Remember Me? (18 page)

I stare at the screen, gripped. Dad’s sitting in an armchair, wearing a red plushy dressing gown. I don’t recognize the room—but then, I never did get to see many of Dad’s homes. His face is gaunt, the way I remember it after he got ill. It was as though he was slowly deflating. But his green eyes are twinkling and there’s a cigar in his hand.

“Hello,” he says, his voice hoarse. “It’s me. Well, you know that.” He gives a little laugh, then breaks into a hacking cough, which he relieves by taking a puff on his cigar as if it was a drink of water. “We all know this operation has a fifty-fifty chance of survival. My own fault for buggering up my body. So I thought I’d do a little message to you, my family, just in case.”

He pauses and takes a deep slug from a tumbler of whisky. His hand is shaking as he puts it down, I notice. Did he know he was going to die? Suddenly there’s a hard lump in my throat. I glance over at Amy. She’s let go of her phone and is watching, too, transfixed.

“Live a good life,” Dad is saying to the camera. “Be happy. Be kind to one another. Barbara, stop living your life through those bloody dogs. They’re not human. They’re never going to love you or support you or go to bed with you. Unless you’re
very
desperate.”

I clap my hand over my mouth. “He
didn’t
say that!”

“He did.” Amy gives a little snort of laughter. “Mum walked out of the room.”

“You only get one life, loves. Don’t waste it.” He looks at the camera with glittering green eyes, and I suddenly remember him when I was much younger, picking me up from school in a sports car. I was pointing him out to everyone:
That man there is my daddy!
All the kids were gasping at the car and all the mothers were shooting surreptitious glances at him, in his smart linen jacket and Spanish tan.

“I know I’ve fucked up here and there,” Dad’s saying. “I know I haven’t been the best family man. But hand on heart, I did my best. Cheers, m’dears. See you on the other side.” He raises his glass to the camera and drinks. Then the screen goes blank.

The DVD clicks off, but neither Amy nor I moves. As I gaze at the blank screen I feel even more marooned than before. My dad’s dead. He’s been dead three years. I can never talk to him again. I can never give him a birthday present. I can never ask him for advice. Not that you’d ask Dad’s advice on anything except where to buy sexy underwear for a mistress—but still. I glance over at Amy, who meets my gaze with a tiny shrug.

“That was a really nice message,” I say, determined not to be sentimental or cry or anything. “Dad came good.”

“Yeah.” Amy nods. “He did.”

The frostiness between us seems to have melted. Amy reaches in her bag for a tiny makeup case with
Babe
embossed on the lid in diamante. She takes out a lip pencil and expertly outlines her lips, peering into a tiny mirror. I’ve never seen her put on makeup before, except as a dressing-up game.

Amy’s not a child anymore, I think as I watch her. She’s on the brink of being an adult. I know things haven’t gone that well between us today—but maybe in the past she’s been my friend.

My confidante, even.

“Hey, Amy,” I say in a low, cautious voice. “Did we talk much before the accident? The two of us, I mean. About…stuff.” I glance toward the kitchen to make sure Mum can’t hear.

“A bit.” She shrugs. “What stuff?”

“I was just wondering.” I keep my voice natural. “Out of interest, did I ever mention anyone called…Jon?”

“Jon?” Amy pauses, lipstick in hand. “You mean the one you had sex with?”

“What?”
My voice shoots out like a rocket. “Are you sure?”

Oh my God. It’s true.

“Yeah.” Amy seems surprised by my reaction. “You told me at New Year’s Eve. You were quite pissed.”

“What else did I tell you?” My heart is thumping wildly. “Tell me everything you can remember.”

“You told me everything!” Her eyes light up. “All the gory details. It was your first-ever time, and he lost the condom, and you were freezing to death on the school field…”

“School field?” I stare at Amy, my mind trying to make sense of this. “Do you mean…are you talking about
James
?”

“Oh yeah!” She clicks her tongue in realization. “That’s who I meant. James. The guy in the band when you were at school. Why, who are you talking about?” She finishes her lipstick and regards me with fresh interest. “Who’s Jon?”

“He’s no one,” I say hastily. “Just…some guy. He’s nothing.”

You see—there’s no evidence. If I was really having an affair I would have left a trail. A note, or a photo, or a diary entry. Or Amy would know, or something…

And the point is, I’m happily married to Eric.
That’s
the point.

It’s much later that evening. Mum and Amy left a while ago, after we finally managed to cajole one whippet off the balcony and another out of Eric’s Jacuzzi, where it was having a fight with one of the towels. And now I’m in the car with Eric, zipping along the Embankment. He’s having a meeting with Ava, his interior designer, and suggested I come along and see the show flat of his latest development, Blue 42.

All Eric’s buildings are called “Blue” and then some number. It’s the company’s brand. It turns out that having a brand is a crucial part of selling loft-style living, as is having the right music on when you walk in, and the right cutlery on the show table. Apparently Ava is a genius at choosing the right cutlery.

I learned about Ava from the marriage manual. She’s forty-eight, divorced, worked in LA for twenty years, has written a series of books called things like
Tassel
and
Fork,
and designs all the show homes for Eric’s company.

“Hey, Eric,” I say as we drive along. “I was looking at my bank statement today. I seem to pay all this regular money to something called Unito. I rang up the bank, and they said it’s an offshore account.”

“Uh-huh.” Eric nods as though he’s not remotely interested. I wait for him to say something else, but he turns on the radio.

“Don’t you know anything about it?” I say over the sound of the news.

“No.” He shrugs. “Not a bad idea, though, putting some of your money offshore.”

“Right.” I’m dissatisfied by his response; I almost feel like I want to pick a fight about it. But I don’t know why.

“I just need to get some petrol.” Eric swings off the road into a BP station. “I won’t be a moment…”

“Hey,” I say as he opens the door. “Could you get me some chips in the shop? Salt ’n’ vinegar if they have them.”

“Chips?” He turns back and stares at me as though I’ve asked for some heroin.

“Yes, chips.”

“Darling.” Eric looks perplexed. “You don’t eat chips. It was all in the manual. Our nutritionist has recommended a low-carb, high-protein diet.”

“Well…I know. But everyone’s allowed a little treat once in a while, aren’t they? And I really feel like some chips.”

For a moment Eric seems lost for an answer.

“The doctors warned me you might be irrational, and make odd, out-of-character gestures,” he says, almost to himself.

“It’s not irrational to eat a packet of chips!” I protest. “They’re not
poison
.”

“Sweetheart…I’m thinking of you.” Eric adopts a loving tone. “I know how hard you’ve worked at reducing those two dress sizes. We invested a lot in your personal trainer. If you want to throw it away on a bag of chips, then that’s your choice. Do you still want the chips?”

“Yes,” I say, a bit more defiantly than I meant to.

I see a flash of annoyance pass over Eric’s face, which he manages to convert into a smile.

“No problem.” He shuts the car door with a heavy clunk. A few minutes later I see him walking briskly back from the garage, holding a packet of chips.

“Here you are.” He drops them on my lap and starts the engine.

“Thank you!” I smile gratefully, but I’m not sure he notices. As he drives off, I try to open the packet—but my left hand is still clumsy after the accident and I can’t get a proper grip on the plastic. At last I put the packet between my teeth, yank as hard as I can with my right hand…and the entire packet explodes.

Shit
. There are chips everywhere. All over the seats, all over the gear stick, and all over Eric.

“Jesus!” He shakes his head in annoyance. “Are those in my
hair
?”

“Sorry,” I gasp, brushing at his jacket. “I’m really, really sorry…”

The reek of salt and vinegar has filled the car. Mmm. That’s a good smell.

“I’ll have to have the car valeted.” Eric’s nose is wrinkled in distaste. “And my jacket will be covered in grease.”

“I’m sorry, Eric,” I say again, humbly, brushing the last crumbs off his shoulder. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.” I sit back, reach for a massive chip that landed on my lap, and put it in my mouth.

“Are you
eating
that?” Eric sounds like this is the last straw.

“It only landed on my lap,” I protest. “It’s clean!”

We drive on awhile in silence. Surreptitiously I eat a few more chips, trying to crunch them as quietly as possible.

“It’s not your fault,” says Eric, staring ahead at the road. “You had a bump on the head. I can’t expect normality yet.”

“I feel perfectly normal,” I say.

“Of course you do.” He pats my hand patronizingly and I stiffen. Okay, I may not be totally recovered. But I do know that eating one packet of chips doesn’t make you mentally ill. I’m about to tell that to Eric, when he signals and turns in at a pair of electric gates that has opened for us. We drive into a shallow forecourt and Eric turns off the engine.

“Here we are.” I can hear the pride crackling in his voice. He gestures out the window. “This is our latest baby.”

I stare up, totally overcome, forgetting all about chips. In front of us is a brand-new white building. It has curved balconies, an awning, and black granite steps up to a pair of grand silver-framed doors.

“You built this?” I say at last.

“Not personally.” Eric laughs. “Come on.” He opens his door, brushing the last few chips off his trousers, and I follow, still in awe. A uniformed porter opens the door for us. The foyer is all palest marble and white pillars. This place is a
palace
.

“It’s amazing. It’s so glamorous!” I keep noticing tiny details everywhere, like the inlaid borders and the sky-painted ceiling.

“The penthouse has its own lift.” With a nod to the porter, Eric ushers me to the rear of the lobby and into a beautiful marquetry-lined lift. “There’s a pool in the basement, a gym, and a residents’ cinema. Although of course most apartments have their own private gyms and cinemas as well,” he adds.

I look up sharply to see if he’s joking—but I don’t think he is. A private gym and cinema? In a flat?

“And here we are…” The lift opens with the tiniest of pings and we walk into a circular, mirrored foyer. Eric presses gently on one of the mirrors, which turns out to be a door. It swings open and I just gape.

I’m looking at the most massive room. No,
space
. It has floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in fireplace on one wall—and on another wall there’s a gigantic steel sheet down which are cascading endless streams of water.

“Is that real water?” I say stupidly. “Inside a house?” Eric laughs.

“Our customers like a statement. It’s fun, huh?” He picks up a remote and jabs it at the waterfall—and at once the water is bathed in blue light. “There are ten pre-programmed light shows. Ava?” He raises his voice, and a moment later a skinny blond woman in rimless glasses, gray trousers, and a white shirt appears from some recessed doorway next to the waterfall.

“Hi there!” she says in a mid-Atlantic accent. “Lexi! You’re up and about!” She grasps my hand with both of hers. “I heard all about it. You poor thing.”

“I’m fine, really.” I smile. “Just piecing my life back together again.” I gesture around the room. “This place is amazing! All that water…”

“Water is the theme of the show apartment,” says Eric. “We’ve followed feng shui principles pretty closely, haven’t we, Ava? Very important for some of our ultra-high net worths.”

“Ultra-what?” I say, confused.

“The very rich,” Eric translates. “Our target market.”

“Feng shui is vital for ultra-highs.” Ava nods earnestly. “Eric, I’ve just taken delivery of the fish for the master suite. They’re stunning!” She adds to me, “Each fish is worth three hundred pounds. We hired them especially.”

Ultra-high whatevers. Fish for hire. It’s a different world. Lost for words, I look around again at the massive apartment: at the curved cocktail bar and the sunken seating area and the glass sculpture hanging from the ceiling. I have no idea how much this place costs. I don’t
want
to know.

“Here you are.” Ava hands me an intricate scale model made of paper and tiny wooden sticks. “This is the whole building. You’ll notice I’ve mirrored the curved balconies in the scalloped edges of the scatter pillows,” she adds. “Very art deco meets Gaultier.”

“Er…excellent!” I rack my brains for something to say about art deco meets Gaultier, and fail. “So, how did you think of it all?” I gesture at the waterfall, which is now bathed in orange light. “Like, how did you come up with this?”