Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

“So…hypothetically,” I say at last. “If we were once lovers…”

“Hypothetically.” Jon nods without turning his head.

“What exactly happened? How did we…”

“Like I told you, we met at a launch party. We kept bumping into each other through the company. I came over to your place more and more. I’d arrive early, while Eric was still tied up. We’d chat, hang out on the terrace… It was innocuous.” He pauses, negotiating a tricky lane-change. “Then Eric went away one weekend. And I came over. And after that…it wasn’t so innocuous.”

I’m starting to believe. It’s like the world is sliding-a screen is going back. Colors are becoming sharper and clearer.

“So what else happened?” I say.

“We saw each other as often as we could.”

“I know that.” I cast around. “I mean…what was it like? What did we say, what did we do? Just…tell me stuff.”

“You crack me up.” Jon shakes his head, his eyes crinkled in amusement. “That’s what you always said to me in bed. ‘Tell me stuff.’”

“I like hearing stuff.” I shrug defensively. “Any old stuff.”

“I know you do. Okay. Any old stuff.” He drives silently for a while and I can see a smile pushing at his mouth as he thinks. “Everywhere we’ve been together, we’ve ended up buying you socks. Same thing every time, you rip off your shoes to be barefoot on the sand or the grass or whatever, and then you get cold and we need to find you socks.” He pulls up at a crosswalk. “What else? You’ve got me into putting mustard on fries.”

“French mustard?”

“Exactly. When I first saw you, I thought it was an evil perversion. Now I’m addicted.” He pulls away from the crossing and turns onto a big dual carriageway. The car is speeding up; he’s harder to hear over traffic noise. “One weekend it rained. Eric was away playing golf and we watched every single episode of Doctor Who, back to back.” He glances at me. “Should I keep going?”

Everything he’s saying is resonating. My brain is tuning up. I don’t remember what he’s talking about, but I’m feeling stirrings of recognition. It feels like me. This feels like my life.

“Keep going.” I nod.

“Okay. So…we play table tennis. It’s pretty brutal. You’re two games ahead, but I think you’re about to crack.”

“I am so not about to crack,” I retort automatically.

“Oh, you are.”

“Never!” I can’t help grinning.

“You met my mum. She instantly guessed. She knows me too well to kid her. But that’s okay. She’s cool, she’d never say anything.” Jon pulls into another lane. “You always sleep on the left. We’ve had five whole nights together in eight months.” He’s silent for a moment. “Eric’s had two hundred and thirty-five.”

I don’t know how to reply to that. Jon’s gaze is focused ahead; his face is intent. “Should I keep going?” he says at last.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat huskily. “Keep going.”

As we drive through the Kent countryside, Jon has exhausted all the details he can give me about our relationship. Obviously I can’t supply any of my own, so we’re sitting in silence as the hop fields and oast houses pass by. Not that I’m looking at them. I grew up in Kent, so I don’t even notice the picturesque, garden-of-England scenery. Instead I’m watching the GPS screen in a trance; following the arrow with my gaze.

Suddenly it reminds me of my conversation with Loser Dave, and I heave a sigh.

“What’s up?” Jon glances over.

“Oh, nothing. I just still keep wondering, how did I get to where I am? What made me go after my career, get my teeth done, turn into this…other person?” I gesture at myself.

“Well,” says Jon, squinting up at a sign. “I suppose it started with what happened at the funeral.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. The thing with your dad.”

“What about my dad?” I say, puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

With a screech of brakes, Jon stops the Mercedes right next to a field full of cows, and turns to face me. “Didn’t your mother tell you about the funeral?”

“Of course she did!” I say. “It happened. Dad was…cremated or whatever.”

“That’s it?”

I rack my brain. I’m sure Mum didn’t say anything else about the funeral. She changed the subject when I brought it up, I suddenly recall. But, I mean, that’s normal for Mum. She changes every subject.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Jon puts the car back into gear. “This is unreal. Do you know anything about your life?”

“Apparently not,” I say, a bit rattled. “Well, tell me! If it’s so important.”

“Uh-uh.” Jon shakes his head as the car moves off again. “Not my call. Your mum has to tell you this one.” He turns off the road and pulls into a gravel drive. “We’re here.”

So we are. I hadn’t even noticed. The house is looking pretty much as I remember it: a redbrick house dating from the 1900s, with a conservatory on one side and Mum’s ancient Volvo parked in front. The truth is, the place hasn’t changed since we moved in twenty years ago; it’s just got more crumbly. A length of gutter is hanging off the roof and ivy has crept even farther up the walls. Under a moldy tarpaulin at the side of the drive is a pile of paving stones that Dad once dumped there. He was going to sell them and start a business, I think. That was…eight years ago? Ten?

Through the gate I can just glimpse the garden, which used to be quite pretty, with raised flower beds and a herb patch. Before we got the dogs.

“So…you’re saying Mum lied to me?”

Jon shakes his head. “Not lied. Edited.” He opens the car door. “Come on.”

The thing about whippets is they look quite slight, but when they stand on their hind legs they’re huge. And when about ten of them are trying to jump up on you at once, it’s like being mugged.

“Ophelia! Raphael!” I can just about hear Mum’s voice over the scrabbling and yelping. “Get down! Lexi, darling! You really did rush down here. What is all this?” She’s wearing a corduroy skirt and blue-striped shirt with fraying hems at the sleeves, and she’s holding an ancient “Charles and Diana” tea towel.

“Hi, Mum,” I say breathlessly, manhandling a dog off me. “This is Jon. My…friend.” I gesture at Jon, who is gazing a whippet straight in the eyes and saying, “Put your paws on the floor. Step away from the humans.”

“Well!” Mum seems flustered. “If I’d realized, I would have rustled up some lunch. How you expect me to cater at this late notice-”

“Mum, we don’t expect you to cater. All I want is that folder. Is it still there?”

“Of course.” She sounds defensive. “It’s perfectly all right.”

I hurry up the creaky green-carpeted stairs and into my bedroom, which still has the floral Laura Ashley wallpaper it always did.

Amy’s right-this place stinks. I can’t tell if it’s the dogs or the damp or the rot…but it should get sorted. I spot the folder on top of a chest of drawers and grab it-then recoil. Now I know why Mum was defensive. This is so gross. It totally smells of dog pee.

Wrinkling my nose, I gingerly extend two fingers and open it.

There’s my writing. Lines and lines of it, clear as day. Like a message from me to…me. I scan the first page, trying to glean as quickly as possible what I was doing, what I was planning, what this is all about… I can see I had written some sort of proposal, but what exactly? I turn the page, my brow wrinkled in bewilderment, then turn another page. And that’s when I see the name.

Oh. My God.

In an instant, I understand. I’ve got the whole picture. I raise my head, my heart thudding with excitement. That is such a good idea. I mean, that is such a good idea. I can already see the potential. It could be huge, it could change everything…