Remember Me? (33 page)

“I’m not clinging!” I try not to yell. “The old Deller prints are fabulous. It’s a
crime
not to use them.”

“Is this to do with your husband?” Simon says, as though he suddenly understands. “Lexi’s husband is a property developer,” he explains to the others, then turns back to me. “Lexi, with all due respect, you’re not going to save your department by carpeting a couple of show flats.”

One of the men laughs and I feel a knife of fury. Carpeting a couple of show flats? Is that all they think I’m capable of? Once they hear what this deal is, they’ll…they’ll…

I’m drawing myself up, ready to tell them; ready to blow them away. I can feel the bubbling of triumph, mixed with a bit of venom. Maybe Jon’s right, maybe I am a bit of a cobra.

“If you
really
want to know…” I begin, eyes blazing.

And then all of a sudden I change my mind. I halt, mid-sentence, thinking furiously. I can feel myself retreating, fangs going back in.

Biding my time.

“So…you’ve really made your decision?” I say in a different, more resigned voice.

“We made our decision a long time ago,” says Simon. “As you well know.”

“Right.” I sink as though in massive disappointment and chew at one of my nails. Then I perk up as though an idea’s just hit me. “Well, if you’re not interested, maybe I could buy the copyright of the designs? So I can license them as a private venture.”

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Sir David.

“Lexi, please don’t waste your time and money,” says Simon. “You have a position here. You have prospects. There’s no need for this kind of gesture.”

“I want to,” I say stubbornly. “I really believe in Deller Carpets. But I need it soon, for my deal.”

I can see the directors exchanging glances.

“She had a bump to the head in a car crash,” Simon murmurs to the guy I don’t recognize. “She hasn’t been right since. You have to feel sorry for her, really.”

“Let’s just sort it out.” Sir David Allbright waves an impatient hand.

“I agree.” Simon heads to his desk, lifts his phone, and punches in a number. “Ken? Simon Johnson here. One of our employees will be coming to see you about the copyright of some old Deller Carpets design. We’re closing down the department, as you know, but she’s got some idea of licensing it.” He listens for a moment. “Yes, I know. No, she’s not a company, just a single operator. Work out a nominal fee and the paperwork, could you? Thanks, Ken.”

He puts the phone down, then scribbles a name and number on a piece of paper.

“Ken Allison. Our company lawyer. Call him to make an appointment.”

“Thanks.” I nod and pocket the paper.

“And Lexi.” Simon pauses. “I know we talked about a three-month leave. But I think that by mutual agreement your employment here should be terminated.”

“Fine.” I nod. “I…understand. Good-bye. And thanks.”

I turn on my heel and walk out. As I open the door I can hear Simon saying, “It’s a
terrific
shame. That girl had such potential…”

Somehow I get out of the room without skipping.

Fi is waiting for me as I step out of the lift at the third floor, and raises her eyebrows. “Well?”

“Didn’t work,” I murmur as we head to the main Flooring office. “But it’s not all over.”

“There she is.” Byron heads out of his office as I pass by. “The miracle recovery girl.”

“Shut up,” I say over my shoulder.

“So, are we really supposed to believe that you’ve recovered your memory?” His sarcastic drawl follows me. “You’re really going to snap back into it?”

I turn and regard him with a blank, perplexed gaze.

“Who’s he?” I say at last to Fi, who snorts with laughter.

“Very funny,” snaps Byron, whose cheeks have colored. “But if you think—”

“Oh, leave it out, Byron!” I say wearily. “You can
have
my fucking job.” I’ve arrived at the door to the main office, and clap my hands to get everyone’s attention.

“Hi,” I say, as everyone looks up. “I just wanted to let you know, I’m not cured. I haven’t got my memory back, that was a lie. I tried to pull off a massive bluff, to try to save this department. But…I failed. I’m really sorry.”

As everyone watches, agog, I take a few steps into the office, looking around at the desks, the wall charts, the computers. They’ll all be pulled down and disposed of. Sold, or chucked into skips. This whole little world will be over.

“I did everything I could, but…” I exhale sharply. “Anyway. The other news is, I’ve been fired. So Byron, over to you.” I register the jolt of shock on Byron’s face and can’t help a half-smile. “And to all of you who hated me or thought I was a total hard-as-nails bitch…” I swivel around, taking in all the silent faces. “I’m sorry. I know I didn’t get it right. But I did my best. Cheers, and good luck, everyone.” I lift a hand.

“Thanks, Lexi,” says Melanie awkwardly. “Thanks for trying, anyway.”

“Yeah…thanks,” chimes in Clare, whose eyes have been like saucers through my speech.

To my astonishment someone starts clapping. And suddenly the whole room is applauding.

“Stop it.” My eyes start stinging and I blink hard. “You idiots. I didn’t do anything. I
failed.
”

I glance at Fi and she’s clapping hardest of all.

“Anyway.” I try to keep my composure. “As I say, I’ve been fired, so I’ll be going to the pub immediately to get pissed.” There’s a laugh around the room. “I know it’s only eleven o’clock…but anyone care to join me?”

By three o’clock, my bar bill is over three hundred quid. Most of the Flooring employees have drifted back to the office, including a fractious Byron, who has been in and out of the pub, demanding that everyone return, for the last four hours.

It was one of the best parties I’ve ever been to. When I produced my platinum AmEx, the pub people whacked up the music for us and provided hot nibbles, and Fi gave a speech. Amy did a karaoke version of “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” then got chucked out by the bar staff, who suddenly realized she was underage. (I told her to go back to the office and I’d see her there, but I think she’s gone to TopShop.) And then two girls I barely know did a fantastic sketch of Simon Johnson and Sir David Allbright meeting on a blind date. Which apparently they did at Christmas, only of course I don’t remember it.

Everyone had a great time; in fact, the only one who didn’t get totally pissed was me. I couldn’t, because I have a meeting with Ken Allison at four-thirty.

“So.” Fi lifts her drink. “To us.” She clinks glasses with me, Debs, and Carolyn. It’s just the four of us sitting around a table now. Like the old days.

“To being unemployed,” Debs says morosely, picking a bit of party popper out of her hair. “Not that we blame you, Lexi,” she adds hastily.

I take a swig of wine, then lean forward. “Okay, you guys. I have something to tell you. But you can’t let on to anyone.”

“What?” Carolyn is bright-eyed. “Are you pregnant?”

“No, you dope!” I lower my voice. “I’ve done a deal. That’s what I was trying to tell Simon Johnson about. This company wants to use one of our old retro carpet designs. Like a special, high-profile limited edition. They’ll use the Deller name, we’ll get huge PR…it’ll be amazing! The details are all sorted out, I just need to finalize the contract.”

“That’s great, Lexi,” says Debs, looking uncertain. “But how can you do it now you’re fired?”

“The directors are letting me license the old designs as an independent operator. For a song! They’re so
shortsighted.
” I pick up a samosa—then put it down again, too excited to eat. “I mean, this could be just the start! There’s so much archive material. If it grows, we could expand, employ some more of the old team…turn ourselves into a company…”

“I can’t believe they weren’t interested.” Fi shakes her head incredulously.

“They’ve totally written off carpet and flooring. All they care about is bloody home entertainment systems. But that’s good! It means they’re going to let me license all the designs for practically nothing. Then all the profits will come to me. And…whoever works with me.”

I look from face to face, waiting for the message to hit home.

“Us?”
says Debs, her face suddenly glowing. “You want us to work with you?”

“If you’re interested,” I say a little awkwardly. “I mean, think about it first, it’s just an idea.”

“I’m in,” Fi says firmly. She opens a packet of chips and crunches a handful into her mouth. “But, Lexi, I still don’t understand what happened up there. Didn’t they get excited when you told them who the deal was with? Are they
crazy
?”

“They didn’t even ask who it was with.” I shrug. “They assumed it was one of Eric’s projects. ‘You’re not going to save your department by carpeting a couple of show flats!’” I imitate Simon Johnson’s patronizing voice.

“So, who
is
it?” asks Debs. “Who’s the company?”

I glance at Fi—and can’t help a tiny smile as I say, “Porsche.”

Chapter 20

So that’s it. I am the official licenser of Deller Carpets designs. I had a meeting with the lawyer yesterday and another one this morning. Everything’s signed and the bank draft has gone through. Tomorrow I meet with Jeremy Northpool again, and we sign the contract for the Porsche deal.

As I arrive home I’m still powered up by adrenaline. I need to call all the girls, fill them in on developments. Then I need to think where we’re going to base ourselves. We need an office, somewhere cheap and convenient. Maybe Balham.

We could have fairy lights in the office, I think in sudden glee. Why not? It’s our office. And a proper makeup mirror in the loos. And music playing while we work.

There are voices coming from Eric’s office as I walk into the flat. Eric must have arrived home from Manchester while I was with the lawyer. I peep around the open door to see a roomful of his senior staff grouped around the coffee table, with an empty cafetiere at the center. Clive is there, and the head of HR, Penny, and some guy called Steven whose role I’ve never been able to work out.

“Hi!” I smile at Eric. “Good trip?”

“Excellent.” He nods, then gives a puzzled frown. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I’ll…explain that later.” I look around the faces, feeling generous after my successful morning. “Can I bring you all some more coffee?”

“Gianna will do it, darling,” says Eric reprovingly.

“It’s okay! I’m not busy.”

I head into the kitchen, humming as I make a fresh pot, sending quick texts to Fi, Carolyn, and Debs to let them know all went well. We’ll have a meeting this evening, and talk everything through. I’ve already had an e-mail from Carolyn this morning, saying how excited she is, and listing a load of new ideas and possible contacts for more exclusive deals. And Debs is gagging to take on PR.

We’re going to make a good team, I know we are.

I head back to Eric’s office with a full pot and discreetly start pouring it out while listening to the discussion. Penny is holding a list of personnel names, with figures scribbled in pencil at the side.

“I’m afraid I don’t think Sally Hedge deserves a raise
or
a bonus,” she’s saying as I pour her a cup of coffee. “She’s very average. Thanks, Lexi.”

“I like Sally,” I say. “You know her mum’s been ill recently?”

“Really?” Penny makes a face as though to say “So what?”

“Lexi made friends with all the secretaries and junior staff when she came into the office.” Eric gives a little laugh. “She’s very good at that kind of thing.”

“It’s not a ‘kind of thing’!” I retort, a little rankled by his tone. “I just got talking to her. She’s really interesting. You know, she nearly made the British gymnastics squad for the Commonwealth games? She can do a front somersault on the beam.”

Everyone looks at me blankly for a second.

“Anyway.” Penny turns back to her paper. “We’re agreed, no bonus or raise this time, but perhaps a review after Christmas. Moving on, Damian Greenslade…”

I know this isn’t my business. But I can’t bear it. I can just imagine Sally waiting for the news of the bonuses. I can just imagine her thud of disappointment.

“Excuse me!” I dump the coffeepot on a handy shelf and Penny stops talking in surprise. “I’m sorry, can I just say something? The thing is…a bonus may not be much to the company. It’s peanuts to the bottom line. But it’s huge to Sally Hedge. Do
any
of you remember what it was like to be young and poor and struggling?” I look around at Eric’s managers, all dressed in smart, grown-up clothes with their smart, grown-up accessories. “Because I do.”

“Lexi, we know you’re a tenderhearted soul.” Steven rolls his eyes. “But what are you saying—we 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.”

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? 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.”

“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.”

It feels weird, packing up this room. This isn’t my life—it’s another girl’s life. I’m stuffing the absolute minimum into a Gucci suitcase that I found in a cupboard—some 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 state-of-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 hesitates—then 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.