Remember Me? (21 page)

“Hi.” I lift my hand to get the attention of the barman. “I’d like another one, please.”

The barman raises his eyebrows very slightly, then says, “Of course.”

I watch him a touch resentfully as he gets out the mint. Isn’t he going to ask me
why
I want another one? Isn’t he going to offer me some homespun barman wisdom?

He puts the cocktail on a coaster and adds a bowl of peanuts, which I push aside scornfully. I don’t want anything soaking up the alcohol. I want it right in my bloodstream.

“Can I get you anything else? A snack, perhaps?”

He gestures at a small menu, but I ignore it and take a deep gulp of the mojito. It’s cold and tangy and limey and perfect.

“Do I look like a bitch to you?” I say as I look up. “Honestly?”

“No.” The barman smiles.

“Well, I am, apparently.” I take another slug of mojito. “That’s what all my friends say.”

“Some friends.”

“They used to be.” I put my cocktail down and stare at it morosely. “I don’t know where my life went wrong.”

I sound slurred, even to my own ears.

“That’s what they all say.” A guy sitting at the end of the bar looks up from his
Evening Standard.
He has an American accent and dark, receding hair. “No one knows where it went wrong.”

“No, but I
really
don’t know.” I lift a finger impressively. “I have a car crash…and boom! I wake up and I’m trapped in the body of a bitch.”

“Looks like you’re trapped in the body of a babe to me.” The American guy edges along to the next bar stool, a smile on his face. “I wouldn’t trade that body for anything.”

I gaze at him in puzzlement for a moment—until realization dawns.

“Oh! You’re
flirting
with me! Sorry. But I’m already married. To a guy. My husband.” I lift up my left hand, locate my wedding ring after a few moments, and point at it. “You see. Married.” I think intently for a moment. “Also, I may have a lover.”

There’s a muffled snort from the barman. I look up suspiciously, but his face is straight. I take another gulp of my drink and feel the alcohol kicking in, dancing around my head. My ears are buzzing and the room is starting to sway.

Which is a good thing. Rooms
should
sway.

“You know, I’m not drinking to forget,” I say conversationally to the barman. “I already forgot everything.” This suddenly strikes me as being so funny, I start giggling uncontrollably. “I had one bang on the head and I forgot everything.” I’m clutching my stomach; tears are edging out of my eyes. “I even forgot I had a husband. But I do!”

“Uh-huh.” The barman is exchanging glances with the American guy.

“And they said there isn’t a cure. But you know, doctors can be wrong, can’t they?” I appeal to the bar. Quite a few people seem to be listening now, and a couple of them nod.

“Doctors are always wrong,” the American guy says emphatically. “They’re all assholes.”

“Exactly!” I swivel to him. “You are so right! Okay.” I take a deep gulp of my mojito, then turn back to the barman. “Can I ask you a small favor? Can you take that cocktail shaker and hit me over the head with it? They said it wouldn’t work, but how do they
know
?”

The barman smiles, as if he thinks I’m joking.

“Great.” I sigh impatiently. “I’ll have to do it myself.” Before he can stop me, I grab the cocktail shaker and whack myself on the forehead. “Ow!” I drop the shaker and clutch my head. “Ouch! That hurt!”

“Did you see that?” I can hear someone exclaiming behind me. “She’s a nutter!”

“Miss, are you all right?” The barman looks alarmed. “Can I call you a—”

“Wait!” I lift a hand. For a few moments I’m poised, completely still, waiting for memories to flood into my brain. Then I subside in disappointment. “It didn’t work. Not even one. Bugger.”

“I’d get her a strong black coffee,” I can hear the American guy saying in an undertone to the barman. Bloody nerve. I don’t
want
a coffee. I’m about to tell him this, when my phone beeps. After a small struggle with the zipper of my bag I get my phone out—and it’s a text from Eric.

Hi, on my way home. E

“That’s from my husband,” I inform the barman as I put away my phone. “You know, he can drive a speedboat.”

“Great,” says the barman politely.

“Yeah. It is.” I nod emphatically, about seven times. “It
is
great. It’s the perfect, perfect marriage…” I consider for a moment. “Except we haven’t had sex.”

“You haven’t had sex?” the American guy echoes in astonishment.

“We have
had
sex.” I take a slug of mojito and lean toward him confidentially. “I just don’t remember it.”

“That good, huh?” He starts to laugh. “Blew your mind, huh?”

Blew my mind.
His words land in my mind like a big neon flashing light.
Blew my mind.

“You know what?” I say slowly. “You may not realize it, but that’s very sig…sigficant…significant.”

I’m not sure that word came out quite right. But
I
know what I mean. If I have sex, maybe it’ll blow my mind. Maybe that’s just what I need! Maybe Amy was right all along, it’s nature’s own amnesia-cure.

“I’m going to do it.” I put my glass down with a crash. “I’m going to have sex with my husband!”

“You go, girl!” says the American, laughing. “Have fun.”

I’m going to have sex with Eric. This is my mission. As I ride home in a taxi I’m quite excited. As soon as I get back, I’ll jump him. And we’ll have amazing sex and my mind will be blown and suddenly everything will be clear.

The only tiny snag I can think of is I don’t have the marriage manual on me. And I can’t
totally
remember the order of foreplay.

I close my eyes, trying to ignore my dizzy head and recall exactly what Eric wrote. Something was in a clockwise direction. And something else was with “gentle, then urgent tongue strokes.” Thighs? Chest? I should have memorized it. Or written it on a Post-it; I could have stuck it on the headboard.

Okay, I think I have it. Buttocks first, then inner thighs,
then
scrotum…

“Sorry?” says the taxi driver.

Oops. I didn’t realize I was speaking aloud.

“Nothing!” I say hastily.

Earlobes came in somewhere, I suddenly remember. Maybe
that
was the urgent tongue strokes. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What I can’t remember I’ll make up. I mean, it can’t be that we’re some boring old married couple and do it
exactly the same way
each time, can it?

Can it?

I feel a tiny qualm, which I ignore. It’s going to be great. Plus, I have fantastic underwear on. Silky and matching, and everything. I don’t even
possess
anything scaggy anymore.

We draw up in front of the building and I pay the taxi driver. As I travel up in the lift I remove the chewing gum that I’ve been chewing for fresh breath, and unbutton my shirt a bit.

Too far. You can see my bra.

I do it up again, let myself into the apartment, and call out, “Eric!”

There’s no answer, so I head toward the office. I am quite drunk, to tell the truth. I’m lurching on my heels, and the walls are going backward and forward in my field of vision. We’d better not try and do it standing up.

I arrive at the door of the office and look for a few moments at Eric, who’s working at his computer. On the screen I can see the brochure for Blue 42, his new building. The launch party is in a few days, and he’s spending all his time preparing his presentation.

Okay, what he should do now is sense the charged sexual vibe in the room, turn around, and see me. But he doesn’t.

“Eric,” I say in my most husky, sensual voice—but still he doesn’t move. Suddenly I realize he’s wearing earphones. “Eric!” I yell, and at last he turns around. He pulls out his earphones and smiles.

“Hi. Good day?”

“Eric…take me.” I push a hand through my hair. “Let’s do it. Blow my mind.”

He peers at me for a few seconds. “Sweetheart, have you been drinking?”

“I may have had a couple of cocktails. Or three.” I nod, then hold on to the door frame for balance. “The point is, they made me realize what I want. What I
need
. Sex.”

“Oooo-kay.” Eric raises his eyebrows. “Maybe you should sober up, have something to eat. Gianna made us a great seafood stew—”

“I don’t want seafood stew!” I feel like stamping my foot. “We have to
do
it! It’s the only way I’ll ever remember!”

What’s wrong with him? I was expecting him to leap on me, but instead he’s rubbing his forehead with the back of his fist.

“Lexi, I don’t want to rush you into anything. This is a big decision. The doctor at the hospital said we should only go to whatever stage you’re comfortable with….”

“Well, I’m comfortable with us doing it right now.” I undo two more buttons, exposing my La Perla underwire plunge bra.
God,
my boobs look great in this.

I mean, they ought to, for sixty quid.

“Come on.” I lift my chin in a challenging way. “I’m your wife.”

I can see Eric’s mind working as he stares at me.

“Well…okay!” He closes his document and turns off the computer, then walks over, puts his arms around me, and starts kissing me. And it’s…nice.

It is. It’s…pleasant.

His mouth is quite soft. I noticed that before. It’s a bit weird for a man. I mean, it’s not exactly
un
sexy, but—

“Are you comfortable, Lexi?” Eric’s breathy voice comes in my ear.

“Yes!” I whisper back.

“Shall we move to the bedroom?”

“Okay!”

Eric leads the way out of the office and I follow him, stumbling slightly on my heels. It all seems a bit oddly formal, like he’s showing me in to a job interview.

In the bedroom, we resume kissing. Eric seems really into it, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next. I glimpse the marriage manual on the ottoman and wonder if I could quickly nudge it open to Foreplay with my toe. Except Eric might notice.

Now he’s pulling me down onto the bed. I have to reciprocate. But with what? Eeny-meeny-miney—No. Stop it. I’m going to go with…chest. Unbutton the shirt. Sweeping strokes. Clockwise.

He does have a good chest. I’ll give him that. Firm and muscled from the hour he spends in the gym every day.

“Are you comfortable with me touching your breast?” he murmurs as he starts undoing my bra.

“I guess so,” I murmur back.

Why is he squeezing me? It’s like he’s buying fruit. He’s going to give me a bruise in a minute.

Anyway. Stop being picky. This is all great. I have a fab husband with a fab body and we’re in bed and—

Ouch
. That was my
nipple
.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Eric. “Listen, sweetheart, are you comfortable with me touching your abdomen?”

“Er…I guess!”

Why did he ask that? Why would I be comfortable with the breast and not the abdomen? That doesn’t make sense. And to be absolutely honest, I don’t know if
comfortable
is the word. This is all a bit surreal. We’re moving around and panting and doing it all like in a book, but I don’t feel like I’m
going
anywhere.

Eric’s breath is hot on my neck. I think it’s time for me to do something else. Buttocks, maybe, or…Oh, right. From the way Eric’s hands are moving, looks like we’re jumping straight to inner thighs.

“You’re hot,” he’s saying, his voice urgent. “Jesus, you’re hot. This is so hot.”

I don’t believe this! He says
hot
the whole time too! He should
so
have sex with Debs.

Oh. No. Obviously he shouldn’t have sex with Debs. Erase that thought.

Suddenly I realize I’m about three steps behind on the whole foreplay thing, not to mention the sex talk. But Eric doesn’t even seem to have noticed.

“Lexi, sweetheart?” he murmurs breathily, right in my ear.

“Yes?” I whisper back, wondering if he’s about to say “I love you.”

“Are you comfortable with me putting my penis into your—”

Uurk!

Before I can stop myself, I’ve pushed him off me and rolled away.

Oops. I didn’t mean to shove quite so hard.

“What’s wrong?” Eric sits up in alarm. “Lexi! What happened? Are you okay? Did you have a flashback?”

“No.” I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. I just suddenly felt a bit…um…”

“I knew it. I
knew
we were rushing things.” Eric sighs and takes both my hands. “Lexi, talk to me. Why weren’t you comfortable? Was it because of some…traumatic memory resurfacing?”

Oh God. He looks so earnest. I have to lie.

No. I can’t lie. Marriages only work if you’re totally honest.

“It wasn’t because of a traumatic memory,” I say at last, carefully looking past him at the duvet. “It was because you said ‘penis.’”

“Penis?” Eric looks utterly stumped. “What’s wrong with ‘penis’?”

“It’s just…you know. Not very sexy. As words go.”

Eric leans back against the headboard, his brow knitted in a frown.

“I find ‘penis’ sexy,” he says at last.

“Oh, right!” I backtrack quickly. “Well, I mean, obviously it is
quite
sexy…”