Remember Me? (30 page)

She breaks off, the words hanging in the air, and I catch my breath as her blue eyes meet mine. For the first time that I can remember, my mother sounds…true.

The room is totally still. I hardly dare speak.

“What about Dad?” My
sotto voce
whisper still feels too loud. “Mum, tell me.”

But it’s too late. Already the moment’s over. Mum’s eyes are shifting sideways, avoiding me. With a sudden pang I see her as though for the first time: her hair girlish in its Alice band, her hands wrinkled, Dad’s ring still on her finger. Even as I watch, she’s feeling for a dog’s head and starting to pat it.

“It’s nearly lunchtime, Agnes!” Her voice is bright and brittle. “Let’s see what we can find you—”

“Mum, please.” I take a step forward. “You can’t stop there. What were you going to say?”

I don’t know what exactly I’m hoping for—but as she looks up I can tell I’m not going to get it. Her face is opaque again, as though nothing just happened.

“I was
simply
going to say”—already she’s regaining her old martyred spirit—“that before you start blaming me for everything in your life, Lexi, that chap had a lot to answer for. That boyfriend of yours at the funeral. Dave? David?
He’s
the one you should be accusing.”

“Loser Dave?” I stare at her, thrown. “But…Loser Dave wasn’t at the funeral. He told me he offered to come but I turned him down. He said…” I peter out as I see Jon just shaking his head, his eyes raised to heaven.

“What else did he tell you?”

“He said we broke up that morning, and that it was beautiful, and that he gave me a single rose…” Oh God. What was I thinking, even
half
-believing him? “Excuse me.”

I march outside into the drive, fueled with frustration at Mum, at Dad, at myself for being so gullible. Whipping my mobile phone from my pocket, I direct-dial Loser Dave’s office.

“Auto Repair Workshop,” comes his businesslike voice down the line. “Dave Lewis at your service.”

“Loser Dave, it’s me,” I say, my voice steely. “Lexi. I need to hear about our breakup again. And this time I need to hear the truth.”

“Babe, I told you the truth.” He sounds supremely confident. “You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

I want to
wallop
him.

“Listen, you fuckhead,” I say in slow, furious tones. “I’m at the neurological specialist’s office right now, okay? They say someone has been giving me wrong information and it’s messing up my neural memory pathways. And if it isn’t corrected, I’ll get permanent brain damage.”

“Jesus.” He sounds shaken. “Straight up?”

He really is stupider than one of Mum’s whippets.

“Yeah. The specialist’s with me right now, trying to correct my memory circuits. So maybe you want to try again with the truth? Or maybe you’d like to speak to the doctor?”

“No! Okay!” He sounds totally unnerved. I can just picture him breathing harder, running a finger around his collar. “Maybe it wasn’t
exactly
like I told you. I was trying to protect you.”

“Protect me from what? Did you come to the funeral?”

“Yeah, I came along,” he says after a pause. “I was handing out canapés. Being helpful. Giving you support.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then I…” He clears his throat.

“What?”

“Shagged one of the waitresses. It was the emotional stress!” he adds defensively. “It makes us all do crazy things. I thought I’d locked the door—”

“I walked
in
on you?” I say in disbelief.

“Yeah. We weren’t naked or anything. Well, obviously a bit—”

“Stop!” I thrust the phone away from me.

I need a few moments to take all this in. Breathing hard, I crunch over the gravel, sit down on the garden wall, and look at the field of sheep opposite, ignoring the “Lexi! Lexi!” coming from the phone.

I caught Loser Dave two-timing me. Well, of course I did. I’m not even that surprised.

At last I lift the phone back to my ear. “So, how did I react? And
don’t
say I gave you a rose and it was beautiful.”

“Well.” Loser Dave breathes out. “To be honest, you went ballistic. You started yelling about your life. Your whole life had to change, it was all crap, you hated me, you hated everything…. I’m telling you, Lexi, it was extreme. I tried to calm you down, give you a prawn sandwich. But you weren’t interested. You stormed out.”

“Then what?”

“Then I didn’t see you again. Next time I clapped eyes on you, you were on the telly, looking totally different.”

“Right.” I watch two birds circling in the sky. “You know, you could have told me the truth, first time around.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, I am.” He sounds as genuine as I’ve ever heard him. “And I’m sorry I shagged that girl. And I’m sorry for what she called you, that was well out of order.”

I sit up, suddenly alert. “What did she call me?”

“Oh. You don’t remember,” he says hastily. “Er…nothing. I don’t remember either.”

“What was it?” I stand up, clutching the phone tighter. “Tell me what she called me! Loser Dave!”

“I gotta go. Good luck with the doctor.” He rings off. I immediately redial his number, but it’s busy. Little sod.

I march into the house to find Jon still sitting on the sofa, reading a copy of
Whippet World
.

“Hi!” His face lights up. “How did it go?”

“What did the waitress call me at the funeral?”

At once Jon looks evasive. “I don’t know what you mean. Hey, have you ever read
Whippet World
?” He holds it up. “Because it’s a surprisingly good—”

“You
do
know what I mean.” I sit down beside him and pull his chin around so he has to look at me. “I know I told you. Tell me.”

Jon sighs. “Lexi, it’s a tiny detail. Why does it matter?”

“Because…it just does. Look, Jon, you can’t lecture my mum about denial and then not tell me something which happened in
my
own life, which I deserve to know. Tell me what that waitress called me.
Now
.” I glare at him.

“All right!” Jon lifts his hands as though in defeat. “If you have to know, she called you…Dracula.”

Dracula? In spite of myself—in spite of the fact that I
know
my teeth aren’t snaggly anymore—I can feel my cheeks staining with mortification.

“Lexi—” Jon’s wincing, as he reaches for my hand.

“No.” I shake him off. “I’m fine.”

My face still hot, I stand up and head over to the window, trying to picture the scene, trying to put myself back in my own chewed-up, flat-heeled Lexi shoes. It’s 2004. I didn’t get a bonus. It’s my dad’s funeral. The bailiffs have just arrived to bankrupt us. I come across my boyfriend screwing a waitress…and she takes one look at me and calls me Dracula.

Okay. Things are starting to make sense.

Chapter 18

On the way back, I sit in silence for a long, long while. I’m clutching the blue folder tightly on my lap as if it might try to run away. The fields are whizzing past outside. Jon glances at me every now and then but doesn’t speak.

I’m going around and around it all in my head, trying to digest everything I’ve just learned. I feel like I’ve done a degree in Lexi Smart, in the space of half an hour.

“I still can’t believe my dad left us in trouble like that,” I say at last. “With no warning or anything.”

“Oh no?” Jon sounds noncommittal.

Kicking off my shoes, I draw my feet up onto the seat and rest my chin on my knees, gazing out at the road. “You know, everyone loved my dad. He was so good-looking, and fun, and sparky, and he loved us. Even though he fucked up a few times, he really did love us. He used to call us his three girls.”

“His three girls.” Jon’s voice is drier than ever. “A dog-obsessive in denial, a teenage extortionist, and a screwed-up amnesiac. And all of them in debt. Good work, Michael. Nicely done.”

I shoot him a look. “You don’t think much of my dad, do you?”

“I think he had a good time and left the pieces for all of you to deal with,” says Jon. “I think he was a selfish prick. But hey, I never met the guy.” Abruptly he signals and pulls into another lane. His hands are gripping the wheel tightly, I suddenly notice. He seems almost angry.

“At least I
get
myself a bit more.” I chew on my thumbnail. “Did I ever talk to you about it? The funeral?”

“Once or twice.” Jon gives me a wry smile.

“Oh, right.” I color. “All the time. I must have bored you to death.”

“Don’t be stupid.” He takes a hand off the wheel and squeezes mine briefly. “One day, really early on, when we were still just friends, it all came out. The whole story. How that day changed your life. How you took on your family’s debt, booked a cosmetic dentistry appointment the next day, went on a crash diet, decided to change everything about yourself. Then you went on TV and everything became even more extreme. You rocketed up the career ladder, you met Eric, and he seemed like the answer. He was solid, rich, stable. A million miles away from…” He breaks off into silence.

“My dad,” I say eventually.

“I’m no psychologist. But I would guess.”

There’s silence. I watch a small plane heading higher and higher into the sky, leaving a double trail of white smoke.

“You know, when I woke up, I thought I’d landed the dream life,” I say slowly. “I thought I was Cinderella. I was
better
than Cinderella. I thought I must be the happiest girl in the world…” I break off as Jon shakes his head.

“You were living your whole life under a strain. You went too far too soon; you didn’t know how to handle it; you made mistakes.” He hesitates. “You alienated your friends. You found that the hardest of all.”

“But I don’t
understand,
” I say helplessly. “I don’t understand why I became a bitch.”

“You didn’t mean to. Lexi, give yourself a break. You were thrust into this boss position. You had a big department to run, you wanted to impress senior management, not be accused of favoritism…and you floundered. You did some things the wrong way. Then you felt trapped. You’d built up this tough persona. It was part of your success.”

“The
Cobra,
” I say, wincing. I still can’t believe I got nicknamed after a snake.

“The Cobra.” He nods, a smile pushing at his mouth again. “You know, that was the TV producers’ idea. That wasn’t you. Although they had something—you
are
pretty cobra-like when it comes to business.”

“No, I’m not!” I lift my head in horror.

“In a good way.” He grins.

A good way? How can you be like a cobra in a good way?

We drive on for a while without speaking, golden fields sprawling into the distance on either side of us. At length Jon turns on the radio. The Eagles are playing “Hotel California” and as we zip along, sunlight glinting off the windshield, I suddenly feel like we could be in another country. Another life.

“You once said to me, if you could go back in time and do everything differently, you would.” Jon’s voice is softer than before. “With everything. Yourself…your job…Eric…Everything looks different when the gloss is gone.”

I feel a sudden sting at the mention of Eric. Jon’s talking like everything’s in the past—but this is now. I’m married. Nor do I like what he’s implying.

“Look, I’m not some shallow gold-digger, okay?” I say hotly. “I must have loved Eric. I wouldn’t just marry a guy because of the gloss.”

“At first you thought Eric was the real deal,” Jon agrees. “He’s charming, he ticks the boxes…In fact, he’s like one of the intelligent systems from our lofts. Put him on ‘Husband’ setting and away he goes.”

“Stop it.”

“He’s state-of-the-art. He has a range of mood settings; he’s touch sensitive…”

“
Stop
it.” I’m trying not to laugh. I lean forward and turn the radio up higher, as though to block Jon out. A moment later I’ve worked out what I want to say, and turn it down again.

“Okay, look. Maybe we did have an affair. In the past. But that doesn’t mean…Maybe I want to make my marriage
work
this time around.”

“You can’t make it work.” Jon doesn’t miss a beat. “Eric doesn’t love you.”

Why does he have to be such a bloody
know-it-all
?

“Yes, he does.” I fold my arms. “He told me so. In fact, it was really romantic, if you want to know.”

“Oh yeah?” Jon doesn’t sound remotely fazed. “What’d he say?”

“He said he fell in love with my beautiful mouth and my long legs and the way I swing my briefcase.” I can’t help coloring with self-consciousness. I’ve always remembered Eric saying that, in fact I memorized it on the spot.

“That’s a crock of shit.” Jon doesn’t even turn.

“It’s not a crock of shit!” I retort indignantly. “It’s romantic!”

“Oh, really? So would he love you if you
didn’t
swing your briefcase?”

I’m momentarily stumped. “I…don’t know. That’s not the point.”

“How can it not be the point? It’s exactly the point. Would he love you if your legs weren’t long?”

“I don’t know!” I say crossly. “Shut up! It was a lovely, beautiful moment.”

“It was bullshit.”

“Okay.” I jut out my chin. “So what do
you
love about me?”

“I don’t know. The essence of you. I can’t turn it into a
list,
” he says, almost scathingly.

There’s a long pause. I’m staring straight ahead, my arms still folded tightly. Jon’s focused on the road, as though he’s already forgotten the conversation. We’re getting nearer London now, and the traffic is thickening up around us.

“Okay,” he says finally, as we draw to a halt in a queue of cars. “I like the way you squeak in your sleep.”

“I squeak in my sleep?” I say disbelievingly.

“Like a chipmunk.”

“I thought I was supposed to be a cobra,” I retort. “Make up your mind.”

“Cobra by day.” He nods. “Chipmunk by night.”

I’m trying to keep my mouth straight and firm, but a smile is edging out.

As we crawl along the dual carriageway, my phone beeps with a text and I pull it out.

“It’s Eric,” I say after reading it. “He’s arrived safely in Manchester. He’s scoping out some possible new sites for a few days.”

“Uh-huh. I know.” Jon swings around a roundabout.

We’re into the outskirts of the city now. The air seems grayer and a spot of rain suddenly hits me on the cheek. I shiver, and Jon puts the roof of the Mercedes back up. His face is set as he negotiates the lanes of the dual carriageway.

“You know, Eric could have paid off your dad’s debt in his sleep,” he suddenly says, his voice matter-of-fact. “But he left you to it. Never even mentioned it.”

I feel at a loss. I don’t know how to reply to that; I don’t know what to think.

“It’s his money,” I say at last. “Why should he? And anyway, I don’t
need
anyone’s help.”

“I know. I offered. You wouldn’t take anything. You’re pretty stubborn.” He reaches a big junction, draws up behind a bus, and turns to look at me. “I don’t know what you’re planning now.”

“Now?”

“The rest of today.” He shrugs. “If Eric’s away.”

Deep within me, something starts stirring. A gentle pulsing, which I don’t want to admit to. Even to myself.

“Well.” I try to sound businesslike. “I wasn’t planning anything. Just go home, have some supper, read through this folder…” I force myself to leave a natural pause before I add, “Why?”

“Nothing.” Jon leaves a pause too, and frowns ahead at the road before he adds casually, “It’s just there’s some stuff of yours at my flat. You might want to pick it up.”

“Okay.” I shrug noncommittally.

“Okay.” He swings the car around and we travel the rest of the way in silence.

Jon lives in the most beautiful flat I’ve ever seen.

Okay, it’s in a daggy street in Hammersmith. And you have to ignore the graffiti on the wall opposite. But the house is big and pale brick, with massive old arched windows, and it turns out that the flat runs into the next-door building too, so it’s a million times wider than it seems from the outside.

“This is…
amazing.
”

I’m standing, looking around his workspace, almost speechless. The ceiling is high and the walls are white and there’s a tall, sloped desk covered in paper, next to a workstation bearing a massive Apple Mac. In the corner is a drawing easel, and opposite is an entire wall covered in books, with an old-fashioned library ladder on wheels.

“This whole row of houses was built as artists’ studios.” Jon’s eyes are gleaming as he walks around, picking up about ten old coffee cups and disappearing with them into a tiny kitchen.

The sun has come out again and is glinting through the arched windows onto the reclaimed floorboards. Discarded pieces of paper are on the floor, covered in lines, drawings, sketches. Plonked in the middle of all the work is a bottle of tequila next to a packet of almonds.

I look up to see Jon standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me soundlessly. He ruffles his hair as though to break some mood, and says, “Your stuff’s through here.”

I walk where he’s pointing, through an archway into a cozy sitting room. It’s furnished with big blue cotton sofas and a massive leather bean bag and an old TV balanced on a chair. Behind the sofa are battered wooden shelves, haphazardly filled with books and magazines and plants and…

“That’s my mug.” I stare at a hand-painted red pottery mug that Fi once gave me for my birthday, sitting on the shelves like it belongs there.

“Yeah.” Jon nods. “That’s what I mean. You left stuff here.” He picks it up and hands it to me.

“And…my sweater!” There’s an old ribbed polo neck draped over one of the sofas. I’ve had it forever, since I was about sixteen. How come—

I look around in disbelief as more things spring into my vision, like a Magic Eye. That furry fake-wolf throw that I always used to wrap around myself. Old college photos in their beaded frames. My pink retro
toaster
?

“You used to come here and eat toast.” Jon follows my astonished gaze. “You used to cram it in like you were starving.”

I’m suddenly seeing the other side of me; the side I thought had disappeared forever. For the first time since I woke up in hospital I feel like I’m at home. There’s even a string of fairy lights draped around the plant in the corner; the same fairy lights I had in my little flat in Balham.

All this time, all my stuff was here. Suddenly I have a memory of Eric’s words, that first time I asked him about Jon.
You’d trust Jon with your life.

Maybe that’s what I did. Trusted him with my life.

“Do you remember anything?” Jon sounds casual, but I can sense the hope underneath.

“No.” I shake my head. “Just the stuff that came from my life before…” I break off as I notice a beaded frame I don’t recognize. I move closer to see the picture—and feel a tiny jolt. It’s a photo of me. And Jon. We’re sitting on a tree trunk and his arms are around me and I’m wearing old jeans and sneakers. My hair is streaming down my back; my head is tossed back. I’m laughing as though I’m the happiest girl there ever was.

It was real. It was really real.

My head is prickling as I stare at our faces, bleached by the sunshine. All this time, he had proof.

“You could have shown me this,” I say almost accusingly. “This photo. You could have brought it along the first time we met.”

“Would you have believed me?” He sits on the arm of the sofa. “Would you have wanted to believe me?”

I’m halted. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I would have explained it away, rationalized it, clung to my perfect husband, my dream life.

Trying to lighten the atmosphere, I walk over to a table cluttered with old novels belonging to me and a bowl of seeds.

“Sunflower seeds.” I grab a handful. “I love sunflower seeds.”

“I know you do.” Jon has the oddest, most unfathomable expression on his face.

“What?” I look at him in surprise, seeds halfway to my mouth. “What’s wrong? Are these okay?”