Everyone has to work at their marriage in some way or another. I’ll just have to work at the “remembering your husband” part.

“Eric, I really want to come home with you,” I say as sincerely as I can. “I’m sure we have a great, loving marriage. We can work it out.”

“It would be wonderful to have you back.” Eric still looks troubled. “But please don’t feel any sense of obligation-”

“I’m not doing this out of obligation! I’m doing it because…it just feels right.”

“Well, I think it’s a very good idea,” Mum puts in.

“That’s it, then,” I say. “Settled.”

“Obviously you won’t want to…” Eric hesitates awkwardly. “I mean…I’ll take the guest suite.”

“I would appreciate that,” I say, trying to match his formal tone. “Thank you, Eric.”

“Well, if you’re sure about this…” His whole face has brightened. “Let’s do this properly, shall we?” He glances questioningly at my wedding ring, still lying on the cabinet, and I follow his gaze.

“Yes, let’s!” I nod, suddenly excited.

He picks up both rings and self-consciously I hold out my left hand. I watch, transfixed, as Eric slips the rings onto my finger. First the wedding band, then the enormous diamond solitaire. There’s a hush in the room as I gaze down at my beringed hand.

Fuck, that diamond’s huge.

“Are you comfortable, Lexi?” Eric asks. “Does that feel right?”

“It feels…great! Really. Just right.”

A huge smile licks across my face as I turn my hand this way and that. I feel like someone should throw confetti or sing the “Wedding March.” Two nights ago I was being stood up in a crappy club by Loser Dave. And now…I’m married!

Chapter 7

It has to be karma.

I must have been amazingly noble in a previous existence. I must have rescued children from a burning building, or given up my life to help lepers, or invented the wheel or something. It’s the only explanation I can think of for how I’ve landed the dream life.

Here I am, zooming along the Thames Embankment, with my handsome husband, in his open-top Mercedes.

I say zooming. Actually we’re going at about twenty miles an hour. Eric is being all solicitous and saying he knows how hard it must be for me to get back in a car, and if I feel traumatized to tell him straightaway. But really, I’m fine. I don’t remember anything about the crash. It’s like a story I’ve been told that happened to someone else, the kind where you tilt your head politely and say “Oh no, how awful” but you’ve already stopped listening properly.

I keep glancing down at myself in wonder. I’m wearing a pair of cropped jeans, two sizes smaller than I used to wear. And a top by Miu Miu, which is one of those names I only used to know about from magazines. Eric brought me a bag of clothes to choose from, and they were all so posh and designer I hardly dared touch them, let alone put them on.

On the backseat are all the bouquets and presents from my hospital room, including a massive basket of tropical fruit from Deller Carpets. There was a letter attached from someone called Clare, which said she would send me the minutes of the latest board meeting to read at my leisure, and she hoped I was feeling better. And then she signed it “Clare Abrahams, assistant to Lexi Smart.”

Assistant to Lexi Smart. I have my own personal assistant. I’m on the board of directors. Me!

My cuts and bruises are a lot better and the plastic staple has been taken out of my head. My hair is freshly washed and glossy and my teeth are as movie-star perfect as ever. I can’t stop smiling at every shiny surface I pass. In fact, I can’t stop smiling, full stop.

Maybe in a previous life I was Joan of Arc and I got tortured horrifically to death. Or I was that guy in Titanic. Yes. I drowned in a cruel, freezing sea and never got Kate Winslet, and this is my reward. I mean, people don’t just get presented with a perfect life for no good reason. It just doesn’t happen.

“All right, darling?” Eric briefly puts his hand on mine. His curly hair is all ruffled in the wind and his expensive sunglasses are glinting in the sunshine. He looks like the kind of guy the Mercedes PR people would want to be driving their cars.

“Yes!” I beam back. “I’m great!”

I’m Cinderella. No, I’m better than Cinderella, because she only got the prince, didn’t she? I’m Cinderella with fab teeth and a shit-hot job.

Eric signals left. “Well, here we are…” He pulls off the road into a grand pillared entrance, past a porter in a glass box, into a parking space, and then turns off the engine. “Come and see your home.”

You know how some hyped-up things are a total letdown when you actually get to them. Like, you save up for ages to go to an expensive restaurant and the waiters are snooty and the table is too small and the dessert tastes like Mr Whippy.

Well, my new home is approximately the opposite of that. It’s way better than I imagined. As I walk around, I’m awestruck. It’s massive. It’s light. It has views over the river. There’s a vast, L-shaped cream sofa and the coolest black granite cocktail bar. The shower is a whole marble-clad room, big enough for about five people.

“Do you remember any of this?” Eric is watching me intently. “Is it triggering anything?”

“No. But it’s absolutely stunning!”

We must have some cool parties here. I can just see Fi, Carolyn, and Debs perched at the cocktail bar, tequila shooters going, music blaring over the sound system. I pause by the sofa and run my hand along the plushy fabric. It’s so pristine and plumped up, I don’t think I’ll ever dare sit down on it. Maybe I’ll just have to hover. It’ll be great for my bum muscles.

“This is an amazing sofa!” I look up at Eric. “It must have cost a packet.”

He nods. “Ten thousand pounds.”

Shit. I draw my hand back. How can a sofa cost that much? What’s it stuffed with, caviar? I edge away, thanking God I didn’t sit down on it. Memo to self: do not ever drink red wine on / eat pizza on / ever go near the ten-grand posh cream sofa.

“I really love this…er…light fitting.” I gesture to a free-standing undulating piece of metal.

Eric smiles. “That’s a radiator.”

“Oh right,” I say, confused. “I thought that was a radiator.” I point to an old-fashioned iron radiator that has been painted black and fitted halfway up the opposite wall.

“That’s a piece of art.” Eric corrects me. “It’s by Hector James-John. Disintegration Falls.”

I walk over to it, cock my head, and gaze up alongside Eric, with what I hope is an intelligent art-lover’s expression.

Disintegration Falls. Black radiator. Nope, no idea.

“It’s so…structural,” I venture after a pause.

“We were lucky to get this,” Eric says, nodding at the piece. “We tend to invest in a piece of nonrepresentational art about every eight months. The loft can take it. And it’s about the portfolio as much as anything else.” He shrugs as though this is self-explanatory.

“Of course!” I nod. “I would have thought the portfolio…aspect would be…absolutely…” I clear my throat and turn away.

Keep your mouth shut, Lexi. You know fuck-all about modern art or portfolios or basically what it’s like being rich and you’re giving it all away.

I turn away from the radiator-art-thing and focus on a giant screen, which almost fills the opposite wall. There’s a second screen across the room, by the dining table, and I noticed one in the bedroom. Eric clearly likes the telly.

He notices me looking at it. “What would you like?” He picks up a remote control and flicks it at the screen. “Try this.” The next minute I’m looking at a massive blazing, crackling fire.

“Wow!” I stare at it in surprise.

“Or this.” The picture changes to brightly colored tropical fish weaving through fronds of seaweed. “It’s the latest in home screen system technology,” he says proudly. “It’s art, it’s entertainment, it’s communication. You can e-mail on these things, you can listen to music, read books…I have a thousand works of literature stored on the system. You can even have a virtual pet.”