Remember Me?

by Sophie Kinsella

  Oh my God.

  Those aren’t my teeth. They’re all white. They’re all gleamy. I’m looking at a stranger’s mouth.

  “Are you okay?” Nicole interrupts my daze. “Lexi?”

  “I’d like a proper mirror, please,” I manage at last. “I need to see myself. Have you got one you could bring me?”

  “There’s one in the bathroom.” She comes forward. “In fact, it’s a good idea for you to get moving. I’ll help you.”

  I heave myself out of the high metal bed. My legs are wobbly, but I manage to totter into the adjoining bathroom.

  “Now,” she says, before she closes the door. “You have had some cuts and bruising, so your appearance may be a little bit of a shock. Are you ready?”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine. Just show me.” I take a deep breath and steel myself. She swings the door shut to reveal a full-length mirror on the back of it.

  Is that…me?

  I can’t speak. My legs have turned to jelly. I grip a towel rail, trying to keep control of myself.

  “I know your injuries look bad.” Nicole has a strong arm around me. “But believe me, they’re just surface wounds.”

  I’m not even looking at the cuts. Or the bandage or the staple on my forehead. It’s what’s underneath.

  “That’s not…” I gesture at my reflection. “That’s not what I look like.”

  I close my eyes and visualize my old self, just to make sure I’m not going crazy. Mouse-colored frizzy hair, blue eyes, slightly fatter than I’d like to be. Nice-ish face but nothing special. Black eyeliner and bright pink Tesco lipstick. The standard Lexi Smart look.

  Then I open my eyes again. A different girl is staring back at me. Some of my hair has been messed up by the crash, but the rest is a bright, unfamiliar shade of chestnut, all straight and sleek with not one bit of frizz. My toenails are perfectly pink and polished. My legs are tanned golden brown, and thinner than before. And more muscled.

  “What’s changed?” Nicole is looking at my reflection curiously.

  “Everything!” I manage. “I look all…sheeny.”

  “Sheeny?” She laughs.

  “My hair, my legs, my teeth…” I can’t take my eyes off those immaculate pearly whites. They must have cost a bloody fortune.

  “They’re nice!” She nods politely.

  “No. No. No.” I’m shaking my head vigorously. “You don’t understand. I have the worst teeth in the world. My nickname is ‘Snaggletooth.’”

  “Shouldn’t think it is anymore.” Nicole raises an amused eyebrow.

  “And I’ve lost loads of weight… And my face is different; I’m not sure exactly how…” I scan my features, trying to work it out. My eyebrows are thin and groomed…my lips seem fuller somehow… I peer more closely, suddenly suspicious. Have I had something done? Have I turned into someone who has work done?

  I tear myself away from the mirror and pull the door open, my head spinning.

  “Take it easy,” Nicole warns, hurrying after me. “You’ve had a shock to the system. Maybe you should take things one step at a time…”

  Ignoring her, I grab the Louis Vuitton bag and start yanking things out of it, examining each item closely as though it might impart a message. God, just look at this stuff. A Tiffany key fob, a pair of Prada sunglasses, a lip gloss: Lancôme, not Tesco.

  And here’s a small, pale-green Smythson diary. I hesitate for a moment, psyching myself up-then open it. With a jolt I see my own familiar handwriting. Lexi Smart, 2007 is scribbled inside the front cover. I must have written those words. I must have doodled that feathery bird in the corner. But I have absolutely no recollection of doing so.

  Feeling as if I’m spying on myself, I start leafing through the tiny pages. There are appointments on every page: Lunch 12:30. Drinks P. Meeting Gill-artwork. But they’re all written in initials and abbreviations. I can’t glean much from this. I flick onward to the end and a bunch of business cards falls out of the diary. I pick one up, glance down at the name-and freeze.

  It’s a card from the company I work at, Deller Carpets-although it’s been given a trendy new logo. And the name is printed in clear charcoal gray.

  LEXI SMART

  DIRECTOR, FLOORING

  I feel as though the ground has fallen away from me.

  “Lexi?” Nicole is regarding me in concern. “You’ve gone very pale.”

  “Look at this.” I hold the card out, trying to keep a grip on myself. “It says ‘director’ on my business card. That’s, like, boss of the whole department. How could I possibly be the boss?” My voice rises more shrilly than I intended. “I’ve only been at the company a year. I didn’t even get a bonus!”

  Hands trembling, I slot the card back between the diary pages and reach into the bag again. I have to find my phone. I have to call my friends, my family, someone who knows what’s going on…

  Got it.

  It’s a sleek new model that I don’t recognize, but it’s still pretty simple to work out. I haven’t got any voice messages, although there’s a new unread text. I select it and peer at the tiny screen.

  Running late, I’ll call when I can.

  E.

  Who’s “E”? I rack my brains but can’t think of a single person I know whose name begins with E. Someone new at work? I go to my stored texts-and the first one is from “E”: I don’t think so. E.

  Is “E” my new best friend or something?

  I’ll trawl through my messages later. Right now I have to talk to someone who knows me, who can tell me exactly what’s been going on in my life these last three years…I speed-dial Fi’s number and wait, drumming my nails, for a reply.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Fiona Roper. Please leave a message.”

  “Hey, Fi,” I say as soon as the beep sounds. “It’s me, Lexi! Listen, I know this’ll sound weird, but I’ve had an accident. I’m in hospital and I just…I need to talk to you. It’s quite important. Can you give me a call? Bye!” As I close the phone, Nicole puts a hand on it reprovingly.

  “You’re not supposed to use these in here,” she says. “You can use a landline, though. I’ll set you up with a receiver.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “Thanks.” I’m about to start scrolling through all my old texts, when there’s a knock on the door and another nurse comes in, holding a pair of bags.

  “I’ve got your clothes here.” She puts a shopping bag down on my bed. I reach in, pull out a pair of dark jeans, and stare at them. What are these? The waist is too high and they’re way too narrow, almost like tights. How are you supposed to get a pair of boots on under those?

  “Oh, 7 For All Mankind,” says Nicole, raising her eyebrows. “Very nice.”

  Seven for what?

  “I’d love a pair of those.” She strokes a leg admiringly. “About two hundred quid a pop, aren’t they?”

  Two hundred pounds? For jeans?

  “And here’s your jewelry,” adds the other nurse, holding out a transparent plastic bag. “It had to come off for the scans.”

  Still stunned by the jeans, I take the bag. I’ve never been a jewelry-type person, unless you count TopShop earrings and a Swatch. Feeling like a kid with a Christmas stocking, I reach into the bag and pull out a tangle of gold. There’s an expensive-looking bracelet made of hammered gold, and a matching necklace, plus a watch.

  “Wow. This is nice.” I run my fingers cautiously over the bracelet, then reach in again and retrieve two chandelier earrings. Caught up among the knotted strands of gold is a ring, and after a bit of careful unweaving I manage to untangle it.

  There’s a general intake of breath. Someone whispers, “Oh my God.”

  I’m holding a huge, shiny, diamond solitaire ring. The type you get in movies. The type you see on navy-blue velvet in jewelers’ windows with no price tag. At last I tear my gaze away and see that both nurses are riveted too.

  “Hey!” Nicole suddenly exclaims. “There’s something else. Hold out your hand, Lexi…” She tips up the bag and
taps the corner. There’s a moment’s stillness-then out onto my palm falls a plain gold band.

  There’s a kind of rushing in my ears as I stare down at it.

  “You must be married!” Nicole says brightly.

  No. No way. Surely I’d know if I was married? Surely I’d sense it deep down, amnesia or no amnesia. I turn the ring over in my clumsy fingers, feeling hot and cold all over.

  “She is.” The second nurse nods. “You are. Don’t you remember, love?”

  I shake my head dumbly.

  “You don’t remember your wedding?” Nicole looks agog. “You don’t remember anything about your husband?”

  “No.” I look up suddenly with horror. “I didn’t marry Loser Dave, did I?”

  “I don’t know!” Nicole gives a giggle and claps her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. You just looked so appalled. D’you know what his name is?” She looks at the other nurse, who shakes her head.

  “Sorry. I’ve been on the other ward. But I know there’s a husband.”

  “Look, the ring’s engraved!” Nicole exclaims, taking it from me. “‘A.S. and E.G. June 3, 2005.’ Coming up on their two-year anniversary.” She hands it back. “Is that you?”

  I’m breathing fast. It’s true. It’s carved here in solid gold.

  “I’m A.S.,” I say at last. “A for Alexia. But I have no idea who E.G. is.”

  The E from my phone, I suddenly realize. That must have been him texting me. My husband.

  “I think I need some cold water…” Feeling giddy, I totter into the bathroom, splash water on my face, then lean forward across the cold enamel basin and stare at my bashed-up, familiar-unfamiliar reflection. I feel like I’m about to have a meltdown. Is someone still playing a gigantic prank on me? Am I hallucinating?

  I’m twenty-eight, I have perfect white teeth, a Louis Vuitton bag, a card saying “director,” and a husband.

  How the hell did all that happen?

  Chapter 4

  Edward. Ethan. Errol.

  It’s an hour later and I’m still in a state of shock. I keep looking in disbelief at my wedding ring resting on the bedside cabinet. I, Lexi Smart, have a husband. I don’t feel old enough to have a husband.

  Elliott. Eamonn. Egbert.

  Please, God, not Egbert.

  I’ve ransacked the Louis Vuitton bag. I’ve looked all the way through the diary. I’ve skimmed through all my stored mobile numbers. But I still haven’t found out what E stands for. You’d think I’d remember my own husband’s name. You’d think it would be engraved in my psyche.

  When the door opens, I stiffen, almost expecting it to be him. But it’s Mum again, looking pink and harassed.

  “Those traffic wardens have no hearts. I was only twenty minutes at the vet, and-”

  “Mum, I’ve got amnesia.” I cut her off in a rush. “I’ve lost my memory. I’ve lost a whole chunk of my life. I’m really…freaked out.”

  “Oh. Yes, the nurse mentioned it.” Her gaze briefly meets mine, then flicks away again. Mum’s not the greatest at eye contact; she never has been. I used to get quite frustrated by it when I was younger, but now I just see it as one of those Mum things. Like the way she won’t learn the names of TV programs properly, even after you’ve told her five hundred times it’s not The Simpsons Family.

  Now she’s sitting down and peeling off her waistcoat. “I know exactly how you feel,” she begins. “My memory gets worse every day. In fact, the other day-”

  “Mum…” I inhale deeply, trying to stay calm. “You don’t know how I feel. This isn’t like forgetting where you put something. I’ve lost three years of my life! I don’t know anything about myself in 2007. I don’t look the same, none of my things are the same, and I found these rings which apparently belong to me, and I just have to know something…” My voice is jumping about with apprehension. “Mum…am I really married?”

  “Of course you’re married!” Mum appears surprised that I need to ask. “Eric will be here any minute. I told you that earlier.”

  “Eric’s my husband?” I stare at her. “I thought Eric was a dog.”

  “A dog?” Mum raises her eyebrows. “Goodness, darling! You did get a bump on the head!”

  Eric. I’m rolling the name around my head experimentally. My husband, Eric.

  It means nothing to me. It’s not a name I feel either way about.

  I love you, Eric.

  With my body I thee worship, Eric.

  I wait for some sort of reaction in my body. Surely I should respond? Surely all my love cells should be waking up? But I feel totally blank and nothing-y.

  “He had a very important meeting this morning. But otherwise he’s been here with you night and day.”

  “Right.” I digest this. “So…so what’s he like?”

  “He’s very nice,” says Mum, as though she’s talking about a sponge cake.

  “Is he…” I stop.

  I can’t ask if he’s good-looking. That would be really shallow. And what if she avoids the question and says he has a wonderful sense of humor?

  What if he’s obese?

  Oh God. What if I got to know his beautiful inner soul as we exchanged messages over the Internet, only now I’ve forgotten all about that and I’ll have to pretend his looks don’t matter to me?

  We lapse into silence and I find myself eyeing up Mum’s dress-Laura Ashley, circa 1975. Frills come in and out of fashion, but somehow she doesn’t notice. She still wears the same clothes she wore when she first met my dad, and the same long flicky hair, the same frosted lipstick. It’s like she thinks she’s still in her twenties.

  Not that I would ever mention this to her. We’ve never been into cozy mother-daughter chats. I once tried to confide in her, when I split up with my first boyfriend. Big mistake. She didn’t sympathize, or hug me, or even really listen. Instead she got all pink and defensive and sharp with me, as if I was deliberately trying to wound her by talking about relationships. I felt like I was negotiating a land-mine site, treading on sensitive bits of her life I didn’t even realize existed.

  So I gave up and called Fi instead.

  “Did you manage to order those sofa covers for me, Lexi?” Mum interrupts my thoughts. “Off the Internet,” she adds at my blank look. “You were going to do it last week.”

  Did she listen to anything I said?

  “Mum, I don’t know,” I say, slowly and clearly. “I don’t remember anything about the last three years.”

  “Sorry, darling.” Mum hits her head. “I’m being stupid.”

  “I don’t know what I was doing last week, or last year…or even who my own husband is.” I spread my arms. “To be honest, it’s pretty scary.”

  “Of course. Absolutely.” Mum is nodding, a distant look in her eyes, as though she’s processing my words. “The thing is, darling, I don’t remember the name of the Web site. So if you did happen to recall-”

  “I’ll let you know, okay?” I can’t help snapping. “If my memory returns, the first thing I’ll do is call you about your sofa covers. Jesus!”

  “There’s no need to raise your voice, Lexi!” she says, opening her eyes wide.

  Okay. So in 2007 Mum still officially drives me up the wall. Surely I’m supposed to have grown out of being irritated by my mother? Automatically I start picking at my thumbnail. Then I stop. Twenty-eight-year-old Lexi doesn’t shred her nails.

  “So, what does he do?” I return to the subject of my so-called husband. I still can’t really believe he’s real.

  “Who, Eric?”

  “Yes! Of course Eric!”

  “He sells property,” Mum says, as though I ought to know. “He’s rather good at it, actually.”

  I’ve married a real-estate agent called Eric.

  How?

  Why?

  “Do we live in my flat?”

  “Your flat?” Mum looks bemused. “Darling, you sold your flat a long time ago. You have a marital home now!”

  “I sold it?” I fee
l a pang. “But I’ve only just bought it!”

  I love my flat. It’s in Balham and is tiny but cozy, with blue-painted window frames which I did myself, and a lovely squashy velvet sofa, and piles of colorful cushions everywhere, and fairy lights around the mirror. Fi and Carolyn helped me move in two months ago, and we spray-painted the bathroom silver, and then spray-painted our jeans silver too.

  And now it’s all gone. I live in a marital home. With my marital husband.

  For the millionth time I look at the wedding ring and diamond solitaire. Then I automatically shoot a glance at Mum’s hand. She still wears Dad’s ring, despite the way he’s behaved toward her over the years-

  Dad. Dad’s funeral.

  It’s like a hand has gripped hold of my stomach, tight.

  “Mum…” I venture cautiously. “I’m really sorry I missed Dad’s funeral. Did it…you know, go all right?”

  “You didn’t miss it, darling.” She peers at me as though I’m crazy. “You were there.”

  “Oh.” I stare at her, confused. “Right. Of course. I just don’t remember anything about it.”

  Heaving a massive sigh, I lean back on my pillows. I don’t remember my own wedding and I don’t remember my dad’s funeral. Two of the most important events in my life, and I feel like I’ve missed out on them. “So, how was it?”

  “Oh, it all went off as well as these things ever do…” Mum’s looking twitchy, the way she always is when the subject of Dad comes up.

  “Were many people there?”

  A pained expression comes to her face.

  “Let’s not dwell on it, darling. It was years ago.” She gets up as though to remove herself from my questioning. “Now, have you had any lunch? I didn’t have time to eat anything, just a snatch of a boiled egg and toast. I’ll go and find something for us both. And make sure you eat properly, Lexi,” she adds. “None of this no-carbs obsession. A potato won’t kill you.”

  No carbs? Is that how I got this shape? I glance down at my unfamiliar toned legs. It has to be said, they look as if they don’t know what a potato is.

  “I’ve changed in appearance quite a lot, haven’t I?” I can’t help saying, a bit self-consciously. “My hair…my teeth…”