Remember Me?

“Great! Er…thanks.” I stand aside as Gia

“Watching your TV show, are you?” she says, glancing past me at the huge screen.

“Oh. Er…I was. Just to remind myself.” I hastily turn it off. Meanwhile Gia

I twist my fingers awkwardly. How can I just stand here, watching another woman clean my house? Should I offer to help?

“What would you like me to cook for di

“Oh,” I say, looking up in horror. “Nothing! Really!”

I know Eric and I are all rich and everything, but I can’t ask someone else to cook my supper. It’s obscene.

“Nothing?” She pauses. “Are you going out?”

“No! I just thought…maybe I’d do the cooking myself tonight.”

“Oh, I see,” she says. “Well, it’s up to you.” Her face set, she picks up a cushion and bangs it out with more vigor. “I hope you enjoyed the soup last night,” she adds, without looking at me.

“It was delicious!” I say hastily. “Thanks! Lovely…flavors.”

“Good,” she says in a stiff voice. “I do my best.”

Oh God. She isn’t offended, is she?

“Let me know what you’d like me to buy for you to cook,” she continues, slapping the cushion down. “If you’re after something new, or different…”

Shit. She is offended.

“Or…er…well.” My voice is scratchy with nerves. “Actually, on second thought…maybe you could make a little something. But I mean, don’t make any effort. Just a sandwich would be fine.”

“A sandwich?” She raises her head incredulously. “For your di

“Or…whatever you like! Whatever you enjoy cooking!” Even as I say the words I know how stupid this sounds. I back away, pick up a property magazine that’s lying on a side table, and open it at a piece about fountains.

How am I ever going to get used to all this? How did I turn into someone with a housekeeper, for God’s sake?

“Aiee! The sofa has been damaged!” Gia

The blood rushes to my head. “That…that was me.” I stammer. “I did it.”

“You?”

“It was a mistake,” I gabble. “I didn’t mean to. I broke this glass leopard and…” I’m breathing hard. “I’ll order another sofa cover, I promise. But please don’t tell Eric. He doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t know?” Gia

“I put the cushion over the rip.” I swallow. “To hide it.”

Gia

“I’ll sew it. Little tiny stitches. He’ll never know.”

“Really?” I feel a wash of relief. “Oh, thank God. That would be wonderful. I’d be so grateful.”

Gia

“What?” I give an uncertain laugh. “I don’t think so…” The door buzzer goes off. “Oh, I’d better get this.” I hurry to the front door and lift the answer phone. “Hello?”

“Hello?” comes a guttural voice. “Car delivery for Gardiner.”

My new car is parked in a place at the front of the building, which according to the porter is my own private spot. It’s a silver Mercedes, which I can tell from the badge-thing on the front. And it’s a convertible. Apart from that, I couldn’t tell you much about it-except I’m guessing it cost a fortune.

“Sign here…and here…” The deliveryman is holding out a clipboard.

“Okay.” I scribble on the paper.

“Here’s your keys…all your paperwork. Cheers, love.” The guy retrieves his pen from my hand and heads out the gates, leaving me alone with the car, a bundle of papers, and a set of shiny car keys. I dangle them in my fingers, feeling a frisson of excitement.

I’ve never been a car person.

But then, I’ve never been this close to a glossy, brand-new Mercedes before. A brand-new Mercedes which is all mine.

Maybe I’ll just check it over inside. With an instinctive gesture I hold out the key fob and press the little button-then jump as the car bleeps and all the lights flash on.

Well, I’ve obviously done that before. I open the door, slide into the driver’s seat, and inhale deeply.

Wow. Now, this is a car. This knocks Loser Dave’s crappy Renault out of the park. It has the most wonderful, intoxicating scent of new leather. The seats are wide and comfortable. The dashboard is gleaming wood veneer. Cautiously I place my hands on the steering wheel. They seem to grip it quite naturally-in fact, they seem to belong there. I really don’t want to take them off.

I sit there for a few moments, watching the entry gates rise and fall as a BMW drives out.

The thing is…I can drive. At some stage I must have passed my test, even if I don’t remember doing it.

And this is such a cool car. It would be a shame not to have a go.

Experimentally I push the key into the slot beside the steering wheel-and it fits! I rotate it forward, like I’ve seen people do, and there’s a kind of roar of protest from the engine. Shit. What did I do? I turn it forward again, more cautiously, and this time there’s no roar, but a few lights pop on around the dashboard.

Now what? I survey the controls hopefully for inspiration, but none comes. I have no idea how to work this thing, is the truth. I have no memory of driving a car in my life.

But the point is…I have done it. It’s like walking in heels-it’s a skill locked away inside me. What I need is to let my body take over. If I can just distract myself enough, then maybe I’ll find myself driving automatically.

I place my hands firmly on the steering wheel. Here we go. Think about other things. La la la. Don’t think about driving. Just let your body do what comes naturally. Maybe I should sing a song-that worked before.

“‘Land of hope and gloree,’” I begin tunelessly, “‘mother of the freeee…’”

Oh my God. It’s working. My hands and feet are moving in synch. I don’t dare look at them; I don’t dare register what they’re doing. All I know is I’ve switched on the engine and pushed down on one of the pedals and there’s a kind of rumbling and…I did it! I switched on the car!

I can hear the engine throbbing, as if it wants to get going. Okay, keep calm. I take a deep breath-but deep inside I’m already a bit panicky. I’m sitting at the controls of a Mercedes and the engine’s ru

Right. Collect yourself, Lexi.

Hand brake. I know what that is. And the gear stick. Cautiously I release both-and at once the car moves forward.

Hastily I press my foot down on one of the pedals, to stop it, and the car bucks with an ominous grinding noise. Shit. That didn’t sound good. I release my foot-and the car creeps forward again. I’m not sure I want it doing that. Trying to stay calm, I press my foot down again, hard. But this time it doesn’t even stop, it just keeps going inexorably forward. I thrust again-and it revs up like a racing car.

“Shit!” I say, almost gibbering in fear. “Okay, just…stop. Stay!” I’m pulling back on the wheel, but it’s making no difference. I don’t know how to control this thing. We’re slowly heading toward an expensive-looking sports car parked opposite and I don’t know how to stop. In desperation I thrust both feet down again, hitting two pedals at once with a shrieking, engine-breaking sound.