Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

“Lexi.” Jon comes across the terrace to where I’m standing, his voice low and urgent.

He’s trying it on again. I don’t believe this.

“Leave me alone!” I round on him. “Didn’t you get the message before? I’m not interested! You’re just a…a womanizing bullshitter. And even if I were interested, it’s not a good time, okay? My whole department has just crumbled to nothing. So unless you have the answer to that, piss off.”

There’s silence. I’m expecting Jon to come back with some cheesy chat-up line, but instead he takes off his shades and rubs his head as though perplexed.

“I don’t understand. What happened to the plan?”

“Plan?” I say aggressively. “What plan?”

“Your big carpet deal.”

“What carpet deal?”

Jon’s eyes snap open in shock. For a few moments he just stares at me as though I have to be joking. “You’re not serious. You don’t know about it?”

“Know about what?” I exclaim, at the end of my tether. “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about!”

“Jesus Christ.” Jon exhales. “Okay, Lexi. Listen to me. You had this massive carpet deal all lined up in secret. You said it was going to change everything, it was going to bring in big bucks, it was going to transform the department… So! You enjoy the view, huh.” He seamlessly switches track as Eric appears at the door, holding a gin and tonic.

Massive carpet deal?

My heart is beating fast as I stand there, watching Eric give Jon his drink and pull out a chair under the huge sunshade.

Ignore him, says a voice in my head. He’s making it up. He’s playing you-this is all part of the game.

But what if it’s not?

“Eric, darling, I’m sorry about earlier.” My words come out almost too fluently. “It’s just been a difficult day. Could you possibly get me a glass of wine?”

I’m not even looking at Jon.

“No problem, sweetheart.” Eric disappears inside again and I wheel around.

“Tell me what you’re talking about,” I say in low tones. “Quickly. And this better not be a windup.”

As I meet his gaze I feel the sting of humiliation. I have no idea if I can trust anything he says or not. But I have to hear more. Because if there’s just a one percent chance that what he’s saying is true…

“This isn’t a windup. If I’d realized before that you didn’t know…” Jon shakes his head incredulously. “You’d been working on this thing for weeks. You had a big blue file that you used to carry around. You were so excited about it you couldn’t sleep-”

“But what was it?”

“I don’t know the exact details. You were too superstitious to tell me. You had this theory I was a jinx.” His mouth twists briefly as though he’s sharing a private joke. “But I know it was using retro carpet designs from some old pattern book. And I know it was going to be huge.”

“But why don’t I know about it? Why doesn’t anyone know about it?”

“You were keeping it quiet until the last moment. You said you didn’t trust everyone at the office and it was safer not to.” He lifts his voice. “Hey, Eric. How’s it going?”

I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. He can’t stop there.

“Here you are, Lexi,” Eric says cheerfully, handing me a glass of wine. Then he heads to the table, sits down, and gestures at Jon to sit. “So the latest is, I spoke to the planning officer again…”

I’m standing perfectly still as they talk, my mind racing, torn apart with uncertainty. It could all be bullshit. Maybe I’m a gullible fool, listening to even a word.

But how would he know about the old pattern book? What if it’s true? My chest constricts with a deep, painful spasm of hope. If there’s still a chance, even a tiny chance…

“Are you all right, Lexi?” Eric shoots me an odd look, and I realize I’m standing stock-still in the middle of the terrace, my hands clasped to my face.

“Fine.” Somehow I gather myself, retreat to the other end of the terrace, and sit down in a galvanized-steel swing seat. The sun is hot on my face. I’m barely aware of the distant roar of traffic below. Over at the table, Jon and Eric are studying an architect’s drawing.

“We might have to rethink the parking completely.” Jon is sketching on the paper. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“Okay.” Eric sighs heavily. “If you think it can be done, Jon, I trust you.”

I take a deep swig of wine-then pull out my phone. I cannot believe I’m about to do this. With fumbling hands I find Jon’s number and type a text.

Can we meet? L

I press Send, then immediately slip my phone into my bag and stare rigidly out at the view.

A moment later, still sketching and without looking anywhere near me, Jon takes his phone out of his pocket with his other hand. He checks it briefly and types back a return text. Eric doesn’t even seem to notice.

I force myself to count to fifty-then casually flip open my phone.

Sure. J

We’ve agreed to meet in a café called Fabian’s in Holland Park, a small, cozy place with terra-cotta painted walls and prints of Tuscany and shelves full of Italian books. As I walk in and look around at the granite bar, the coffee machine, the battered sofa…I have the weirdest feeling-like I’ve been there before.

Maybe I’m just having déjà vu. Maybe it’s wishful thinking.

Jon is already sitting at a table in the corner, and as he looks up I feel my guard rising. Against all my better instincts, after all my protests, here I am, meeting him illicitly. Just like he wanted all along. I feel like I’m falling into some kind of trap…but I don’t know what the trap is.

Anyway, I’m meeting him for business reasons. As long as I remember that, I’ll be fine.

“Hi.” I join him at the table, where he’s drinking coffee, and drop my briefcase on an adjoining chair. “So. We’re both busy people. Let’s talk about this deal.”

Jon is just staring at me, as though trying to work something out.

“Is there anything more you can tell me?” I add, trying to ignore his expression. “I think I’ll have a cappuccino.”

“Lexi, what is this? And what the fuck happened at the party?”

“I…I don’t know what you mean.” I pick up the menu and pretend to be studying it. “Maybe I’ll have a latte.”

“Come on.” Jon pulls the menu down so he can see my face. “You can’t hide. What happened?”

He thinks this is funny. I can tell it from his voice. With a jag of wounded pride, I slap the menu down on the table.

“If you must know,” I say tightly, “I spoke to Rosalie at the party, and she told me about your…predilections. I know it was all bullshit. And I don’t appreciate being bull-shitted, thanks.”

“Lexi-”

“Don’t try and pretend, okay? I know you tried it on with her and Margo.” An edge of bitterness has crept into my voice. “You’re just some smooth operator who tells married women what they want to hear. What you think they want to hear.”

Jon’s expression doesn’t flicker.

“I did try it on with Rosalie and Margo. And I might have gone”-he hesitates-“a tad too far. But you and I agreed I should. That was our cover.”

Well, of course he’d bloody well say that.

I glare at him in impotent fury. He can say anything he likes, and there’s no way for me to know whether he’s speaking the truth or not.

“You have to understand.” He leans across the table. “It was all fake. We cooked up a story that would fool everyone, so if we were ever spotted together, that could be the explanation. Rosalie fell for it, just like we wanted her to.”

“You wanted to be portrayed as a womanizer?” I retort, rolling my eyes.