“Here.” Isabelle hands me a manila folder.

I glance at Leanne and Eric, both of whom have been singing Isabelle’s praises nonstop for the last couple of weeks.

They shrug as if to say they have no clue what’s inside.

I open the folder and pull out a stapled printout. “What is this?”

“Just some ideas I jotted down last night.” Isabelle smiles. “I don’t plan to work for you guys, but I want you to have this and share it with whomever you end up hiring to be your publicist.”

Leanne takes the document from me and leafs through it slowly. I skim the subheadings. Where to look for corporate sponsors… Who might be interested and how to get them to a yes… Ideas for commercials… How to use the Easyfundraising app… Tips on attracting celebrity backers…

I cock my head and stare into Isabelle’s big brown eyes. “So, you wrote this last night, just like that, even though you don’t want to work for the club?”

“Yeah, well… I do care about water polo.” She shifts nervously and points to the document. “It’s not a big deal. Just some ideas to get you started.”

I survey her.

Isabelle had been a good friend of mine, I’m told, but we were on the outs when I was attacked.

Is that why she’s so generous with her expertise? Does she feel guilty for something? Has she realized in retrospect that whatever it was I’d said or done to cause our falling out was insignificant?

I must find a way to ask her.

“Thank you for this,” Leanne says to her. “We do get some funding from the city of Paris and some from the Swimming Federation. But it’s far from enough.”

Isabelle nods.

“The good news is our men’s team won silver at the Pro A championships last season,” I say. “Surely that’s something you—or whoever we end up hiring—can use, right?”

“Absolutely.” Isabelle’s eyes light up, and she stops fidgeting. “That victory can be tapped in so many ways! Promoting the club is one avenue, promoting the sport to make it easier to attract talent and sponsorship is another. And it shouldn’t be difficult to land contracts for all kinds of commercials—anything from deodorants to beer to car insurance.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You think you could do that?”

“Of course,” she says. “Any publicist with a half-decent address book can.”

Leanne and I exchange meaningful looks.

“Martin had a hard time,” Eric says.

Isabelle furrows her brow. “But that was before you won the medal, wasn’t it?”

I’m sure she knows Martin got fired and why, but she doesn’t hit the man while he’s down.

Well done.

Everything about Isabelle is incredibly reassuring. She could approach you with the craziest investment scheme, and you’d still give her your money because your gut tells you she won’t con you.

It must be something about the way she isn’t trying to mystify her work or to suggest we’re doomed without her magic touch. Her winsome smile helps, too. Add to it her fruity voice and easy manner, her friendly face and even her trim, athletic figure, and you have someone you want to down a beer with as soon as business is done.

I can totally understand why I was friends with her. What I have a harder time fathoming is why we had a falling-out.

One thing is sure—I trust Isabelle.

What’s more, I like her.

And that means there’s no way she’s leaving here without signing that damn contract.

“Isabelle is friends with Fumé,” Eric says, beaming with pride. “She could maybe get him involved somehow.”

I stare at my assistant coach. “Who’s Fumé?”

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. I thought you’d know. He’s a rapper. He’s really big these days.”

Isabelle signs, clearly peeved. “I’m not friends with him. I just know him from a video he shot for my former employer.”

“Yeah, but you stayed in touch,” Eric says, jutting out his chin.

Leanne frowns. “Isn’t he a… rough sort of person, what with being a rapper?”

“He’s the sweetest guy,” Isabelle says. “A real pussycat behind the rough look.”

There’s an awkward pause when it hits me that despite their good intentions, Leanne and Eric aren’t helping my case.

“Hey,” I say. “How about Isabelle and I continue our conversation over a drink, since she’s isn’t planning to work for me, anyway?” I turn to my reluctant candidate. “Isabelle? A quick beer to go over your clever ideas?”

“Er…” She chews on her bottom lip. “OK.”

“Do you mind if I jo—” Eric begins.

“Off you go,” Leanne butts in. “Eric and I need to get some administrative stuff done tonight.”

Eric gives her a WTF look.

Leanne arches an eyebrow, as if daring him to voice his unspoken question.

He swallows. “Right. It’s true. We have some… some stuff to do. You guys go ahead.”

I nod a goodbye to my two acolytes and turn to Isabelle. “Shall we?”

She sticks her folder into her sensible handbag and follows me to the exit.

In the bar, I choose not to beat about the bush. “What can I offer to make you sign the contract? Name it, I’ll consider it.”

“I’m flattered,” she says, “but also perplexed. It’s not like I’m the only publicist in Paris.”

“You’re the one for my club. Leanne and Eric dream about working with you. Starting today, I do, too.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“But I am.” I give her an earnest look. “You’re my man, Isabelle.”

She curls her lip. “Your man, huh? My, now I’m truly pumped.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Her expression softens. “But it’s a strong statement for someone who just met me.”

“Maybe it’s the suppressed part of my brain talking.”

She shifts her gaze to her beer.

OK, I must ask her.

The question that bugs me might ruin my already slim chances of swaying Isabelle, but I need to know.

“We didn’t get a chance to discuss it when we met a few years back, but I was wondering…” I search her face. “Why did we have a falling-out, Izz?”

She nearly jumps at my last word.

I blink, trying to figure out where that came from. “Is that what I used to call you—Izz?”

She nods slowly.

For a long moment, I stare at her, processing what just happened. Was it a coincidence? Is that how I would normally address a woman named Isabelle whom I just met?

For a man who has no clue what he used to call his mother, this could be huge. A potential breakthrough. The first step on the path toward remembrance.

“Do you think…? Did you…?” She pauses, unable to form her question.

Judging by her heaving chest and her furious blush, it isn’t just excitement for a former friend gaining a tiny bit of ground in his battle to recover his past. It’s personal. Whatever it is, it’s significant to her, perhaps too significant to reveal. I must tread carefully.

“Probably just a coincidence,” I say. “I don’t remember calling you Izz. Or anything else about you. Or about anyone. My mind is still as blank as before.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“No, it’s me who’s sorry.” I force a smile. “Whatever killed our friendship, I’m sure it was my fault.”

She lifts her beer to her mouth and takes several long, slow sips, sets it on the table, and lifts her eyes to me. “You can’t apologize for something you don’t remember doing. It isn’t right. Besides, you didn’t do anything… reprehensible. We just drifted apart.”

I peer at her. So not buying it.

“What are your doctors saying about your chances?” she asks. “Isn’t there some new drug or a powerful mindfuck that can help?”

“There’s no medication for amnesia, but some individuals succeed in retrieving most of their memories, even years later.”

“How?”

“By exposing themselves to objects and people from their past—triggers that can jog their memory.”

She chews on her bottom lip. “Is that the only way?”

“There’s also hypnosis and group therapy, but my doc doesn’t think either is a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Too little evidence they’re effective, coupled with a high risk of creating false memories—or worse—delusions.”

“I see.” There’s a pause before she says, “I wanted to ask you something, too.”

“Shoot.”

“When we met four years ago, I was… I was tongue-tied… but I’d like to hear about your recovery—whatever you feel comfortable telling me.”

According to my parents, she visited several times while I was in a coma, unlike Angie who showed up only once—the day after the mugging.

“It took me three months to wake up,” I say. “And three years to recover my physical strength, redevelop motor skills, and relearn to function in a world I didn’t recognize. The first two years, I needed full-time supervision and assistance. The first six months, I needed help wiping my ass. Still, I consider myself lucky.”

“You do?”

“Many people with head injuries stop improving at some point in their rehab and never recover all of their intelligence. Some turn weird and make stuff up like they’re on a different planet, surrounded by aliens. Others become zombie-like.”

“That’s so sad!”

“It is. And why I’m lucky. I recovered enough to be self-reliant.”

“Much more than just self-reliant!” Her eyes drill into mine. “Look at the man you’ve become! Look at what you’ve achieved, starting from scratch. Literally, from scratch. The way you lead your guys, how you inspire them to surpass themselves. Leanne and Eric look up to you. They all look up to you.”

Since Nageurs de Paris qualified for the Pro A league and especially after winning national silver, I’ve been commended on my “remarkable” recovery and achievements many times by many people. Family members, friends, doctors, colleagues—you name it—have been generous with accolades and praise. A recent article in Le Parisien compared me to the phoenix reborn from its ashes.

Obviously, I was as pleased to read that as I’d been pleased to hear the compliments of those close to me. But it’s Isabelle’s praise that moves me in a completely new and unexpected way.

I look down and focus on my breathing, so I won’t break down and cry.

“You haven’t lost a single gram of your intelligence,” she says, eyes glistening. “But I’m sure everyone tells you the same thing.”

OK, if I don’t crack some stupid joke right now, she’ll witness a big guy’s meltdown.

“Everyone does, but it’s possible everyone is just being kind.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Maybe I was the next Einstein before the coma, or a future Nobel Prize in astrophysics.”

Her expression becomes playful. “Astrophysics, no less?”

I grin, mirroring her toothy, infectious smile that scrunches her eyes and dimples her cheeks just so.

What happened between us?

“Alternatively, it’s possible I was a dick,” I say. “Personality changes are not unheard of in amnesiacs.”

Her smile fades a little.

I lean in. “Was I a dick, Isabelle?”

Something like defiance flashes in her eyes. “A new personality, huh? What makes you so sure you are a nice guy now?”

“That’s what everyone around me seems to believe.” I shrug. “They may be deluding themselves, of course.”

“I’m required to give my employer a three-week notice,” Isabelle says suddenly.

Is that a yes?

A flicker of a tiny smile barely lifts the corners of her mouth. “So, I wouldn’t be able to start until mid-April.”

“Not a problem,” I say. “We’ll study your ideas in the meantime so we’ll be as ready as we can be when you begin.”

After we say goodbye, I promise myself I’ll find out one way or another why Isabelle and I drifted apart. Not just in the hopes it will trigger a memory, but so I can fix it.

I want to be friends with her again, and this time round, I’m going to hold on to our friendship.