Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

When Eric’s out, obviously.

“Darling!” I jump, and turn to see him standing at the door, in his business suit. “You look wonderful.”

“Thanks!” I glow with pleasure and pat my hair.

“One tiny thing. Briefcase in the hall. Good idea?” His smile doesn’t waver, but I can hear the annoyance in his voice.

Shit. I must have left it there. I was so preoccupied when I arrived home, I didn’t think.

“I’ll move it,” I say hastily. “Sorry.”

“Good.” He nods. “But first, taste this.” He hands me a glass of ruby-red wine. “It’s the Château Branaire Ducru. We bought it on our last trip to France. I’d like your opinion.”

“Right.” I try to sound confident. “Absolutely.”

Oh no. What am I going to say? Cautiously I take a sip and swill it around my mouth, racking my brain for all the wine-buff words I can think of. Leathery. Oaky. A fine vintage.

Come to think of it, they all just bullshit, don’t they? Okay, I’ll say it’s a divinely full-bodied vintage with hints of strawberries. No, blackcurrants. I swallow the mouthful and nod knowledgeably at Eric.

“You know, I think this is a div-”

“It’s shocking, isn’t it?” Eric cuts me off. “Corked. Totally off.”

Off?

“Oh! Er…yes!” I regain my composure. “Way past the sell-by date. Urggh.” I make a face. “Revolting!”

That was a close shave. I put the glass down on a side table and the intelligent lighting adjusts again.

“Eric,” I say, trying not to give away my exasperation. “Can we have a lighting mix that just stays the same all night? I don’t know if that’s possible-”

“Anything is possible.” Eric sounds a bit offended. “We have infinite choice. That’s what loft-style living is all about.” He passes me a remote control. “Here. You can override the system with this. Pick a mood. I’ll go and sort out the wine.”

I head into the sitting room, find Lighting on the remote, and start experimenting with moods. Daylight is too bright. Cinema is too dark. Relax is dull… I scroll much farther down. Reading…Disco…

Hey. We have disco lights? I press the remote-and laugh out loud as the room is suddenly filled with pulsating multicolored lights. Now let’s try Strobe. A moment later the room is flashing black and white and I gleefully start robotic dancing around the coffee table. This is like a club! Why didn’t Eric tell me we had this before? Maybe we have dry ice, too, and a mirror ball…

“Jesus Christ, Lexi, what are you doing!” Eric’s voice pierces the flashing room. “You put the whole fucking apartment on Strobe Light! Gianna nearly chopped her arm off!”

“Oh no! Sorry.” Guiltily I fumble for the remote and jab it until we’re back on disco. “You never told me we had disco and strobe lights! This is fantastic!”

“We never use them.” Eric’s face is a multicolored whirl. “Now find something sensible, for God’s sake.” He turns and disappears.

How can we have disco lights and never use them? What a waste! I have to have Fi and the others around for a party. We’ll get some wine and nibbles, and we’ll clear the floor and ramp up the volume-

And then my heart constricts as I remember. That won’t be happening anytime soon. Or maybe ever.

Deflated, I switch the lighting to Reception Area One, which is as good as anything else. I put down the remote, walk over to the window, and stare out at the street below, suddenly determined. I’m not giving up. These are my friends. I’m going to find out what’s been going on. And then I’m going to make up with them.

My plan for the dinner party was to memorize each guest’s face and name using visualization techniques. But this scheme disintegrates almost at once when three golfing buddies of Eric’s arrive together in identical suits, with identical faces and even more identical wives. Their names are things like Greg and Mick and Suki and Pooky, and they immediately start discussing a skiing holiday we all apparently went on once.

I sip my drink and smile a lot, and then about ten more guests arrive at once and I have no idea who anyone is except Rosalie, who dashed up, introduced her husband, Clive (who doesn’t seem like a monster at all, just a mild-mannered guy in a suit), and then rushed off again.

After a bit my ears are ringing and I feel dizzy. Gianna is serving drinks and her niece is handing out canapés and everything seems under control. So I murmur an excuse to the balding guy who’s telling me about Mick Jagger’s electric guitar, which he’s just bought at a charity auction, and slip away and head out to the terrace.

I take a few lungfuls of clean air, my head still spinning. A blue-gray dusk is falling and the streetlamps are just coming on. As I gaze out over London I don’t feel real. I feel like someone playing the part of a girl in a dress standing on a posh balcony with a glass of champagne in her hand.

“Darling! There you are!”

I turn to see Eric pushing the sliding doors open. “Hi!” I call back. “I was just getting some air.”

“Let me introduce Jon, my architect.” Eric ushers out a dark-haired man in black jeans and a charcoal linen jacket.

“Hello,” I begin automatically, then stop. “Hey, we know each other!” I exclaim, relieved to have found a familiar face. “Don’t we? You’re the guy from the car.”

An odd expression flickers across the man’s face. Almost like disappointment. Then he nods.

“That’s right. I’m the guy from the car.”

“Jon’s our creative spirit,” says Eric, slapping him on the back. “He’s the talent. I may have the financial sense, but this is the man who brings the world”-he pauses momentously-“loft-style living.” As he says the words, he does the parallel-hands-sweeping-bricks gesture again.

“Great!” I try to sound enthused. I know it’s Eric’s business and everything, but that phrase “loft-style living” is really starting to bug me.

“Thanks again for the other day.” I smile politely at Jon. “You really saved my life!” I turn to Eric. “I didn’t tell you, darling, but I tried to drive the car and nearly hit the wall. Jon helped me.”

“It was my pleasure.” Jon takes a sip of his drink. “So, you still don’t remember anything?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head.

“That must be strange for you.”

“It is…but I’m getting used to it. And Eric’s really helpful. He’s made me this book to help me remember. It’s like a marriage manual. With sections and everything.”

“A manual?” Jon echoes, and his nose starts twitching. “You’re serious. A manual.”

“Yes, a manual.” I stare at him suspiciously.

“Ah, there’s Graham.” Eric isn’t even listening to the conversation. “I must just have a word. Excuse me.” He heads off inside, leaving me and Jon the architect guy alone.

I don’t know what it is about this man. I mean, I don’t even know him, but he rankles me.

“What’s wrong with a marriage manual?” I hear myself demanding.

“No. Nothing. Nothing at all.” He shakes his head gravely. “It’s a very sensible move. Because otherwise you might not know when you were supposed to kiss each other.”

“Exactly! Eric’s put in a whole section on-” I break off. Jon’s mouth is crinkled up as if he’s trying not to laugh. Does he think this is funny? “The manual covers all sorts of areas,” I say rather stonily. “And it’s been very helpful for both of us. You know, it’s difficult for Eric, too, having a wife who doesn’t remember the first thing about him! Or perhaps you hadn’t appreciated that?”

There’s silence. All the humor has melted out of his face.