Remember Me?

Before I can stop him, he’s leading me firmly over to Jon, who’s talking to another rich-looking couple. The woman is in a Dior-print trouser suit, with dyed red hair and severely overdone lipliner. She bares her porcelain teeth at me, and her gray-haired husband grunts, his hand clamped possessively on her shoulder.

“Let me introduce my wife, Lexi.” Eric beams at them. “One of the greatest fans of”-he pauses, and I tense up, waiting for it-“loft-style living!”

If I hear that phrase one more time I’m going to shoot myself.

“Hi, Lexi.” Jon meets my eye briefly as Eric heads off again. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks, Jon.” I try to sound calm, like he’s any other person at the party; like I haven’t been fixating on him since I arrived. I turn to the Dior woman. “So…how do you like the loft?”

The couple exchange doubtful glances. “We have one concern,” says the man, in a European accent I can’t quite place. “The space. Whether it is big enough.”

I’m stumped. This place is like a bloody aircraft hangar. How can it not be big enough?

“We think five thousand square feet is a generous size,” says Jon. “However, you could knock two or even three units together if you need a larger space.”

“Our other problem is the design,” says the man.

“The design?” echoes Jon politely. “Is something wrong with the design?”

“At our home we have touches of gold,” says the man. “Gold paintings. Gold lamps. Gold…” He seems to run out of steam.

“Carpets,” the woman puts in, rolling the “rrr” heavily. “Gold carrr-pets.”

The man jabs at the brochure. “Here I see a lot of silver. Chrome.”

“I see.” Jon nods, deadpan. “Well, obviously the loft can be customized to your own individual taste. We could, for example, have the fireplace gold-plated.”

“A gold-plated fireplace?” says the woman uncertainly. “Would that be…too much?”

“Is there such a thing as too much gold?” Jon replies pleasantly. “We could also add solid gold light-fittings. And Lexi could help you with the gold carpet. Couldn’t you, Lexi?”

“Of course.” I nod, praying desperately I don’t suddenly snort with laughter.

“Yes. Well, we will think about it.” The couple moves off, talking in some foreign language I don’t recognize. Jon knocks back his drink.

“Not big enough. Jesus Christ. Ten of our units at Ridgeway would fit into this space.”

“What’s Ridgeway?”

“Our affordable-housing project.” He sees my blank look. “We only get pla

“Oh, right,” I say in surprise. “Eric’s never even mentioned affordable housing.”

A flicker of amusement passes over Jon’s face. “I’d say his heart isn’t totally in that aspect of the job,” he says, as Eric steps up onto a small podium in front of the mantelpiece. The ambient lighting dims, a spotlight falls on Eric, and gradually the hum of chatter dies away.

“Welcome!” he says, his voice ringing out around the space. “Welcome to Blue 42, the latest in the Blue series of projects dedicated to…”

I hold my breath. Please don’t say it, please don’t say it…

“Loft-style living!” His hands sweep along and all the members of his staff applaud vigorously.

Jon glances at me and takes a step back, away from the crowd. After a moment I move back too, my eyes fixed firmly ahead. My whole body is crackling with apprehension. And…excitement.

“So, have you remembered anything yet?” he says in a casual undertone.

“No.”

Behind Eric, a massive screen is lighting up with images of lofts from all angles. Punchy music fills the air and the room becomes even darker. I have to hand it to Eric-this is a fantastic presentation.

“You know, we first met each other at a loft launch like this one.” Jon’s voice is so low, I can barely hear it above the music. “The minute you spoke I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Knew I liked you.”

I’m silent for a few moments, curiosity prickling at me.

“What did I say?” I whisper back at last.

“You said, ‘If I hear that phrase loft-style living again, I’m going to shoot myself.’”

“No.” I stare at him, then splutter with laughter. A man in front turns around with a frown, and as if in synch, Jon and I back away a few more paces, till we’re right in the shadows.

“You shouldn’t be hiding away,” I say. “This is your moment. Your loft.”

“Yeah, well,” he says dryly. “I’ll let Eric take the glory. He’s welcome to it.”

For a few moments we watch Eric onscreen in a hard hat, striding over a building site.

“You make no sense,” I say quietly. “If you think lofts are for rich wankers, why do you design them?”

“That’s a good question.” Jon takes a gulp of his drink. “Truth is, I should move on. But I like Eric. He believed in me, he gave me my first chance, he runs a great company…”

“You like Eric?” I shake my head in disbelief. “Of course you do. That’s why you keep telling me to leave him.”

“I do. He’s a great guy. He’s honest, he’s loyal…” For a while Jon’s silent beside me, his eyes flickering in the dim light. “I don’t want to fuck Eric’s life up,” he says finally. “It wasn’t in the plan.”

“So why…”

“He doesn’t understand you.” Jon looks directly at me. “He has no idea who you are.”

“And you do, I suppose?” I retort, just as the lights come up and applause breaks out around the room. Instinctively I take a step away from Jon, and we both watch as Eric mounts the podium again, glowing with an aura of success and money and on-top-of-the-world-ness.

“So, have you encountered Mont Blanc yet?” Jon says, clapping vigorously, his mood lighter.

“What’s Mont Blanc?” I give him a suspicious glance.

“You’ll find out.”

“Tell me.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head, pressing his mouth together as though trying not to laugh. “I couldn’t spoil the surprise.”

“Tell me!”

“Jon! There you are. Emergency!” We both start in surprise as Ava appears behind us. She’s dressed in a black trouser suit, holding a burlap sack, and appears flustered. “The ornamental rocks for the master bedroom fish tank have only just arrived from Italy. But I’ve got to see to the kitchen place-settings-some fucking idiot’s been fiddling with them-so can you do it?” She shoves the burlap sack into Jon’s arms. “Just arrange the rocks in the tank. There should be time before the presentation finishes.”

“No problem.” Jon hefts the sack in his arms, then looks at me, his eyes opaque and impenetrable. “Lexi, want to come with me and help?”

My throat tightens up so hard, I can’t breathe. This is an invitation. A challenge.

No. I have to say no.

“Um…yes.” I swallow. “Sure.”

I feel almost light-headed as I follow Jon through the crowd, up the stairs onto the mezzanine level, and into the bedroom. No one even notices us. All attention is on the presentation.

We head into the main bedroom and Jon closes the door.

“So,” he says.

“Look.” My voice is sharp with nerves. “I can’t carry on like this! All this whispering, creeping around, trying to…to sabotage my marriage. I’m happy with Eric!”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You won’t be with him in a year.” He sounds so sure of himself, I’m nettled.

“Yes, I will,” I shoot back. “I expect I’ll be with him in fifty years!”

“You’ll try your best, you’ll try to mold yourself…but your spirit’s too free for him. At last you won’t be able to stand it anymore.” He exhales, pressing his meshed hands outward. “I’ve watched it happen once. I don’t want to see it again.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I snap. “Well, when it does happen, I’ll give you a call, how’s that? We should do the rocks.” I jerk my head toward the sack, but Jon ignores me.

He puts it down on the floor and comes toward me, his eyes intense and questioning. “You really, really don’t remember anything?”

“No,” I say almost wearily. “For the millionth time, I don’t remember anything.”