Remember Me?

Remember Me? Page 93

“Lexi, we know you're a tenderhearted soul.” Steven rolls his eyes. “But what are you sayingwe should all be poor?” “I'm not saying you have to be poor!” I try to control my impatience. “I'm saying you have to remember what it's like, being at the bottom of the ladder. It's a lifetime away for all of you.” I sweep my hand around the room. “But that was me. And it feels like it was about six weeks ago. I was that girl. No money, hoping for a bonus, wondering if I'd ever get a break, standing in the pouring rain...” Suddenly I realize I'm getting a bit carried away. “Anyway, I can tell you that if you give it to her, she really will appreciate it.” 369 There's a pause. I glance at Eric, and he has a fixed, livid smile on his face. “Right.” Penny raises her eyebrows. “Well... we'll come back to Sally Hedge.” She marks her paper. “Thanks. I didn't mean to interrupt. Carry on.” I pick up the coffeepot and try to creep out of the room silently, only stumbling briefly on a Mulberry briefcase that someone's left on the floor. Maybe they'll give a bonus to Sally Hedge and maybe they won't. But at least I said my bit. I pick up the paper and am just flicking through to see if there's an “Offices to Rent” section, when Eric appears out of his office. “Oh hi,” I say. “Having a break?” “Lexi. A word.” He walks me swiftly to my bedroom and closes the door, that horrible smile still on his face. “Please don't ever interfere with my business again.” Oh God, I thought he seemed pissed off. “Eric, I'm sorry I interrupted the meeting,” I say quickly. “But I was only expressing an opinion.” “I don't need any opinions.” “But isn't it good to talk about things?” I say in astonishment.

“Even if we disagree? I mean, that's what keeps relationships alive! Talking!” “I don't agree.” His words are coming out like bullet fire. He's still got that smile on, like a mask, as if he has to hide how angry he really is. And all of a sudden, it's like a filter falls off my eyes. I don't know this man. I don't love him. I don't know what I'm doing here.

“Eric, I'm sorry. I . . . won't do it again.” I walk over to the window, trying to gather my thoughts. Then I turn around. “Can I ask you a question, since we're talking? 370 What do you really, genuinely think? About us? Our marriage? Everything?“ ”I think we're making good progress.“ Eric nods, his mood instantly better, as though we've moved on to a new subject on the agenda. ”We're becoming more intimate... you've started having flashbacks... you've learned everything from the marriage manual... I think it's all coming together. All good news.“ He sounds so businesslike. Like he might suddenly produce a PowerPoint presentation with a graph going up to show how happy we are. How can he think that, when he's not interested in what I think or any of my ideas or who I really am? ”Eric, I'm sorry.“ I heave a deep sigh and slump down on a suede armless chair. ”But I don't agree. I don't think we are becoming more intimate, not really. And...I have something to confess. I invented the flashback.“ Eric stares at me in shock. ”You invented it? Why?“ Because it was that or the whipped cream mountain. ”I suppose I just... really wanted it to be true,“ I improvise vaguely. ”But the truth is, I've remembered nothing this whole time. You're still just a guy I met a few weeks ago.” Eric sits down heavily on the bed and we lapse into silence. I pick up a black-?and-?white photograph of us at our wedding. We're toasting each other and smiling, and outwardly blissful. But now I look more carefully, I can see the strain in my eyes.

I wonder how long I was happy for. I wonder when it hit me that I'd made a mistake. “Eric, let's face it, it's not working out.” I sigh as I replace the picture. “Not for either of us. I'm with a man I don't know. You're with a woman who remembers nothing.”

“That doesn't matter. We're building a new marriage. Starting again!” He's sweeping his hands around for emphasis. Any minute he's going to say we're enjoying “marriage-?style living.” “We're not.” I shake my head. “And I can't do it anymore.” “You can, darling.” Eric switches instantly into “concerned husband of deranged invalid” mode. “Maybe you've been pushing yourself too hard. Take a rest.” “I don't need a rest! I need to be myself!” I get to my feet, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “Eric, I'm not the girl you think you married. I don't know who I've been these last three years, but it hasn't been me. I like color. I like mess. I like...” I flail my arms around. “I like pasta! All this time, I wasn't hungry for success, I was hungry.” Eric looks totally bemused. “Darling,” he says carefully. “If it means that much to you, we can buy some pasta. I'll tell Gianna to order some” “It's not about the pasta!” I cry out. “Eric, you don't understand. I've been acting for the last few weeks. And I can't do it anymore.” I gesture at the massive screen. “I'm not into all this high-?tech stuff. I don't feel relaxed. To be honest, I'd rather live in a house.” “A house?” Eric looks as horrified as if I've said I want to live with a pack of wolves and have their babies. “This place is fantastic, Eric.” I suddenly feel bad for slagging off his creation. “It's stunning and I really admire it. But it's not me. I'm just not made for... loft-?style living.” Aargh. I can't believe it. I actually did the sweeping, parallel-?hands gesture. “I'm... shocked, Lexi.” Eric looks truly pole-?axed. “I had no idea you felt that way.” 372 “But the most important thing is, you don't love me.” I meet his eye straight on. “Not me.” “I do love you!” Eric seems to regain his confidence. “You know I do. You're talented and you're beautiful...” “You don't think I'm beautiful.” “Yes, I do!” He seems affronted. “Of course I do!” “You think my collagen job is beautiful,” I correct him gently, shaking my head. “And my tooth veneers and my hair dye.” Eric is silenced. I can see him eyeing me up incredulously. I probably told him it was all natural. “I think I should move out.” I take a few steps away, focusing on the carpet. “I'm sorry, but it's just... too much of a strain.” “I guess we rushed things,” Eric says at last. “Maybe a break would be a good idea. After a week or two you'll see things differently, and we can think again.” “Yeah.” I nod. “Maybe.” V It feels weird, packing up this room. This isn't my lifeit's another girl's life. I'm stuffing the absolute minimum into a Gucci suitcase that I found in a cupboardsome underwear, jeans, a few pairs of shoes. I don't feel I have any right to all the beige designer suits. Nor, to be honest, do I want them. As I'm finishing, I sense a presence in the room and look up to see Eric in the doorway. “I have to go out,” he says stiffly. “Will you be all right?” “Yes, I'll be fine.” I nod. “I'll take a cab to Fi's house. She's coming home early from work.” I zip up the suitcase, wincing at its sound of finality. “Eric... thanks for having me. I know this has been hard for you too.” “I care for you deeply. You must know that.” There's genuine pain in Eric's eyes, and I feel a stab of guilt. But you can't stay with people because of guilt. Or because they can drive a speedboat. I stand up, rubbing my stiff back, and survey the massive, immaculate room. The designer stateof- the-?art bed. The built-?in screen. The dressing-?room for all those millions of clothes. I'm sure I'll never live in such a luxurious place again in my life. I must be crazy. As my gaze sweeps over the bed, something crosses my mind. “Eric, do I squeak in my sleep?” I ask casually. “Have you ever noticed?” “Yes, you do.” He nods. “We went to a doctor about it. He suggested you douche your nasal passages with salt water before retiring, and prescribed a nose clip.” He heads to a drawer, brings out a box, and produces a gross-?looking plastic contraption. “Do you want to take it with you?” “No,” I manage after a pause. “Thanks anyway.” Okay. I'm making the right decision. Eric puts the nose clip down. He hesitatesthen comes over and gives me an awkward hug. I feel like we're obeying instructions from the marriage manual: Separation (parting embrace). “Bye, Eric,” I say against his expensive scented shirt. “I'll see you.” Ridiculously, I feel near tears. Not because of Eric... but because it's over. My whole, amazing, perfect dream life. At last, he pulls away. “Bye, Lexi.” He strides out of the room and a moment later I know he's gone. An hour later, I really have, finished packing. In the end, I couldn't resist stuffing another suitcase full of La Perla and Chanel makeup and body products. And a third full of 374 coats. I mean, who else will want them? Not Eric. And I've kept my Louis Vuitton bag, for old times' sake. Saying good-?bye to Gianna was pretty hard. I gave her a huge good-?bye hug, and she muttered something in Italian while she patted my head. I think she kind of understood. And now it's just me. I drag my cases to the living room, then glance at my watch. There's still a few minutes till the taxi's due. I feel like I'm checking out of a posh boutiquestyle hotel. It's been a great place to stay, and the facilities were amazing. But it was never home. Even so, I can't help a massive pang as I step out onto the huge terrace for the very last time, shading my eyes against the afternoon sun. I can remember arriving here and thinking I'd landed in heaven. It seemed like a palace. Eric seemed like a Greek god. I can still conjure up that amazing, lottery winner's euphoria.