“Well…no.”
“Oh my God.” She blows out sharply. “I have so much to fill you in on. Where shall I start? Okay, so there’s me.” She pulls a pen out of her bag and starts writing. “And my husband, Clive, and his evil bitch ex, Davina. Wait till you hear about her. And there’s Jenna and Petey-”
“Do we ever hang out with my other friends?” I interrupt her. “Like Fi and Carolyn? Or Debs? Do you know them?”
“Carolyn. Carolyn.” Rosalie taps the pen against her teeth, frowning thoughtfully. “Is she that lovely French girl at the gym?”
“No, Carolyn my friend from work. And Fi. I must have talked about them, surely. I’ve been friends with Fi forever…we go out every Friday night…”
Rosalie looks blank.
“Sweetie, to be honest, I’ve never heard you mention them. As far as I know, you never socialize with colleagues from work.”
“What?” I stare at her. “But…it’s our thing! We go clubbing and we dress up and we have cocktails…”
Rosalie laughs. “Lexi, I’ve never even seen you with a cocktail! You and Eric are both so serious about wine.”
Wine? That can’t be right. All I know about wine is that it comes from Oddbins.
“You look confused,” Rosalie says anxiously. “I’m bombarding you with too much information. Forget the gossip.” She pushes aside her sheet of paper, on which I can see she’s written a list of names with “bitch” and “sweetheart” next to them. “What would you like to do?”
“Maybe we could just do whatever we normally do together?”
“Absolutely!” Rosalie ponders for a moment, then her brow clears. “We should go to the gym.”
“The gym,” I echo, trying to sound enthused. “Of course. So…I go to the gym a lot?”
“Sweetie, you’re addicted! You run for an hour every other morning at six a.m.”
Six a.m.? Running?
I never run. It’s painful and it makes your boobs bounce around. I once did a mile-long fun run with Fi and Carolyn, and I nearly died. Although at least I was better than Fi, who gave up running after two minutes and walked the rest of the way, smoking a cigarette, and then got into a row with the organizers and was banned from any future Cancer Research fund-raisers.
“But don’t worry, we’ll do something lovely and restful today,” Rosalie says reassuringly. “A massage, or a nice gentle stretch class. Just grab your exercise clothes and we’ll go!”
“Okay!” I hesitate. “Actually, this is a bit embarrassing…but I don’t know where my clothes are. All the cupboards in our bedroom are full of Eric’s suits. I can’t find any of mine.”
Rosalie looks utterly pole-axed. “You don’t know where your clothes are?” Tears suddenly spring to her huge blue eyes and she fans her face. “I’m sorry,” she gulps. “But it’s just come home to me how horrific and scary this must be for you. To have forgotten your entire wardrobe.” She takes a deep breath, composing herself, then squeezes my hand. “Come with me, sweetie. I’ll show you.”
***
So the reason I couldn’t find my clothes is they’re not in a wardrobe, they’re in a whole other room, behind a concealed door which looks like a mirror. And the reason they need a whole other room is because there’s so bloody many of them.
As I stare at the racks I feel faint. I’ve never seen so many clothes, not outside a shop. Crisp white shirts, tailored black trousers, suits in shades of mushroom and taupe. Chiffony evening wear. Tights rolled up in their own special drawer. Folded silky knickers with La Perla labels. I can’t see anything that doesn’t look brand-new and immaculate. There are no baggy jeans, no sloppy sweaters, no comfy old pj’s.
I leaf through a row of jackets, all pretty much identical apart from the buttons. I can’t believe I’ve spent so much money on clothes and they’re all versions of beige.
“What do you think?” Rosalie is watching me, her eyes sparkling.
“Amazing!”
“Ann has a great eye.” She nods sagely. “Ann, your personal shopper.”
“I have a personal shopper?”
“Just for the main pieces each season…” Rosalie pulls out a dark blue dress with spaghetti straps and the tiniest ruffle around the hem. “Look, this is the dress you wore when we first met. I remember thinking, ‘Ah, this is the girl Eric’s smitten with.’ It was the talk of the party! And let me tell you, Lexi, there were a lot of disappointed girls out there when you two got married…” She reaches for a long black evening dress. “This is the dress you wore to my murder mystery evening.” She holds it up against me. “With a little fur shrug and pearls…Don’t you remember?”
“Not really.”
“What about this Catherine Walker? You must remember that…or your Roland Mouret…” Rosalie is whipping out dress after dress, none of which looks remotely familiar. She reaches a pale garment carrier and stops with a gasp. “Your wedding dress!” Slowly, reverently, she unzips the garment carrier and pulls out the silky white sheath I recognize from the DVD. “Doesn’t that bring it all back?”
I stare at the dress, trying as hard as I can to will my memory to return…but nothing.
“Oh my God.” Rosalie suddenly claps a hand over her mouth. “You and Eric should have a renewal of vows! I’ll plan it for you! We could have a Japanese theme, you could wear a kimono-”
“Maybe!” I cut her off. “It’s early days. I’ll…think about it.”
“Hmm.” Rosalie looks disappointed as she packs the wedding dress away. Then her face lights up. “Try the shoes. You have to remember your shoes.”
She heads to the other side of the room and flings open a cupboard door. And I stare in disbelief. I’ve never seen so many shoes. All in neat rows, most of them high-heeled. What am I doing with high-heeled shoes?
“This is unbelievable.” I turn to Rosalie. “I can’t even walk in heels, God knows why I bought them.”
“Yes, you can.” Rosalie looks puzzled. “Of course you can.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve never been able to do heels. I fall over, I twist my ankle, I look stupid…”
“Sweetie.” Rosalie’s eyes are wide. “You live in heels. You were wearing these last time we had lunch.” She pulls out a pair of black pumps with four-inch stiletto heels. The kind I’d never even look at in a shop.
The soles are scuffed. The inside label has been rubbed away. Someone’s been wearing these.
Me?
“Put them on!” says Rosalie.
Cautiously I slip off my loafers and step into the pointy heels. Almost at once I topple over and grab Rosalie. “You see? I can’t balance.”
“Lexi, you can walk in these,” Rosalie says firmly. “I’ve seen you do it.”
“I can’t.” I make to take them off, but Rosalie grabs my arm.
“No! Don’t give up, sweetie. It’s in you, I know it is! You have to…unlock it!”
I try another step, but my ankle bends like plasticine. “It’s no good.” I exhale in frustration. “I wasn’t meant to do this.”
“Yes, you were. Try again! Find the zone!” Rosalie sounds like she’s coaching me for the Olympics. “You can do it, Lexi.”
I totter to the other side of the room and cling to the curtain. “I’ll never crack this,” I say despairingly.
“Of course you will. Just don’t think about it. Distract yourself. I know! We’ll sing a song! ‘Land of hope and gloreeee…’ Come on, Lexi, sing!”
Reluctantly I join in. I really hope Eric doesn’t have a CCTV camera trained on us at this moment.
“Now walk!” Rosalie gives me a little push. “Go!”
“‘Land of hope and gloreeee…’” Trying to keep my mind focused on the song, I take a step forward. Then another. Then another.
Oh my God. I’m doing it. I’m walking in high heels!
“You see?” Rosalie crows in triumph. “I told you! You are a heels girl.”
I get to the other side of the room, swivel around c
onfidently, and walk back, an elated grin on my face. I feel like a model!
“I can do it! It’s easy!”
“Yay!” Rosalie lifts her hand and gives me a high-five. She opens a drawer, scoops up some gym clothes, and pops them into an oversize tote. “Come on, let’s go.”
***
We drive to the gym in Rosalie’s car. It’s a sumptuous Range Rover with the license plate ROS 1. Designer shopping bags are strewn all over the backseat.
“So, what do you do?” I say as she winds her way between two lanes of traffic.
“I do a lot of volunteer work.” She nods earnestly.
“Wow.” I feel a bit shamefaced. Rosalie didn’t strike me as the volunteer-work type, which just shows how prejudiced I am. “What kind?”
“Event planning, mainly.”
“For a particular charity?”
“No, mostly for friends. You know, if they need a helping hand with the flowers or party favors or whatever…” Rosalie’s smiling winsomely up at a truck driver. “Please let me in, Mr. Lorry-driver…Thank you!” She pulls over into the next lane and blows him a kiss.
“I do the odd bits for the company, too,” she adds. “Eric’s such a sweetie, he always gets me involved in launches, that kind of thing. Oh shit, road works!” She swerves, to a cacophony of angry hooting, and turns the radio up higher.
“So you like Eric?” I try to sound casual, although I’m dying to hear what she thinks of him.
“Oh, he’s the perfect husband. Absolutely perfect.” She draws up at a crosswalk. “Mine’s a monster.”
“Really?” I stare at her.
“Mind you, I’m a monster too.” She turns to face me, her blue eyes deadly serious. “We’re so volatile. It’s a total love-hate relationship. Here we are!” She zooms off again and drives into a tiny car park, pulls up next to a Porsche, and turns off the engine.
“Now, don’t worry,” she says as she ushers me toward the glass double doors. “I know this will be really hard for you, so I’ll do all the talking… Hi there!” She pushes her way into a smart reception area furnished with tan leather seating and a pebbled fountain.
“Hi, ladies.” The receptionist’s face falls as she sees me. “Lexi! You poor thing! We heard about the accident. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I venture a smile. “Thanks very much for the flowers.”
“Poor Lexi has amnesia,” says Rosalie impressively. “She doesn’t remember this place. She doesn’t remember anything.” She casts around as though for a way to illustrate. “Like, she doesn’t remember this door…or…or this plant…” She gestures to a large frondy fern.
“Goodness!”
“I know.” Rosalie is nodding solemnly. “It’s a nightmare for her.” She turns to me. “Is this bringing back any memories, Lexi?”
“Er…not really.”
Everyone in the reception area is staring at me, agog. I feel like a member of the Amnesia Freak Circus.
“Come on!” Rosalie firmly takes hold of my arm. “We’ll get changed. You might remember once you’re in your exercise clothes.”
The changing rooms are the most palatial ones I’ve ever seen, all smooth wood and mosaic showers and gentle music playing over the speakers. I disappear into a cubicle and pull on a pair of leggings. Then I pull on the leotard bit.
It’s got a thong, I realize to my horror. My bum will look massive. I can’t wear this.
But I don’t have anything else. Reluctantly I pull it on, then edge out of the cubicle, hands over my eyes. This could be really, really gross. I count to five, then force myself to take a peek.
Actually…I don’t look too bad. I remove my hands completely and stare at myself. I look all long and lean and…different. Experimentally I flex my arm-and a biceps muscle I’ve never seen before pops up. I stare at it in astonishment.
“So!” Rosalie bustles up to me, dressed in leggings and a crop top. “This way…” She ushers me into a large, airy exercise studio, where rows of well-groomed women are already in position on yoga mats.
“Sorry we’re late,” she says momentously, looking around the room. “But Lexi has got amnesia. She doesn’t remember anything. About any of you.”
I get the feeling Rosalie is enjoying this.
“Hi.” I do a shy wave around the room.
“I heard about your accident, Lexi.” The exercise teacher is coming over wearing a sympathetic smile. She’s a slim woman with cropped blond hair and a headset. “Please take it easy today. Sit out whenever you like. We’re starting with some mat work…”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“We’re trying to trigger her memory,” Rosalie chimes in. “So everyone just act normal.”
As all the others raise their arms, I nervously take a mat and sit down. Gym has never exactly been my strong point. I guess I’ll just follow as best I can. I stretch my legs out in front of me and reach for my toes, although there’s no way I’ll ever be able to-
Bloody hell. I can touch my toes. In fact, I can put my head right down on my knees. What’s happened to me?
In disbelief I follow the next maneuver-and I can do that one too! I’m bendy! My body is moving into each position as if it can remember everything perfectly, even if I can’t.
“And now, for those that are up to it,” the teacher is saying, “the advanced dancer position…”
Cautiously I start tugging on my ankle-and it obeys me! I’m pulling my leg right above my head! I feel like yelling “Look at me, everyone!”
“Don’t overdo it, Lexi.” The teacher looks alarmed. “Maybe take it easy now. I’d leave out splits this week.”
No way. I can do splits?
***
Afterward in the changing room I’m exhilarated. I sit in front of the mirror, drying my hair, watching as it turns from damp mouse back to shiny glowing chestnut. “I can’t get over it,” I keep saying to Rosalie. “I was always so crap at exercise!”
“Sweetie, you’re a natural!” Rosalie is slathering body lotion all over herself. “You’re the best in the class.”
I switch off the hair dryer, pull my hands through my dry hair, and survey my reflection. For the millionth time, my gaze is drawn to my gleaming white teeth-and my full pink lips. My mouth never looked like that in 2004-I know it didn’t.
“Rosalie.” I lower my voice. “Can I ask you a…a personal question?”
“Of course!” Rosalie whispers back.
“Did I ever have anything done? To my face? Like Botox? Or”-I lower my voice still further, hardly able to believe I’m saying this-“surgery?”
“Sweetie!” Rosalie looks appalled. “Shh!” She puts her finger to her lips.
“But…”
“Shh! Of course we haven’t had anything done! All totally, one-hundred-percent natural.” She winks.
What does that wink mean?
“Rosalie, you have to tell me what I’ve had done…” I trail off suddenly, distracted by my reflection in the mirror. Without noticing what I’ve been doing, I’ve been taking hairpins from the jar in front of me and putting my hair up on autopilot. In about thirty seconds, I’ve constructed the most perfect chignon.
How the fuck did I do that?
As I survey my own hands I can feel slight hysteria rising inside me. What else can I do? Defuse a bomb? Assassinate someone with one blow of my hand?
“What is it?” Rosalie catches my gaze.
“I just put my hair up.” I gesture at the mirror. “Look. It’s incredible. I’ve never done that before in my life.”
“Yes, you have.” She looks puzzled. “You wear it like that for work every day.”
“But I don’t remember. It’s like…it’s like Superwoman’s taken over my body or something. I can walk in heels, I can put my hair up, I can do splits… I’m like this überwoman! It’s not me.”
“Sweetie, it is you.” Rosalie squeezes my arm. “You better get used to it!”
***
We have lu
nch in the juice bar and chat with a couple of girls who seem to know me, and then Rosalie drives me home. As we travel up in the lift I’m suddenly exhausted.
“So!” Rosalie says as we enter the apartment. “Do you want to have another look at your clothes? Maybe swim-wear!”
“Actually, I feel pretty wiped out,” I say apologetically. “Do you mind if I go and have a rest?”
“Of course not!” She pats my arm. “I’ll wait out here for you, make sure you’re okay…”
“Don’t be silly.” I smile. “I’ll be fine until Eric comes home, really. And…thanks, Rosalie. You’ve been so kind.”
“Darling girl.” She gives me a hug and picks up her bag. “I’ll give you a call. Look after yourself!” She’s halfway out the door when something occurs to me.
“Rosalie!” I call. “What should I make Eric for dinner tonight?”
She turns and gazes at me uncomprehendingly. I suppose it is quite a strange question, out of the blue.
“I just thought you might know what sort of thing he likes.” I laugh awkwardly.
“Sweetie…” Rosalie blinks several times. “Sweetie, you don’t make the dinner. Gianna makes the dinner. Your housekeeper? She’ll be out shopping right now, then she’ll come back, make dinner, turn down your bed…”
“Oh, right. Of course!” I nod hastily, trying to look like I knew that all along.
But bloody hell. This really is a different life. I’ve never even had a cleaner before, let alone a five-star-hotel-type housekeeper.
“Well, I guess I’ll go to bed, then,” I say. “Bye.”
Rosalie blows me a kiss and closes the door behind her, and I head into the bedroom, which is all cream and luxurious dark wood, with a massive suede-upholstered bed. Eric has insisted that I take the main bedroom, which is very kind and noble of him. Mind you, the spare room is pretty sumptuous too; in fact, I think he gets his own Jacuzzi, so he can’t complain.
Remember Me? Page 9
