Remember Me?
Page 39

I sip my drink and smile a lot, and then about ten more guests arrive at once and I have no idea who anyone is except Rosalie, who dashed up, introduced her husband, Clive (who doesn't seem like a monster at all, just a mildmannered guy in a suit), and then rushed off again. After a bit my ears are ringing and I feel dizzy. Gianna is serving drinks and her niece is handing out canapes and everything seems under control. So I murmur an excuse to the balding guy who's telling me about Mick Jagger's electric guitar, which he's just bought at a charity auction, and slip away and head out to the terrace. I take a few lungfuls of clean air, my head still spinning. A blue-?gray dusk is falling and the streetlamps are just coming on. As I gaze out over London I don't feel real. I feel like someone playing the part of a girl in a dress standing on a posh balcony with a glass of champagne in her hand. “Darling! There you are!” I turn to see Eric pushing the sliding doors open. “Hi!” I call back. “I was just getting some air.” “Let me introduce Jon, my architect.” Eric ushers out a dark-?haired man in black jeans and a charcoal linen jacket. 160 “Hello,” I begin automatically, then stop. “Hey, we know each other!” I exclaim, relieved to have found a familiar face. “Don't we? You're the guy from the car.” An odd expression flickers across the man's face. Almost like disappointment. Then he nods. “That's right. I'm the guy from the car.” “Jon's our creative spirit,” says Eric, slapping him on the back. “He's the talent. I may have the financial sense, but this is the man who brings the world”he pauses momentously“ loft-?style living.” As he says the words, he does the parallel-?hands-?sweeping-?bricks gesture again.
“Great!” I try to sound enthused. I know it's Eric's business and everything, but that phrase “loft-?style living” is really starting to bug me. “Thanks again for the other day.” I smile politely at Jon. “You really saved my life!” I turn to Eric. “I didn't tell you, darling, but I tried to drive the car and nearly hit the wall. Jon helped me.”
“It was my pleasure.” Jon takes a sip of his drink. “So, you still don't remember anything?” “Nothing.” I shake my head. “That must be strange for you.”
“It i s . . . but I'm getting used to it. And Eric's really helpful. He's made me this book to help me remember. It's like a marriage manual. With sections and everything.” “A manual?” Jon echoes, and his nose starts twitching. “You're serious. A manual.”
“Yes, a manual.” I stare at him suspiciously. “Ah, there's Graham.” Eric isn't even listening to the conversation. “I must just have a word. Excuse me.” He heads off inside, leaving me and Jon the architect guy alone. I don't know what it is about this man. I mean, I don't even know him, but he rankles me.
“What's wrong with a marriage manual?” I hear myself demanding. “No. Nothing. Nothing at all.” He shakes his head gravely. “It's a very sensible move. Because otherwise you might not know when you were supposed to kiss each other.” “Exactly! Eric's put in a whole section on” I break off. Jon's mouth is crinkled up as if he's trying not to laugh. Does he think this is funny? “The manual covers all sorts of areas,” I say rather stonily. “And it's been very helpful for both of us. You know, it's difficult for Eric, too, having a wife who doesn't remember the first thing about him! Or perhaps you hadn't appreciated that?” There's silence. All the humor has melted out of his face. “Believe me,” he says at last. “I appreciate it.” He drains his glass, then stares into the bottom of it for a few moments. He looks up and seems about to speakthen, as the sliding doors open, changes his mind.
“Lexi!” Rosalie comes tottering over toward us, glass in hand. “Wonderfulcanapes!” “Oh, well... thanks!” I say, embarrassed to be receiving praise for something I had absolutely nothing to do with. “I haven't had any yet. Do they taste good?”
Rosalie appears perplexed. “I've no idea, sweetie. But they look marvelous. And Eric says dinner's about to begin.” “Oh God,” I say guiltily. “I've just left him to it. We'd better go in. D'you two know each other?” I add as we start walking in.
“Sure,” says Jon. “Jon and I are old friends,” Rosalie says sweetly. “Aren't we, darling?” “See you.” Jon nods, picks up his pace, and disappears through the glass doors. 162 “Awful man.” Rosalie makes a face at his departing back. “Awful?” I echo in surprise. “Eric seems to like him.” “Oh, Eric likes him,” she says disdainfully. “And Clive thinks he's the bees' knees. He's visionary and wins prizes, blah blah blah...” She tosses her head. “But he's the rudest man I ever met. When I asked him to donate to my charity last year, he refused. In fact, he laughed.” “He laughed?” I say, shocked. “That's terrible! What was the charity?” “It was called An Apple a Day,” she says proudly. “I thought the whole idea up myself. The idea was, once a year we'd give an apple to every schoolchild in an inner-?city borough. Full of lovely nutrients! Isn't that so simple, it's brilliant?” “Er...great idea,” I say cautiously. “So, did it work out?” “Well, it started off well,” Rosalie says rather crossly. “We gave out thousands of apples and we had special T-?shirts and a van with an apple logo to drive about in. It was such fun! Until the council started sending us stupid letters about fruit being abandoned in the street and causing vermin.”