Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

I was hoping our first kiss would trigger all sorts of memories or sensations, maybe a sudden image of Paris or our wedding, or our first snog… But as he draws away I feel totally, one hundred percent blank. I can see the anticipation in Eric’s face and quickly search for something encouraging to say.

“That was lovely! Very…”

I trail off, unable to think of a single word other than quick, which I’m not sure hits the right note.

“It didn’t bring back any memories?” Eric is studying my face.

“Well…no,” I say apologetically. “But, I mean, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t really…I mean it was…I feel quite turned on!” The words come out before I can stop them.

What the hell did I say that for? I don’t feel turned on.

“Really?” Eric lights up and he puts his briefcase down.

Oh no. No no no. Nooo.

I cannot possibly have sex with Eric yet. Number one, I don’t even know him, hardly. Number two, I haven’t read what happens after gentle stimulation of the inner thighs.

“Not that turned on,” I amend hastily. “I mean, just enough to know…to realize…I mean obviously we have a great…when it comes to the bedroom…um…arena…”

Stop. Talking. Lexi. Now.

“Anyway.” I smile as brightly as I can manage. “Have a great day.”

“You too.” Eric touches my cheek gently, then turns and strides off. I hear the door close, and subside into a chair. That was a bit close. I reach for the marriage manual and quickly flick to the “F” section. I need to read up on Foreplay.

Not to mention Fellatio, I suddenly notice. And Frequency (Sexual).

This could take me a while.

Two hours and three cups of coffee later, I close the manual and lean back, my head bursting with information. I’ve read it cover to cover, and I’ve pretty much got the whole picture.

I’ve learned that Eric and I often spend weekends away at “luxury boutique hotels.” I’ve learned that we enjoy watching business documentaries and The West Wing. And we had differing views on Brokeback Mountain. Which I’ve also learned was a film about gay cowboys. (Gay cowboys?)

I’ve learned that Eric and I share a love of wine from the Bordeaux region. I’ve learned that I’m “driven” and “focused” and “work 24-7 to get the job done.” I’ve learned I “don’t suffer fools gladly,” “despise time-wasters,” and am “someone who appreciates the finer things in life.”

Which is kind of news to me.

I get up and walk to the window, trying to digest everything I’ve read. The more I learn about twenty-eight-year-old Lexi, the more I feel like she’s a different person from me. She doesn’t just look different. She is different. She’s a boss. She wears beige designer clothes and La Perla underwear. She knows about wine. She never eats bread.

She’s a grown-up. That’s what she is. I gaze into the mirror and my twenty-eight-year-old face stares back.

How on earth did I get from me…to her?

On impulse I get up and head into the bedroom, then through that into the clothes room. There have to be some clues somewhere. I sit down at my smart, minimalist dressing table, and regard it silently.

I mean, look at this, for a start. My old dressing table was painted pink and a total mess-all scarves, necklaces looped over the mirror, and jars of makeup everywhere. But this is immaculate. Silver jars in rows, a single dish containing one pair of earrings, and an art deco hand mirror.

I open a drawer at random and find a pile of neatly folded scarves, on top of which is a shiny DVD marked Ambition: EP1 in felt-tip marker. I pick it up, puzzled-and then suddenly realize what it is. It’s that program Amy was talking about. This is me on the telly!

Oh my God, I have to see this. First because I’m dying to know what I looked like. And second because it’s another piece of the puzzle. This reality show is where Eric first saw me. It gave me my big break at work. I probably had no idea at the time how crucial it was going to be.

I hurry into the living room, eventually manage to locate the DVD player behind a translucent panel, and slot it in. Soon the program titles are rolling on all the wall-mounted screens throughout the flat. I fast-forward until my face appears onscreen, then press Play.

I’m prepared to cringe with embarrassment and duck behind the sofa. But actually…I don’t look that bad! My teeth have already been veneered or capped or whatever-although my mouth looks much thinner than it does now. (I have definitely had collagen injections.) My chestnut hair’s been blow-dried and tied back in a ponytail. I’m wearing a black suit and an aquamarine shirt and I look totally businesslike.

“I need to succeed,” I’m saying to an off-camera interviewer. “I need to win this.”

Blimey. I look so serious. I don’t understand it. Why did I suddenly want to win a reality business show?

“Good morning, Lexi!” A voice makes me practically jump out of my skin. I jab at Stop on the remote and turn around to see a woman in her fifties. She has dark, gray-streaked hair tied back; she’s wearing a flowery overall; and she’s holding a plastic bucket full of cleaning things. An iPod is clipped to her overall pocket and from the speakers in her ears I can just hear the strains of opera.

“You’re up!” she says in a piercing voice. “How you feeling? Any better today?” Her accent is hard to place, kind of cockney mixed with Italian.

“Are you Gianna?” I say cautiously.

“Oh my Lord in heaven.” She crosses herself and kisses her fingers. “Eric warned me. You’re not right in the head, poor girl.”

“I’m fine, really,” I say hurriedly. “I’ve just lost a bit of memory. So I’m having to learn everything about my life again.”

“Well, I am Gianna.” She hits her chest.

“Great! Er…thanks.” I stand aside as Gianna moves past me and starts flicking over the glass surface of the coffee table with a feather duster, humming along to the iPod.

“Watching your TV show, are you?” she says, glancing past me at the huge screen.

“Oh. Er…I was. Just to remind myself.” I hastily turn it off. Meanwhile Gianna has started polishing a display of picture frames.

I twist my fingers awkwardly. How can I just stand here, watching another woman clean my house? Should I offer to help?

“What would you like me to cook for dinner tonight?” she says, starting to plump up the cushions on the sofa.

“Oh,” I say, looking up in horror. “Nothing! Really!”

I know Eric and I are all rich and everything, but I can’t ask someone else to cook my supper. It’s obscene.

“Nothing?” She pauses. “Are you going out?”

“No! I just thought…maybe I’d do the cooking myself tonight.”

“Oh, I see,” she says. “Well, it’s up to you.” Her face set, she picks up a cushion and bangs it out with more vigor. “I hope you enjoyed the soup last night,” she adds, without looking at me.

“It was delicious!” I say hastily. “Thanks! Lovely…flavors.”

“Good,” she says in a stiff voice. “I do my best.”

Oh God. She isn’t offended, is she?

“Let me know what you’d like me to buy for you to cook,” she continues, slapping the cushion down. “If you’re after something new, or different…”

Shit. She is offended.

“Or…er…well.” My voice is scratchy with nerves. “Actually, on second thought…maybe you could make a little something. But I mean, don’t make any effort. Just a sandwich would be fine.”

“A sandwich?” She raises her head incredulously. “For your dinner?”

“Or…whatever you like! Whatever you enjoy cooking!” Even as I say the words I know how stupid this sounds. I back away, pick up a property magazine that’s lying on a side table, and open it at a piece about fountains.