Remember Me? (11 page)

“Well, I guess I’ll go to bed, then,” I say. “Bye.”

Rosalie blows me a kiss and closes the door behind her, and I head into the bedroom, which is all cream and luxurious dark wood, with a massive suede-upholstered bed. Eric has insisted that I take the main bedroom, which is very kind and noble of him. Mind you, the spare room is pretty sumptuous too; in fact, I think he gets his own Jacuzzi, so he can’t complain.

I kick off my heels, climb under the duvet, and feel myself instantly relax. This is the most comfortable bed I have ever been in,
ever
. I wriggle around a bit, luxuriating in the smooth sheets and perfect squashy pillows. Mmm, that’s good. I’ll just close my eyes and have a tiny kip…

I wake to a dim light and the sound of chinking crockery.

“Darling?” comes a voice from outside the door. “Are you awake?”

“Oh.” I struggle to a sitting position and rub my eyes. “Er…hi.”

The door opens and in comes Eric, holding a tray and a shopping bag.

“You’ve been asleep for hours. I’ve brought you some supper.” He heads toward the bed, puts down the tray, and switches on the bedside light. “It’s Thai chicken soup.”

“I love Thai chicken soup!” I say in delight. “Thanks!”

Eric smiles and hands me a spoon. “Rosalie told me you two girls went to the gym today.”

“Yes. It was great.” I take a spoonful of soup and it’s absolutely delicious. God, I’m ravenous. “Eric, you couldn’t get me a piece of bread, could you?” I raise my head. “Just to mop this up?”

“Bread?” Eric frowns, looking puzzled. “Darling, we don’t keep bread in the house. We’re both low-carb.”

Oh, right. I’d forgotten about the low-carb thing.

“No problem!” I smile at him and take another mouthful of soup. I can be low-carb. Easy.

“Which brings me to my little gift,” says Eric. “Or in fact…two gifts. This is the first one….”

He reaches into the shopping bag and produces a laminated ring-bound booklet, which he hands to me with a flourish. The front cover is a color photograph of me and Eric in our wedding outfits, and the title reads:
Eric and Lexi Gardiner: Marriage Manual.

“You remember the doctor suggested writing down all the details of our life together?” Eric looks proud. “Well, I’ve compiled this booklet for you. Any question you have about our marriage and life together, the answer should be in there.”

I turn the first page, and there’s a frontispiece.

Eric and Lexi

A better marriage for a better world

“We have a mission statement?” I’m slightly stunned.

“I came up with it just now.” Eric shrugs modestly. “What do you think?”

“It’s great!” I flip through the booklet. There are pages of print, interspersed with headings, photographs, and even some hand-drawn diagrams. I can see sections on holidays, family, laundry, weekends…

“I’ve organized the entries in alphabetical order,” Eric explains. “And indexed them. It should be fairly simple to use.”

I flip to the index and run my eyes down the page at random.

Tomatoes—pp. 5, 23

Tongs
—see
Barbecue

Tongues—p. 24

Tongues?
Immediately I start flipping to page twenty-four.

“Don’t try and read it now.” Eric gently closes the manual. “You need to eat and sleep.”

I’ll look up “tongues” later. When he’s gone.

I finish the rest of the soup and lean back with a contented sigh. “Thank you so much, Eric. That was perfect.”

“It’s no trouble, my darling.” Eric removes the tray and puts it on the dressing table. As he does so, he notices my shoes on the floor. “Lexi!” He flashes me a smile. “Shoes go in your dressing room.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry.”

“No problem. There’s a lot to learn.” He comes back over to the bed and reaches into his pocket. “And this is my other gift…” He produces a little jewelry box made of leather.

My head starts prickling in disbelief as I gaze at it. My husband is giving me a present in a posh jewelry box. Just like grown-up people in movies.

“I’d like you to have something you actually
remember
me giving you,” Eric says with a rueful smile, then nods at the box. “Open it.”

I pry it open—and find a single diamond strung on a gold chain.

“Like it?”

“It’s…it’s amazing!” I stammer. “I love it! Thank you so much!”

Eric reaches over and strokes my hair. “It’s good to have you home, Lexi.”

“It’s good to
be
home,” I reply with fervor.

Which is almost true. I can’t honestly say this place feels like home yet. But it feels like a really swish five-star hotel, which is even
better
. I take out the diamond and look at it in awe. Meanwhile Eric is playing idly with a strand of my hair, a tender expression on his face.

“Eric,” I say, a bit shyly. “When we first met, what did you see in me? Why did you fall in love with me?”

A reminiscent smile flickers across Eric’s face.

“I fell in love with you, Lexi,” he says, “because you’re dynamic. You’re efficient. You’re hungry for success, like me. People call us hard, but we’re not. We’re just intensely competitive.”

“Right,” I say after a slight pause.

To be honest, I’ve never thought of myself as
that
intensely competitive. But then, maybe I am in 2007.

“And I fell in love with your beautiful mouth.” Eric touches my top lip gently. “And your long legs. And the way you swing your briefcase.”

He called me beautiful.

I’m listening, entranced. I want him to go on forever. No one has ever spoken to me like this, in my whole life.

“I’ll leave you now.” He kisses me on the forehead and picks up the tray. “You sleep well. See you in the morning.”

“See you then,” I murmur. “Good night, Eric. And…thank you!”

He closes the door and I’m left alone with my necklace and my marriage manual and my glow of euphoria. I have the dream husband. No, I have the
better
-than-a-dream husband. He brought me chicken soup and gave me a diamond and fell in love with the way I swing my briefcase.

I must have been Gandhi.

Chapter 8

Flossing—p. 19

Food,
see also
Daily Meals, Kitchen; Eating Out—p. 20

Foreplay—p. 21

No way. He put in a section on
foreplay
?

I’ve been flicking through the marriage manual ever since I woke up this morning—and it’s totally, utterly riveting. I feel like I’m spying on my own life. Not to mention Eric’s. I know everything, from where he buys his cuff links to what he thinks of the government to the fact that he checks his scrotum for lumps every month. (Which is a bit more than I bargained for. Did he have to mention his scrotum?)

It’s breakfast time, and we’re both sitting in the kitchen. Eric’s reading the
Financial Times,
and I was consulting the index to see what I normally eat. But Foreplay looks a whole lot more interesting than Food. Surreptitiously I turn to page twenty-one.

Oh my God. He seriously has written three paragraphs on foreplay! Under General Routine.

“…sweeping, regular motion…normally clockwise direction…gentle stimulation of the inner thighs…”

I splutter on my coffee and Eric looks up.

“All right, darling?” He smiles. “Is the manual helpful? Are you finding everything you need?”

“Yes!” I hastily flick to another section, feeling like a kid looking up rude words in the dictionary. “I was just finding out what I usually have for breakfast.”

“Gianna’s left some scrambled egg and bacon in the oven,” says Eric. “And you usually have some green juice.” He gestures at a jug of what looks like sludgy marsh water on the counter. “It’s a vitamin drink and natural appetite suppressant.”

I suppress a shudder. “I think I’ll give that a miss today.” I take some egg and bacon from the oven and try to quell my longing for three slices of granary toast to go with it.

“Your new car should be delivered later on.” Eric takes a sip of coffee. “The replacement for the one that was damaged. Although I’m guessing you won’t want to drive in a hurry.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I say helplessly.

“Well, we’ll see. You can’t yet, anyway, until you’ve retaken your driving test.” He wipes his mouth with a linen napkin and gets up. “There was another thing, Lexi. If you don’t mind, I’d like to schedule a small dinner party for next week. Just a few old friends.”

“A dinner party?” I echo, apprehensive. I’ve never really been the dinner-party-throwing type. Unless you count pasta on the sofa in front of
Will & Grace
as a dinner party.

“There’s nothing to worry about.” He puts his hands gently on my shoulders. “Gianna will do the catering. All you have to do is look wonderful. But if you’re not up to it, we can forget the idea.”

“Of course I’m up to it!” I say quickly. “I’m tired of everyone treating me like I’m an invalid. I feel great!”

“Well, that brings me to another subject. Work.” Eric shrugs on his jacket. “Obviously you’re not up to returning full-time just yet, but Simon was wondering if you’d like to go into the office for a visit. Simon Johnson,” he clarifies. “Do you remember him?”

“Simon Johnson? The managing director?”

“Uh-huh.” Eric nods. “He called here last night. We had a good chat. Nice guy.”

“I didn’t think he’d even
heard
of me!” I say in disbelief.

“Lexi, you’re an important member of the senior management team,” Eric says patiently. “Of course he’s heard of you.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

I chew my bacon, trying to look nonchalant—but inside, I want to cheer. This new life of mine gets better and better. I’m an important member of the senior management team! Simon Johnson knows who I am!

Eric is continuing. “We agreed it would be helpful for you to visit the office. It might help bring back your memory—as well as give reassurance to your department.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” I say with enthusiasm. “I could get to know my job again, see all the girls…We could have lunch.”

“Your deputy is standing in for you at the moment,” Eric says, consulting a notepad on the kitchen counter. “Byron Foster. Just till you return, obviously.”

“Byron’s my deputy now?” I say incredulously. “But Byron used to be my boss!”

Everything’s upside down. Everything’s unrecognizable. I can’t
wait
to get to the office and see what’s been going on.

Eric taps something into his BlackBerry, then puts it away and picks up his briefcase. “Have a good day, darling.”

“You too…er…darling!” I stand up as he turns to face me—and there’s a sudden frisson between us. Eric’s standing only inches away from me. I can just smell his aftershave and see a little nick on his neck where he cut himself shaving.

“I haven’t read the whole manual yet.” I suddenly feel awkward. “Would I normally…kiss you good-bye at this point?”

“You normally would, yes.” Eric sounds stiff too. “But please don’t feel you—”

“No! I want to! I mean…we should do everything just like we usually do.” I’m getting a bit pink in the face here. “So, would I kiss you on the cheek, or…or the lips…”

“The lips.” Eric clears his throat. “That would be the usual.”

“Right.” I nod. “So…um…” I reach out for his waist, trying to appear natural. “Like this? Tell me if it’s not the way I normally do it…”

“Probably just one hand,” Eric says after a moment’s thought. “And it’s usually a bit higher up.”

“Okay!” I shift one hand up to his shoulder and drop the other down, feeling as if I’m ballroom dancing. Then, keeping in position as best I can, I tilt my face up.

Eric has a strange little nodule on the end of his tongue, I suddenly notice. Okay…I won’t look at it. Concentrate on the kiss. He leans forward and his mouth brushes briefly against mine, and I feel…nothing.

I was hoping our first kiss would trigger all sorts of memories or sensations, maybe a sudden image of Paris or our wedding, or our first snog…. But as he draws away I feel totally, one hundred percent blank. I can see the anticipation in Eric’s face and quickly search for something encouraging to say.

“That was lovely! Very…”

I trail off, unable to think of a single word other than
quick,
which I’m not sure hits the right note.

“It didn’t bring back any memories?” Eric is studying my face.

“Well…no,” I say apologetically. “But, I mean, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t really…I mean it was…I feel quite turned on!” The words come out before I can stop them.

What the hell did I say that for? I don’t feel turned on.

“Really?” Eric lights up and he puts his briefcase down.

Oh no. No no no. Nooo.

I cannot possibly have sex with Eric yet. Number one, I don’t even know him, hardly. Number two, I haven’t read what happens after gentle stimulation of the inner thighs.

“Not
that
turned on,” I amend hastily. “I mean, just enough to know…to realize…I mean obviously we have a great…when it comes to the bedroom…um…arena…”

Stop. Talking. Lexi. Now.

“Anyway.” I smile as brightly as I can manage. “Have a great day.”

“You too.” Eric touches my cheek gently, then turns and strides off. I hear the door close, and subside into a chair. That was a bit close. I reach for the marriage manual and quickly flick to the “F” section. I need to read up on Foreplay.

Not to mention Fellatio, I suddenly notice. And Frequency (Sexual).

This could take me a while.

Two hours and three cups of coffee later, I close the manual and lean back, my head bursting with information. I’ve read it cover to cover, and I’ve pretty much got the whole picture.

I’ve learned that Eric and I often spend weekends away at “luxury boutique hotels.” I’ve learned that we enjoy watching business documentaries and
The West Wing.
And we had differing views on
Brokeback Mountain.
Which I’ve also learned was a film about gay cowboys. (Gay
cowboys
?)

I’ve learned that Eric and I share a love of wine from the Bordeaux region. I’ve learned that I’m “driven” and “focused” and “work 24-7 to get the job done.” I’ve learned I “don’t suffer fools gladly,” “despise time-wasters,” and am “someone who appreciates the finer things in life.”

Which is kind of news to me.

I get up and walk to the window, trying to digest everything I’ve read. The more I learn about twenty-eight-year-old Lexi, the more I feel like she’s a different person from me. She doesn’t just look different. She
is
different. She’s a boss. She wears beige designer clothes and La Perla underwear. She knows about wine. She never eats bread.

She’s a grown-up. That’s what she is. I gaze into the mirror and my twenty-eight-year-old face stares back.

How on earth did I get from me…to her?

On impulse I get up and head into the bedroom, then through that into the clothes room. There have to be some clues somewhere. I sit down at my smart, minimalist dressing table, and regard it silently.

I mean, look at this, for a start. My old dressing table was painted pink and a total mess—all scarves, necklaces looped over the mirror, and jars of makeup everywhere. But this is immaculate. Silver jars in rows, a single dish containing one pair of earrings, and an art deco hand mirror.

I open a drawer at random and find a pile of neatly folded scarves, on top of which is a shiny DVD marked
Ambition: EP1
in felt-tip marker. I pick it up, puzzled—and then suddenly realize what it is. It’s that program Amy was talking about. This is me on the telly!

Oh my God, I
have
to see this. First because I’m dying to know what I looked like. And second because it’s another piece of the puzzle. This reality show is where Eric first saw me. It gave me my big break at work. I probably had no idea at the time how crucial it was going to be.

I hurry into the living room, eventually manage to locate the DVD player behind a translucent panel, and slot it in. Soon the program titles are rolling on all the wall-mounted screens throughout the flat. I fast-forward until my face appears onscreen, then press Play.

I’m prepared to cringe with embarrassment and duck behind the sofa. But actually…I don’t look that bad! My teeth have already been veneered or capped or whatever—although my mouth looks much thinner than it does now. (I have
definitely
had collagen injections.) My chestnut hair’s been blow-dried and tied back in a ponytail. I’m wearing a black suit and an aquamarine shirt and I look totally businesslike.

“I need to succeed,” I’m saying to an off-camera interviewer. “I need to win this.”

Blimey. I look so
serious
. I don’t understand it. Why did I suddenly want to win a reality business show?

“Good morning, Lexi!” A voice makes me practically jump out of my skin. I jab at Stop on the remote and turn around to see a woman in her fifties. She has dark, gray-streaked hair tied back; she’s wearing a flowery overall; and she’s holding a plastic bucket full of cleaning things. An iPod is clipped to her overall pocket and from the speakers in her ears I can just hear the strains of opera.

“You’re up!” she says in a piercing voice. “How you feeling? Any better today?” Her accent is hard to place, kind of cockney mixed with Italian.

“Are you Gianna?” I say cautiously.

“Oh my Lord in heaven.” She crosses herself and kisses her fingers. “Eric warned me. You’re not right in the head, poor girl.”

“I’m fine, really,” I say hurriedly. “I’ve just lost a bit of memory. So I’m having to learn everything about my life again.”

“Well, I am Gianna.” She hits her chest.

“Great! Er…thanks.” I stand aside as Gianna moves past me and starts flicking over the glass surface of the coffee table with a feather duster, humming along to the iPod.

“Watching your TV show, are you?” she says, glancing past me at the huge screen.

“Oh. Er…I was. Just to remind myself.” I hastily turn it off. Meanwhile Gianna has started polishing a display of picture frames.

I twist my fingers awkwardly. How can I just
stand
here, watching another woman clean my house? Should I offer to help?

“What would you like me to cook for dinner tonight?” she says, starting to plump up the cushions on the sofa.

“Oh,” I say, looking up in horror. “Nothing! Really!”

I know Eric and I are all rich and everything, but I can’t ask someone else to cook my supper. It’s obscene.

“Nothing?” She pauses. “Are you going out?”

“No! I just thought…maybe I’d do the cooking myself tonight.”

“Oh, I see,” she says. “Well, it’s up to you.” Her face set, she picks up a cushion and bangs it out with more vigor. “I hope you enjoyed the soup last night,” she adds, without looking at me.

“It was delicious!” I say hastily. “Thanks! Lovely…flavors.”

“Good,” she says in a stiff voice. “I do my best.”

Oh God. She isn’t offended, is she?

“Let me know what you’d like me to buy for you to cook,” she continues, slapping the cushion down. “If you’re after something new, or different…”

Shit. She
is
offended.