Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

How am I ever going to get used to all this? How did I turn into someone with a housekeeper, for God’s sake?

“Aiee! The sofa has been damaged!” Gianna’s accent suddenly sounds far more Italian than cockney. She yanks her iPod speakers out of her ears and gestures at the torn fabric in horror. “Look! Ripped! Yesterday morning it was perfect.” She looks at me defensively. “I tell you-I left it in good condition, no rips, no marks…”

The blood rushes to my head. “That…that was me.” I stammer. “I did it.”

“You?”

“It was a mistake,” I gabble. “I didn’t mean to. I broke this glass leopard and…” I’m breathing hard. “I’ll order another sofa cover, I promise. But please don’t tell Eric. He doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t know?” Gianna seems bewildered.

“I put the cushion over the rip.” I swallow. “To hide it.”

Gianna stares at me for a few disbelieving moments. I stare back pleadingly, unable to breathe. Then her severe face creases into a laugh. She puts down the cushion she’s holding and pats me on the arm.

“I’ll sew it. Little tiny stitches. He’ll never know.”

“Really?” I feel a wash of relief. “Oh, thank God. That would be wonderful. I’d be so grateful.”

Gianna is surveying me with a perplexed frown, her broad arms folded across her chest. “You’re sure nothing happened when you bumped your head?” she says at last. “Like…personality transplant?”

“What?” I give an uncertain laugh. “I don’t think so…” The door buzzer goes off. “Oh, I’d better get this.” I hurry to the front door and lift the answer phone. “Hello?”

“Hello?” comes a guttural voice. “Car delivery for Gardiner.”

My new car is parked in a place at the front of the building, which according to the porter is my own private spot. It’s a silver Mercedes, which I can tell from the badge-thing on the front. And it’s a convertible. Apart from that, I couldn’t tell you much about it-except I’m guessing it cost a fortune.

“Sign here…and here…” The deliveryman is holding out a clipboard.

“Okay.” I scribble on the paper.

“Here’s your keys…all your paperwork. Cheers, love.” The guy retrieves his pen from my hand and heads out the gates, leaving me alone with the car, a bundle of papers, and a set of shiny car keys. I dangle them in my fingers, feeling a frisson of excitement.

I’ve never been a car person.

But then, I’ve never been this close to a glossy, brand-new Mercedes before. A brand-new Mercedes which is all mine.

Maybe I’ll just check it over inside. With an instinctive gesture I hold out the key fob and press the little button-then jump as the car bleeps and all the lights flash on.

Well, I’ve obviously done that before. I open the door, slide into the driver’s seat, and inhale deeply.

Wow. Now, this is a car. This knocks Loser Dave’s crappy Renault out of the park. It has the most wonderful, intoxicating scent of new leather. The seats are wide and comfortable. The dashboard is gleaming wood veneer. Cautiously I place my hands on the steering wheel. They seem to grip it quite naturally-in fact, they seem to belong there. I really don’t want to take them off.

I sit there for a few moments, watching the entry gates rise and fall as a BMW drives out.

The thing is…I can drive. At some stage I must have passed my test, even if I don’t remember doing it.

And this is such a cool car. It would be a shame not to have a go.

Experimentally I push the key into the slot beside the steering wheel-and it fits! I rotate it forward, like I’ve seen people do, and there’s a kind of roar of protest from the engine. Shit. What did I do? I turn it forward again, more cautiously, and this time there’s no roar, but a few lights pop on around the dashboard.

Now what? I survey the controls hopefully for inspiration, but none comes. I have no idea how to work this thing, is the truth. I have no memory of driving a car in my life.

But the point is…I have done it. It’s like walking in heels-it’s a skill locked away inside me. What I need is to let my body take over. If I can just distract myself enough, then maybe I’ll find myself driving automatically.

I place my hands firmly on the steering wheel. Here we go. Think about other things. La la la. Don’t think about driving. Just let your body do what comes naturally. Maybe I should sing a song-that worked before.

“‘Land of hope and gloree,’” I begin tunelessly, “‘mother of the freeee…’”

Oh my God. It’s working. My hands and feet are moving in synch. I don’t dare look at them; I don’t dare register what they’re doing. All I know is I’ve switched on the engine and pushed down on one of the pedals and there’s a kind of rumbling and…I did it! I switched on the car!

I can hear the engine throbbing, as if it wants to get going. Okay, keep calm. I take a deep breath-but deep inside I’m already a bit panicky. I’m sitting at the controls of a Mercedes and the engine’s running and I’m not even sure how that happened.

Right. Collect yourself, Lexi.

Hand brake. I know what that is. And the gear stick. Cautiously I release both-and at once the car moves forward.

Hastily I press my foot down on one of the pedals, to stop it, and the car bucks with an ominous grinding noise. Shit. That didn’t sound good. I release my foot-and the car creeps forward again. I’m not sure I want it doing that. Trying to stay calm, I press my foot down again, hard. But this time it doesn’t even stop, it just keeps going inexorably forward. I thrust again-and it revs up like a racing car.

“Shit!” I say, almost gibbering in fear. “Okay, just…stop. Stay!” I’m pulling back on the wheel, but it’s making no difference. I don’t know how to control this thing. We’re slowly heading toward an expensive-looking sports car parked opposite and I don’t know how to stop. In desperation I thrust both feet down again, hitting two pedals at once with a shrieking, engine-breaking sound.

Oh God, Oh God…My face is hot; my hands are sweating. I never should have gotten into this car. If I crash it, Eric will divorce me and I won’t blame him…

“Stop!” I cry again. “Please!”

Suddenly I notice a dark-haired man in jeans coming in at the gates. He sees me gliding forward toward the sports car and his whole face jolts.

“Stop!” he yells, his voice faint through the window.

“I can’t stop!” I yell back desperately.

“Steer!” He mimes steering.

The steering wheel. Of course. I’m a moron. I wrench it around to the right, nearly dragging my arms out of my sockets, and manage to turn the car off course. Only now I’m heading straight toward a brick wall.

“Brake!” The guy is running alongside me. “Brake, Lexi!”

“But I don’t-”

“For God’s sake, brake!” he yells.

The hand brake, I suddenly remember. Quick. I yank it back with both hands and the car stops with a judder. The engine is still running, but at least the car is stationary. And at least I haven’t hit anything.

My breath is coming fast and hoarse; my hands are still clenched around the hand brake. I’m never driving again. Never.

“Are you okay?” The guy is at my window. After a few moments I manage to unclench one of my hands from the hand brake. I jab randomly at the buttons on the car door until the window winds down. “What happened?” he says.

“I…panicked. I can’t actually drive a car. I thought I’d remember how to, but I had a bit of a panic attack.” Suddenly, with no warning, I feel a tear running down my face. “I’m sorry,” I gulp. “I’m a bit freaked out. I’ve had amnesia, you see…”