Remember Me?

“Have a coffee.” Fi brings a mug over. “Let me take that folder for you…”

“No!” I gasp, clutching it tighter. “It’s…fairly confidential…”

“It’s all our bonuses, isn’t it?” Debs says with a grin, and then gives me a nudge. “Make sure they’re all nice and big, Lexi! I want a new handbag!”

Somehow I raise a sick smile. I’m in a bad dream.

As I finally leave work at six-thirty, the nightmare hasn’t lifted. I have the weekend to put together a defense of the Flooring department somehow. And I barely know what the problem is, let alone the answer. As I’m jabbing the ground-floor button in the lift, Byron slips in, wearing his overcoat.

“Working at home?” He raises his eyebrows as he sees my stuffed briefcase.

“I have to save the department,” I say shortly. “I’m going to work all weekend until I find a solution.”

“You have to be kidding.” Byron shakes his head incredulously. “Lexi, haven’t you read the proposal? This is going to be better for you and me. They’re creating a new strategic team, we’re going to have more power, more scope…”

“That’s not the point!” I cry in a blaze of fury. “What about all our friends who won’t have anything?”

“Sob, sob, let me just mop up my bleeding heart,” Byron drawls. “They’ll find jobs.” He hesitates, eyeing me closely. “You know, you weren’t bothered before.”

It takes a second or two for his words to register. “What do you mean?”

“Before you had that car crash, you were all for getting rid of Flooring. Once you saw your new package. More power for us, more money…what’s not to love?”

A coldness creeps over me.

“I don’t believe you.” My voice is jerky. “I don’t believe you. I would never have sold out my friends.”

Byron just looks at me pityingly.

“Yeah, you would. You’re not a saint, Lexi. Why should you be?” The doors open and he strides out of the lift.

I arrive at Langridge’s department store, and travel up to the personal shopping department as though in a daze. I have an appointment at seven o’clock with my shopper, A

“Lexi! How are you?” A voice greets me as I approach the reception area. A

“I’m fine, thanks. All recovered now.” I attempt a smile.

I should have canceled this appointment. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

“Good! Now, I have some fabulous pieces for you to see.” A

What is she talking about, new shapes and styles? They’re all suits in neutral colors. I have a cupboard full of these already.

A

“Do you have anything different?” I cut her off abruptly. “Do you have anything…alive?”

“Alive?” A

I stride out of the cubicle onto the main shop floor, feeling like I need to gasp for air. Blood is rushing in my ears. I feel a bit deranged, to be honest.

“This.” I seize a purple minidress with bright splodges on it. “This is great. I could go clubbing in this.”

A

“Lexi,” she says at last. “That’s…not what I would call your style.”

“Well, I would.” Defiantly I grab a silver miniskirt. “And this.”

It’s exactly like what I’d pick up at New Look, only a million times more expensive, obviously.

“Lexi.” A

“It’s boring. It’s stultifying.” I pluck a beige sleeveless dress out of her arms and hold it up. “I’m not this person, I’m just not.”

“Lexi, you are.”

“I’m not! I need fun. I need color.”

“You’ve existed perfectly well for several years in beige and black.” A

“That was then, okay?” I’m trying to curb my agitation, but it’s as if all the events of the day are bubbling up in a rush of distress. “Maybe things have changed. Maybe I’ve changed.”

“This.” A

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“It’s not me! It’s not! I’m not this person! I won’t be her!” Tears are stinging my eyes. I start tugging pins out of my chignon, suddenly desperate to get rid of it. “I’m not the kind of person who wears beige suits! I’m not the kind of person who wears her hair in a bun every day. I’m not the kind of person who pays a thousand quid for wine. I’m not the kind of person who…who sells out her friends…”

I’m gulping with sobs by now. My chignon won’t come loose, so strands of hair are sticking out all over my head like a scarecrow. My whole face is wet with tears. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and A

“Don’t get tears on the Armani!” she snaps.

“Here.” I shove it back to her. “You’re welcome to it.” And without saying any more, I leave.

I head to the café on the ground floor, order a hot chocolate, and drink it while I take the rest of the pins out of my chignon. Then I order another, together with a doughnut. After a while, all the carbs have settled in my stomach like a warm, comforting cushion, and I feel better. There has to be a way, there has to. I’ll work all weekend, I’ll find the solution, I’ll save the department…

A beep from my pocket interrupts my thoughts. I pull out my phone and see it’s a text from Eric.

How are you doing? Working late?

As I stare at the words I’m suddenly touched. Overwhelmingly touched, in fact. Eric cares about me. He’s thinking about me.

On my way home now, I type back. I missed you today!!

It’s not exactly true, but it has the right sound to it.

I missed you too! comes back instantly.

I knew there was a point to marriage. And this is it. Someone to care about you when everything’s crap. Someone to cheer you up. Just texting Eric is making me feel a million times warmer than the hot chocolate did. I’m composing a reply in my head when the phone beeps once more.

Fancy a Mont Blanc??:):)

Again with the Mont Blanc. What is this? A cocktail, maybe?

Well, it’s obviously really special to Eric. And there’s only one way I’ll find out.

Great! I text back. Can’t wait!

Then I pick up my bag, head out of Langridges, and hail a taxi.

It only takes about twenty minutes to arrive home, during which time I reread three files, each more depressing than the last. Carpet sales have never been worse in the whole history of the company, whereas every other department is booming. At last I close the files and stare out the taxi window, my mind working overtime. If I could just put a rescue package together…I know there’s still value in the Deller Carpet brand-