Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

I look up to see the guy just staring at me as if I’m talking a foreign language. He’s got a pretty striking face, now that I come to notice it. High cheekbones, dark gray eyes, and slanted eyebrows gathered in a frown, with dark brown untidy hair. He’s wearing a plain gray T-shirt over his jeans, and he looks a bit older than me, maybe early thirties.

He also seems totally dumbfounded. Which I guess is not surprising, bearing in mind he’s just come into a car park, minding his own business, to find a girl crashing a car and saying she has amnesia.

Maybe he doesn’t believe me, I think, suddenly alarmed. Maybe he thinks I’m drunk-driving and this is all some invented excuse.

“I was in a car crash a few days ago,” I explain hurriedly. “I really was. I hit my head. Look.” I point to the remaining cuts on my face.

“I know you were in a car crash,” he says at last. He has a very distinctive voice, dry and kind of intense. As though every word he speaks really, really matters. “I heard about it.”

“Wait a minute!” I click my tongue, suddenly realizing. “You called out my name. Do we know each other?”

A jolt of shock passes over the guy’s face. I can see his eyes studying me almost as though he doesn’t believe me; as though he’s searching for something.

“You don’t remember me?” he says at last.

“Um, no,” I say with an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, I’m not being rude; I don’t remember anyone I’ve met in the last three years. My friends…my husband, even. He was a total stranger to me! My own husband! Can you believe it?”

I smile-but the guy doesn’t smile back or express sympathy. In fact, his expression almost makes me nervous.

“Do you want me to park that for you?” he says abruptly.

“Oh. Yes, please.” I glance anxiously at my left hand, still clutching the hand brake. “Can I let go of this? Will the car roll away?”

A tiny smile flickers over his face. “No. It won’t roll away. You can let go.”

Cautiously I unfurl my hand, which had practically seized up, and shake out the stiffness.

“Thanks so much,” I say, getting out. “This is my brand-new car. If I’d crashed it, I can’t even think…” I wince at the idea. “My husband got it for me, to replace the other one. Do you know him? Eric Gardiner?”

“Yes,” he says after a pause. “I know him.”

He gets into the car, shuts the door, and signals to me to get out of the way. The next moment he’s expertly reversed the car safely back into its parking spot.

“Thanks,” I say fervently as he gets out. “I really appreciate it.”

I wait for the guy to say “It’s no trouble” or “Any time,” but he seems lost in thought.

“What did they say about the amnesia?” he says, suddenly looking up. “Have your memories gone forever?”

“They might come back anytime,” I explain. “Or they might not. No one knows. I’m just trying to learn about my life again. Eric’s being really helpful and teaching me all about our marriage and everything. He’s the most perfect husband!” I smile again, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. “So…where do you fit into the picture?”

There’s no response at all from the dark-haired guy. He’s shoved his hands in his pockets and is staring up at the sky. I really don’t know what his problem is.

At last he lowers his head and surveys me again, his face all screwed up, as though he’s in pain. Maybe he is. Maybe he has a headache or something.

“I have to go,” he says.

“Oh, right. Well, thanks again,” I say politely. “And very nice to meet you. I mean, I know we’ve met before in my previous life, but…you know what I mean!” I hold out a hand to shake his-but he just looks at it as though it makes no sense to him at all.

“Bye, Lexi.” He turns on his heel.

“Bye…” I call after him, then trail off. What a weird guy. He never even told me his name.

Fi is one of the most straightforward people I know. We met at the age of six, when I was the new girl in the school playground. She was already a head taller than me, her dark hair in bunches, her voice booming and confident. She told me my plastic skipping rope was rubbish and loudly listed all its faults. Then, just as I was about to start crying, she offered me hers to play with.

That’s Fi. She can upset people with her bluntness, and she knows it. When she’s said the wrong thing she rolls her eyes and claps a hand over her mouth. But underneath it all, she’s warmhearted and kind. And she’s great in meetings. When other people waffle on, she gets right to the point, no bullshit.

It was Fi who gave me the idea of applying to Deller Carpets. She’d been working there for two years when Frenshaws, the company I was at before, got taken over by a Spanish company and a bunch of us were laid off. There was an opening in the Flooring department, and Fi suggested I bring my CV in to show Gavin, her boss…and that was it. I had a job.

Since working together, Fi and I have become even closer. We have lunch together, we go to the cinema on the weekend, we send text messages to each other while Gavin is trying to give one of his “team bollockings,” as he calls them. I’m close to Carolyn and Debs too-but Fi’s the one I ring up first with news; the one I think of when something funny happens.

Which is why it’s so weird that she hasn’t been in touch. I’ve texted her several more times since I got out of hospital. I’ve left two messages on voice mail. I’ve sent a few jokey e-mails and even written a card thanking her for the flowers. But I haven’t heard a word back. Maybe she’s just busy, I keep telling myself. Or she’s been on some work residential seminar thing, or she’s got the flu… There’s a million good reasons.

Anyway, I’m going in to work today, so I’ll see her. And everyone.

I stare at myself in the huge mirror in my dressing room. 2004-Lexi used to show up at the office in a pair of black trousers from Next, a shirt from the bargain bin at New Look, and a pair of loafers with chewed-up heels.

Not anymore. I’m in the crispest shirt I’ve ever worn in my life, all expensive Prada double cuffs. I’m wearing a black suit with a pencil skirt and a nipped-in waist. My legs are gleaming in Charnos sheer gloss tights. My shoes are patent and spiky. My hair is blow-dried and twisted up into my signature chignon. I look like an illustration from a child’s picture book. Boss Lady.

Eric comes into the room and I do a twirl.

“How do I look?”

“Great!” He nods, but doesn’t seem surprised at my appearance. I suppose to him this kind of outfit is normal. Whereas I can’t imagine this ever feeling like anything other than dressing up.

“All set?”

“I guess!” I pick up my bag-a black Bottega Veneta tote I found in the cupboard.

I tried asking Eric about Fi yesterday-but he barely seemed to know who she was, even though she’s my oldest friend and was at our wedding and everything. The only friend of mine he seems to know about is Rosalie, which is because she’s married to Clive.

Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll see Fi today, and there’ll be some explanation, and everything will fall back into place. I expect we’ll all go out for a drink at lunchtime and have a good old catch-up.

“Now, don’t forget this!” Eric is opening a cupboard in the corner. He retrieves a sleek black briefcase and hands it to me. “I gave it to you when we were married.”

“Wow, this is beautiful!” It’s made of buttery-soft calfskin and on the front are discreetly embossed initials: L.G.

“I know you still use your maiden name for work,” says Eric, “but I wanted you to take a little piece of me to the office with you every day.”