Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

And now…I still do a double take whenever I catch my reflection in the mirror. I don’t see my personality reflected anywhere in this apartment. The TV show…the high heels…my friends refusing to hang out with me…a guy saying he’s my secret lover…I just don’t know who I’ve turned into. I don’t get what the fuck’s happened to me.

On impulse I head into the office. There’s my desk, all spick-and-span with the chair pushed under tidily. I’ve never owned a desk that looked like that in my life; no wonder I didn’t realize it was mine. I sit down and open the first drawer. It’s full of letters, tidily clipped together in plastic files. The second is full of bank statements, threaded onto a piece of blue string.

Jeez Louise. Since when did I become so anal?

I open the last, biggest drawer, expecting to find neatly stacked bottles of Wite-Out or something-but it’s empty except for two scraps of paper.

I pull the bank statements out of the other drawer and flick through them, my eyes widening as I clock my monthly salary, which is at least three times what I used to earn. Most of my money seems to be going out of my single account into the joint account I hold with Eric, except one big sum every month, going to something called “Unito Acc.” I’ll have to find out what that is.

I put the bank statements away and reach into the bottom drawer for the scraps of paper. One is covered in my own handwriting-but so abbreviated I can’t make anything out. It’s almost in code. The other is torn out of a foolscap pad and has my writing scrawled across it, only three words in pencil.

I just wish

I stare at it, riveted. What? What did I wish?

As I turn the scrap over in my fingers I try to imagine myself writing those words. I even try-though I know it’s pointless-to remember myself writing them. Was it a year ago? Six months? Three weeks? What was I talking about?

The buzzer rings, interrupting my thoughts. I fold the scrap of paper carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I bang the empty drawer shut and head out.

Mum has brought three of the dogs along with her. Three huge, energetic whippets. To an immaculate apartment full of immaculate things.

“Hi, Mum!” I take her tatty quilted jacket and try to kiss her as two of the dogs slip out of her grasp and bound toward the sofa. “Wow. You brought…dogs!”

“The poor things looked so lonely as I was leaving.” She embraces one of them, rubbing her cheek against its face. “Agnes is feeling rather vulnerable at the moment.”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound sympathetic. “Poor old Agnes. Could she maybe go in the car?”

“Darling, I can’t just abandon her!” Mum raises her eyes with a martyred air. “You know, it wasn’t easy organizing this trip to London.”

Oh for God’s sake. I knew she didn’t really want to come today. This whole visit arose out of cross-purposes. All I said on the phone was that I felt a bit weird being surrounded by strangers, and the next thing Mum was getting all defensive and saying of course she was planning to visit. And we ended up making this arrangement.

To my horror I notice a dog putting its paws up on the glass coffee table, while the other is on the sofa grabbing a cushion in its jaws.

Jesus. If the sofa’s worth ten grand, then that cushion is probably worth about a thousand quid on its own.

“Mum…could you possibly get that dog off the sofa?”

“Raphael won’t do any harm!” says Mum, looking hurt. She lets go of Agnes, who bounces over to join Raphael and whatever the other one is called.

There are now three whippets romping joyfully on Eric’s sofa. He’d better not turn on the cameras.

“Have you got any diet Coke?” Amy has sauntered in behind Mum, hands in her pockets.

“In the kitchen, I think,” I say distractedly, holding out my hand. “Here, dogs! Off the sofa!”

All three dogs ignore me.

“Come here, darlings!” Mum produces some dog biscuits out of her cardigan pockets, and the dogs magically stop chewing the upholstery. One sits at her feet and the other two snuggle up beside her, resting their heads on her faded print skirt.

“There,” says Mum. “No harm done.”

I look at the mangled cushion that Raphael has just dropped. It’s really not worth saying anything.

“There’s no diet Coke.” Amy reappears from the kitchen, unwrapping a Chupa Chups lollipop, her legs endless in white skinny jeans tucked into boots. “Have you got any Sprite?”

“We might have…” I look at her, suddenly distracted. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“No.” Amy pops the lolly in her mouth with a defiant shrug.

“Why not?” I look from her to Mum, sensing a sudden tension in the air.

No one answers immediately. Mum is adjusting her velvet Alice band on her hair, her eyes distant, as though positioning it just right is her absolute priority.

“Amy’s in a teeny bit of trouble,” she says at last. “Isn’t she, Raphael?”

“I’ve been suspended from school.” With a swagger, Amy heads over to a chair, sits down, and puts her feet up on the coffee table.

“Suspended? Why?”

There’s silence. Mum doesn’t appear to have heard me. “Mum, why?”

“I’m afraid Amy’s been up to her old tricks again,” Mum says with a little wince.

“Old tricks?”

The only tricks I can ever remember Amy doing are card tricks from a magic set she once got in her Christmas stocking. I can see her now, in her pink gingham pajamas and bunny slippers in front of the fireplace, asking us to pick a card while we all pretended not to notice the one she had hidden up her sleeve.

I feel a pang of nostalgia. She was such a sweet little thing.

“What did you do, Ame?”

“It was nothing! They so totally overreacted.” Amy takes her lolly out of her mouth and sighs with exaggerated patience. “All I did was bring this psychic into school.”

“A psychic?”

“Well.” Amy meets my eye with a smirk. “This woman I met in a club. I don’t know exactly how psychic she is. But everyone believed us. I charged ten quid each and she told all the girls they’d meet a boy tomorrow. Everyone was happy. Until some teacher found out.”

“Ten quid each?” I stare at her in disbelief. “No wonder you got in trouble!”

“I’m on my final warning,” she says proudly.

“Why? Amy, what else have you done?”

“Nothing much! Just…over the holidays I collected money for this math teacher, Mrs. Winters, who was in the hospital.” Amy shrugs. “I said she was on the way out and everyone gave loads. I raised over five hundred quid.” She snuffles with laughter. “It was so cool!”

“Darling, it’s extorting money under false pretenses.” Mum’s twisting her amber beads obsessively with one hand, while stroking one of the dogs with the other. “Mrs. Winters was very upset.”

“I gave her some chocolates, didn’t I?” retorts Amy, unrepentant. “And anyway, I wasn’t lying. You could die from liposuction.”

I’m trying to find something to say, but I’m too gobsmacked. How did my sister turn from cute, innocent little Amy into…this?

“I need some lip salve,” Amy says, swinging her legs down off the sofa. “Can I get some off your dressing table?”

“Um, sure.” As soon as she’s out of the room I turn to Mum. “What’s going on? How long has Amy been getting into trouble?”

“Oh…for the last couple of years.” Mum doesn’t look at me and instead addresses the dog on her lap. “She’s a good, sweet girl, really, isn’t she, Agnes? She just gets led astray. Some older girls encouraged her into the stealing; that really wasn’t her fault…”