“He’s super.” Mum nods absently, still leafing through pictures of dogs. “He does a lot for charity, you know. Or the company does, I should say. But it’s his own company, so it’s all the same.”
“He has his own company?” I frown, confused. “I thought he was a real-estate agent.”
“It’s a company that sells properties, darling. Big loft developments all over London. They sold off a large part of it last year, but he still retains a controlling interest.”
“He made ten million quid,” says Amy, who’s still crouched down by the bag of photos.
“He what?” I stare at her.
“He’s stinking rich.” She looks up. “Oh, come on. Don’t say you hadn’t guessed that?”
“Amy!” says Mum. “Don’t be so vulgar!”
I can’t quite speak. In fact, I’m feeling a bit faint. Ten million quid?
There’s a knock at the door. “Lexi? May I come in?”
Oh my God. It’s him. I hastily check my reflection and spray myself with some Chanel perfume that I found in the Louis Vuitton bag.
“Come in, Eric!” calls Mum.
The door swings open-and there he is, manhandling two shopping bags, another bunch of flowers, and a gift basket full of fruit. He’s wearing a striped shirt and tan trousers, a yellow cashmere sweater, and loafers with tassels.
“Hi, darling.” He puts all his stuff down on the floor, then comes over to the bed and kisses me gently on the cheek. “How are you doing?”
“Much better, thanks.” I smile up at him.
“But she still doesn’t know who you are,” Amy puts in. “You’re just some guy in a yellow sweater.”
Eric doesn’t look remotely fazed. Maybe he’s used to Amy being bolshy.
“Well, we’re going to tackle that today.” He hefts one of the bags, sounding energized. “I’ve brought along photos, DVDs, souvenirs… Let’s reintroduce you to your life. Barbara, why don’t you put on the wedding DVD?” He hands a shiny disc to Mum. “And to get you started, Lexi…our wedding album.” He heaves an expensive-looking calfskin album onto the bed and I feel a twang of disbelief as I see the embossed words.
ALEXIA AND ERIC
JUNE 3, 2005
I open it and my stomach seems to drop a mile. I’m staring at a black-and-white photograph of me as a bride. I’m wearing a long white sheath dress; my hair’s in a sleek knot; and I’m holding a minimalist bouquet of lilies. Nothing pouffy in sight.
Wordlessly I turn to the next page. There’s Eric standing next to me, dressed in black tie. On the following page we’re holding glasses of champagne and smiling at each other. We look so glossy. Like people in a magazine.
This is my wedding. My actual, real live wedding. If I needed proof…this is proof.
From the TV screen suddenly comes the mingled sound of people laughing and chattering. I look up and feel a fresh shock. Up there on the telly, Eric and I are posing in our wedding outfits. We’re standing next to a huge white cake, holding a knife together, laughing at someone off screen. I can’t take my eyes off myself.
“We chose not to record the ceremony,” Eric is explaining. “This is the party afterward.”
“Right.” My voice is a tad husky.
I’ve never been sappy about weddings. But as I watch us cutting the cake, smiling for the cameras, posing again for someone who missed the shot…my nose starts to prickle. This is my wedding day, the so-called happiest day of my life, and I don’t remember a thing about it.
The camera swings around, catching the faces of people I don’t recognize. I spot Mum, in a navy suit, and Amy, wearing a purple strappy dress. We’re in some huge, modern-looking space with glass walls and trendy chairs and floral arrangements everywhere, and people are spilling out onto a wide terrace, champagne glasses in their hands.
“Where’s this place?” I ask.
“Sweetheart…” Eric gives a disconcerted laugh. “This is our home.”
“Our home? But it’s massive! Look at it!”
“It’s the penthouse.” He nods. “It’s a nice size.”
A “nice size”? It’s like a football field. My little Balham flat would probably fit on one of those rugs.
“And who’s that?” I point at a pretty girl in a baby-pink strapless dress who’s whispering in my ear.
“That’s Rosalie. Your best friend.”
My best friend? I’ve never seen this woman before in my life. She’s skinny and tanned, with huge blue eyes, a massive bracelet on her wrist, and sunglasses pushed up on her blond, California-girl hair.
She sent me flowers, I suddenly remember. Darling girl…love, Rosalie.
“Does she work at Deller Carpets?”
“No!” Eric smiles as though I’ve cracked a joke. “This bit is fun.” He gestures toward the screen. The camera is following us as we walk out onto the terrace, and I can just hear myself laughing and saying, “Eric, what are you up to?” Everyone is looking up for some reason. I have no idea why-
And then the camera focuses and I see it. Skywriting. Lexi I will love you forever. On the screen, everyone is gasping and pointing, and I see myself staring up, pointing, shading my eyes, then kissing Eric.
My husband organized surprise skywriting for me on my wedding day and I can’t bloody remember it? I want to weep.
“Now, this is us on holiday in Mauritius last year…” Eric has fast-forwarded the DVD and I stare disbelievingly at the screen. Is that girl walking along the sand me? My hair’s braided and I’m tanned and thin and wearing a red string bikini. I look like the kind of girl I’d normally gaze at with envy.
“And this is us at a charity ball…” Eric’s fast-forwarded and there we are again. I’m wearing a slinky blue evening dress, dancing with Eric in a grand-looking ballroom.
“Eric is a very generous benefactor,” Mum says, but I don’t respond. I’m riveted by a handsome, dark-haired guy standing near the dance floor. Wait a moment. Don’t I…know him from somewhere?
I do. I do. I definitely recognize him. At last!
“Lexi?” Eric has noticed my expression. “Is this jolting your memory?”
“Yes!” I can’t help a joyful smile. “I remember that guy on the left.” I point at the screen. “I’m not sure who he is exactly, but I know him. Really well! He’s warm, and funny, and I think maybe he’s a doctor…or maybe I met him in a casino-”
“Lexi…” Eric gently cuts me off. “That’s George Clooney, the actor. He was a fellow guest at the ball.”
“Oh.” I rub my nose, discomfited. “Oh right.”
George Clooney. Of course it is. I’m a moron. I subside back onto my pillows, dispirited.
When I think of all the hideous, mortifying things I can remember. Having to eat semolina at school when I was seven, and nearly vomiting. Wearing a white swimsuit when I was fifteen and getting out of the pool, and it was transparent and all the boys laughed. I remember that humiliation like it was yesterday.
But I can’t remember walking along a perfect sandy beach on Mauritius. I can’t remember dancing with my husband at some grand ball. Hello, brain? Do you have any priorities?
“I was reading up on amnesia last night,” Amy says from her cross-legged position on the floor. “You know which sense triggers memory the best? Smell. Maybe you should smell Eric.”
“It’s true,” Mum puts in unexpectedly. “Like that chap Proust. One whiff of a fairy cake and everything came flooding back into his mind.”
“Go on,” Amy says encouragingly. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
I glance over at Eric, embarrassed. “Would you mind if I…smelled you, Eric?”
“Not at all! It’s worth a go.” He sits on the bed and freeze-frames the DVD. “Should I lift my arms up, or…”
“Um…I guess so…”
Solemnly Eric lifts his arms. I lean forward gingerly and sniff his armpit. I can smell soap, and aftershave, and a mild, manly kind of smell. But nothing’s rushing back into my brain.
Except visions of George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven.
I may not mention those.