Remember Me? (14 page)

My office door shuts and I tiptoe toward it. I open it a chink and poke my head out.

“…she’s
clearly
not fit to lead this department…” Byron’s voice is audible as he and Dana turn the corner toward the lifts.

Bastard. He didn’t even bother waiting until he was out of earshot. I head back into my office, slump down at the desk, and bury my head in my hands. All my euphoria has vanished. I have no idea how I ever got this job. I lift a paper at random from the heap in front of me and stare at it. It’s something about insurance premiums. How do I
know
all this stuff, anyway? When did I learn it? I feel like I’ve woken up clinging to the top of Mount Everest and I don’t even know what a crampon is.

Heaving a huge sigh, I put the sheet down. I need to talk to someone. Fi. I lift the phone receiver and dial 352, which is her extension, unless they’ve changed the system.

“Flooring department, Fiona Roper speaking.”

“Fi, it’s me!” I say. “Lexi. Listen, can we talk?”

“Of course,” Fi says in formal tones. “Do you want me to come in and see you now? Or should I make an appointment with Clare?”

My heart sinks. She sounds so…remote.

“I just meant we could have a chat! Unless you’re busy…”

“Actually, I was about to go to lunch.”

“Well, I’ll come too!” I say eagerly. “Like old times! I could die for a hot chocolate. And does Morellis still do those great paninis?”

“Lexi…”

“Fi, I really need to talk to you, okay?” I clutch the phone tighter. “I…I don’t remember anything. And it’s freaking me out a bit. The whole situation.” I try to laugh. “Just hang on, I’ll be out in a moment…”

I thrust down the receiver and grab a piece of paper. I hesitate, then scrawl, “Please action all these, Byron. Many thanks, Lexi.”

I know I’m playing right into his hands. But right now all I care about is seeing my friends. Seizing my bag and briefcase, I hurry out of my office, past Clare’s desk, and into the main Flooring department.

“Hi, Lexi,” says a nearby girl. “Did you want something?”

“No, it’s okay, thanks, I’m just meeting Fi for lunch…” I trail off. I can’t see Fi anywhere in the office. Or Carolyn. Or Debs.

The girl looks surprised. “I think they’ve already gone to lunch. You only just missed them, though…”

“Oh right.” I try to hide my discomfiture. “Thanks. I expect they meant to meet in the lobby.”

I swivel on my heel, then walk as fast as I can in my spiky shoes along the corridor—just in time to see Debs disappearing into a lift.

“Wait!” I cry out, breaking into a run. “I’m here! Debs!” But the lift doors are already closing.

She heard me. I know she did.

Thoughts are spinning wildly around in my head as I shove open the door to the stairs and clatter down. They knew I was coming. Are they avoiding me? What the fuck has gone on these last three years? We’re
friends.
Okay, I know I’m boss now…but you can be friends with your boss, can’t you?

Can’t you?

I arrive at the ground floor and almost tumble into the foyer. The first thing I see is Carolyn and Debs heading out the main glass doors, with Fi just in front of them.

“Hi!” I cry out almost desperately. “Wait!” I pelt toward the glass doors and at last catch up with them on the front steps of the building.

“Oh, hi, Lexi.” Fi gives a tiny snort that I know means she’s trying not to laugh.

I suppose I do look a bit incongruous, running along red-faced in my black suit and chignon.

“I thought we were going to have lunch together!” I say, panting. “I told you I was coming!”

There’s silence. No one is meeting my eyes. Debs is twiddling her long silver pendant; her blond hair is lifting in the breeze. Carolyn has taken off her glasses and is polishing them on her white shirt.

“What’s going on?” I try to sound relaxed, but I can hear a throb of hurt in my own voice. “Fi, why didn’t you return any of my messages? Is there some kind of…problem?”

None of them speaks. I can almost see the thought-bubbles traveling between them. But I can’t read the thought-bubbles anymore; I’m out of the loop.

“You guys.” I attempt a smile. “Please. You have to help me out. I have amnesia. I don’t remember. Did we have a…a row or something?”

“No.” Fi shrugs.

“Well, I don’t understand it.” I look around the faces entreatingly. “Last I remember, we were best mates! Going out on a Friday night. We had banana cocktails, Loser Dave stood me up, we did karaoke…remember?”

Fi exhales sharply and raises her eyebrows at Carolyn. “That was a
long
time ago.”

“So, what’s happened since?”

“Look.” Fi sighs. “Let’s just leave it. You’ve had this accident, you’re ill, we don’t want to upset you.”

“Yes, let’s just all go and get a sandwich together.” Debs glances at Fi as though to say “Humor her.”

“Don’t
patronize
me!” My voice is sharper than I meant. “Forget about the accident! I’m not an invalid. I’m fine. But I need you to tell me the truth.” I look around the group in desperation. “If we didn’t have a row, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Lexi, nothing happened.” Fi sounds awkward. “It’s just…we don’t really hang out with you anymore. We’re not mates.”

“But why not?” My heart is thudding, but I’m trying to stay calm. “Is it because I’m the boss now?”

“It’s not because you’re the
boss
. That wouldn’t matter if you were—” Fi breaks off. She shoves her hands in her pockets, not meeting my eye. “If I’m honest, it’s because you’re a bit of a…”

“What?” I’m looking from face to face in bewilderment. “Tell me!”

Fi shrugs. “Snotty cow.”

“Total bitch-boss-from-hell, more like,” mutters Carolyn.

The air seems to freeze solid in my lungs. Bitch-boss-from-hell? Me?

“I…I don’t understand,” I stammer at last. “Aren’t I a good boss?”

“Oh, you’re great.” Carolyn’s voice drips with sarcasm. “You penalize us if we’re late. You time our lunch hours. You do spot checks on our expenses…. Oh, it’s a bundle off un in Flooring!”

My cheeks are throbbing as though she’d hit me.

“But I would never…That’s not what I’m like—”

Carolyn cuts me off. “Yeah. It is.”

“Lexi, you asked.” Fi is rolling her eyes, like she always does when she’s uncomfortable. “That’s why we don’t hang out anymore. You do your thing and we do ours.”

“I can’t be a bitch,” I manage at last, my voice trembling. “I can’t be. I’m your friend! Lexi! We have fun together, we go out dancing together, we get pissed…” Tears are pricking my eyes. I look around the faces I know so well—yet kind of don’t—trying desperately to spark a chord of recognition. “I’m me! Lexi. Snaggletooth. Remember
me
?”

Fi and Carolyn exchange looks.

“Lexi…” Fi says almost gently. “You’re our boss. We do what you say. But we don’t have lunch. And we don’t go out.” She hefts her bag on her shoulder, then sighs. “Look, come along today if you want to…”

“No,” I say, stung. “It’s okay, thanks.” And with shaky legs I turn and walk away.

Chapter 10

I’m numb with shock.

All the way home from the office, I sat in my taxi in a kind of trance. Somehow I managed to talk to Gianna about the dinner party arrangements and listen to Mum when she called to complain about her latest run-in with the council. And now it’s early evening and I’m in the bath. But all the time my thoughts have been circulating around and around.

I’m a bitch-boss-from-hell. My friends all hate me. What the fuck has happened?

Every time I remember Carolyn’s scathing voice, I flinch. God knows what I’ve done to her—but she obviously has no time for me.

Have I really turned into a bitch over the last three years? But how?
Why?

The water is growing tepid and at last I heave myself out. I rub myself briskly, trying to energize myself. I can’t keep obsessing about it. It’s already six, and in an hour I have to host a dinner party.

At least I don’t have to cook. When I arrived home, Gianna was busy in the kitchen with two of her nieces—all singing along to the opera blaring out of the speakers. There were platters of sushi and canapés on every shelf in the fridge and the most amazing smell of roasting meat. I tried to join in—I’m pretty good at garlic bread—but they bustled me away. So I decided I’d be safest in the bath.

I wrap a fresh towel around myself and pad into the bedroom—then double back into the dressing room for my clothes. Jeez Louise. I know why rich people are so thin: it’s from trekking around their humongous houses the whole time. In my Balham flat I could reach the wardrobe from the bed. And the TV. And the toaster.

I pick out a little black dress, some little black underwear, and some minuscule black satin shoes. There’s nothing in my 2007 wardrobe that’s
big.
No cuddly sweaters, no chunky shoes. Everything’s slimline and tailored, to match me.

As I trail back into the bedroom I let my towel drop onto the floor.

“Hi, Lexi!”

“Aargh!”
I jump in fright. The big screen at the base of the bed has lit up with a huge image of Eric’s face. I clap my hands over my chest and duck behind a chair.

I’m naked. And he can see me.

He’s my husband, I remind myself feverishly. He’s seen it all before—it’s fine.

It doesn’t
feel
fine.

“Eric, can you see me?” I say in a high-pitched, strangled voice.

“Not right now.” He laughs. “Put the setting to Camera.”

“Oh! Okay!” I say in relief. “Just give me a sec…”

I sling on a dressing gown, then quickly start gathering the clothes I’ve dropped about the room. Something I’ve learned pretty quickly is that Eric doesn’t like things lying around on the floor. Or on chairs. Or basically any kind of mess at all. I shove them all under the duvet as quickly as possible, plonk a cushion on top, and smooth it down as best I can.

“Ready!” I head to the screen and swivel the dial to Camera.

“Move back,” Eric instructs me, and I back away from the screen. “Now I can see you! So, I’ve got one more meeting, then I’ll be on my way home. Is everything set up for dinner?”

“I think so!”

“Excellent.” His huge pixellated mouth spreads in a jerky beam. “And how was work?”

“It was great!” Somehow I manage a cheerful tone. “I saw Simon Johnson and all my department, and my friends…”

I trail off, suddenly feeling a burn of humiliation. Can I even describe them as friends anymore?

“Marvelous.” I’m not sure Eric’s even listening. “Now you really should be getting ready. I’ll see you later, darling.”

“Wait,” I say on impulse. “Eric.”

This is my husband. I may barely know him—but he knows me. He loves me. If there’s anyone I should confide in about my problems, if anyone can reassure me, it’s him.

“Fire away.” Eric nods, his screen movements slow and jerky.

“Today, Fi said…” I can hardly bring myself to say the words. “She said I was a bitch. Is that true?”

“Of course you’re not a bitch.”

“Really?” I feel a pang of hope. “So I’m not a horrible bitch-boss-from-hell?”

“Darling, there’s no way you’re horrible. Or a bitch-boss-from-hell.”

Eric sounds so sure, I relax in relief. There’ll be an explanation. Maybe some wires have got crossed—there’s been a misunderstanding, it’ll all be fine—

“I’d say you were…tough,” he adds.

My relieved smile freezes on my face. Tough? I don’t like the sound of
tough
.

“Do you mean tough in a good way?” I try to sound casual. “Like, tough, but still really friendly and nice?”

“Sweetheart, you’re focused. You’re driven. You drive your department hard. You’re a great boss.” He smiles. “Now, I must go. I’ll see you later.”

The screen goes dark and I stare at it, totally unreassured. In fact, I’m more alarmed than ever.

Tough. Isn’t that just another way of saying “bitch-boss-from-hell”?

Whatever the truth is, I can’t let all this get to me. I have to keep everything in perspective. It’s an hour later, and my spirits have risen a little. I’ve put on my new diamond necklace. I’ve sprayed myself with lots of expensive scent. And I’ve had a sneaky little glass of wine, which has made everything look a lot better.

So maybe things aren’t as perfect as I thought. Maybe I’ve fallen out with my friends; maybe Byron is after my job; maybe I don’t have a clue who Tony Dukes is. But I can put it all right. I can learn my job. I can build bridges with Fi and the others. I can google Tony Dukes.

And the point is, I’m still the luckiest girl in the world. I have a gorgeous husband, a wonderful marriage, and a stunning apartment. I mean, just look around! Tonight the place looks even more jaw-dropping than ever. The florist has been and gone—and there are arrangements of lilies and roses everywhere. The dining table has been extended and laid for dinner with gleaming silverware and crystal and a centerpiece like at weddings. There are even place cards written out in calligraphy!

Eric said it was a “casual little supper.” God knows what we do when it’s formal. Maybe have ten butlers in white gloves or something.

I carefully apply my Lancôme lipstick and blot it. When I’ve finished I can’t help staring at myself in the mirror. My hair is up and my dress fits to perfection and there are diamonds at my ears and throat. I look like some elegant girl in an ad. Like any minute a caption will appear on the screen below me.

Ferrero Rocher. For the finer things in life
.

British Gas. Keeping you warm in your million-billion-pound trendy loft apartment
.

I step back and automatically the lights change from the mirror spotlight to more of an ambient glow. The “intelligent lighting” in this room is like magic: it figures out where you are from heat sensors and then adjusts accordingly.

I quite like trying to catch it out by running around the room and shouting, “Ha! Not so intelligent
now,
are you?”

When Eric’s out, obviously.

“Darling!” I jump, and turn to see him standing at the door, in his business suit. “You look wonderful.”

“Thanks!” I glow with pleasure and pat my hair.

“One tiny thing. Briefcase in the hall. Good idea?” His smile doesn’t waver, but I can hear the annoyance in his voice.

Shit. I must have left it there. I was so preoccupied when I arrived home, I didn’t think.

“I’ll move it,” I say hastily. “Sorry.”

“Good.” He nods. “But first, taste this.” He hands me a glass of ruby-red wine. “It’s the Château Branaire Ducru. We bought it on our last trip to France. I’d like your opinion.”

“Right.” I try to sound confident. “Absolutely.”

Oh no. What am I going to say? Cautiously I take a sip and swill it around my mouth, racking my brain for all the wine-buff words I can think of. Leathery. Oaky. A fine vintage.

Come to think of it, they all just bullshit, don’t they? Okay, I’ll say it’s a divinely full-bodied vintage with hints of strawberries. No, blackcurrants. I swallow the mouthful and nod knowledgeably at Eric.

“You know, I think this is a div—”

“It’s shocking, isn’t it?” Eric cuts me off. “Corked. Totally off.”

Off?

“Oh! Er…yes!” I regain my composure. “Way past the sell-by date. Urggh.” I make a face. “Revolting!”

That was a close shave. I put the glass down on a side table and the intelligent lighting adjusts again.

“Eric,” I say, trying not to give away my exasperation. “Can we have a lighting mix that just stays the same all night? I don’t know if that’s possible—”

“
Anything
is possible.” Eric sounds a bit offended. “We have infinite choice. That’s what loft-style living is all about.” He passes me a remote control. “Here. You can override the system with this. Pick a mood. I’ll go and sort out the wine.”

I head into the sitting room, find Lighting on the remote, and start experimenting with moods. Daylight is too bright. Cinema is too dark. Relax is dull…. I scroll much farther down. Reading…Disco…

Hey. We have disco lights? I press the remote—and laugh out loud as the room is suddenly filled with pulsating multicolored lights. Now let’s try Strobe. A moment later the room is flashing black and white and I gleefully start robotic dancing around the coffee table. This is like a club! Why didn’t Eric tell me we had this before? Maybe we have dry ice, too, and a mirror ball….

“Jesus Christ, Lexi, what are you
doing
!” Eric’s voice pierces the flashing room. “You put the whole fucking apartment on Strobe Light! Gianna nearly chopped her arm off!”

“Oh no! Sorry.” Guiltily I fumble for the remote and jab it until we’re back on disco. “You never told me we had disco and strobe lights! This is fantastic!”

“We never use them.” Eric’s face is a multicolored whirl. “Now find something sensible, for God’s sake.” He turns and disappears.

How can we have disco lights and never use them? What a waste! I
have
to have Fi and the others around for a party. We’ll get some wine and nibbles, and we’ll clear the floor and ramp up the volume—

And then my heart constricts as I remember. That won’t be happening anytime soon. Or maybe ever.

Deflated, I switch the lighting to Reception Area One, which is as good as anything else. I put down the remote, walk over to the window, and stare out at the street below, suddenly determined. I’m not giving up. These are my
friends
. I’m going to find out what’s been going on. And then I’m going to make up with them.

My plan for the dinner party was to memorize each guest’s face and name using visualization techniques. But this scheme disintegrates almost at once when three golfing buddies of Eric’s arrive together in identical suits, with identical faces and even more identical wives. Their names are things like Greg and Mick and Suki and Pooky, and they immediately start discussing a skiing holiday we all apparently went on once.

I sip my drink and smile a lot, and then about ten more guests arrive at once and I have no idea who anyone is except Rosalie, who dashed up, introduced her husband, Clive (who doesn’t seem like a monster at all, just a mild-mannered guy in a suit), and then rushed off again.

After a bit my ears are ringing and I feel dizzy. Gianna is serving drinks and her niece is handing out canapés and everything seems under control. So I murmur an excuse to the balding guy who’s telling me about Mick Jagger’s electric guitar, which he’s just bought at a charity auction, and slip away and head out to the terrace.

I take a few lungfuls of clean air, my head still spinning. A blue-gray dusk is falling and the streetlamps are just coming on. As I gaze out over London I don’t feel real. I feel like someone playing the part of a girl in a dress standing on a posh balcony with a glass of champagne in her hand.

“Darling! There you are!”

I turn to see Eric pushing the sliding doors open. “Hi!” I call back. “I was just getting some air.”

“Let me introduce Jon, my architect.” Eric ushers out a dark-haired man in black jeans and a charcoal linen jacket.

“Hello,” I begin automatically, then stop. “Hey, we know each other!” I exclaim, relieved to have found a familiar face. “Don’t we? You’re the guy from the car.”