Remember Me?

I’m ru

And underneath, in faint black Biro: “Don’t worry, I spat in her coffee.”

There’s only one way to go. And that’s to get really, really, really drunk. An hour later and I’m slumped at the bar at the Bathgate Hotel, around the corner from work, finishing my third mojito. Already the world has turned a little blurry-but that’s fine by me. As far as I’m concerned, the blurrier the better. Just as long as I can keep my balance on this bar stool.

“Hi.” I lift my hand to get the attention of the barman. “I’d like another one, please.”

The barman raises his eyebrows very slightly, then says, “Of course.”

I watch him a touch resentfully as he gets out the mint. Isn’t he going to ask me why I want another one? Isn’t he going to offer me some homespun barman wisdom?

He puts the cocktail on a coaster and adds a bowl of peanuts, which I push aside scornfully. I don’t want anything soaking up the alcohol. I want it right in my bloodstream.

“Can I get you anything else? A snack, perhaps?”

He gestures at a small menu, but I ignore it and take a deep gulp of the mojito. It’s cold and tangy and limey and perfect.

“Do I look like a bitch to you?” I say as I look up. “Honestly?”

“No.” The barman smiles.

“Well, I am, apparently.” I take another slug of mojito. “That’s what all my friends say.”

“Some friends.”

“They used to be.” I put my cocktail down and stare at it morosely. “I don’t know where my life went wrong.”

I sound slurred, even to my own ears.

“That’s what they all say.” A guy sitting at the end of the bar looks up from his Evening Standard. He has an American accent and dark, receding hair. “No one knows where it went wrong.”

“No, but I really don’t know.” I lift a finger impressively. “I have a car crash…and boom! I wake up and I’m trapped in the body of a bitch.”

“Looks like you’re trapped in the body of a babe to me.” The American guy edges along to the next bar stool, a smile on his face. “I wouldn’t trade that body for anything.”

I gaze at him in puzzlement for a moment-until realization dawns.

“Oh! You’re flirting with me! Sorry. But I’m already married. To a guy. My husband.” I lift up my left hand, locate my wedding ring after a few moments, and point at it. “You see. Married.” I think intently for a moment. “Also, I may have a lover.”

There’s a muffled snort from the barman. I look up suspiciously, but his face is straight. I take another gulp of my drink and feel the alcohol kicking in, dancing around my head. My ears are buzzing and the room is starting to sway.

Which is a good thing. Rooms should sway.

“You know, I’m not drinking to forget,” I say conversationally to the barman. “I already forgot everything.” This suddenly strikes me as being so fu

“Uh-huh.” The barman is exchanging glances with the American guy.

“And they said there isn’t a cure. But you know, doctors can be wrong, can’t they?” I appeal to the bar. Quite a few people seem to be listening now, and a couple of them nod.

“Doctors are always wrong,” the American guy says emphatically. “They’re all assholes.”

“Exactly!” I swivel to him. “You are so right! Okay.” I take a deep gulp of my mojito, then turn back to the barman. “Can I ask you a small favor? Can you take that cocktail shaker and hit me over the head with it? They said it wouldn’t work, but how do they know?”

The barman smiles, as if he thinks I’m joking.

“Great.” I sigh impatiently. “I’ll have to do it myself.” Before he can stop me, I grab the cocktail shaker and whack myself on the forehead. “Ow!” I drop the shaker and clutch my head. “Ouch! That hurt!”

“Did you see that?” I can hear someone exclaiming behind me. “She’s a nutter!”

“Miss, are you all right?” The barman looks alarmed. “Can I call you a-”

“Wait!” I lift a hand. For a few moments I’m poised, completely still, waiting for memories to flood into my brain. Then I subside in disappointment. “It didn’t work. Not even one. Bugger.”

“I’d get her a strong black coffee,” I can hear the American guy saying in an undertone to the barman. Bloody nerve. I don’t want a coffee. I’m about to tell him this, when my phone beeps. After a small struggle with the zipper of my bag I get my phone out-and it’s a text from Eric.

Hi, on my way home. E

“That’s from my husband,” I inform the barman as I put away my phone. “You know, he can drive a speedboat.”

“Great,” says the barman politely.

“Yeah. It is.” I nod emphatically, about seven times. “It is great. It’s the perfect, perfect marriage…” I consider for a moment. “Except we haven’t had sex.”

“You haven’t had sex?” the American guy echoes in astonishment.

“We have had sex.” I take a slug of mojito and lean toward him confidentially. “I just don’t remember it.”

“That good, huh?” He starts to laugh. “Blew your mind, huh?”

Blew my mind. His words land in my mind like a big neon flashing light. Blew my mind.

“You know what?” I say slowly. “You may not realize it, but that’s very sig…sigficant…significant.”

I’m not sure that word came out quite right. But I know what I mean. If I have sex, maybe it’ll blow my mind. Maybe that’s just what I need! Maybe Amy was right all along, it’s nature’s own amnesia-cure.

“I’m going to do it.” I put my glass down with a crash. “I’m going to have sex with my husband!”

“You go, girl!” says the American, laughing. “Have fun.”

I’m going to have sex with Eric. This is my mission. As I ride home in a taxi I’m quite excited. As soon as I get back, I’ll jump him. And we’ll have amazing sex and my mind will be blown and suddenly everything will be clear.

The only tiny snag I can think of is I don’t have the marriage manual on me. And I can’t totally remember the order of foreplay.

I close my eyes, trying to ignore my dizzy head and recall exactly what Eric wrote. Something was in a clockwise direction. And something else was with “gentle, then urgent tongue strokes.” Thighs? Chest? I should have memorized it. Or written it on a Post-it; I could have stuck it on the headboard.

Okay, I think I have it. Buttocks first, then i

“Sorry?” says the taxi driver.

Oops. I didn’t realize I was speaking aloud.

“Nothing!” I say hastily.

Earlobes came in somewhere, I suddenly remember. Maybe that was the urgent tongue strokes. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What I can’t remember I’ll make up. I mean, it can’t be that we’re some boring old married couple and do it exactly the same way each time, can it?

Can it?

I feel a tiny qualm, which I ignore. It’s going to be great. Plus, I have fantastic underwear on. Silky and matching, and everything. I don’t even possess anything scaggy anymore.

We draw up in front of the building and I pay the taxi driver. As I travel up in the lift I remove the chewing gum that I’ve been chewing for fresh breath, and unbutton my shirt a bit.

Too far. You can see my bra.

I do it up again, let myself into the apartment, and call out, “Eric!”

There’s no answer, so I head toward the office. I am quite drunk, to tell the truth. I’m lurching on my heels, and the walls are going backward and forward in my field of vision. We’d better not try and do it standing up.