Remember Me? (7 page)

Chapter 6

But it was no dream. I wake up the next morning and it’s still 2007. I still have shiny perfect teeth and bright chestnut hair. And I still have a big black hole in my memory. I’m just eating my third piece of toast and taking a sip of tea when the door opens and Nicole appears, wheeling a trolley laden with flowers. I gape at it, impressed by the array. There must be about twenty arrangements on there. Tied bouquets…orchids in pots…grand-looking roses…

“So…is one of these mine?” I can’t help asking.

Nicole looks surprised. “All of them.”

“
All
of them?” I splutter, almost spilling my tea.

“You’re a popular girl! We’ve run out of vases!” She hands me a stack of little cards. “Here are your messages.”

“Wow.” I take the first card and read it.

Lexi—darling girl. Look after yourself,
get well, see you very soon, all my love.

Rosalie.

Rosalie? I don’t know anyone called Rosalie. Bemused, I put it aside for later and read the next one.

Best wishes and get well soon.

Tim and Suki.

I don’t know Tim and Suki, either.

Lexi, get well soon! You’ll soon be back to three hundred reps! From all your friends at the gym.

Three hundred reps? Me?

Well, I guess that would account for the muscled legs. I reach for the next card—and at last, it’s from people I actually know.

Get well soon, Lexi. All best wishes from Fi,

Debs, Carolyn, and everyone in Flooring.

As I read the familiar names, I feel a warm glow inside. It’s stupid, but I almost thought my friends had forgotten all about me.

Nicole interrupts my thoughts. “So your husband’s quite a stunner!”

“D’you think so?” I try to appear nonchalant. “Yeah, he is quite nice-looking, I suppose….”

“He’s amazing! And you know, he came around the ward yesterday, thanking us all again for looking after you. Not many people do that.”

“I’ve never been out with a guy like Eric in my life!” I abandon all pretense at being nonchalant. “To be honest, I still can’t believe he’s my husband. I mean,
me
. And him.”

There’s a knock on the door and Nicole calls, “Come in!”

It opens and in come Mum and Amy, both looking hot and sweaty, lugging between them about six shopping bags stuffed with photograph albums and envelopes.

“Good morning!” Nicole smiles as she holds the door open. “Lexi’s feeling a lot better today, you’ll be glad to hear.”

“Oh,
don’t
tell me she’s remembered everything!” Mum’s face drops. “After we’ve carried all these pictures all this way. Do you know how heavy photograph albums are? And we couldn’t find a space in the car park—”

Nicole cuts her off. “She’s still experiencing severe memory loss.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Mum suddenly notices Nicole’s expression. “I mean…Lexi, darling, we’ve brought some pictures to show you. Maybe they’ll trigger your memory.”

I eye the bag of photos, suddenly excited. These pictures will tell my missing story. They’ll show me my transformation from Snaggletooth to…whoever I am now. “Fire away!” I put down all the flower messages and sit up. “Show me my life!”

I’m learning a lot from this hospital stay. And one thing I’ve learned is, if you have a relative with amnesia and want to trigger her memory,
just show her any old picture—it doesn’t matter which one
. It’s ten minutes later, but I haven’t seen a single photo yet, because Mum and Amy keep arguing about where to start.

“We don’t want to
overwhelm
her,” Mum keeps saying as they both root through a bag of pictures. “Now, here we are.” She picks up a photo in a cardboard frame.

“No
way.
” Amy grabs it from her. “I’ve got a zit on my chin. I look gross.”

“Amy, it’s a tiny pimple. You can hardly see it.”

“Yes, you can. And this one is even grosser!” She starts ripping both photographs into shreds.

Here I am, waiting to learn all about my long-lost life, and Amy’s destroying the evidence?

“I won’t look at your zits!” I call over. “Just show me a picture! Anything!”

“All right.” Mum advances toward the bed, holding an unframed print. “I’ll hold it up, Lexi. Just look at the image carefully and see if it jogs anything. Ready?” Mum turns the print around.

It’s a picture of a dog dressed up as Santa Claus.

“Mum…” I try to control my frustration. “Why are you showing me a dog?”

“Darling, it’s Tosca!” Mum appears wounded. “She would have looked very different in 2004. And here’s Raphael with Amy last week, both looking lovely…”

“I look
hideous
.” Amy snatches the picture and rips it up before I can even see it.

“Stop ripping up the pictures!” I almost yell. “Mum, did you bring photographs of anything else? Like people?”

“Hey, Lexi, do you remember this?” Amy comes forward, holding up a distinctive necklace with a rose made out of jade. I squint at it, trying desperately to dredge some memory up.

“No,” I say at last. “It doesn’t jog anything at all.”

“Cool. Can I have it, then?”

“Amy!” says Mum. She riffles through the pictures in her hand with dissatisfaction. “Maybe we should just wait for Eric to come with the wedding DVD. If that doesn’t trigger your memory, nothing will.”

The wedding DVD.

My wedding.

Every time I think about this, my stomach curls up with a kind of excited, nervous anticipation. I have a wedding DVD. I had a wedding! The thought is alien. I can’t even imagine myself as a bride. Did I wear a pouffy dress with a train and a veil and some hideous floral headdress? I can’t even bring myself to ask.

“So…he seems nice,” I say. “Eric, I mean. My husband.”

“He’s super.” Mum nods absently, still leafing through pictures of dogs. “He does a lot for charity, you know. Or the company does, I should say. But it’s his own company, so it’s all the same.”

“He has his own company?” I frown, confused. “I thought he was a real-estate agent.”

“It’s a company that
sells properties,
darling. Big loft developments all over London. They sold off a large part of it last year, but he still retains a controlling interest.”

“He made ten million quid,” says Amy, who’s still crouched down by the bag of photos.

“He
what
?” I stare at her.

“He’s stinking rich.” She looks up. “Oh, come on. Don’t say you hadn’t guessed that?”

“Amy!” says Mum. “Don’t be so vulgar!”

I can’t quite speak. In fact, I’m feeling a bit faint. Ten million quid?

There’s a knock at the door. “Lexi? May I come in?”

Oh my God. It’s him. I hastily check my reflection and spray myself with some Chanel perfume that I found in the Louis Vuitton bag.

“Come in, Eric!” calls Mum.

The door swings open—and there he is, manhandling two shopping bags, another bunch of flowers, and a gift basket full of fruit. He’s wearing a striped shirt and tan trousers, a yellow cashmere sweater, and loafers with tassels.

“Hi, darling.” He puts all his stuff down on the floor, then comes over to the bed and kisses me gently on the cheek. “How are you doing?”

“Much better, thanks.” I smile up at him.

“But she still doesn’t know who you are,” Amy puts in. “You’re just some guy in a yellow sweater.”

Eric doesn’t look remotely fazed. Maybe he’s used to Amy being bolshy.

“Well, we’re going to tackle that today.” He hefts one of the bags, sounding energized. “I’ve brought along photos, DVDs, souvenirs…. Let’s reintroduce you to your life. Barbara, why don’t you put on the wedding DVD?” He hands a shiny disc to Mum. “And to get you started, Lexi…our wedding album.” He heaves an expensive-looking calfskin album onto the bed and I feel a twang of disbelief as I see the embossed words.

A
LEXIA AND
E
RIC

JUNE 3, 2005

I open it and my stomach seems to drop a mile. I’m staring at a black-and-white photograph of me as a bride. I’m wearing a long white sheath dress; my hair’s in a sleek knot; and I’m holding a minimalist bouquet of lilies. Nothing pouffy in sight.

Wordlessly I turn to the next page. There’s Eric standing next to me, dressed in black tie. On the following page we’re holding glasses of champagne and smiling at each other. We look so
glossy
. Like people in a magazine.

This is my wedding. My actual, real live wedding. If I needed proof…this is proof.

From the TV screen suddenly comes the mingled sound of people laughing and chattering. I look up and feel a fresh shock. Up there on the telly, Eric and I are posing in our wedding outfits. We’re standing next to a huge white cake, holding a knife together, laughing at someone off screen. I can’t take my eyes off myself.

“We chose not to record the ceremony,” Eric is explaining. “This is the party afterward.”

“Right.” My voice is a tad husky.

I’ve never been sappy about weddings. But as I watch us cutting the cake, smiling for the cameras, posing again for someone who missed the shot…my nose starts to prickle. This is my wedding day, the so-called happiest day of my life, and I don’t remember a thing about it.

The camera swings around, catching the faces of people I don’t recognize. I spot Mum, in a navy suit, and Amy, wearing a purple strappy dress. We’re in some huge, modern-looking space with glass walls and trendy chairs and floral arrangements everywhere, and people are spilling out onto a wide terrace, champagne glasses in their hands.

“Where’s this place?” I ask.

“Sweetheart…” Eric gives a disconcerted laugh. “This is our home.”

“Our
home
? But it’s massive! Look at it!”

“It’s the penthouse.” He nods. “It’s a nice size.”

A “nice size”? It’s like a football field. My little Balham flat would probably fit on one of those rugs.

“And who’s that?” I point at a pretty girl in a baby-pink strapless dress who’s whispering in my ear.

“That’s Rosalie. Your best friend.”

My
best friend
? I’ve never seen this woman before in my life. She’s skinny and tanned, with huge blue eyes, a massive bracelet on her wrist, and sunglasses pushed up on her blond, California-girl hair.

She sent me flowers, I suddenly remember.
Darling girl…love, Rosalie.

“Does she work at Deller Carpets?”

“No!” Eric smiles as though I’ve cracked a joke. “This bit is fun.” He gestures toward the screen. The camera is following us as we walk out onto the terrace, and I can just hear myself laughing and saying, “Eric, what are you up to?” Everyone is looking up for some reason. I have no idea why—

And then the camera focuses and I see it. Skywriting.
Lexi I will love you forever.
On the screen, everyone is gasping and pointing, and I see myself staring up, pointing, shading my eyes, then kissing Eric.

My husband organized surprise skywriting for me on my wedding day and
I can’t bloody remember it
? I want to weep.

“Now, this is us on holiday in Mauritius last year…” Eric has fast-forwarded the DVD and I stare disbelievingly at the screen. Is that girl walking along the sand
me
? My hair’s braided and I’m tanned and thin and wearing a red string bikini. I look like the kind of girl I’d normally gaze at with envy.

“And this is us at a charity ball…” Eric’s fast-forwarded and there we are again. I’m wearing a slinky blue evening dress, dancing with Eric in a grand-looking ballroom.

“Eric is a
very
generous benefactor,” Mum says, but I don’t respond. I’m riveted by a handsome, dark-haired guy standing near the dance floor. Wait a moment. Don’t I…know him from somewhere?

I do. I do. I definitely recognize him. At last!

“Lexi?” Eric has noticed my expression. “Is this jolting your memory?”

“Yes!” I can’t help a joyful smile. “I remember that guy on the left.” I point at the screen. “I’m not sure who he is exactly, but I
know
him. Really well! He’s warm, and funny, and I think maybe he’s a doctor…or maybe I met him in a casino—”

“Lexi…” Eric gently cuts me off. “That’s George Clooney, the actor. He was a fellow guest at the ball.”

“Oh.” I rub my nose, discomfited. “Oh right.”

George Clooney. Of course it is. I’m a moron. I subside back onto my pillows, dispirited.

When I think of all the hideous, mortifying things I
can
remember. Having to eat semolina at school when I was seven, and nearly vomiting. Wearing a white swimsuit when I was fifteen and getting out of the pool, and it was transparent and all the boys laughed. I remember that humiliation like it was yesterday.

But I can’t remember walking along a perfect sandy beach on Mauritius. I can’t remember dancing with my husband at some grand ball. Hello, brain? Do you have
any
priorities?

“I was reading up on amnesia last night,” Amy says from her cross-legged position on the floor. “You know which sense triggers memory the best? Smell. Maybe you should
smell
Eric.”