Remember Me?

“The gym,” I echo, trying to sound enthused. “Of course. So... I go to the gym a lot?” “Sweetie, you're addicted! You run for an hour every other morning at six a.m.”

Six a.m.? Running? I never run. It's painful and it makes your boobs bounce around. I once did a mile-?long fun run with Fi and Carolyn, and I nearly died. Although at least I was better than Fi, who gave up running after two minutes and walked the rest of the way, smoking a cigarette, and then got into a row with the organizers and was banned from any future Cancer Research fund-?raisers. “But don't worry, we'll do something lovely and restful today,” Rosalie says reassuringly. “A massage, or a nice gentle stretch class. Just grab your exercise clothes and we'll go!” “Okay!” I hesitate. “Actually, this is a bit embarrassing . . . but I don't know where my clothes are. All the cupboards in our bedroom are full of Eric's suits. I can't find any of mine.”

Rosalie looks utterly pole-?axed. “You don't know where your clothes are?” Tears suddenly spring to her huge blue eyes and she fans her face. “I'm sorry,” she gulps. “But it's just come home to me how horrific and scary this must be for you. To have forgotten your entire wardrobe.” She takes a deep breath, composing herself, then squeezes my hand. “Come with me, sweetie. I'll show you.” So the reason I couldn't find my clothes is they're not in a wardrobe, they're in a whole other room, behind a concealed door which looks like a mirror. And the reason they need a whole other room is because there's so bloody many of them. As I stare at the racks I feel faint. I've never seen so many clothes, not outside a shop. Crisp white shirts, tailored black trousers, suits in shades of mushroom and taupe. Chiffony evening wear. Tights rolled up in their own special drawer. Folded silky knickers with La Perla labels. I can't see anything that doesn't look brand-?new and immaculate. There are no baggy jeans, no sloppy sweaters, no comfy old pj's. I leaf through a row of jackets, all pretty much identical apart from the buttons. I can't believe I've spent so much money on clothes and they're all versions of beige.

“What do you think?” Rosalie is watching me, her eyes sparkling. “Amazing!” “Ann has a great eye.” She nods sagely. “Ann, your personal shopper.”

“I have a personal shopper?” “Just for the main pieces each season...” Rosalie pulls out a dark blue dress with spaghetti straps and the tiniest ruffle around the hem. “Look, this is the dress you wore 100 when we first met. I remember thinking, 'Ah, this is the girl Eric's smitten with.' It was the talk of the party! And let me tell you, Lexi, there were a lot of disappointed girls out there when you two got married ” She reaches for a long black evening dress. “This is the dress you wore to my murder mystery evening.” She holds it up against me. “With a little fur shrug and pearls... Don't you remember?” “Not really.” “What about this Catherine Walker? You must remember that... or your Roland Mouret...” Rosalie is whipping out dress after dress, none of which looks remotely familiar. She reaches a pale garment carrier and stops with a gasp. “Your wedding dress!” Slowly, reverently, she unzips the garment carrier and pulls out the silky white sheath I recognize from the DVD. “Doesn't that bring it all back?” I stare at the dress, trying as hard as I can to will my memory to return... but nothing. “Oh my God.” Rosalie suddenly claps a hand over her mouth. “You and Eric should have a renewal of vows! I'll plan it for you! We could have a Japanese theme, you could wear a kimono” “Maybe!” I cut her off. “It's early days. I'll...think about it.” “Hmm.” Rosalie looks disappointed as she packs the wedding dress away. Then her face lights up. “Try the shoes. You have to remember your shoes.”

She heads to the other side of the room and flings open a cupboard door. And I stare in disbelief. I've never seen so many shoes. All in neat rows, most of them high-?heeled. What am I doing with high-?heeled shoes?

“This is unbelievable.” I turn to Rosalie. “I can't even walk in heels, God knows why I bought them.”

“Yes, you can.” Rosalie looks puzzled. “Of course you can.” “No.” I shake my head. “I've never been able to do heels. I fall over, I twist my ankle, I look stupid...” “Sweetie.” Rosalie's eyes are wide. “You live in heels. You were wearing these last time we had lunch.” She pulls out a pair of black pumps with four-?inch stiletto heels. The kind I'd never even look at in a shop. The soles are scuffed. The inside label has been rubbed away. Someone's been wearing these. Me? “Put them on!” says Rosalie. Cautiously I slip off my loafers and step into the pointy heels. Almost at once I topple over and grab Rosalie. “You see? I can't balance.” “Lexi, you can walk in these,” Rosalie says firmly. “I've seen you do it.” “I can't.” I make to take them off, but Rosalie grabs my arm. “No! Don't give up, sweetie. It's in you, I know it is! You have t o . . . unlock it!” I try another step, but my ankle bends like plasticine. “It's no good.” I exhale in frustration. “I wasn't meant to do this.” “Yes, you were. Try again! Find the zone!” Rosalie sounds like she's coaching me for the Olympics. “You can do it, Lexi.” I totter to the other side of the room and cling to the curtain. “I'll never crack this,” I say despairingly. "Of course you will. Just don't think about it. Distract yourself. I know! We'll sing a song! 'Land of hope and gloreeee...' Come on, Lexi, singV 102 Reluctantly I join in. I really hope Eric doesn't have a CCTV camera trained on us at this moment. “Now walk!” Rosalie gives me a little push. “Go!” “ 'Land of hope and gloreeee....'” Trying to keep my mind focused on the song, I take a step forward. Then another. Then another.