Remember Me?

by Sophie Kinsella

  “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.

  ALEXIA AND ERIC

  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.”

  “It’s true,” Mum puts in unexpectedly. “Like that chap Proust. One whiff of a fairy cake and everything came flooding back into his mind.”

  “Go on,” Amy says encouragingly. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

  I glance over at Eric, embarrassed. “Would you mind if I…smelled you, Eric?”

  “Not at all! It’s worth a go.” He sits on the bed and freeze-frames the DVD. “Should I lift my arms up, or…”

  “Um…I guess so…”

  Solemnly Eric lifts his arms. I lean forward gingerly and sniff his armpit. I can smell soap, and aftershave, and a mild, manly kind of smell. But nothing’s rushing back into my brain.

  Except visions of George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven.

  I may not mention those.

  “Anything?” Eric is frozen, rigid in his arms-up position.

  “Nothing yet,” I say after sniffing again. “I mean, nothing very strong…”

  “You should smell his crotch,” says Amy.

  “Sweetheart,” Mum says faintly.

  I can’t help glancing down at Eric’s crotch. The crotch I’ve married. It looks pretty generous, although you can never quite tell. I wonder-

  No. Not the point right now.

  “What you two should do is have sex,” Amy says into the awkward silence, then snaps her gum. “You need the pungent smell of each other’s bodily-”

  “Amy!” Mum cuts her off. “Darling! That is quite enough!”

  “I’m just saying! It’s nature’s own amnesia cure!”

  “So.” Eric drops his arms again. “Not exactly the greatest success.”

  “No.”

  Maybe Amy’s right. Maybe we should have sex. I glance at Eric-and I’m convinced he’s thinking the same thing.

  “Never mind. It’s still early days.” Eric smiles as he closes the wedding album, but I can tell he’s disappointed too.

  “What if I never remember?” I look around the room. “What if all those memories are lost for good and I can ne
ver get them back? Ever?”

  As I look around at the concerned faces I suddenly feel powerless and vulnerable. It’s like that time my computer crashed and I lost all my e-mail, only a million times worse. The techy guy kept telling me I should have backed up my files. But how do you back up your own brain?

  ***

  In the afternoon I see a neuropsychologist, Neil. He’s a friendly guy, in jeans. I sit at a table with him, taking tests-and I have to say, I’m pretty good! I remember most of twenty words in a list; I remember a short story; I draw a picture from memory.

  “You’re functioning extremely well, Lexi,” Neil says after he fills in the last check box. “Your executive skills are there, your short-term memory is pretty good considering, you have no major cognitive problems…but you’re suffering from a severe focal retrograde amnesia. It’s very unusual, you know.”

  “But why?”

  “Well, it has to do with the way you hit your head.” He leans forward, animated, draws an outline of a head on his pad of paper, and starts to fill in a brain. “You’ve had what we call an acceleration-deceleration injury. When you hit the windshield, your brain was thrown around in your skull, and a small area of your brain was, shall we say, tweaked. It could be you’ve done damage to your warehouse of memories…or it could be that you’ve done damage to your ability to retrieve memories. In that case the warehouse is intact, if you like, but you’re unable to open the door.”

  His eyes are shining, as though this is all really fabulous and I should be thrilled with myself.

  “Can’t you give me an electric shock?” I say in frustration. “Or hit me over the head or something?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He looks amused. “Contrary to popular belief, hitting an amnesiac over the head is not going to bring their memory back. So don’t try that at home.” He pushes his chair back. “Let me walk you to your room.”

  We arrive back at my room to find Mum and Amy still watching the home DVD while Eric talks on his cell phone. Immediately he finishes his conversation and claps his phone shut. “How did you get on?”

  “What did you remember, darling?” Mum chimes in.

  “Nothing,” I admit.

  “Once Lexi gets back to familiar surroundings, she’ll probably find her memory returns quite naturally,” says Neil reassuringly. “Although it may take time.”

  “Right.” Eric nods earnestly. “So, what next?”

  “Well.” Neil flips through my notes. “You’re in good shape physically, Lexi. I would say you’ll probably be discharged tomorrow. I’ll make an appointment for you in a month’s time as an outpatient. Until then, the best place for you is home.” He smiles. “I’m sure that’s where you want to be too.”

  “Yes!” I say after a pause. “Home. Great.”

  Even as I’m saying the words I realize I don’t know what I mean by home. Home was my Balham flat. And that’s gone.

  “What’s your address?” He takes out a pen. “For my notes.”

  “I’m…not sure.”

  “I’ll write it down,” Eric says helpfully, and takes the pen.

  This is crazy. I don’t know where I live. I’m like some confused old lady.

  “Well, good luck, Lexi.” Neil looks at Eric and Mum. “You can help by giving Lexi as much information as possible about her life. Write things down. Take her back to places she’s been. Any problems, just call me.”

  The door closes behind Neil and there’s silence, apart from the chatter of the telly. Mum and Eric are exchanging looks. If I was a conspiracy theorist I’d say they were hatching a plan.

  “What is it?”

  “Sweetheart, your mother and I were talking earlier about how we would”-he hesitates-“tackle your release.”

  Tackle my release. He sounds like I’m a dangerous, psychotic prisoner.

  “We’re in a pretty strange situation here,” he continues. “Obviously I would love it if you wanted to come home and resume your life again. But I appreciate that you may find it uncomfortable. After all…you don’t know me.”

  “Well, no.” I chew my lip. “I don’t.”

  “I said to Eric, you’re very welcome to come and stay with me for a bit,” puts in Mum. “Obviously it will be a little disruptive, and you’ll have to share with Jake and Florian, but they’re good dogs.”

  “That room smells,” says Amy.

  “It does not smell, Amy.” Mum seems affronted. “That builder chap said it was simply a question of dry something-or-other.” She makes a vague gesture.

  “Rot,” says Amy, without moving her gaze off the television. “And it does smell.”

  Mum is blinking hard in annoyance. Meanwhile, Eric has come over, his face showing concern.

  “Lexi, please don’t think I’ll be offended. I understand how tough this is for you. I’m a stranger to you, for Christ’s sake.” He spreads his arms. “Why on earth would you want to come home with me?”

  I know it’s my cue to answer-but I’ve suddenly been distracted by an image on the TV screen. It’s of me and Eric on a speedboat. God knows where we are, but the sun is shining and the sea is blue. We’re both wearing sunglasses and Eric is smiling at me as he drives the boat and we look totally glamorous, like something out of a James Bond movie.

  I can’t help staring at it, mesmerized. I want this life rushes through my brain. It belongs to me. I earned it. I’m not going to let it slip through my fingers.

  Eric is still talking. “The last thing I want to do is get in the way of your recovery. Whatever you want to do, I will completely understand.”

  “Right. Yes.” I take a sip of water, playing for time. “I’ll just…think about it for a few moments.”

  Okay, let’s just get my options absolutely clear here:

  1. A rotting room in Kent which I have to share with two whippets.

  2. A palatial loft in Kensington with Eric, my good-looking husband who can drive a speedboat.

  “You know what, Eric?” I say carefully, measuring out my words. “I think I should come and live with you.”

  “Are you serious?” His face lights up, but I can tell he’s taken aback.

  “You’re my husband,” I say. “I should be with you.”

  “But you don’t remember me,” he says uncertainly. “You don’t know me.”

  “I’ll get to know you again!” I say with growing enthusiasm. “Surely the best chance I have of remembering my life is to live it. You can tell me about yourself, and me, and our marriage… I can learn it all again! And that doctor said familiar circumstances would help. They’ll trigger my retrieval system or whatever.”

  I’m more and more positive about this. So I don’t know anything about my husband or my life. The point is, I’ve married a good-looking multimillionaire who loves me and has a huge penthouse and brought me taupe roses. I’m not going to throw it all away just because of the small detail that I can’t remember him.

  Everyone has to work at their marriage in some way or another. I’ll just have to work at the “remembering your husband” part.

  “Eric, I really want to come home with you,” I say as sincerely as I can. “I’m sure we have a great, loving marriage. We can work it out.”

  “It would be wonderful to have you back.” Eric still looks troubled. “But please don’t feel any sense of obligation-”

  “I’m not doing this out of obligation! I’m doing it because…it just feels right.”

  “Well, I think it’s a very good idea,” Mum puts in.

  “That’s it, then,” I say. “Settled.”

  “Obviously you won’t want to…” Eric hesitates awkwardly. “I mean…I’ll take the guest suite.”

  “I would appreciate that,” I say, trying to match his formal tone. “Thank you, Eric.”

  “Well, if you’re sure about this…” His whole face has brightened. “Let’s do this properly, shall we?” He glances questioningly at my wedding ring, still lying on the cabinet, and I follow his gaze.


  “Yes, let’s!” I nod, suddenly excited.

  He picks up both rings and self-consciously I hold out my left hand. I watch, transfixed, as Eric slips the rings onto my finger. First the wedding band, then the enormous diamond solitaire. There’s a hush in the room as I gaze down at my beringed hand.

  Fuck, that diamond’s huge.

  “Are you comfortable, Lexi?” Eric asks. “Does that feel right?”

  “It feels…great! Really. Just right.”

  A huge smile licks across my face as I turn my hand this way and that. I feel like someone should throw confetti or sing the “Wedding March.” Two nights ago I was being stood up in a crappy club by Loser Dave. And now…I’m married!

  Chapter 7

  It has to be karma.

  I must have been amazingly noble in a previous existence. I must have rescued children from a burning building, or given up my life to help lepers, or invented the wheel or something. It’s the only explanation I can think of for how I’ve landed the dream life.

  Here I am, zooming along the Thames Embankment, with my handsome husband, in his open-top Mercedes.

  I say zooming. Actually we’re going at about twenty miles an hour. Eric is being all solicitous and saying he knows how hard it must be for me to get back in a car, and if I feel traumatized to tell him straightaway. But really, I’m fine. I don’t remember anything about the crash. It’s like a story I’ve been told that happened to someone else, the kind where you tilt your head politely and say “Oh no, how awful” but you’ve already stopped listening properly.

  I keep glancing down at myself in wonder. I’m wearing a pair of cropped jeans, two sizes smaller than I used to wear. And a top by Miu Miu, which is one of those names I only used to know about from magazines. Eric brought me a bag of clothes to choose from, and they were all so posh and designer I hardly dared touch them, let alone put them on.

  On the backseat are all the bouquets and presents from my hospital room, including a massive basket of tropical fruit from Deller Carpets. There was a letter attached from someone called Clare, which said she would send me the minutes of the latest board meeting to read at my leisure, and she hoped I was feeling better. And then she signed it “Clare Abrahams, assistant to Lexi Smart.”