Remember Me?
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Chapter 9
Fi is one of the most straightforward people I know. We met at the age of six, when I was the new girl in the school playground. She was already a head taller than me, her dark hair in hunches, her voice booming and confident. She told me my plastic skipping rope was rubbish and loudly listed all its faults. Then, just as I was about to start crying, she offered me hers to play with.
That's Fi. She can upset people with her bluntness, and she knows it. When she's said the wrong thing she rolls her eyes and claps a hand over her mouth. But underneath it all, she's warmhearted and kind. And she's great in meetings. When other people waffle on, she gets right to the point, no bullshit. It was Fi who gave me the idea of applying to Deller Carpets. She'd been working there for two years when Frenshaws, the company I was at before, got taken over by a Spanish company and a bunch of us were laid off. There was an opening in 130 the Flooring department, and Fi suggested I bring my CV in to show Gavin, her boss... and that was it. I had a job. Since working together, Fi and I have become even closer. We have lunch together, we go to the cinema on the weekend, we send text messages to each other while Gavin is trying to give one of his “team bollockings,” as he calls them. I'm close to Carolyn and Debs toobut Fi's the one I ring up first with news; the one I think of when something funny happens. Which is why it's so weird that she hasn't been in touch. I've texted her several more times since I got out of hospital. I've left two messages on voice mail. I've sent a few jokey e-?mails and even written a card thanking her for the flowers. But I haven't heard a word back. Maybe she's just busy, I keep telling myself. Or she's been on some work residential seminar thing, or she's got the flu There's a million good reasons. Anyway, I'm going in to work today, so I'll see her. And everyone. I stare at myself in the huge mirror in my dressing room. 2004-Lexi used to show up at the office in a pair of black trousers from Next, a shirt from the bargain bin at New Look, and a pair of loafers with chewed-?up heels. Not anymore. I'm in the crispest shirt I've ever worn in my life, all expensive Prada double cuffs. I'm wearing a black suit with a pencil skirt and a nipped-?in waist. My legs are gleaming in Charnos sheer gloss tights. My shoes are patent and spiky. My hair is blow-?dried and twisted up into my signature chignon. I look like an illustration from a child's picture book. Boss Lady. Eric comes into the room and I do a twirl. “How do I look?”
“Great!” He nods, but doesn't seem surprised at my appearance. I suppose to him this kind of outfit is normal. Whereas I can't imagine this ever feeling like anything other than dressing up. “All set?” “I guess!” I pick up my baga black Bottega Veneta tote I found in the cupboard. I tried asking Eric about Fi yesterdaybut he barely seemed to know who she was, even though she's my oldest friend and was at our wedding and everything. The only friend of mine he seems to know about is Rosalie, which is because she's married to Clive. Anyway, it's fine. I'll see Fi today, and there'll be some explanation, and everything will fall back into place. I expect we'll all go out for a drink at lunchtime and have a good old catch-?up. “Now, don't forget this!” Eric is opening a cupboard in the corner. He retrieves a sleek black briefcase and hands it to me. “I gave it to you when we were married.” “Wow, this is beautiful!” It's made of buttery-?soft calfskin and on the front are discreetly embossed initials: L.G. “I know you still use your maiden name for work,” says Eric, “but I wanted you to take a little piece of me to the office with you every day.“ He is so romantic. He is so perfect. ”I must go. The car will be here to pick you up in five minutes. Have a good time.“ He kisses me and heads out. As I hear the front door close I pick up my briefcase and look at it, wondering what to put in it. I've never used a briefcase beforeI always just shoved everything into my bag. Eventually I take a packet of tissues and some Polos out of my bag and put them into the briefcase. Then I add a 132 pen. I feel like I'm packing for my first day at a new school. As I'm sliding the pen into a silk pocket, my fingers bump against something thin, like a card, and I pull it out. It's not a card; it's an old photo of me, Fi, Debs, and Carolyn. Before I had my hair done. When my teeth were still all snaggly. We're in a bar, all dressed up in glittery tops with rosy cheeks and party-?popper streamers over our heads. Fi has her arm clenched around my neck and I have a cocktail umbrella in my teeth, and we're all in hysterics. I can't help grinning at the sight. I remember that evening really well. Debs had chucked her awful banker boyfriend, Mitchell, and we were on a mission to help her forget. Halfway through the evening, when Mitchell called Debs's mobile, Carolyn answered and pretended to be a £1,000 Russian call girl who thought she was being booked. Carolyn took Russian in school, so she was quite convincing, and Mitchell got genuinely rattled, no matter what he claimed later. We were all listening on speakerphone and I thought I'd die of laughter. Still smiling, I slide the photo back into the pocket and snap the briefcase shut. I pick it up and regard myself in the mirror. Boss Lady Goes to Work. ”Hi,“ I say to my reflection, trying to adopt a businesslike tone. ”Hi, there. Lexi Smart, Director of Flooring. Yup, hi. I'm the boss.” Oh God. I don't feel like a boss. Maybe I'll snap back into it when I get there. Deller Carpets is the company everyone remembers from the TV ads back in the eighties. The first one showed a woman lying on some blue swirling patterned carpet in a shop, pretending it was so soft and luxurious she immedi 133 ately had to have sex on it with the nerdy sales assistant. Then there was the follow-?up ad where she married the nerdy assistant and had the whole aisle carpeted in flowery Deller carpet. And then they had twins, who couldn't sleep unless they had blue and pink Deller carpet in their cribs. They were pretty tacky ads, but they did make Deller Carpets a household name. Which is part of its trouble. The company tried to change its name a few years ago, to just Deller. There was a new logo and mission statement and everything. But nobody took any notice of that. You say you work at Deller and people frown and then they say, “You mean Deller Carpets?”
Fi is one of the most straightforward people I know. We met at the age of six, when I was the new girl in the school playground. She was already a head taller than me, her dark hair in hunches, her voice booming and confident. She told me my plastic skipping rope was rubbish and loudly listed all its faults. Then, just as I was about to start crying, she offered me hers to play with.
That's Fi. She can upset people with her bluntness, and she knows it. When she's said the wrong thing she rolls her eyes and claps a hand over her mouth. But underneath it all, she's warmhearted and kind. And she's great in meetings. When other people waffle on, she gets right to the point, no bullshit. It was Fi who gave me the idea of applying to Deller Carpets. She'd been working there for two years when Frenshaws, the company I was at before, got taken over by a Spanish company and a bunch of us were laid off. There was an opening in 130 the Flooring department, and Fi suggested I bring my CV in to show Gavin, her boss... and that was it. I had a job. Since working together, Fi and I have become even closer. We have lunch together, we go to the cinema on the weekend, we send text messages to each other while Gavin is trying to give one of his “team bollockings,” as he calls them. I'm close to Carolyn and Debs toobut Fi's the one I ring up first with news; the one I think of when something funny happens. Which is why it's so weird that she hasn't been in touch. I've texted her several more times since I got out of hospital. I've left two messages on voice mail. I've sent a few jokey e-?mails and even written a card thanking her for the flowers. But I haven't heard a word back. Maybe she's just busy, I keep telling myself. Or she's been on some work residential seminar thing, or she's got the flu There's a million good reasons. Anyway, I'm going in to work today, so I'll see her. And everyone. I stare at myself in the huge mirror in my dressing room. 2004-Lexi used to show up at the office in a pair of black trousers from Next, a shirt from the bargain bin at New Look, and a pair of loafers with chewed-?up heels. Not anymore. I'm in the crispest shirt I've ever worn in my life, all expensive Prada double cuffs. I'm wearing a black suit with a pencil skirt and a nipped-?in waist. My legs are gleaming in Charnos sheer gloss tights. My shoes are patent and spiky. My hair is blow-?dried and twisted up into my signature chignon. I look like an illustration from a child's picture book. Boss Lady. Eric comes into the room and I do a twirl. “How do I look?”
“Great!” He nods, but doesn't seem surprised at my appearance. I suppose to him this kind of outfit is normal. Whereas I can't imagine this ever feeling like anything other than dressing up. “All set?” “I guess!” I pick up my baga black Bottega Veneta tote I found in the cupboard. I tried asking Eric about Fi yesterdaybut he barely seemed to know who she was, even though she's my oldest friend and was at our wedding and everything. The only friend of mine he seems to know about is Rosalie, which is because she's married to Clive. Anyway, it's fine. I'll see Fi today, and there'll be some explanation, and everything will fall back into place. I expect we'll all go out for a drink at lunchtime and have a good old catch-?up. “Now, don't forget this!” Eric is opening a cupboard in the corner. He retrieves a sleek black briefcase and hands it to me. “I gave it to you when we were married.” “Wow, this is beautiful!” It's made of buttery-?soft calfskin and on the front are discreetly embossed initials: L.G. “I know you still use your maiden name for work,” says Eric, “but I wanted you to take a little piece of me to the office with you every day.“ He is so romantic. He is so perfect. ”I must go. The car will be here to pick you up in five minutes. Have a good time.“ He kisses me and heads out. As I hear the front door close I pick up my briefcase and look at it, wondering what to put in it. I've never used a briefcase beforeI always just shoved everything into my bag. Eventually I take a packet of tissues and some Polos out of my bag and put them into the briefcase. Then I add a 132 pen. I feel like I'm packing for my first day at a new school. As I'm sliding the pen into a silk pocket, my fingers bump against something thin, like a card, and I pull it out. It's not a card; it's an old photo of me, Fi, Debs, and Carolyn. Before I had my hair done. When my teeth were still all snaggly. We're in a bar, all dressed up in glittery tops with rosy cheeks and party-?popper streamers over our heads. Fi has her arm clenched around my neck and I have a cocktail umbrella in my teeth, and we're all in hysterics. I can't help grinning at the sight. I remember that evening really well. Debs had chucked her awful banker boyfriend, Mitchell, and we were on a mission to help her forget. Halfway through the evening, when Mitchell called Debs's mobile, Carolyn answered and pretended to be a £1,000 Russian call girl who thought she was being booked. Carolyn took Russian in school, so she was quite convincing, and Mitchell got genuinely rattled, no matter what he claimed later. We were all listening on speakerphone and I thought I'd die of laughter. Still smiling, I slide the photo back into the pocket and snap the briefcase shut. I pick it up and regard myself in the mirror. Boss Lady Goes to Work. ”Hi,“ I say to my reflection, trying to adopt a businesslike tone. ”Hi, there. Lexi Smart, Director of Flooring. Yup, hi. I'm the boss.” Oh God. I don't feel like a boss. Maybe I'll snap back into it when I get there. Deller Carpets is the company everyone remembers from the TV ads back in the eighties. The first one showed a woman lying on some blue swirling patterned carpet in a shop, pretending it was so soft and luxurious she immedi 133 ately had to have sex on it with the nerdy sales assistant. Then there was the follow-?up ad where she married the nerdy assistant and had the whole aisle carpeted in flowery Deller carpet. And then they had twins, who couldn't sleep unless they had blue and pink Deller carpet in their cribs. They were pretty tacky ads, but they did make Deller Carpets a household name. Which is part of its trouble. The company tried to change its name a few years ago, to just Deller. There was a new logo and mission statement and everything. But nobody took any notice of that. You say you work at Deller and people frown and then they say, “You mean Deller Carpets?”
