Remember Me?

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Hi!” I call out cautiously, hanging up my coat.

  “Hi!”

  Eric’s distant voice seems to be coming from the bedroom. My bedroom.

  Well…I guess, officially, our bedroom.

  I check my reflection in the mirror and hastily give my disheveled hair a comb. Then I head to the other side of the living area and through to the bedroom. The door is only slightly ajar; I can’t see inside the room. I stand there for a moment, wondering what on earth this is all about. Then I push the door open. And at the sight before me I nearly scream out loud.

  This is Mont Blanc? This is Mont Blanc?

  Eric is lying on the bed. Totally naked. Except for the most massive mound of whipped cream on his genital region.

  “Hi, darling.” He raises his eyebrows with a knowing twinkle, then glances downward. “Dive in!”

  In?

  Dive?

  Dive in?

  I’m paralyzed with horror as I survey the creamy, whippy mountain. Every cell in my body is telling me that I do not want to dive in.

  But I can’t just turn and run away, can I? I can’t reject him. This is my husband. This is obviously…what we do.

  Oh God, oh God…

  Gingerly I edge forward toward the creamy edifice. Barely knowing what I’m doing, I extend a finger and take a tiny scoop from the top of the mound, then put it in my mouth.

  “It’s…it’s sweetened!” My voice is grainy from nerves.

  “Low calorie.” Eric beams back at me.

  No. No. I’m sorry. This just…This isn’t happening. Not in my lifetime. I have to come up with an excuse…

  “I feel dizzy!” The words come out of nowhere. I clap a hand to my eyes and back away from the bed. “Oh my God. I’m having a flashback.”

  “A flashback?” Eric sits up, alert.

  “Yes! I had a sudden memory of…the wedding,” I improvise. “It was just a brief image, of you and me, but it was really vivid, it took me by surprise…”

  “Sit down, darling!” Eric is frowning anxiously. “Take it easy. Maybe some more memories will come back.”

  He seems so hopeful, I feel terrible for lying. But it’s better than saying the truth, surely?

  “I might just go and lie down quietly in the other room, if you don’t mind.” I head swiftly toward the door, my hand still shielding my eyes from the sight of the cream mountain. “I’m sorry, Eric, after you went to so much…trouble…”

  “Darling, it’s fine! I’ll come too-” Eric makes to get up from the bed.

  “No!” I cut him off a bit too shrilly. “You just…sort yourself out. I’ll be fine.”

  Before he can say anything else, I hurry out and flop down on the big cream sofa. My head is spinning, whether from the Mont Blanc shocker or the whole day…I don’t know. All I know is, I feel like curling up under a duvet and pretending the world doesn’t exist. I can’t cope with this life of mine. Any of it.

  Chapter 16

  I can’t look at Eric without seeing whipped cream. Last night I dreamed he was made of whipped cream. It wasn’t a great dream.

  Thankfully we’ve barely seen each other this weekend. Eric’s been doing corporate entertaining and I’ve been trying desperately to come up with a plan to save Flooring. I’ve read through all the contracts of the last three years. I’ve looked at our supplier information. I’ve analyzed customer feedback. To be honest, it’s a crap situation. We did have a small triumph last year, when I negotiated a good deal with a new software company. I guess that’s what impressed Simon Johnson. But it masked our real position.

  Not only are orders too low, no one even seems interested in Flooring anymore. We have a fraction of the advertising and marketing budget that other departments do. We’re not running any special promotions. In the weekly directors’ meeting, Flooring always appears last on the agenda. It’s like the Cinderella of the company.

  But all that will change, if I have anything to do with it. Over the weekend I’ve devised a total relaunch. It’ll need a bit of money and faith and cost-trimming-but I’m positive we can kick-start sales. Cinderella went to the ball, didn’t she? And I’m going to be the fairy godmother. I have to be the fairy godmother. I can’t let all my friends lose their jobs.

  Oh God. My stomach heaves yet again with nerves. I’m sitting in the taxi on the way to work, my hair firmly up, my presentation folder in my lap. The meeting is in an hour. All the other directors are expecting to vote to disband Flooring. I’m going to have to argue my socks off. Or else…

  No. I can’t think about “or else.” I have to succeed, I just have to… My phone rings and I nearly jump off the seat, I’m so on edge.

  “Hello?”

  “Lexi?” I hear a small voice. “It’s Amy. Are you free?”

  “Amy!” I say in astonishment. “Hi! Actually, I’m on my way somewhere-”

  “I’m in trouble.” She cuts me off. “You have to come. Please.”

  “Trouble?” I say, alarmed. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Please come.” Her voice is quivering all over the place. “I’m in Notting Hill.”

  “Notting Hill? Why aren’t you at school?”

  “Hang on.” The sound is muffled and I can just hear Amy saying, “I’m talking to my big sister, okay? She’s coming.” Then she’s back on the line. “Please, Lexi. Please come. I’ve got myself into a bit of a mess.”

  I’ve never heard Amy like this. She sounds desperate.

  “What have you done?” My mind’s racing, trying to think what trouble she could have got into. Drugs? Loan sharks?

  “I’m on the corner of Ladbroke Grove and Kensington Gardens. How long will you be?”

  “Amy…” I clutch my head. “I can’t come now! I have a meeting, it’s really important. Can’t you phone Mum?”

  “No!” Amy’s voice rockets in panic. “Lexi, you said. You said I could ring whenever I wanted, that you were my big sister, that you’d be there for me.”

  “But I didn’t mean…I have this presentation…” I trail off, suddenly aware of how feeble this sounds. “Look, any other time…”

  “Fine.” Her voice is suddenly tiny. She sounds about ten years old. “Go to your meeting. Don’t worry.”

  Guilt drenches me, mixed with frustration. Why couldn’t she have phoned last night? Why pick the very minute I need to be somewhere else?

  “Amy, just tell me, what’s happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Go to your meeting. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “Stop it! Just let me think a second.” I stare blindly out the window, wired up with stress, with indecision… There’s forty-five minutes until the meeting. I don’t have time, I just don’t.

  I might, if I went straight now. It’s only ten minutes to Notting Hill.

  But I can’t risk being late for the meeting, I just can’t-

  And then suddenly, against the crackly background of the phone line, I can hear a man’s voice. Now he’s shouting. I stare at the phone, feeling a nasty chill. I can’t leave my little sister in trouble. What if she’s got in with some street gang? What if she’s about to be beaten up?

  “Amy, hold on,” I say abruptly. “I’m coming.” I lean forward and knock on the driver’s window. “We need to make a quick detour to Notting Hill. As fast as you can, please.”

  As we head up Ladbroke Grove, the taxi roaring with the effort, I’m leaning forward, peering desperately out the window, trying to glimpse Amy…and then suddenly I see a police car. On the corner of Kensington Gardens.

  My heart freezes. I’m too late. She’s been shot. She’s been knifed.

  Weak with terror, I thrust the cash at the driver and get out of the cab. There’s a throng of people in front of the police car, masking my view, all peering and gesturing at something and talking agitatedly to each other. Bloody rubberneckers.

  “Excuse me.” My voice isn’t working properly as I approach the crowd. “It’s my sister, can I get through…” Somehow I mana
ge to push my way in between the anoraks and denim jackets, steeling myself for what I might see…

  And there’s Amy. Not shot or knifed. Sitting on a wall, wearing a policeman’s hat, looking totally cheery.

  “Lexi!” Amy turns to the policeman standing next to her. “There she is. I told you she’d come.”

  “What’s been going on?” I demand, shaky with relief. “I thought you were in trouble!”

  “Is this your sister?” The policeman chimes in. He’s stocky and sandy-haired, with large freckled forearms, and has been making notes on a clipboard.

  “Er…yes.” My heart is sinking. Has she been shop-lifting or something? “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid this young lady’s in trouble. She’s been exploiting tourists. A lot of angry people here.” He gestures at the crowd. “Nothing to do with you, is this?”

  “No! Of course not! I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

  “Celebrity tours.” He hands me a leaflet, his eyebrows raised sky-high. “So-called.”

  In disbelief I read the leaflet, which is fluorescent yellow and has obviously been put together on some crappy word-processor.

  Undercover Celebrity Tour of London

  Many Hollywood stars have settled in London. See them on this unique tour. Catch glimpses of:

  *Madonna putting out her washing *

  *Gwyneth in her garden *

  *Elton John relaxing at home *

  Impress your friends with all the insider gossip! £10 per person including souvenir A-Z

  Important note:

  If you challenge the stars, they may deny their identities.

  Do not be fooled! This is part of their Undercover Secret!

  I look up in a daze. “Is this serious?” The policeman nods.

  “Your sister’s been leading people around London, telling them they’re seeing celebrities.”

  “And who are they seeing?”

  “Well, people like her.” He gestures across the road, where a thin blond woman is standing on the steps of her big white stucco house in jeans and a peasant top, holding a little girl of about two on her hip.

  “I’m not bloody Gwyneth Paltrow!” she’s snapping irately at a pair of tourists in Burberry raincoats. “And no, you can’t have an autograph.”

  Actually, she does look rather like Gwyneth Paltrow. She has the same long blond straight hair and a similar kind of face. Just a bit older and more haggard.

  “Are you with her?” The Gwyneth look-alike suddenly spots me and comes down her steps. “I want to make an official complaint. I’ve had people taking pictures of my home all week, intruding into my life-For the last time, she’s not called fucking Apple!” She turns to a young Japanese woman who is calling “Apple! Apple!” to the little girl, trying to get a picture.

  This woman is furious. And I don’t blame her.

  “The more I tell people I’m not Gwyneth Paltrow, the more they think I am her,” she’s saying to the policeman. “I can’t win. I’ll have to move!”

  “You should be flattered!” Amy says insouciantly. “They think you’re an Oscar-winning movie star!”

  “You should be put in jail!” snarls not-Gwyneth. She looks like she wants to hit Amy over the head.

  To be honest, I’d be right behind her.

  “I’m going to have to reprimand your sister officially.” The policeman turns to me as a policewoman tactfully steps in and leads not-Gwyneth back to her house. “I can release her into your custody, but only when you’ve filled in these forms and arranged an appointment at the station.”

  “Fine,” I say, and shoot a murderous look at Amy. “Whatever.”

  “Piss off!” Not-Gwyneth is rounding on a young geeky guy who is tagging along behind her hopefully, holding out a CD. “No, I can’t get that to Chris Martin! I don’t even like bloody Coldplay!”

  Amy is sucking in her cheeks as though she’s trying not to laugh.

  Yeah. This is so funny. We’re all having a great time. I don’t have to be somewhere else really important, or anything.

  I fill in all the forms as quickly as I can, stamping a furious full stop after my signature.

  “Can we go now?”

  “All right. Try and keep tabs on her,” the policeman adds, handing me back a duplicate form and leaflet entitled “Your Guide to a Police Reprimand.”

  Keep tabs on her? Why should I have to keep tabs on her?

  “Sure.” I give a tight smile and stuff the documents into my bag. “I’ll do my best. Come on, Amy.” I glance at my watch and feel a spasm of panic. It’s already ten to twelve. “Quick. We need to find a taxi.”

  “But I want to go to Portobello-”

  “We need to find a fucking taxi!” I yell. “I need to get to my meeting!” Her eyes widen and she obediently starts scanning the road. At last I flag one down and bundle Amy into it.

  “Victoria Palace Road, please. Quick as you can.”

  There’s no way I’ll make it for the start. But I can still get there. I can still say my piece. I can still do it.

  “Lexi…thanks,” says Amy in a small voice.

  “It’s fine.” As the taxi heads back down Ladbroke Grove my eyes are glued to the road, desperately willing lights to change, willing traffic to move over. But everything’s suddenly solid. I’m never going to get there for midday.

  Abruptly I pull out my phone, dial Simon Johnson’s office number, and wait for his PA, Natasha, to answer.

  “Hi, Natasha?” I say, trying to sound calm and professional. “It’s Lexi. I’m having a slight holdup, but it’s really vital that I speak at the meeting. Could you tell them to wait for me? I’m on my way in a taxi.”

  “Sure,” Natasha says pleasantly. “I’ll tell them. See you later.”

  “Thanks!”

  I ring off and lean back in my seat, a tiny bit more relaxed.

  “Sorry,” Amy says suddenly.

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “No, really, I am.”

  I sigh, and look at Amy properly for the first time since we got in the cab. “Why, Amy?”

  “To make money.” She shrugs. “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll get in serious trouble! If you need money, can’t you get a job? Or ask Mum?”

  “Ask Mum,” she echoes scornfully. “Mum doesn’t have any money.”

  “Okay, maybe she doesn’t have loads of money-”

  “She doesn’t have any. Why d’you think the house is falling down? Why d’you think the heating’s never on? I spent half of last winter at my friend Rachel’s house. At least they put on the radiators. We’re skint.”

  “But that’s weird,” I say, puzzled. “How come? Didn’t Dad leave Mum anything?”

  I know some of Dad’s businesses were a bit dodgy. But there were quite a few of them, and I know she was expecting a windfall when he died. Not that she ever would have admitted it.

  “Dunno. Not much, anyway.”

  “Well, whatever, you can’t carry on like this. Seriously, you’ll end up in jail or something.”

  “Bring it on.” Amy tosses back her blue-streaked hair. “Prison’s cool.”

  “Prison’s not cool!” I stare at her. “Where d’you get that idea? It’s gross! It’s manky! Everyone has bad hair, and you can’t shave your legs or use cleanser.”

  I’m making all this up. Probably these days they have in-prison spas and blow dryers.

  “And there aren’t any boys,” I add for good measure. “And you’re not allowed an iPod, or any chocolate or DVDs. You just have to march around a yard.” That bit I’m sure isn’t true. But I’m on a roll now. “With chains around your legs.”

  “They don’t have leg chains anymore,” Amy says scornfully.

  “They brought them back,” I lie without missing a beat. “Especially for teenagers. It was a new experimental government initiative. Jeez, Amy, don’t you read the papers?”

  Amy looks slightly freaked. Ha. That pays her back for Moo-mah. />
  “Well, it’s in my genes.” She regains some of her defiance. “To be on the wrong side of the law.”

  “It’s not in your genes-”

  “Dad was in prison,” she shoots back triumphantly.

  “Dad?” I stare at her. “What do you mean, Dad?” The idea’s so preposterous, I want to laugh.

  “He was. I heard some men talking about it at the funeral. So it’s, like, my fate.” She shrugs and takes out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Stop it!” I grab the cigarettes and throw them out the window. “Dad didn’t go to prison. You’re not going to prison. And it’s not cool; it’s lame.” I break off and think for a moment. “Look, Amy…come and be an intern at my office. It’ll be fun. You can get some experience, and earn some money.”

  “How much?” she shoots back.

  God, she’s annoying sometimes.

  “Enough! And maybe I won’t tell Mum about this.” I flick the yellow leaflet. “Deal?”

  There’s a long silence in the taxi. Amy is peeling at the chipped blue varnish on her thumbnail, as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

  “Okay,” she says at last, shrugging.

  The taxi pulls up at a red light and I feel a spasm as I consult my watch for the millionth time. It’s twenty past. I just hope they started late. My gaze drifts to the yellow leaflet again and a grin reluctantly creeps over my face. It was a pretty ingenious scheme.

  “So, who were your other celebrities?” I can’t help asking. “You didn’t really have Madonna.”

  “I did!” Amy’s eyes light up. “This woman in Kensington looked just like Madonna, only fatter. Everyone totally fell for it, especially when I said that proved how much air-brushing they did. And I had a Sting, and a Judi Dench, and this really nice milkman in Highgate who looked the spitting image of Elton John.”

  “Elton John? A milkman?” I can’t help laughing.

  “I said he was doing community service on the quiet.”

  “And how on earth did you find them?”