Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

Okay. I have to be understanding and sympathetic. I know there’s a big age gap between me and Amy. I know I can’t even remember a whole chunk of her life. But surely we have a sisterly rapport?

“Amy, listen,” I say in my best understanding-grown-up-sister-but-still-pretty-cool voice. “You can’t steal, okay? You can’t extort money from people.”

“Fuck off,” Amy says without raising her head.

“You’ll get in trouble. You’ll get chucked out of school!”

“Fuck,” Amy says conversationally. “Off. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…”

“Look!” I say, trying to keep my patience. “I know things can be difficult. And you’re probably lonely with just you and Mum at home. But if you ever want to talk about anything, if you’ve got any problems, I’m here for you. Just call me, or text me, anytime. We could go out for a coffee, or see a film together…” I trail away.

Amy’s still texting with one hand. With the other she has slowly moved her thumb and index finger into the “Loser” sign.

“Oh fuck off, yourself!” I exclaim furiously, and hug my knees. Stupid little cow. If Mum thinks I’m having her in my office on some internship, she has to be joking.

We sit there in grouchy silence for a bit. Then I reach for the DVD of Dad’s funeral message, slide across the floor, and plug it into the machine. The huge screen opposite lights up, and after a few moments my father’s face appears.

I stare at the screen, gripped. Dad’s sitting in an armchair, wearing a red plushy dressing gown. I don’t recognize the room-but then, I never did get to see many of Dad’s homes. His face is gaunt, the way I remember it after he got ill. It was as though he was slowly deflating. But his green eyes are twinkling and there’s a cigar in his hand.

“Hello,” he says, his voice hoarse. “It’s me. Well, you know that.” He gives a little laugh, then breaks into a hacking cough, which he relieves by taking a puff on his cigar as if it was a drink of water. “We all know this operation has a fifty-fifty chance of survival. My own fault for buggering up my body. So I thought I’d do a little message to you, my family, just in case.”

He pauses and takes a deep slug from a tumbler of whisky. His hand is shaking as he puts it down, I notice. Did he know he was going to die? Suddenly there’s a hard lump in my throat. I glance over at Amy. She’s let go of her phone and is watching, too, transfixed.

“Live a good life,” Dad is saying to the camera. “Be happy. Be kind to one another. Barbara, stop living your life through those bloody dogs. They’re not human. They’re never going to love you or support you or go to bed with you. Unless you’re very desperate.”

I clap my hand over my mouth. “He didn’t say that!”

“He did.” Amy gives a little snort of laughter. “Mum walked out of the room.”

“You only get one life, loves. Don’t waste it.” He looks at the camera with glittering green eyes, and I suddenly remember him when I was much younger, picking me up from school in a sports car. I was pointing him out to everyone: That man there is my daddy! All the kids were gasping at the car and all the mothers were shooting surreptitious glances at him, in his smart linen jacket and Spanish tan.

“I know I’ve fucked up here and there,” Dad’s saying. “I know I haven’t been the best family man. But hand on heart, I did my best. Cheers, m’dears. See you on the other side.” He raises his glass to the camera and drinks. Then the screen goes blank.

The DVD clicks off, but neither Amy nor I moves. As I gaze at the blank screen I feel even more marooned than before. My dad’s dead. He’s been dead three years. I can never talk to him again. I can never give him a birthday present. I can never ask him for advice. Not that you’d ask Dad’s advice on anything except where to buy sexy underwear for a mistress-but still. I glance over at Amy, who meets my gaze with a tiny shrug.

“That was a really nice message,” I say, determined not to be sentimental or cry or anything. “Dad came good.”

“Yeah.” Amy nods. “He did.”

The frostiness between us seems to have melted. Amy reaches in her bag for a tiny makeup case with Babe embossed on the lid in diamante. She takes out a lip pencil and expertly outlines her lips, peering into a tiny mirror. I’ve never seen her put on makeup before, except as a dressing-up game.

Amy’s not a child anymore, I think as I watch her. She’s on the brink of being an adult. I know things haven’t gone that well between us today-but maybe in the past she’s been my friend.

My confidante, even.

“Hey, Amy,” I say in a low, cautious voice. “Did we talk much before the accident? The two of us, I mean. About…stuff.” I glance toward the kitchen to make sure Mum can’t hear.

“A bit.” She shrugs. “What stuff?”

“I was just wondering.” I keep my voice natural. “Out of interest, did I ever mention anyone called…Jon?”

“Jon?” Amy pauses, lipstick in hand. “You mean the one you had sex with?”

“What?” My voice shoots out like a rocket. “Are you sure?”

Oh my God. It’s true.

“Yeah.” Amy seems surprised by my reaction. “You told me at New Year’s Eve. You were quite pissed.”

“What else did I tell you?” My heart is thumping wildly. “Tell me everything you can remember.”

“You told me everything!” Her eyes light up. “All the gory details. It was your first-ever time, and he lost the condom, and you were freezing to death on the school field…”

“School field?” I stare at Amy, my mind trying to make sense of this. “Do you mean…are you talking about James?”

“Oh yeah!” She clicks her tongue in realization. “That’s who I meant. James. The guy in the band when you were at school. Why, who are you talking about?” She finishes her lipstick and regards me with fresh interest. “Who’s Jon?”

“He’s no one,” I say hastily. “Just…some guy. He’s nothing.”

You see-there’s no evidence. If I was really having an affair I would have left a trail. A note, or a photo, or a diary entry. Or Amy would know, or something…

And the point is, I’m happily married to Eric. That’s the point.

It’s much later that evening. Mum and Amy left a while ago, after we finally managed to cajole one whippet off the balcony and another out of Eric’s Jacuzzi, where it was having a fight with one of the towels. And now I’m in the car with Eric, zipping along the Embankment. He’s having a meeting with Ava, his interior designer, and suggested I come along and see the show flat of his latest development, Blue 42.

All Eric’s buildings are called “Blue” and then some number. It’s the company’s brand. It turns out that having a brand is a crucial part of selling loft-style living, as is having the right music on when you walk in, and the right cutlery on the show table. Apparently Ava is a genius at choosing the right cutlery.

I learned about Ava from the marriage manual. She’s forty-eight, divorced, worked in LA for twenty years, has written a series of books called things like Tassel and Fork, and designs all the show homes for Eric’s company.

“Hey, Eric,” I say as we drive along. “I was looking at my bank statement today. I seem to pay all this regular money to something called Unito. I rang up the bank, and they said it’s an offshore account.”

“Uh-huh.” Eric nods as though he’s not remotely interested. I wait for him to say something else, but he turns on the radio.

“Don’t you know anything about it?” I say over the sound of the news.

“No.” He shrugs. “Not a bad idea, though, putting some of your money offshore.”