Remember Me? (23 page)

“Wouldn’t you?” Fi grins wickedly. “I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t!” I can’t help a giggle at her expression.

“I reckon he’s quite fit.”

“He’s ancient! He probably can’t even do it anymore.” I catch her eye and suddenly we’re both laughing helplessly, like in the old days. I drop my jacket and sit on the arm of the sofa, clutching my stomach, unable to stop. I don’t think I’ve laughed like this since the accident. It’s like all my strains and tensions are coming out; everything’s being laughed away.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Fi says at last, still gulping.

“I’ve missed you too.” I take a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts. “Fi, really. I’m sorry for whatever I was like…or whatever I did—”

“Don’t be a sap.” Fi cuts me off kindly but firmly, handing me my jacket. “Go and see Loser Dave.”

Loser Dave’s done really well for himself, it turns out. I mean,
really
well. He now works for Auto Repair Workshop at their head office, and has some quite senior sales role. As he gets out of the lift, he’s all dapper in a pin-striped suit, with much longer hair than the buzz cut he used to have, and rimless glasses. I can’t help jumping up from my seat in the lobby and exclaiming,

“Loser Dave! Look at
you
!”

Immediately he winces, and looks warily around the lobby. “No one calls me Loser Dave anymore,” he snaps in a low voice. “I’m David, okay?”

“Oh, right. Sorry…er…David. Not Butch?” I can’t resist adding, and he shoots me a glare.

His paunch has disappeared too, I notice as he leans against the foyer desk to talk to the receptionist. He must be working out properly these days, as opposed to his old routine, which was five heaves of a dumbbell, followed by cracking open a beer and turning on the soccer.

Now I look back, I can’t believe I put up with him. Scuzzy boxer shorts littered over his flat. Crude, antifeminist jokes. Complete paranoia that I was desperate to trap him into marriage and three kids and domestic drudgery.

I mean.
He
should be so lucky.

“You’re looking good, Lexi.” As he turns away from the reception desk he eyes me up and down. “It’s been a while. Saw you on the telly, of course. That
Ambition
show. Kind of program I might have wanted to take part in once.” He shoots me a pitying glance. “But I’ve leapfrogged over that level now. I’m on the fast track. Shall we go?”

I’m sorry, I just can’t take Loser Dave seriously as “David the fast-track businessman.” We head out of the office toward what Loser Dave calls a “good local eatery,” and all the while he’s on his phone, talking loudly about “deals” and “mill,” his eyes constantly sliding toward me.

“Wow,” I say as he puts his phone away at last. “You’re really senior now.”

“Got a Ford Focus.” He casually shoots his cuffs. “Company AmEx card. Use of the corporate ski chalet.”

“That’s great!” We’ve reached the restaurant now, which is a small Italian place. We sit down and I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands. Loser Dave seems a bit edgy, fiddling with the plastic menu and endlessly checking his phone.

“David,” I begin. “I don’t know if you got the message about why I wanted to meet up?”

“My secretary told me you wanted to talk over old times?” he says cautiously.

“Yeah. The thing is, I had this car accident. And I’m trying to piece together my life, work out what happened, talk about our breakup…”

Loser Dave sighs.

“Sweetheart, is this really a good idea, dredging all that up again? We both had our say at the time.”

“Dredging up all what?”

“You know…” He looks around and catches the eye of a nearby lounging waiter. “Could we get some service here? Some vino? Bottle of house red, please.”

“But I
don
’t know! I have no idea what happened!” I lean farther forward, trying to get his attention. “I have amnesia. Didn’t your secretary explain? I don’t remember anything.”

Very slowly Loser Dave turns back and stares at me, as though suspecting a joke.

“You’ve got
amnesia
?”

“Yes! I’ve been in hospital, everything.”

“Fuck me.” He shakes his head as a waiter comes over and goes through the rigamarole of pouring and tasting. “So you don’t remember anything?”

“Nothing from the last three years. And what I want to know is, why did we split? Did something happen…or did we drift apart…or what?”

Loser Dave doesn’t answer straightaway. He’s eyeing me over his glass. “So is there anything you
do
remember?”

“The last thing is the night before my dad’s funeral. I was in this nightclub, and I was really pissed off with you because you didn’t turn up…and then I fell down some steps in the rain…. And that’s all I remember.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s nodding thoughtfully. “I remember that night. Well, in fact…that’s why we split up.”

“Why?” I say, puzzled.

“Because I never turned up. You chucked me. Finito.” He takes a gulp of wine, visibly relaxing.

“Really?”
I say, astonished. “I chucked you?”

“Next morning. You’d had enough, so that was it. We were over.”

I frown as I try to imagine the scene. “So, did we have a big row?”

“Not so much a row,” Loser Dave says after a moment’s consideration. “More like a mature discussion. We agreed it was right to end things and you said you might be making the biggest mistake in the world, but you couldn’t stop your jealous, possessive nature.”

“Really?” I say dubiously.

“Yeah. I offered to come along to your dad’s funeral, show support, but you turned me down, said you couldn’t bear the sight of me.” He takes a gulp of wine. “I didn’t bear you a grudge, though. I said, ‘Lexi, I will always care for you. Whatever you want, I want.’ I gave you a single rose and a final kiss. Then I walked away. It was beautiful.”

I put my glass down and survey him. His gaze is as open and blameless as it used to be when he conned customers into taking extra-premium total-scam insurance on their cars.

“So that’s exactly what happened?” I say.

“Word for word.” He picks up the menu. “Fancy some garlic bread?”

Is it my imagination or does he seem a whole lot more cheerful since he’s heard I have amnesia?

“Loser Dave…is that
really
what happened?” I give him my severest, most penetrating look.

“Of course,” he says in an injured tone. “And stop calling me Loser Dave.”

“Sorry.” I sigh, and start unwrapping a bread stick. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Or a Loser-Dave version of it, at least. Maybe I did chuck him. I was certainly pissed off with him.

“So…did anything else happen back then?” I snap the bread stick in two and start nibbling it. “Is there anything you can remember? Like, why did I suddenly get so career-oriented? Why did I shut my friends out? What was going on in my head?”

“Search me.” Loser Dave is perusing the specials menu. “D’you fancy sharing the lasagne for two?”

“It’s all just so…confusing.” I rub my brow. “I feel like I’ve been plonked in the middle of a map, with one of those big arrows pointing to me. ‘You Are Here.’ And what I want to know is, how did I
get
here?”

At last Loser Dave lifts his eyes from the specials menu.

“What you want is GPS,” he says, like the Dalai Lama making a pronouncement on top of a mountain.

“That’s it! Exactly!” I lean forward eagerly. “I feel lost. And if I could just trace the path, if I could navigate back somehow…”

Loser Dave is nodding wisely. “I can do you a deal.”

“What?” I say, not understanding.

“I can do you a deal on GPS.” He taps his nose. “We’re branching out at Auto Repair.”

For a moment I think I might explode with frustration.

“I don’t literally need GPS!” I almost yell. “It’s a metaphor! Me-ta-phor!”

“Right, right. Yeah, of course.” Loser Dave nods, his brow furrowed as though he’s digesting my words and mulling them over. “Is that a built-in system?”

I don’t believe it. Did I actually go out with this guy?

“Yeah, that’s right,” I say finally. “Honda makes it. Let’s have the garlic bread.”

When I arrive home later, I’m planning to ask Eric what he knows about my breakup with Loser Dave. We must have talked about all our old relationships, surely. But when I walk into the loft, I sense straightaway that this isn’t the moment. He’s striding around, on the phone, looking stressed.

“Come on, Lexi.” He puts his hand briefly over the phone. “We’ll be late.”

“For what?”

“For
what
?” echoes Eric, looking as though I’ve asked him what gravity is. “For the launch!”

Shit. It’s the Blue 42 launch party tonight. I did know that; it just slipped my mind.

“Of course,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll just go and get ready.”

“Shouldn’t your hair be up?” Eric casts a critical eye over me. “It looks unprofessional.”

“Oh. Er…right. Yes.”

Totally flustered, I change into a black silk tailored suit, put on my highest black pumps, and quickly shove my hair up into its chignon. I accessorize with diamonds, then turn to survey myself.

Aargh. I look so boring. Like an actuary or something. I need…something else. Don’t I have any brooches anymore? Or any silk flowers or scarves or sparkly hair clips? Anything
fun
? I root around for a bit in my drawers, but can’t find anything except a plain quilted beige hair band. Great. That’s a real style statement.

“Ready?” Eric strides in. “You look fine. Let’s go.”

Jeez Louise. I’ve never seen him so tense and hyper before. All the way there, he’s on the phone, and when at last he puts it away, he taps his fingers on it, staring out the car window.

“I’m sure it’ll go really well,” I say encouragingly.

“It has to,” he says without turning toward me. “This is our big sales push. Lots of ultra-highs. Lots of press. This is where we turn Blue 42 into the talk of the city.”

As we turn in at the entrance gates I can’t help gasping. Burning torches lead the way to the front doors. Lasers are sweeping the night sky. There’s a red carpet for guests to walk down and even a couple of photographers waiting. It looks like a film premiere.

“Eric, this is amazing.” Impulsively I squeeze his hand. “It’s going to be a triumph.”

“Let’s hope.” For the first time Eric turns to give me a quick, tight smile. The driver opens my door, and I pick up my bag to leave.

“Oh, Lexi.” Eric is feeling in his pocket. “Before I forget. I’ve been meaning to give you this.” He hands me a piece of paper.

“What’s this?” I smile as I unfold it. Then my smile kind of melts away. It’s an invoice. At the top is Eric’s name, but he’s crossed it out and written “Assigned to Lexi Gardiner.” I scan the words in disbelief.
Chelsea Bridge Glass Objets. Large Blown Leopard: quantity 1. To pay: £3,200
.

“I ordered a replacement,” Eric is saying. “You can settle up anytime. Check is fine, or just put a transfer into my bank account…”

He’s
invoicing
me?

“You want me to pay for the leopard?” I force a little laugh, just to see if he’s joking. “Out of my own money?”

“Well, you broke it.” Eric sounds surprised. “Is there a problem?”

“No! That’s…that’s fine.” I swallow. “I’ll write you a check. As soon as we get home.”

“No hurry.” Eric smiles, and gestures at the waiting driver, holding the door. “We’d better get going.”

It’s fine, I tell myself firmly. It’s fair for him to invoice me. It’s obviously how our marriage works.

That’s not how a marriage should work.

No. Stop it. It’s fine. It’s lovely.

I stuff the paper into my bag and smile as brightly as I can at the driver, then get out and follow Eric along the red carpet.

Chapter 14

Bloody hell. This is a real, serious, glitzy party. The whole building is alive with light and thudding music. The penthouse loft looks even more spectacular than before, with flowers everywhere, and waiters in cool black outfits holding trays of champagne, and gift bags ready for people to take. Ava and Jon, and a few other people I don’t recognize, are gathered by the window, and Eric strides straight over to them.

“People,” he says. “Have we done the rundown on the guests? Sarah, you’ve got the press list? All under control?”

“They’re here.” A young girl in a wrap dress comes hurrying in, almost tripping over her stilettos. “The van Gogens are early. And they’ve brought friends. And there’s another lot right behind them!”

“Good luck, guys.” Eric is high-fiving his entire team. “Let’s sell this building.”

The next moment a couple in expensive-looking coats enters, and Eric springs into full-charm offensive, ushering them to meet Ava, handing them champagne, and taking them over to see the view. More people are arriving, and soon there’s a small crowd chattering and leafing through the brochure and eyeing the waterfall.

Jon is about ten yards away, to my left, wearing a dark suit, frowning as he talks to the van Gogens. I haven’t spoken to him yet. I have no idea if he’s noticed me. Occasionally I glance over at him, then quickly look away as my stomach pops over.

It’s like I’m thirteen again and he’s my crush. All I’m aware of in this entire roomful of people is him. Where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s talking to. I dart another glance at him and this time he meets my eye. Cheeks flaming, I turn away and swig my wine. Great, Lexi. Not at all obvious.

Deliberately, I swivel right away so he’s out of my line of vision. I’m watching everyone arrive, almost in a trance, when Eric arrives beside me.

“Lexi, darling.” He has a fixed, disapproving smile. “You look awkward, standing there on your own. Come with me.”

Before I can stop him, he’s leading me firmly over to Jon, who’s talking to another rich-looking couple. The woman is in a Dior-print trouser suit, with dyed red hair and severely overdone lipliner. She bares her porcelain teeth at me, and her gray-haired husband grunts, his hand clamped possessively on her shoulder.

“Let me introduce my wife, Lexi.” Eric beams at them. “One of the greatest fans of”—he pauses, and I tense up, waiting for it—“loft-style living!”

If I hear that phrase one more time I’m going to
shoot
myself.

“Hi, Lexi.” Jon meets my eye briefly as Eric heads off again. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks, Jon.” I try to sound calm, like he’s any other person at the party; like I haven’t been fixating on him since I arrived. I turn to the Dior woman. “So…how do you like the loft?”

The couple exchange doubtful glances. “We have one concern,” says the man, in a European accent I can’t quite place. “The space. Whether it is
big
enough.”

I’m stumped. This place is like a bloody aircraft hangar. How can it not be big enough?

“We think five thousand square feet is a generous size,” says Jon. “However, you could knock two or even three units together if you need a larger space.”

“Our other problem is the design,” says the man.

“The design?” echoes Jon politely. “Is something wrong with the design?”

“At our home we have touches of gold,” says the man. “Gold paintings. Gold lamps. Gold…” He seems to run out of steam.

“Carpets,” the woman puts in, rolling the “rrr” heavily. “Gold carrr-pets.”

The man jabs at the brochure. “Here I see a lot of silver. Chrome.”

“I see.” Jon nods, deadpan. “Well, obviously the loft can be customized to your own individual taste. We could, for example, have the fireplace gold-plated.”

“A gold-plated fireplace?” says the woman uncertainly. “Would that be…too much?”

“Is there such a thing as too much gold?” Jon replies pleasantly. “We could also add solid gold light-fittings. And Lexi could help you with the gold carpet. Couldn’t you, Lexi?”

“Of course.” I nod, praying desperately I don’t suddenly snort with laughter.

“Yes. Well, we will think about it.” The couple moves off, talking in some foreign language I don’t recognize. Jon knocks back his drink.

“Not big enough. Jesus Christ.
Ten
of our units at Ridgeway would fit into this space.”

“What’s Ridgeway?”

“Our affordable-housing project.” He sees my blank look. “We only get planning permission for a place like this if we put up some affordable units.”

“Oh, right,” I say in surprise. “Eric’s never even mentioned affordable housing.”

A flicker of amusement passes over Jon’s face. “I’d say his heart isn’t totally in that aspect of the job,” he says, as Eric steps up onto a small podium in front of the mantelpiece. The ambient lighting dims, a spotlight falls on Eric, and gradually the hum of chatter dies away.

“Welcome!” he says, his voice ringing out around the space. “Welcome to Blue 42, the latest in the Blue series of projects dedicated to…”

I hold my breath.
Please don’t say it, please don’t say it…

“Loft-style living!” His hands sweep along and all the members of his staff applaud vigorously.

Jon glances at me and takes a step back, away from the crowd. After a moment I move back too, my eyes fixed firmly ahead. My whole body is crackling with apprehension. And…excitement.

“So, have you remembered anything yet?” he says in a casual undertone.

“No.”

Behind Eric, a massive screen is lighting up with images of lofts from all angles. Punchy music fills the air and the room becomes even darker. I have to hand it to Eric—this is a fantastic presentation.

“You know, we first met each other at a loft launch like this one.” Jon’s voice is so low, I can barely hear it above the music. “The minute you spoke I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Knew I liked you.”

I’m silent for a few moments, curiosity prickling at me.

“What did I say?” I whisper back at last.

“You said, ‘If I hear that phrase
loft-style living
again, I’m going to shoot myself.’”

“No.”
I stare at him, then splutter with laughter. A man in front turns around with a frown, and as if in synch, Jon and I back away a few more paces, till we’re right in the shadows.

“You shouldn’t be hiding away,” I say. “This is your moment. Your loft.”

“Yeah, well,” he says dryly. “I’ll let Eric take the glory. He’s welcome to it.”

For a few moments we watch Eric onscreen in a hard hat, striding over a building site.

“You make no sense,” I say quietly. “If you think lofts are for rich wankers, why do you design them?”

“That’s a good question.” Jon takes a gulp of his drink. “Truth is, I should move on. But I like Eric. He believed in me, he gave me my first chance, he runs a great company….”

“You
like
Eric?” I shake my head in disbelief. “Of course you do. That’s why you keep telling me to leave him.”

“I do. He’s a great guy. He’s honest, he’s loyal…” For a while Jon’s silent beside me, his eyes flickering in the dim light. “I don’t
want
to fuck Eric’s life up,” he says finally. “It wasn’t in the plan.”

“So why…”

“He doesn’t understand you.” Jon looks directly at me. “He has no idea who you are.”

“And you do, I suppose?” I retort, just as the lights come up and applause breaks out around the room. Instinctively I take a step away from Jon, and we both watch as Eric mounts the podium again, glowing with an aura of success and money and on-top-of-the-world-ness.

“So, have you encountered Mont Blanc yet?” Jon says, clapping vigorously, his mood lighter.

“What’s Mont Blanc?” I give him a suspicious glance.

“You’ll find out.”

“Tell me.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head, pressing his mouth together as though trying not to laugh. “I couldn’t spoil the surprise.”

“Tell me!”

“Jon! There you are. Emergency!” We both start in surprise as Ava appears behind us. She’s dressed in a black trouser suit, holding a burlap sack, and appears flustered. “The ornamental rocks for the master bedroom fish tank have only just arrived from Italy. But I’ve got to see to the kitchen place-settings—some fucking
idiot’s
been fiddling with them—so can you do it?” She shoves the burlap sack into Jon’s arms. “Just arrange the rocks in the tank. There should be time before the presentation finishes.”

“No problem.” Jon hefts the sack in his arms, then looks at me, his eyes opaque and impenetrable. “Lexi, want to come with me and help?”

My throat tightens up so hard, I can’t breathe. This is an invitation. A challenge.

No. I have to say no.

“Um…yes.” I swallow. “Sure.”

I feel almost light-headed as I follow Jon through the crowd, up the stairs onto the mezzanine level, and into the bedroom. No one even notices us. All attention is on the presentation.

We head into the main bedroom and Jon closes the door.

“So,” he says.

“Look.” My voice is sharp with nerves. “I can’t carry on like this! All this whispering, creeping around, trying to…to sabotage my marriage. I’m happy with Eric!”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You won’t be with him in a year.” He sounds so sure of himself, I’m nettled.

“Yes, I will,” I shoot back. “I expect I’ll be with him in fifty years!”

“You’ll try your best, you’ll try to mold yourself…but your spirit’s too free for him. At last you won’t be able to stand it anymore.” He exhales, pressing his meshed hands outward. “I’ve watched it happen once. I don’t want to see it again.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I snap. “Well, when it does happen, I’ll give you a call, how’s that? We should do the rocks.” I jerk my head toward the sack, but Jon ignores me.

He puts it down on the floor and comes toward me, his eyes intense and questioning. “You really,
really
don’t remember anything?”

“No,” I say almost wearily. “For the millionth time, I don’t remember anything.”

He’s only inches away from me now, studying my face, searching for something. “All the time we spent together, all the things we said…. There has to be
something
to trigger your memory.” He briefly rubs his brow, frowning. “Do sunflowers mean anything to you?”

In spite of myself I rack my brain. Sunflowers. Sunflowers. Didn’t I once…

No, it’s gone.

“Nothing,” I say at last. “I mean, I
like
sunflowers, but…”

“e.e. cummings? Mustard on fries?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say helplessly. “None of this means anything to me.”

He’s so close I can feel his gentle breath on my skin. His eyes haven’t left mine.

“Does this mean anything to you?” He’s moved his hands up to my face, cradling my cheeks, rubbing my skin with his thumbs.

“No.” I swallow.

“This?” He leans down and brushes a kiss against my neck.

“Stop it,” I say feebly, but I can barely get the words out. And besides, I don’t mean them. My breathing is getting shorter and shorter. I’ve forgotten about everything else. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him in a way I didn’t want to kiss Eric.

And then it’s happening—his mouth is on mine and my entire body’s telling me this is the right thing to do. He smells right. He tastes right. He feels right. I can feel his arms wrapping themselves tightly around me; the roughness of his five-o’clock shadow. My eyes are closed, I’m losing myself, this is so right….

“Jon?” Ava’s voice comes through the door and it’s like someone electrocuted me. I fly away from Jon, tripping over my wobbly legs, cursing under my breath, “Fuck!”

“Shh!” He looks thrown too. “Stay cool. Hi, Ava. What’s up?”

Rocks. Yes. That’s what we’re supposed to be doing. I grab the sack and start pulling rocks out, chucking them into the fish tank as fast as I can with a series of splashes. The poor fish are swimming about like lunatics, but I don’t have any choice.

“Everything okay?” Ava puts her head around the door. “I’m about to lead a party of guests up here for the tour…”

“No problem,” Jon says reassuringly. “Nearly done.”

As soon as Ava disappears, he kicks the door shut and comes back to me.

“Lexi.” He grasps my face as though he wants to devour me, or hug me, or maybe both. “If you only knew, this has been
torture
…”

“Stop it!” I draw away, my mind spinning like a kaleidoscope. “I’m married! We can’t—You can’t just—” I gasp and clap a hand to my mouth. “Oh shit. Shit!”

I’m not looking at Jon anymore. I’m looking at the fish tank.

“What?” Jon stares, uncomprehending, then follows my gaze. “Oh. Oops.”

The tank has quieted down. All the tropical fish are swimming peacefully among the marble rocks. Except one blue stripy one, which is floating on top.

“I’ve killed a fish!” I let out a horrified giggle. “I’ve brained it with one of the rocks.”

“So you have,” Jon says, going over to survey the tank. “Nice aim.”

“But it cost three hundred pounds! What am I going to do? The guests will be in here any moment!”

“That’s pretty bad feng shui.” Jon grins. “Okay, I’ll go and delay Ava. You flush it away.” He reaches for my hand and holds it a moment. “We haven’t finished.” He kisses the tips of my fingers—then heads out of the room, leaving me alone with the tank. Wincing, I reach into the warm water and pick up the fish by the very edge of its fin.

“I’m really sorry,” I say in a tiny voice. Trying to catch the dripping water with my other hand, I hurry into the high-tech bathroom. I drop the fish in the gleaming white loo and look for the flush. There isn’t one. This must be an intelligent loo.

“Flush,” I say aloud, waving my arms to set off the sensors. “Flush!”

Nothing happens.

“Flush!” I say, with more desperation. “Go on, flush!” But the loo is totally dead. The fish is floating around, looking even more lurid blue against the white porcelain.

This cannot be happening. If anything is going to put a customer off a high-end luxury apartment, it’s a dead fish in the loo. I pull out my phone from my pocket and scroll down my contacts until I find J. That must be him. I press speed-dial, and a moment later he answers.