Remember Me?

I clap my hand over my mouth. “He didn’t say that!”

“He did.” Amy gives a little snort of laughter. “Mum walked out of the room.”

“You only get one life, loves. Don’t waste it.” He looks at the camera with glittering green eyes, and I suddenly remember him when I was much younger, picking me up from school in a sports car. I was pointing him out to everyone: That man there is my daddy! All the kids were gasping at the car and all the mothers were shooting surreptitious glances at him, in his smart linen jacket and Spanish tan.

“I know I’ve fucked up here and there,” Dad’s saying. “I know I haven’t been the best family man. But hand on heart, I did my best. Cheers, m’dears. See you on the other side.” He raises his glass to the camera and drinks. Then the screen goes blank.

The DVD clicks off, but neither Amy nor I moves. As I gaze at the blank screen I feel even more marooned than before. My dad’s dead. He’s been dead three years. I can never talk to him again. I can never give him a birthday present. I can never ask him for advice. Not that you’d ask Dad’s advice on anything except where to buy sexy underwear for a mistress-but still. I glance over at Amy, who meets my gaze with a tiny shrug.

“That was a really nice message,” I say, determined not to be sentimental or cry or anything. “Dad came good.”

“Yeah.” Amy nods. “He did.”

The frostiness between us seems to have melted. Amy reaches in her bag for a tiny makeup case with Babe embossed on the lid in diamante. She takes out a lip pencil and expertly outlines her lips, peering into a tiny mirror. I’ve never seen her put on makeup before, except as a dressing-up game.

Amy’s not a child anymore, I think as I watch her. She’s on the brink of being an adult. I know things haven’t gone that well between us today-but maybe in the past she’s been my friend.

My confidante, even.

“Hey, Amy,” I say in a low, cautious voice. “Did we talk much before the accident? The two of us, I mean. About…stuff.” I glance toward the kitchen to make sure Mum can’t hear.

“A bit.” She shrugs. “What stuff?”

“I was just wondering.” I keep my voice natural. “Out of interest, did I ever mention anyone called…Jon?”

“Jon?” Amy pauses, lipstick in hand. “You mean the one you had sex with?”

“What?” My voice shoots out like a rocket. “Are you sure?”

Oh my God. It’s true.

“Yeah.” Amy seems surprised by my reaction. “You told me at New Year’s Eve. You were quite pissed.”

“What else did I tell you?” My heart is thumping wildly. “Tell me everything you can remember.”

“You told me everything!” Her eyes light up. “All the gory details. It was your first-ever time, and he lost the condom, and you were freezing to death on the school field…”

“School field?” I stare at Amy, my mind trying to make sense of this. “Do you mean…are you talking about James?”

“Oh yeah!” She clicks her tongue in realization. “That’s who I meant. James. The guy in the band when you were at school. Why, who are you talking about?” She finishes her lipstick and regards me with fresh interest. “Who’s Jon?”

“He’s no one,” I say hastily. “Just…some guy. He’s nothing.”

You see-there’s no evidence. If I was really having an affair I would have left a trail. A note, or a photo, or a diary entry. Or Amy would know, or something…

And the point is, I’m happily married to Eric. That’s the point.

It’s much later that evening. Mum and Amy left a while ago, after we finally managed to cajole one whippet off the balcony and another out of Eric’s Jacuzzi, where it was having a fight with one of the towels. And now I’m in the car with Eric, zipping along the Embankment. He’s having a meeting with Ava, his interior designer, and suggested I come along and see the show flat of his latest development, Blue 42.

All Eric’s buildings are called “Blue” and then some number. It’s the company’s brand. It turns out that having a brand is a crucial part of selling loft-style living, as is having the right music on when you walk in, and the right cutlery on the show table. Apparently Ava is a genius at choosing the right cutlery.

I learned about Ava from the marriage manual. She’s forty-eight, divorced, worked in LA for twenty years, has written a series of books called things like Tassel and Fork, and designs all the show homes for Eric’s company.

“Hey, Eric,” I say as we drive along. “I was looking at my bank statement today. I seem to pay all this regular money to something called Unito. I rang up the bank, and they said it’s an offshore account.”

“Uh-huh.” Eric nods as though he’s not remotely interested. I wait for him to say something else, but he turns on the radio.

“Don’t you know anything about it?” I say over the sound of the news.

“No.” He shrugs. “Not a bad idea, though, putting some of your money offshore.”

“Right.” I’m dissatisfied by his response; I almost feel like I want to pick a fight about it. But I don’t know why.

“I just need to get some petrol.” Eric swings off the road into a BP station. “I won’t be a moment…”

“Hey,” I say as he opens the door. “Could you get me some chips in the shop? Salt ’n’ vinegar if they have them.”

“Chips?” He turns back and stares at me as though I’ve asked for some heroin.

“Yes, chips.”

“Darling.” Eric looks perplexed. “You don’t eat chips. It was all in the manual. Our nutritionist has recommended a low-carb, high-protein diet.”

“Well…I know. But everyone’s allowed a little treat once in a while, aren’t they? And I really feel like some chips.”

For a moment Eric seems lost for an answer.

“The doctors warned me you might be irrational, and make odd, out-of-character gestures,” he says, almost to himself.

“It’s not irrational to eat a packet of chips!” I protest. “They’re not poison.”

“Sweetheart…I’m thinking of you.” Eric adopts a loving tone. “I know how hard you’ve worked at reducing those two dress sizes. We invested a lot in your personal trainer. If you want to throw it away on a bag of chips, then that’s your choice. Do you still want the chips?”

“Yes,” I say, a bit more defiantly than I meant to.

I see a flash of a

“No problem.” He shuts the car door with a heavy clunk. A few minutes later I see him walking briskly back from the garage, holding a packet of chips.

“Here you are.” He drops them on my lap and starts the engine.

“Thank you!” I smile gratefully, but I’m not sure he notices. As he drives off, I try to open the packet-but my left hand is still clumsy after the accident and I can’t get a proper grip on the plastic. At last I put the packet between my teeth, yank as hard as I can with my right hand…and the entire packet explodes.

Shit. There are chips everywhere. All over the seats, all over the gear stick, and all over Eric.

“Jesus!” He shakes his head in a

“Sorry,” I gasp, brushing at his jacket. “I’m really, really sorry…”

The reek of salt and vinegar has filled the car. Mmm. That’s a good smell.

“I’ll have to have the car valeted.” Eric’s nose is wrinkled in distaste. “And my jacket will be covered in grease.”

“I’m sorry, Eric,” I say again, humbly, brushing the last crumbs off his shoulder. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.” I sit back, reach for a massive chip that landed on my lap, and put it in my mouth.

“Are you eating that?” Eric sounds like this is the last straw.

“It only landed on my lap,” I protest. “It’s clean!”

We drive on awhile in silence. Surreptitiously I eat a few more chips, trying to crunch them as quietly as possible.

“It’s not your fault,” says Eric, staring ahead at the road. “You had a bump on the head. I can’t expect normality yet.”