Remember Me? (16 page)

“Well, near enough,” I retort, suddenly rattled. Who does this guy think he is, interrupting my dinner party to say he’s my lover? “Listen, Jon…whoever you are. I don’t believe you. I would never have an affair, okay? I have the dream marriage. I have the dream life!”

“The dream life?” Jon rubs his forehead as though trying to gather his thoughts. “That’s what you think?”

Something about this guy is getting under my skin.

“Of course!” I swing my arms around the kitchen. “Look at this place! Look at Eric! It’s all fantastic! Why would I throw it all away on some—”

I break off abruptly as the kitchen door swings open.

“Sweetheart.” Eric beams at me from the doorway. “How are those coffees going?”

“They’re…on their way,” I say, flustered. “Sorry, darling.” I turn away to hide the blood pumping through my cheeks, and start spooning coffee messily into the cafetiere. I just want this man to
leave
.

“Eric, I’m afraid I have to go,” Jon says behind me, as though reading my mind. “Thanks for a great evening.”

“Jon! Good man.” I can hear Eric clapping Jon on the back. “We should hook up tomorrow, talk about the planning meeting.”

“Let’s do it,” Jon replies. “Good-bye, Lexi. Nice to make your acquaintance again.”

“Good-bye, Jon.” Somehow I force myself to turn and present a hostessy smile. “Lovely to see you.” He bends forward and kisses me lightly on the cheek.

“You don’t know anything about your life,” he murmurs in my ear, then strides out of the kitchen without looking back.

Chapter 11

It can’t be true.

Morning light is creeping in around the blinds and I’ve been awake for a while, but I haven’t got out of bed. I’m gazing straight up at the ceiling, breathing evenly in and out. My theory is that if I lie still enough, maybe the maelstrom of my mind will calm down and everything will fall neatly into place.

So far it’s turning out to be a pretty crap theory.

Every time I replay the events of yesterday I feel giddy. I thought I was coming to grips with this new life of mine. I thought it was all falling into place. But now it’s like everything is slipping and sliding away. Fi says I’m a bitch-boss-from-hell. Some guy says I’m his secret lover. What next? I discover I’m an FBI agent?

It cannot be true. End of story. Why would I cheat on Eric? He’s good-looking and caring and a multimillionaire and knows how to drive a speedboat. Whereas Jon is scruffy. And kind of…spiky.

As for saying “You don’t know anything about your life”—what a nerve! I know
plenty
about my life, thank you. I know where I get my hair done, I know what dessert I had at my wedding, I know how often Eric and I have sex…It’s all in the manual.

And anyway, how rude is that? You don’t just pitch up in someone’s house and say “We’re lovers” when they’re trying to host a dinner party with their husband. You…you choose a different moment. You write a note.

No, you don’t write a note. You—

Anyway
. Stop thinking about it.

I sit up, press the button for the window blinds to retract, and run my fingers through my hair, wincing at the tangles. The screen in front of me is blank and the room is eerily silent. I still find it weird, after my drafty bedroom in Balham, to be living in such a hermetically sealed box. According to the manual we’re not supposed to open the windows because it messes up the air-conditioning system if you do.

This Jon guy is probably a psycho. He probably makes a habit of targeting people with amnesia and telling them he’s their lover. There’s no evidence we’re having an affair. None. I haven’t seen any mention of him, no scribbled notes, no photos, no mementos.

But then…I’d hardly leave them around for Eric to find, would I? says a tiny voice at the back of my brain.

I sit perfectly still for a moment, letting my thoughts swirl around. Then on impulse I get up and head into my clothes room. I hurry to the dressing table and wrench open the top drawer. It’s full of Chanel makeup, arranged in neat rows by Gianna. I shut the drawer and pull open the next, which is full of folded scarves. The next contains a jewelry roll and a suede photo album, both empty.

Slowly I shut the drawer. Even here, in my very own private sanctum, everything’s so tidy and sterile and kind of nothing-y. Where’s the mess? Where’s the stuff? Where’s the letters and the photos? Where’s all my studded belts and free lipsticks off crappy magazines? Where’s…
me
?

I lean forward on my elbows, chewing my nail for a moment. Then inspiration hits me. Underwear drawer. If I was going to hide anything, it would be there. I open the wardrobe and pull open my knicker drawer. I reach down among the satiny sea of La Perla—but I can’t feel anything. Nor in my bra drawer…

“Looking for something?” Eric’s voice makes me jump. I turn my head to see him standing at the door, watching me search, and at once my cheeks stain pink.

He knows.

No, he doesn’t. Don’t be stupid. There’s nothing
to
know.

“Hi, Eric!” I withdraw my hands from the cupboard as nonchalantly as I can. “I just thought I’d look for…some bras!”

Okay, this is the main reason why I can’t be having an affair. I’m the most crap liar in the world. Why would I need “some bras”? Do I suddenly have six boobs?

“Actually, I was wondering,” I continue hastily. “Is there any more of my stuff anywhere?”

“Stuff?” Eric wrinkles his brow.

“Letters, diaries, that kind of thing?”

“There’s your desk in the office. That’s where you keep all your work files.”

“Of course.” I’d forgotten about the office. Or rather, I thought it was more Eric’s domain than mine.

“It was a marvelous evening last night, I thought.” Eric comes a couple of steps into the room. “Bravo, darling. Can’t have been easy for you.”

“It was good fun.” I sit back on my haunches, fiddling with my watch strap. “There were some…interesting people there.”

“You weren’t too overwhelmed?”

“A little.” I shoot him a bright smile. “There’s still so much to learn.”

“Well, you know you can ask me anything about your life. That’s what I’m here for.” Eric spreads his arms. “Is there anything particular on your mind?”

I stare back at him for a moment, speechless.

Have I been shagging your architect, do you happen to know?

“Well.” I clear my throat. “Since you ask, I was just wondering. We are happy together, aren’t we? We do have a happy…faithful…marriage?”

I’m thinking I dropped in
faithful
quite subtly there, but Eric’s keen ears pick it up straightaway.

“Faithful?” He frowns. “Lexi, I’ve never been unfaithful to you. I would never
think
of being unfaithful to you. We made vows. We made a commitment.”

“Of course!” I exclaim quickly. “Absolutely.”

“I can’t even imagine how such an idea came to you.” He looks quite shocked. “Has someone been saying otherwise? One of our guests? Because whoever it was—”

“No! No one said anything! I just…everything’s still so new and strange.” I’m floundering, my face hot. “I just…thought I’d ask. Just out of interest.”

Okay, so we don’t have some open, groovy marriage. Just in case I needed that point clarified.

I shut the bra drawer, open another at random, and stare at three rows of rolled-up tights, my mind whirling. I should move away from this whole subject area. But I can’t help it, I have to probe.

“So, um, that guy…” I wrinkle my brow artificially as though I can’t remember his name. “The architect guy.”

“Jon.”

“
Jon.
Of course. He seems like a pretty good guy.” I shrug, trying to appear as casual as possible.

“Oh, one of the best,” says Eric firmly. “He’s been a massive part of our success. That guy has more imagination than anyone I know.”

“Imagination?” I seize on this with slight hope. “So is he maybe
over
imaginative sometimes? Like…a bit of a fantasist?”

“No.” Eric seems puzzled. “Not at all. He’s my right-hand man. You’d trust Jon with your life.”

To my relief, the phone suddenly gives a shrill ring, before Eric can ask why I’m so interested in Jon.

Eric disappears into the bedroom to answer it and I shut the tights drawer. I’m about to give up on searching in my cupboard when suddenly I see something I never noticed before. A concealed drawer, at the base of the unit, with a tiny keypad located to the right.

I have a secret drawer?

My heart starts to thump. Slowly I reach down and punch in the PIN number I’ve always used—4591. There’s a tiny click—and the drawer opens. Glancing at the door to make sure Eric isn’t there, I gingerly stretch out my hand and clasp my hand around something hard, like the handle of a…

It’s a whip.

For a moment I’m too gobsmacked to move. It’s a little whip, with strands of black leather, like something straight out of a bondage shop. I’m totally transfixed by the sight of it in my hand. Is this my adultery whip? Have I turned into a completely different person? Am I now a fetishist and go to S&M bars to drag men around while wearing a studded corset?

Suddenly I can feel eyes on me and turn to see Eric leaning in the doorway. His gaze falls on the whip and he raises his eyebrows quizzically.

“Oh!” I say, starting in panic. “I just…I found that here! I didn’t know…”

“You’d better not leave that around for Gianna to find.” He sounds amused.

I stare back, my befuddled brain working overtime. Eric knows about the whip. He’s smiling. That, therefore, would mean…

No. Way.

No way no way no way.

“This wasn’t in the manual, Eric!” I’m aiming to sound light and jokey, but my voice is shrill.

“Not everything’s in the manual.” His eyes twinkle.

Okay, this is changing the rules. I thought
everything
was supposed to be in the manual.

I glance at the whip nervously. So…what happens? Do I whip him? Or does he—

No. I can’t think about it anymore. I shove it back in the drawer and bang it shut, my hands sweaty.

“That’s right.” Eric gives me a tiny wink. “Keep it safe. See you later.” He heads out and a few moments later I hear the front door bang.

I think I might need a small vodka.

In the end I settle for a cup of coffee and two biscuits Gianna gives me from her private stash. God, I’ve missed biscuits. And bread. And
toast
. I could die for some toast, all chewy and golden, slathered in butter…

Anyway, stop fantasizing about carbs. And stop thinking about the whip. One teeny whip. So what?

Mum’s coming over to visit at eleven, and I have nothing to do till then. I wander into the sitting room, sit down on the arm of the immaculate sofa, and open a magazine. After two minutes I close it again. I’m too edgy to read. It’s as if tiny cracks are appearing in my perfect life. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what to do.

I put down my coffee cup and stare at my immaculate nails. I was a normal girl with frizzy hair and snaggle teeth and a crap boyfriend. And a fairly crap job, and friends who I had a laugh with, and a cozy little flat.

And now…I still do a double take whenever I catch my reflection in the mirror. I don’t see my personality reflected anywhere in this apartment. The TV show…the high heels…my friends refusing to hang out with me…a guy saying he’s my secret lover…I just don’t know who I’ve turned into. I don’t get what the fuck’s
happened
to me.

On impulse I head into the office. There’s my desk, all spick-and-span with the chair pushed under tidily. I’ve never owned a desk that looked like that in my life; no wonder I didn’t realize it was mine. I sit down and open the first drawer. It’s full of letters, tidily clipped together in plastic files. The second is full of bank statements, threaded onto a piece of blue string.

Jeez Louise. Since when did I become so
anal
?

I open the last, biggest drawer, expecting to find neatly stacked bottles of Wite-Out or something—but it’s empty except for two scraps of paper.

I pull the bank statements out of the other drawer and flick through them, my eyes widening as I clock my monthly salary, which is at least three times what I used to earn. Most of my money seems to be going out of my single account into the joint account I hold with Eric, except one big sum every month, going to something called “Unito Acc.” I’ll have to find out what that is.

I put the bank statements away and reach into the bottom drawer for the scraps of paper. One is covered in my own handwriting—but so abbreviated I can’t make anything out. It’s almost in code. The other is torn out of a foolscap pad and has my writing scrawled across it, only three words in pencil.

I just wish

I stare at it, riveted. What? What did I wish?

As I turn the scrap over in my fingers I try to imagine myself writing those words. I even try—though I know it’s pointless—to remember myself writing them. Was it a year ago? Six months? Three weeks? What was I talking about?

The buzzer rings, interrupting my thoughts. I fold the scrap of paper carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I bang the empty drawer shut and head out.

Mum has brought three of the dogs along with her. Three huge, energetic whippets. To an immaculate apartment full of immaculate things.

“Hi, Mum!” I take her tatty quilted jacket and try to kiss her as two of the dogs slip out of her grasp and bound toward the sofa. “Wow. You brought…dogs!”

“The poor things looked so lonely as I was leaving.” She embraces one of them, rubbing her cheek against its face. “Agnes is feeling rather
vulnerable
at the moment.”