Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

“Right.” I’m dissatisfied by his response; I almost feel like I want to pick a fight about it. But I don’t know why.

“I just need to get some petrol.” Eric swings off the road into a BP station. “I won’t be a moment…”

“Hey,” I say as he opens the door. “Could you get me some chips in the shop? Salt ’n’ vinegar if they have them.”

“Chips?” He turns back and stares at me as though I’ve asked for some heroin.

“Yes, chips.”

“Darling.” Eric looks perplexed. “You don’t eat chips. It was all in the manual. Our nutritionist has recommended a low-carb, high-protein diet.”

“Well…I know. But everyone’s allowed a little treat once in a while, aren’t they? And I really feel like some chips.”

For a moment Eric seems lost for an answer.

“The doctors warned me you might be irrational, and make odd, out-of-character gestures,” he says, almost to himself.

“It’s not irrational to eat a packet of chips!” I protest. “They’re not poison.”

“Sweetheart…I’m thinking of you.” Eric adopts a loving tone. “I know how hard you’ve worked at reducing those two dress sizes. We invested a lot in your personal trainer. If you want to throw it away on a bag of chips, then that’s your choice. Do you still want the chips?”

“Yes,” I say, a bit more defiantly than I meant to.

I see a flash of annoyance pass over Eric’s face, which he manages to convert into a smile.

“No problem.” He shuts the car door with a heavy clunk. A few minutes later I see him walking briskly back from the garage, holding a packet of chips.

“Here you are.” He drops them on my lap and starts the engine.

“Thank you!” I smile gratefully, but I’m not sure he notices. As he drives off, I try to open the packet-but my left hand is still clumsy after the accident and I can’t get a proper grip on the plastic. At last I put the packet between my teeth, yank as hard as I can with my right hand…and the entire packet explodes.

Shit. There are chips everywhere. All over the seats, all over the gear stick, and all over Eric.

“Jesus!” He shakes his head in annoyance. “Are those in my hair?”

“Sorry,” I gasp, brushing at his jacket. “I’m really, really sorry…”

The reek of salt and vinegar has filled the car. Mmm. That’s a good smell.

“I’ll have to have the car valeted.” Eric’s nose is wrinkled in distaste. “And my jacket will be covered in grease.”

“I’m sorry, Eric,” I say again, humbly, brushing the last crumbs off his shoulder. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.” I sit back, reach for a massive chip that landed on my lap, and put it in my mouth.

“Are you eating that?” Eric sounds like this is the last straw.

“It only landed on my lap,” I protest. “It’s clean!”

We drive on awhile in silence. Surreptitiously I eat a few more chips, trying to crunch them as quietly as possible.

“It’s not your fault,” says Eric, staring ahead at the road. “You had a bump on the head. I can’t expect normality yet.”

“I feel perfectly normal,” I say.

“Of course you do.” He pats my hand patronizingly and I stiffen. Okay, I may not be totally recovered. But I do know that eating one packet of chips doesn’t make you mentally ill. I’m about to tell that to Eric, when he signals and turns in at a pair of electric gates that has opened for us. We drive into a shallow forecourt and Eric turns off the engine.

“Here we are.” I can hear the pride crackling in his voice. He gestures out the window. “This is our latest baby.”

I stare up, totally overcome, forgetting all about chips. In front of us is a brand-new white building. It has curved balconies, an awning, and black granite steps up to a pair of grand silver-framed doors.

“You built this?” I say at last.

“Not personally.” Eric laughs. “Come on.” He opens his door, brushing the last few chips off his trousers, and I follow, still in awe. A uniformed porter opens the door for us. The foyer is all palest marble and white pillars. This place is a palace.

“It’s amazing. It’s so glamorous!” I keep noticing tiny details everywhere, like the inlaid borders and the sky-painted ceiling.

“The penthouse has its own lift.” With a nod to the porter, Eric ushers me to the rear of the lobby and into a beautiful marquetry-lined lift. “There’s a pool in the basement, a gym, and a residents’ cinema. Although of course most apartments have their own private gyms and cinemas as well,” he adds.

I look up sharply to see if he’s joking-but I don’t think he is. A private gym and cinema? In a flat?

“And here we are…” The lift opens with the tiniest of pings and we walk into a circular, mirrored foyer. Eric presses gently on one of the mirrors, which turns out to be a door. It swings open and I just gape.

I’m looking at the most massive room. No, space. It has floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in fireplace on one wall-and on another wall there’s a gigantic steel sheet down which are cascading endless streams of water.

“Is that real water?” I say stupidly. “Inside a house?” Eric laughs.

“Our customers like a statement. It’s fun, huh?” He picks up a remote and jabs it at the waterfall-and at once the water is bathed in blue light. “There are ten pre-programmed light shows. Ava?” He raises his voice, and a moment later a skinny blond woman in rimless glasses, gray trousers, and a white shirt appears from some recessed doorway next to the waterfall.

“Hi there!” she says in a mid-Atlantic accent. “Lexi! You’re up and about!” She grasps my hand with both of hers. “I heard all about it. You poor thing.”

“I’m fine, really.” I smile. “Just piecing my life back together again.” I gesture around the room. “This place is amazing! All that water…”

“Water is the theme of the show apartment,” says Eric. “We’ve followed feng shui principles pretty closely, haven’t we, Ava? Very important for some of our ultra-high net worths.”

“Ultra-what?” I say, confused.

“The very rich,” Eric translates. “Our target market.”

“Feng shui is vital for ultra-highs.” Ava nods earnestly. “Eric, I’ve just taken delivery of the fish for the master suite. They’re stunning!” She adds to me, “Each fish is worth three hundred pounds. We hired them especially.”

Ultra-high whatevers. Fish for hire. It’s a different world. Lost for words, I look around again at the massive apartment: at the curved cocktail bar and the sunken seating area and the glass sculpture hanging from the ceiling. I have no idea how much this place costs. I don’t want to know.

“Here you are.” Ava hands me an intricate scale model made of paper and tiny wooden sticks. “This is the whole building. You’ll notice I’ve mirrored the curved balconies in the scalloped edges of the scatter pillows,” she adds. “Very art deco meets Gaultier.”

“Er…excellent!” I rack my brains for something to say about art deco meets Gaultier, and fail. “So, how did you think of it all?” I gesture at the waterfall, which is now bathed in orange light. “Like, how did you come up with this?”

“Oh, that wasn’t me.” Ava shakes her head emphatically. “My area is soft furnishings, fabrics, sensual details. The big concept stuff was all down to Jon.”

I feel a tiny lurch inside.

“Jon?” I tilt my head, adopting the vaguest expression I can muster, as if Jon is some unfamiliar word from an obscure foreign language.

“Jon Blythe,” Eric prompts helpfully. “The architect. You met him at the dinner party, remember? In fact, weren’t you asking me about him earlier on?”