Remember Me? (9 page)

I could leave it there. I could find a way to fix the leopard…or replace it somehow….

No. Come on. I can’t start off my brand-new marriage by keeping secrets from my husband. I have to be brave and own up. HAVE BROKEN GLASS LEOPARD BY MISTAKE, I type. REALLY SORRY. HOPE IS NOT IRREPLACEABLE?

I press Send and pace about as I wait for the reply, telling myself over and over not to worry. I mean, I don’t know for certain that it’s a priceless ornament, do I? Maybe we won it in a raffle. Maybe it’s mine, and Eric’s always hated it. How am I supposed to know?

How am I supposed to know anything?

I sink down onto a chair, suddenly overwhelmed by how little I know about my own life. If I’d known I was going to get amnesia, I would have at least written myself a note. Given myself a few tips.
Be careful of the glass leopard, it’s worth a bloody fortune. P.S., you like spiders
.

There’s a beep from the screen. I catch my breath and look up. OF COURSE IS NOT IRREPLACEABLE! DON’T WORRY.

I feel a huge whoosh of relief. It’s all right.

THANKS! I type, smiling. WON’T BREAK ANYTHING ELSE, PROMISE!

I can’t believe I overreacted like that. I can’t believe I hid the pieces under a cushion. What am I, five years old? This is my own house. I’m a married woman. I have to start behaving like it. Still beaming to myself, I lift up the cushion to retrieve the pieces—and freeze.

Fuck.

The bloody glass has ripped the bloody cream sofa. I must have caught it as I shoved the pieces underneath. The plushy fabric’s all ragged.

The ten-thousand-pound sofa.

I automatically glance up at the screen—then quickly look away, hollow with fear. I can’t tell Eric I’ve ruined the sofa too. I
can’t
.

Okay. What I’ll do is…is…I won’t tell him today. I’ll wait for a better moment. Flustered, I rearrange the cushions so the rip isn’t visible. There. Good as new. No one looks under cushions, do they?

I grab the bits of glass leopard and head into the kitchen, which is all glossy gray-lacquer cupboards and rubber floor. I locate a roll of kitchen paper, wrap up the leopard, manage to track down the trash behind a streamlined unit door, and chuck the bits in. Okay. That’s it. I am not wrecking anything else.

A buzzer sounds through the apartment and I look up, my spirits lifting. This must be Rosalie, my new best friend. I can’t wait to meet her.

Rosalie turns out to be even skinnier than she looked on the wedding DVD. She’s dressed in black capri pants, a pink cashmere V neck, and huge Chanel sunglasses pushing her blond hair back. As I open the door she gives a small shriek and drops the Jo Malone gift bag she’s holding.

“
Oh
my God, Lexi. Look at your poor face.”

“It’s fine!” I say reassuringly. “Honestly, you should have seen me six days ago. I had a plastic staple in my head.”

“You poor thing. What a
night
mare.” She retrieves her gift bag, then kisses me on each cheek. “I would have come around earlier, only you
know
how long I waited to get that slot at Cheriton Spa.”

“Come in.” I gesture to the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sweetie…” She looks puzzled. “I don’t drink coffee. Dr. André banned me. You know that.”

“Oh right.” I pause. “The thing is…I don’t remember. I have amnesia.”

Rosalie is gazing at me, politely blank. Doesn’t she know? Didn’t Eric tell her?

“I don’t remember anything about the last three years,” I try again. “I hit my head and it’s all been wiped from my memory.”

“
Oh
my God.” Rosalie’s hand goes to her mouth. “Eric kept saying things about amnesia and you wouldn’t know me. I thought he was joking!”

I want to giggle at her horrified expression. “No, he wasn’t joking. To me you’re…a stranger.”

“I’m a stranger?” She sounds hurt.

“Eric was a stranger too,” I add hastily. “I woke up and I didn’t know who he was. I still don’t, really.”

There’s a short silence during which I can see Rosalie processing this information. Her eyes widen and her cheeks puff out and she chews her lip.

“
Oh
my God,” she says at last. “
Night
mare.”

“I don’t know this place.” I spread my arms around. “I don’t know my own home. I don’t know what my life is like. If you could help me out, or…tell me a few things…”

“Absolutely! Let’s sit down…” She leads the way into the kitchen area. She dumps the Jo Malone bag on the counter and sits down at the trendy steel breakfast table—and I follow suit, wondering if I chose this table, or Eric chose it, or we both chose it together.

I look up to see Rosalie staring at me. At once she smiles—but I can see she’s freaked out.

“I know,” I say. “It’s a weird situation.”

“So, is it
permanent
?”

“Apparently my memory could come back, but no one knows if it will. Or when it will, or how much.”

“And apart from that, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, except one of my hands is a bit slow.” I lift up my left hand to show her. “I’ve got physio exercises to do.” I flex my hand like the physiotherapist taught me, and Rosalie watches in fascinated horror.

“
Night
mare,” she breathes.

“But the real problem is…I don’t know anything about my life since 2004. It’s just a big black hole. The doctors said I should try and talk to my friends and build up a picture, and maybe that’ll trigger something.”

“Of
course
.” Rosalie nods. “Let me fill you in. What do you want to know?” She leans forward expectantly.

“Well…” I think for a moment. “How did we two meet?”

“It was about two and a half years ago.” Rosalie nods firmly. “I was at a drinks party, and Eric said, ‘This is Lexi.’ And I said, ‘Hi!’ And that’s how we met!” She beams.

“Right.” I shrug apologetically. “I don’t remember.”

“We were at Trudy Swinson’s? You know, who used to be an air hostess, but she met Adrian on a flight to New York, and everyone says she zeroed in on him as soon as she spotted his black Amex…” She trails off, as if the enormity of the situation is hitting her for the first time. “So you don’t remember any
gossip
?”

“Well…no.”

“
Oh
my God.” She blows out sharply. “I have so much to fill you in on. Where shall I start? Okay, so there’s me.” She pulls a pen out of her bag and starts writing. “And my husband, Clive, and his evil bitch ex, Davina.
Wait
till you hear about her. And there’s Jenna and Petey—”

“Do we ever hang out with my other friends?” I interrupt her. “Like Fi and Carolyn? Or Debs? Do you know them?”

“Carolyn. Carolyn.” Rosalie taps the pen against her teeth, frowning thoughtfully. “Is she that lovely French girl at the gym?”

“No, Carolyn my friend from work. And Fi. I must have talked about them, surely. I’ve been friends with Fi forever…we go out every Friday night…”

Rosalie looks blank.

“Sweetie, to be honest, I’ve never heard you mention them. As far as I know, you never socialize with colleagues from work.”

“What?” I stare at her. “But…it’s our thing! We go clubbing and we dress up and we have cocktails…”

Rosalie laughs. “Lexi, I’ve never even
seen
you with a cocktail! You and Eric are both so serious about wine.”

Wine?
That can’t be right. All I know about wine is that it comes from Oddbins.

“You look confused,” Rosalie says anxiously. “I’m bombarding you with too much information. Forget the gossip.” She pushes aside her sheet of paper, on which I can see she’s written a list of names with “bitch” and “sweetheart” next to them. “What would you like to do?”

“Maybe we could just do whatever we normally do together?”

“Absolutely!” Rosalie ponders for a moment, then her brow clears. “We should go to the gym.”

“The gym,” I echo, trying to sound enthused. “Of course. So…I go to the gym a lot?”

“Sweetie, you’re addicted! You run for an hour every other morning at six a.m.”

Six a.m.? Running?

I never run. It’s painful and it makes your boobs bounce around. I once did a mile-long fun run with Fi and Carolyn, and I nearly died. Although at least I was better than Fi, who gave up running after two minutes and walked the rest of the way, smoking a cigarette, and then got into a row with the organizers and was banned from any future Cancer Research fund-raisers.

“But don’t worry, we’ll do something lovely and restful today,” Rosalie says reassuringly. “A massage, or a nice gentle stretch class. Just grab your exercise clothes and we’ll go!”

“Okay!” I hesitate. “Actually, this is a bit embarrassing…but I don’t know where my clothes are. All the cupboards in our bedroom are full of Eric’s suits. I can’t find any of mine.”

Rosalie looks utterly pole-axed. “You don’t know where your
clothes
are?” Tears suddenly spring to her huge blue eyes and she fans her face. “I’m sorry,” she gulps. “But it’s just come home to me how horrific and scary this must be for you. To have forgotten your entire wardrobe.” She takes a deep breath, composing herself, then squeezes my hand. “Come with me, sweetie. I’ll show you.”

So the reason I couldn’t find my clothes is they’re not in a wardrobe, they’re in a whole other room, behind a concealed door which looks like a mirror. And the reason they need a whole other room is because there’s
so bloody many of them
.

As I stare at the racks I feel faint. I’ve never seen so many clothes, not outside a shop. Crisp white shirts, tailored black trousers, suits in shades of mushroom and taupe. Chiffony evening wear. Tights rolled up in their own special drawer. Folded silky knickers with La Perla labels. I can’t see anything that doesn’t look brand-new and immaculate. There are no baggy jeans, no sloppy sweaters, no comfy old pj’s.

I leaf through a row of jackets, all pretty much identical apart from the buttons. I can’t believe I’ve spent so much money on clothes and they’re all versions of beige.

“What do you think?” Rosalie is watching me, her eyes sparkling.

“Amazing!”

“Ann has a great eye.” She nods sagely. “Ann, your personal shopper.”

“I have a personal shopper?”

“Just for the main pieces each season…” Rosalie pulls out a dark blue dress with spaghetti straps and the tiniest ruffle around the hem. “Look, this is the dress you wore when we first met. I remember thinking, ‘Ah,
this
is the girl Eric’s smitten with.’ It was the talk of the party! And let me tell you, Lexi, there were a
lot
of disappointed girls out there when you two got married….” She reaches for a long black evening dress. “This is the dress you wore to my murder mystery evening.” She holds it up against me. “With a little fur shrug and pearls…Don’t you remember?”

“Not really.”

“What about this Catherine Walker? You
must
remember that…or your Roland Mouret…” Rosalie is whipping out dress after dress, none of which looks remotely familiar. She reaches a pale garment carrier and stops with a gasp. “Your wedding dress!” Slowly, reverently, she unzips the garment carrier and pulls out the silky white sheath I recognize from the DVD. “Doesn’t that bring it all back?”

I stare at the dress, trying as hard as I can to will my memory to return…but nothing.

“
Oh
my God.” Rosalie suddenly claps a hand over her mouth. “You and Eric should have a renewal of vows! I’ll plan it for you! We could have a Japanese theme, you could wear a kimono—”

“Maybe!” I cut her off. “It’s early days. I’ll…think about it.”

“Hmm.” Rosalie looks disappointed as she packs the wedding dress away. Then her face lights up. “Try the shoes. You
have
to remember your shoes.”

She heads to the other side of the room and flings open a cupboard door. And I stare in disbelief. I’ve never seen so many shoes. All in neat rows, most of them high-heeled. What am I doing with high-heeled shoes?

“This is unbelievable.” I turn to Rosalie. “I can’t even
walk
in heels, God knows why I bought them.”

“Yes, you can.” Rosalie looks puzzled. “Of course you can.”