Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

Soon they’ll be starting the run-up to Christmas on January 1. Or they’ll start having an extra “mid-season” Christmas. Or it’ll just be Christmas the whole time, even in the summer holidays.

“Special-offer festive Calvin Klein pack?” drones a bored-looking girl in white, and I dodge her before I can get sprayed. Although, on second thought, Debs quite likes that perfume. Maybe I’ll get it for her.

“Yes, please,” I say, and the girl nearly falls over in surprise.

“Festive gift wrap?” She scurries around behind the counter before I can change my mind.

“Gift wrap, please,” I say. “But not festive.”

As she ties up the parcel, I survey myself in the mirror behind her. My hair’s still long and glossy, though not quite as bright a shade as before. I’m wearing jeans and a green cardigan and my feet are comfortable in suede sneakers. My face is bare of makeup; my left hand is bare of a ring.

I like what I see. I like my life.

Maybe I don’t have the dream existence anymore. Maybe I’m not a millionairess living in penthouse glory, overlooking London.

But Balham’s pretty cool. What’s even cooler is, my office is on the floor above my flat, so I have the world’s shortest commute. Which is maybe why I don’t fit into the skinniest of my jeans anymore. That, and the three slices of toast I have for breakfast every morning.

Three months on, the business has all worked out so well, sometimes I have to pinch myself. The Porsche contract is all happening and has already had interest from the media. We’ve done another deal supplying carpet to a restaurant chain-and just today, Fi sold my favorite Deller design-an orange circle print-to a trendy spa.

That’s why I’m here, shopping. I reckon everyone in the team deserves a present.

I pay for the perfume, take my bag, and walk on into the store. As I pass a rack of teetering high heels I’m reminded of Rosalie, and can’t help smiling. As soon as she heard Eric and I were splitting up, Rosalie announced that she wasn’t going to take sides and I was her closest friend and she was going to be my rock, my absolute rock.

She’s come to visit once. She was an hour late because she claimed her GPS didn’t go south of the river, and then got traumatized by what she said was a street disturbance by Yardie gangs. (Two kids messing with each other. They were eight.)

Still, she’s done better than Mum, who’s managed to cancel each planned visit with some dog ailment or other. We still haven’t talked since I went to see her that day, not properly.

But Amy’s kept me posted. Apparently, the day after I visited, without a word to anyone, Mum gathered up a whole load of her frilly clothes and sent them to Oxfam. Then she went to the hairdresser. Apparently she has a bob now, which really suits her, and she’s bought some quite modern-looking trousers. She also got a man in to sort the dry rot-and paid him to take away Dad’s paving slabs.

I know it doesn’t sound very much. But in Mum’s world, that’s huge strides.

And on the completely positive and fantastic front, Amy is doing spectacularly at school! Somehow she’s wangled a place in Business Studies A-level, alongside all the sixth-formers, and her teacher is bowled over by her progress. She’s coming to intern with us in the Christmas holidays-and I’m actually looking forward to it.

As for Eric…I sigh whenever I think of him.

He still thinks we’re on a temporary separation, even though I’ve contacted his lawyer about a divorce. About a week after I moved out, he sent me a typed-out document entitled Lexi and Eric: Separation Manual. He suggested we have what he called a “milestone meeting” every month. But I haven’t made a single one. I just…can’t see Eric right now.

Nor can I bring myself to look at his section entitled Separation Sex: Infidelity, Solo, Reconciliation, Other.

Other? What on earth-

No. Don’t even think about it. The point is, there’s no point dwelling on the past. There’s no point brooding. It’s like Fi said, you have to keep looking forward. I’m getting pretty good at that. Most of the time, it’s as if the past is a whole other area, sealed off in my head, taped down at the edges.

I pause in the accessories department and buy a funky purple patent bag for Fi. Then I head upstairs and find a cool seventies-style T-shirt for Carolyn.

“Festive mulled wine?” A guy in a Santa hat offers a tray full of tiny glasses, and I take one. As I wander on, I realize I’ve got slightly lost in the new layout of this floor, and seem to have strayed into menswear. But it doesn’t matter; I’m in no hurry. I meander for a few moments, sipping the hot spiced wine, listening to the carols and watching the fairy lights twinkle…

Oh God, they’ve got me. I’m starting to feel Christmasy. Okay, this is bad. It’s only October. I have to leave, before I start buying jumbo packs of mince pies and Bing Crosby CDs and wondering if The Wizard of Oz will be on. I’m just looking for somewhere to put my empty glass down, when a bright voice greets me.

“Hello again!”

It’s coming from a woman with a blond bob who’s folding pastel-colored sweaters in the men’s Ralph Lauren department.

“Er…hello,” I say uncertainly. “Do I know you?”

“Oh no.” She smiles. “I just remember you from last year.”

“Last year?”

“You were in here, buying a shirt for your…chap.” She glances at my hand. “For Christmas. We had quite a long conversation as I gift-wrapped it. I’ve always remembered it.”

I stare back at her, trying to imagine it. Me, here. Christmas shopping. The old Lexi, probably in a beige business suit, probably in a terrible rush; probably frowning with stress.

“I’m sorry,” I say at length. “I’ve got a terrible memory. What did I say?”

“Don’t worry!” She laughs gaily. “Why should you remember? I just remembered it, because you were so…” She pauses, mid-sweater-fold. “This will seem silly, but you seemed so in love.”

“Right.” I nod. “Right.” I brush back a strand of hair, telling myself to smile and walk away. It’s a tiny coincidence, that’s all. No big deal. Come on, smile and go.

But as I’m standing there, with the fairy lights twinkling and the choir singing “The First Nowell,” and a strange blond woman telling me what I did last Christmas, all sorts of buried feelings are emerging; thrusting their way up like steam. The sealing tape is peeling up at the corner; I can’t keep the past in its place anymore.

“This might seem like an…an odd question.” I rub my damp top lip. “But did I say what his name was?”

“No.” The woman eyes me curiously. “You just said he brought you alive. You hadn’t been alive before. You were bubbling over with it, with the happiness of it.” She puts the sweater down and eyes me with genuine curiosity. “Don’t you remember?”

“No.”

Something is clenching at my throat. It was Jon.

Jon, who I’ve tried not to think about every single day since I walked away.

“What did I buy him?”

“It was this shirt, as I recall.” She hands me a pale green shirt, then turns away to another customer. “Can I help you?”

I hold the shirt, trying to picture Jon in it; myself choosing it for him. Trying to conjure up the happiness. Maybe it’s the wine; maybe it’s just the end of a long day. But I can’t seem to let go of this shirt. I can’t put it down.

“Could I buy it, please?” I say as soon as the woman’s free. “Don’t bother wrapping it.”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. As I walk out of Langridges and hail a taxi I’ve still got the green shirt, clasped to my face like a comfort blanket. My whole head is buzzing; the world is receding, like I’m getting the flu or something.