Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

“Your point would be?” His voice comes down the line.

“You know. That changes things, surely.”

“I’m not following. You think I won’t be in love with you anymore because you had sex with Eric?”

“I…I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Or you think having sex with Eric somehow proves you love him?” He’s relentless.

“I don’t know!” I say again, rattled. I shouldn’t even be having this conversation. I should be marching straight out of the bathroom, holding the phone aloft, calling, “Darling? It’s Jon for you.”

But something’s keeping me here, the receiver clamped to my ear.

“I thought it might trigger my memories,” I say at last, sitting on the side of the bath. “I just keep thinking, maybe my memory’s all there, all locked up, and if only I could get to it…It’s so frustrating…”

“Tell me about it,” Jon says wryly, and I suddenly imagine him standing in his gray T-shirt and jeans, scrunching his face up in that way he does, holding the phone with one hand, the other elbow bent with his hand behind his head, a glimpse of armpit-

The image is so vivid that I blink.

“So, how was it? The sex.” His tone has changed, is easier.

“It was…” I clear my throat. “You know. Sex. You know about sex.”

“I do know about sex,” he agrees. “I also know about sex with Eric. He’s adept…considerate…He has quite the imagination…”

“Stop it! You’re making all of those sound like bad qualities-”

“We have to meet,” Jon cuts in. “Seriously.”

“We can’t.” I feel a fearful quake deep inside me. Like I’m about to step over an edge. Like I have to stop myself.

“I miss you so much.” His voice is lower, softer. “Lexi, you have no idea how much I miss you, it’s tearing me up, not being with you-”

My hand is damp around the phone. I can’t listen to him anymore. It’s confusing me; it’s shaking me up. Because if it was true, if everything he was saying was really true-

“Look, I have to go,” I say in a rush. “I’ll get Eric for you.” My legs wobbly, I unlock the bathroom door and head out, holding the phone away from me like it’s contaminated.

“Lexi, wait.” I can hear his voice coming from the phone, but I ignore it.

“Eric!” I call brightly as I approach his door and he comes out, dressed in a towel. “Darling? It’s Jon for you. Jon the architect.”

I’ve tried. I really have tried. I’ve done everything I can think of to show the department that I’m not a bitch.

I’ve put up a poster asking for suggestions for a fun department outing-but no one’s filled any in. I’ve put flowers on the windowsills, but no one’s even mentioned them. Today I brought in a massive basket of blueberry, vanilla, and chocolate-chip muffins and put it on the photocopier, together with a sign saying From Lexi-Help Yourself!

I took a stroll into the office a few minutes ago and not a single muffin had been taken. But never mind, it’s still early. I’ll leave it another ten minutes before I go and check again.

I turn a page in the file I’ve been reading, then click on the onscreen document. I’m working through paper files and computer files at the same time, trying to cross-reference everything. Without meaning to, I give an enormous yawn and lean my head on the desk. I’m tired. I mean, I’m knackered.

I’ve been coming in every morning at seven, just to get through some more of this mountain of paperwork. My eyes are red from all the endless reading.

I nearly didn’t come back here at all. The day after Eric and I “kind of” had sex, I woke up with a pale face, the most crashing headache, and absolutely no desire to go to work again, ever. I staggered into the kitchen, made a cup of tea with three spoonfuls of sugar, then sat down and wrote out on a sheet of paper, wincing at every movement:

OPTIONS

1. Give up.

2. Don’t give up.

I stared at it for ages. Then at last I put a line through Give up.

The thing with giving up is you never know. You never know whether you could have done the job. And I’m sick of not knowing about my life. So here I am, in my office, reading through a debate on carpet-fiber cost trends, dating from 2005. Just in case it’s important.

No. Come on. It can’t be important. I close the file, stand up, shake out my legs, then tiptoe to my door. I open it a crack and peek hopefully out at the main office. I can just glimpse the basket through the window. It’s still intact.

I feel totally squashed. What’s wrong? Why is no one taking any? Maybe I’ll just make it absolutely clear that these muffins are for everyone. I head out of my room, into the main open-plan office.

“Hi there!” I say brightly. “I just wanted to say, these muffins are from me to all of you. Fresh from the bakery this morning. So…go ahead! Help yourself!”

No one answers. No one even acknowledges my presence. Did I suddenly become invisible?

“So, anyway.” I force myself to smile. “Enjoy!” I swivel on my heel and walk out.

I’ve done my bit. If they want the muffins, they want them. If they don’t, they don’t. End of subject. I really don’t care either way. I sit back down at my desk, open a recent financial report, and start running my finger down the relevant columns. After a few moments I lean back, rubbing my eyes with my fists. These figures are just confirming what I already know: the department performance is terrible.

Sales went up in the last year by a bit, but they’re still far, far too low. We’re going to be in real trouble if we don’t turn things around. I mentioned it to Byron the other day-and he didn’t even seem bothered. How can he be so blasé? I make a memo on a Post-it-“Discuss sales with Byron.” Then I put my pen down.

Why don’t they want my muffins?

I was really optimistic when I bought them this morning. I imagined everyone’s faces lighting up at the sight, and people saying “What a nice thought, Lexi. Thanks!” But now I’m crestfallen. They must totally hate me. I mean, you’d have to loathe someone to refuse a muffin, wouldn’t you? And these are really deluxe ones. They’re fat and fresh and the blueberry ones have even got lemon icing on them.

A tiny, sensible voice in my head is telling me to leave it. Forget about it. It’s only a basket of muffins, for God’s sake.

But I can’t. I can’t just sit here. On impulse I leap to my feet again and head into the main office. There’s the basket, still untouched. Everyone is typing away or on the phone, ignoring both me and the muffins.

“So!” I try to sound relaxed. “Nobody wants a muffin? They’re really nice ones!”

“Muffin?” Fi says at last, her brow wrinkled. “I can’t see any muffins.” She looks around the office as though baffled. “Anyone seen any muffins?”

Everyone shrugs, as though equally baffled.

“Do you mean an English muffin?” Carolyn’s brow is wrinkled. “Or a French muffin?”

“They do muffins at Starbucks. I could send out if you like,” Debs says, barely hiding her giggles.

Ha-ha. Really funny.

“Fine!” I say, trying to hide my hurt. “If you want to be childish about it, then that’s fine. Just forget it. I was only trying to be nice.”

Breathing hard, I stalk out again. I can hear the sniggers and giggles behind me, but I try to block my ears. I have to keep my dignity; I have to be calm and bosslike. I mustn’t rise. I mustn’t react.

Oh God. I can’t help it. Hurt and anger are rising through me like a volcano. How can they be so mean?

“Actually, it’s not fine.” I march back into the office, my face burning. “Look, I went to a lot of time and trouble to get these muffins, because I thought it would be nice to give you a treat, and now you’re pretending you can’t even see them…”