Remember Me?

Remember Me? Page 12

So I gave up and called Fi instead. 47 “Did you manage to order those sofa covers for me, Lexi?” Mum interrupts my thoughts. “Off the Internet,” she adds at my blank look. “You were going to do it last week.” Did she listen to anything I said? “Mum, I don't know,” I say, slowly and clearly. “I don't remember anything about the last three years.” “Sorry, darling.” Mum hits her head. “I'm being stupid.” “I don't know what I was doing last week, or last year... or even who my own husband is.” I spread my arms. “To be honest, it's pretty scary.” “Of course. Absolutely.” Mum is nodding, a distant look in her eyes, as though she's processing my words. “The thing is, darling, I don't remember the name of the Web site. So if you did happen to recall” “I'll let you know, okay?” I can't help snapping. “If my memory returns, the first thing I'll do is call you about your sofa covers. Jesus!” “There's no need to raise your voice, Lexi!” she says, opening her eyes wide. Okay. So in 2007 Mum still officially drives me up the wall. Surely I'm supposed to have grown out of being irritated by my mother? Automatically I start picking at my thumbnail. Then I stop. Twenty-?eight-?year-?old Lexi doesn't shred her nails. “So, what does he do?” I return to the subject of my socalled husband. I still can't really believe he's real. “Who, Eric?” “Yes! Of course Eric!” “He sells property,” Mum says, as though I ought to know. “He's rather good at it, actually.” I've married a real-?estate agent called Eric. How? 48 Why?

“Do we live in my flat?” “Your flat?” Mum looks bemused. “Darling, you sold your flat a long time ago. You have a marital home now!” “I sold it?” I feel a pang. “But I've only just bought it!” I love my flat. It's in Balham and is tiny but cozy, with bluepainted window frames which I did myself, and a lovely squashy velvet sofa, and piles of colorful cushions everywhere, and fairy lights around the mirror. Fi and Carolyn helped me move in two months ago, and we spray-?painted the bathroom silver, and then spray-?painted our jeans silver too. And now it's all gone. I live in a marital home. With my marital husband. For the millionth time I look at the wedding ring and diamond solitaire. Then I automatically shoot a glance at Mum's hand. She still wears Dad's ring, despite the way he's behaved toward her over the years Dad. Dad's funeral. It's like a hand has gripped hold of my stomach, tight. “Mum...” I venture cautiously. “I'm really sorry I missed Dad's funeral. Did i t . . . you know, go all right?” “You didn't miss it, darling.” She peers at me as though I'm crazy. “You were there.” “Oh.” I stare at her, confused. “Right. Of course. I just don't remember anything about it.” Heaving a massive sigh, I lean back on my pillows. I don't remember my own wedding and I don't remember my dad's funeral. Two of the most important events in my life, and I feel like I've missed out on them. “So, how was it?” “Oh, it all went off as well as these things ever d o . . .” Mum's looking twitchy, the way she always is when the subject of Dad comes up. “Were many people there?”

A pained expression comes to her face. “Let's not dwell on it, darling. It was years ago.” She gets up as though to remove herself from my questioning. “Now, have you had any lunch? I didn't have time to eat anything, just a snatch of a boiled egg and toast. I'll go and find something for us both. And make sure you eat properly Lexi,“ she adds. ”None of this no-?carbs obsession. A potato won't kill you.” No carbs? Is that how I got this shape? I glance down at my unfamiliar toned legs. It has to be said, they look as if they don't know what a potato is.

“I've changed in appearance quite a lot, haven't I?” I can't help saying, a bit self-?consciously. “My hair... my teeth...” “I suppose you are different.” She peers at me vaguely. “It's been so gradual, I haven't really noticed.” For God's sake. How can you not even notice when your daughter turns from a manky, overweight Snaggletooth into a thin, tanned, groomed person? “I won't be long.” Mum picks up her embroidered shoulder bag. “And Amy should be here any moment.” “Amy's here?” My spirits lift as I visualize my little sister in her pink fleecy vest and flower-?embroidered jeans and those cute sneakers that light up when she dances. “She was just buying some chocolate downstairs.” Mum opens the door. “She loves those mint Kit Kats.” The door closes behind her and I stare at it. They've invented mint Kit Kats? 2007 really is a different world. # Amy's not my half sister or stepsister, like most people assume. She's my full, one-?hundred-?percent sister. But people 50 get confused because: 1. There's thirteen years between us. 2. My mum and dad had split up before she was born. Maybe “split up” is too strong. I'm not sure what went on exactlyall I know is, my dad was never around much when I was growing up. The official reason was that his business was based abroad. The real reason was that he was a feckless chancer. I was only eight when I heard him described like that by one of my aunts at a Christmas party. "When they saw me they got flustered and changed the subject, so I figured feckless was some really terrible swear word. It's always stuck in my mind. Feckless. The first time he left home, I was seven. Mum said he'd gone on a business trip to America, so when Melissa at school said she'd seen him in the co-?op with a woman in red jeans, I told her she was a fat liar. He came back home a few weeks later, looking tiredfrom the jet lag, he said. When I pestered him for a souvenir, he produced a pack of Wrigley's gum. I called it my American gum and showed everyone at schooluntil Melissa pointed out the co-?op price sticker. I never told Dad I knew the truth, or Mum. I'd kind of known all along that he wasn't in America. A couple of years later he disappeared again, for a few months this time. Then he started up a property business in Spain, which went bust. Then he got involved in some dodgy pyramid scheme and tried to get all our friends involved. Somewhere along the line he became an alcoholic... then he moved in for a bit with some Spanish woman But Mum kept taking him back. Then, at last, about three years ago, he moved to Portugal for good, apparently to get away from the tax man. Mum had various other “gentlemen friends” over the years, but she and Dad never divorcednever really let go of each other at all. And, evidently, on one of his jovial, the 51 drinks-?are-?on-?me-?darlings Christmas visits, she and he must have... Well. I don't exactly want to picture it. We got Amy, that's the point. And she's the most adorable little thing, always playing on her disco dance mat and wanting to plait my hair a million times over. The room is quiet and dim since Mum left. I pour myself a glass of water and sip it slowly. My thoughts are all cloudy, like a bomb site after the blast. I feel like a forensics expert, picking through the different strands, trying to work out the full picture. There's a faint knocking at the door and I look up. “Hello? Come in!” “Hi, Lexi?” An unfamiliar girl of about fifteen has edged into the room. She's tall and skinny, with jeans falling off her midriff, a pierced navel, spiky blue-?streaked hair, and about six coats of mascara. I have no idea who she is. As she sees me, she grimaces.