Remember Me?

Remember Me? Page 43

I think I might need a small vodka. In the end I settle for a cup of coffee and two biscuits Gianna gives me from her private stash. God, I've missed 176 biscuits. And bread. And toast. I could die for some toast, all chewy and golden, slathered in butter... Anyway, stop fantasizing about carbs. And stop thinking about the whip. One teeny whip. So what? Mum's coming over to visit at eleven, and I have nothing to do till then. I wander into the sitting room, sit down on the arm of the immaculate sofa, and open a magazine. After two minutes I close it again. I'm too edgy to read. It's as if tiny cracks are appearing in my perfect life. I don't know what to believe. I don't know what to do. I put down my coffee cup and stare at my immaculate nails. I was a normal girl with frizzy hair and snaggle teeth and a crap boyfriend. And a fairly crap job, and friends who I had a laugh with, and a cozy little flat. And now... I still do a double take whenever I catch my reflection in the mirror. I don't see my personality reflected anywhere in this apartment. The TV show...the high heels... my friends refusing to hang out with me... a guy saying he's my secret lover... I just don't know who I've turned into. I don't get what the fuck's happened to me. On impulse I head into the office. There's my desk, all spick-?and-?span with the chair pushed under tidily. I've never owned a desk that looked like that in my life; no wonder I didn't realize it was mine. I sit down and open the first drawer. It's full of letters, tidily clipped together in plastic files. The second is full of bank statements, threaded onto a piece of blue string. Jeez Louise. Since when did I become so anal? I open the last, biggest drawer, expecting to find neatly stacked bottles of Wite-?Out or somethingbut it's empty except for two scraps of paper. I pull the bank statements out of the other drawer and flick through them, my eyes widening as I clock my monthly salary, which is at least three times what I used to earn. Most of my money seems to be going out of my single account into the joint account I hold with Eric, except one big sum every month, going to something called “Unito Ace.” I'll have to find out what that is.

I put the bank statements away and reach into the bottom drawer for the scraps of paper. One is covered in my own handwritingbut so abbreviated I can't make anything out. It's almost in code. The other is torn out of a foolscap pad and has my writing scrawled across it, only three words in pencil. I just wish I stare at it, riveted. What? What did I wish?

As I turn the scrap over in my fingers I try to imagine myself writing those words. I even trythough I know it's pointlessto remember myself writing them. Was it a year ago? Six months? Three weeks? What was I talking about? The buzzer rings, interrupting my thoughts. I fold the scrap of paper carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I bang the empty drawer shut and head out. Mum has brought three of the dogs along with her. Three huge, energetic whippets. To an immaculate apartment full of immaculate things.

“Hi, Mum!” I take her tatty quilted jacket and try to kiss her as two of the dogs slip out of her grasp and bound toward the sofa. “Wow. You brought... dogs!” “The poor things looked so lonely as I was leaving.” She embraces one of them, rubbing her cheek against its face. “Agnes is feeling rather vulnerable at the moment.” “Right,” I say, trying to sound sympathetic. “Poor old Agnes. Could she maybe go in the car?” “Darling, I can't just abandon her!” Mum raises her eyes with a martyred air. “You know, it wasn't easy organizing this trip to London.” Oh for God's sake. I knew she didn't really want to come today. This whole visit arose out of cross-?purposes. All I said on the phone was that I felt a bit weird being surrounded by strangers, and the next thing Mum was getting all defensive and saying of course she was planning to visit.

And we ended up making this arrangement. To my horror I notice a dog putting its paws up on the glass coffee table, while the other is on the sofa grabbing a cushion in its jaws. Jesus. If the sofa's worth ten grand, then that cushion is probably worth about a thousand quid on its own. “Mum... could you possibly get that dog off the sofa?” “Raphael won't do any harm!” says Mum, looking hurt. She lets go of Agnes, who bounces over to join Raphael and whatever the other one is called. There are now three whippets romping joyfully on Eric's sofa. He'd better not turn on the cameras. “Have you got any diet Coke?” Amy has sauntered in behind Mum, hands in her pockets. “In the kitchen, I think,” I say distractedly, holding out my hand. “Here, dogs! Off the sofa!” All three dogs ignore me. “Come here, darlings!” Mum produces some dog biscuits out of her cardigan pockets, and the dogs magically stop chewing the upholstery. One sits at her feet and the other two snuggle up beside her, resting their heads on her faded print skirt. “There,” says Mum. “No harm done.”