and kisses my cheek. “How are you feeling, my dear?”

Simon Johnson just kissed me. The MD of the whole company
kissed
me.

“Er…fine, thanks!” I try to keep my composure. “Much better.”

I glance around the room, taking in a whole bunch of other high-powered company people in suits. Byron, who used to be my direct boss, is sitting on the other side of the conference table. He’s pale and lanky with dark hair, and wearing one of his trademark retro-print ties. He gives me a pinched smile and I grin back, relieved to recognize someone else.

“You had quite a knock to the head, we understand,” Simon Johnson is saying in his mellifluous public-school voice.

“That’s right.”

“Well, hurry back!” he exclaims with mock urgency. “Byron here is standing in for you very well.” He gestures at Byron. “But whether you can trust him to safeguard your department’s budget…”

“I don’t know.” I raise my eyebrows. “
Should
I be worried?”

There’s an appreciative laugh around the table, and I notice Byron shooting me daggers.

Honestly. I was only making a joke.

“Seriously, though, Lexi. I need to talk to you about our recent…discussions.” Simon Johnson gives me a meaningful nod. “We’ll have lunch when you get back properly.”

“Absolutely.” I match his confidential tone, even though I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Simon.” Dana steps forward, lowering her voice a smidgen. “The doctors don’t know whether Lexi’s amnesia is permanent or temporary. So she may have some problems with memory…”

“Probably an advantage, in this business,” says a balding man opposite, and there’s another chuckle around the table.

“Lexi, I have every confidence in you,” Simon Johnson says firmly. He turns to a red-haired guy sitting nearby. “Daniel, you two haven’t met yet, have you? Daniel is our new finance controller. Daniel, you might have seen Lexi on television?”

“That’s right!” I can see recognition dawning on the guy’s face as we shake hands. “So you’re the whiz kid I’ve heard about.”

Whiz kid?

“Er…I don’t think so,” I say uncertainly, and there’s a laugh.

“Don’t be modest!” Simon gives me a warm smile, then turns to Daniel. “This young woman has had the most meteoric rise through this company. From associate junior sales manager to director of her department within eighteen months. As I’ve said many times to Lexi herself, it was a gamble, giving her the job—but I’ve never regretted taking that risk for a moment. She’s a natural leader. She’s inspirational. She puts in twenty-four hours a day; she has some exciting strategic visions for the future…. This is a very,
very
talented member of the company.”