Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

“What’s wrong?” Jon looks as shell-shocked as though I’d hit him.

I almost don’t know what’s wrong myself. I want him so badly; my entire body’s telling me to go for it. But I can’t.

“What’s wrong is…I’m freaked.”

“By what?” He looks dumbfounded.

“By all this!” I gesture at the sunflowers. “It’s too much. You’re presenting me with this…this fully fledged relationship. But for me, it’s just the beginning.” I take a deep gulp of wine, trying to keep my cool. “I’m too many steps behind. It’s too unbalanced.”

“We’ll balance it,” he says quickly. “We’ll work it out. I’ll go back to the beginning too.”

“You can’t go back to the beginning!” I thrust my hands hopelessly through my hair. “Jon, you’re a guy who’s attractive and witty and cool. And I really like you. But I don’t love you. How could I? I haven’t done all this. I don’t remember all this.”

“I don’t expect you to love me-”

“Yes, you do. You do! You expect me to be her.”

“You are her.” There’s a sudden streak of anger in his voice. “Don’t give me this bullshit. You’re the girl I love. Believe it, Lexi.”

“I don’t know!” My voice rises in agitation. “I don’t know if I am, okay? Am I her? Am I me?”

To my horror, tears are streaming down my face; I have no idea where they came from. I turn away and wipe my face, gulping, unable to stop the torrent.

I want to be her, I want to be the girl laughing on the tree trunk. But I’m not.

At last I manage to get a grip on myself and turn around. Jon is standing in exactly the same place as he was before, a bleakness on his face that makes my heart constrict.

“I look around at these sunflowers.” I swallow hard. “And the photos. And all my things here. And I can see that it happened. But it looks like a wonderful romance between two people I don’t know.”

“It’s you,” says Jon in a quiet voice. “It’s me. You know both of us.”

“I know it in my head. But I don’t feel it. I don’t know it.” I clench a fist on my chest, feeling the tears rising again. “If I could just remember one thing. If there was one memory, one thread…” I trail off in silence. Jon is gazing at the sunflowers as though rapt by every petal.

“So, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying…I don’t know! I don’t know. I need time…I need…” I break off helplessly.

Spots of rain are starting to fall on the balcony. A breeze gusts past and the sunflowers sway against each other as though they’re nodding.

At last Jon breaks the silence. “A lift home?” He lifts his eyes to meet mine-and there’s no anger anymore.

“Yes.” I wipe my eyes and push my hair back. “Please.”

It only takes fifteen minutes to reach home. We don’t chat. I sit holding on to the blue folder and Jon changes gear, his jaw set. He pulls the Mercedes into my parking space, and for a moment neither of us moves. Rain is thundering against the roof by now and there’s a sudden crash of lightning.

“You’ll have to run straight in,” Jon says, and I nod.

“How will you get back?”

“I’ll be fine.” He hands me my keys, avoiding my eye. “Good luck with that.” He nods at the folder. “I mean it.”

“Thanks.” I run a hand over the cardboard, biting my lip. “Although I don’t know how I’m going to get to Simon Johnson to talk about it. I’ve been demoted. I’ve lost all my credibility. He won’t be interested.”

“You’ll do it.”

“If I can get in to speak to him, it’ll be fine. But I know I’ll be fobbed off. They have no time for me anymore.” I sigh and reach for the car door. The rain is totally sheeting down, but I can’t sit here all night.

“Lexi…”

I feel a flurry of nerves at Jon’s tone.

“Let’s…talk,” I say hurriedly. “Sometime.”

“Okay.” He holds my gaze for a moment. “Sometime. It’s a deal.” He gets out, lifting his hands ineffectually against the rain. “I’m going to find a cab. Go on, run.” He hesitates, then drops a kiss on my cheek and strides away.

I pelt through the rain to the entrance, nearly dropping the precious folder, then stand under the portico, gathering the papers together, feeling a fresh spasm of hope as I remember the details. Although what I said was true. If I can’t see Simon Johnson it will all be for nothing.

And all of a sudden I sag as the reality of my situation hits home. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking. Whatever I have in this folder, he’s never going to give me another chance, is he? I’m not the Cobra anymore. I’m not Lexi the talented whiz kid. I’m the memorily challenged, embarrassment-to-the-firm, total fuckup. Simon Johnson won’t even give me five minutes, let alone a full hearing.

I’m not in the mood for the lift. To the obvious astonishment of the doorman, I head for the stairwell and trudge up the gleaming steel-and-glass stairs that not a single resident of this block ever uses. Once inside, I put on the remote-control fire and try to hunker up on the cream sofa. But the cushions are all shiny and awkward, and I’m afraid of my rain-damp head leaving a stain on the fabric, so in the end I get up and head to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

After all the adrenaline of the day I’m leaden with disappointment. So I learned a few things about myself. So what? I got totally carried away, with Jon, with the deal, with everything. This whole day has been a pipe dream. I’m never going to save the Flooring department. Simon’s never going to usher me into his office and ask me what I think, let alone pitch a deal. Never in a million years. Not unless…

Not unless…

No.

I couldn’t. Could I?

I’m frozen in a disbelieving excitement, thinking through the implications, with Simon Johnson’s voice running through my head like a soundtrack.

If you recovered your memory, Lexi, then things would be different.

If I recovered my memory, then things would be different.

The kettle is coming to the boil, but I don’t even notice. As though in a dream, I pull out my mobile phone and direct dial.

“Fi,” I say as soon as it’s answered. “Don’t say anything. Listen.”

Think bitch. Think boss. Think Cobra.

I survey myself in the mirror and put on some more lipstick. It’s a pale gray-pink shade that could practically be called “Bitch-boss-from-hell.” My hair’s scraped back and I’m wearing the most severe outfit I could find in my wardrobe: the slimmest pencil skirt; the pointiest pumps; a white shirt striped with gray. There’s no mistaking the message this outfit conveys: I mean business.

I spent two hours with Jeremy Northpool yesterday, at his office in Reading, and every time I think of it, I experience a tiny thrill. Everything’s in place. We both want this deal to work out. Now it’s up to me.

“You don’t look mean enough.” Fi, standing by my side in a navy trouser suit, surveys me critically. “Try scowling more.”

I screw my nose up-but now I just look like I want to sneeze.

“Nope.” Fi shakes her head. “That’s still not right. You used to have this really chilling stare. Like, ‘You are an insignificant minion, get out of my way instantly.’” She narrows her eyes and puts on a hard, dismissive voice. “I’m the boss and I’ll have things done my way.”

“That’s really good!” I turn in admiration. “You should do this. We’ll swap.”

“Yeah, right.” She pushes my shoulder. “Go on, do it again. Scowl.”

“Get out of my way, you minion,” I snarl in a Wicked Witch of the West voice. “I’m the boss and I’ll have things done my way.”