Remember Me?

“Well, I am Gianna.” She hits her chest. “Great! Er...thanks.” I stand aside as Gianna moves past me and starts flicking over the glass surface of the coffee table with a feather duster, humming along to the iPod. “Watching your TV show, are you?” she says, glancing past me at the huge screen. “Oh. Er... I was. Just to remind myself.” I hastily turn it off. Meanwhile Gianna has started polishing a display of picture frames. I twist my fingers awkwardly. How can I just stand here, watching another woman clean my house? Should I offer to help? “What would you like me to cook for dinner tonight?” she says, starting to plump up the cushions on the sofa. “Oh,” I say, looking up in horror. “Nothing! Really!”

I know Eric and I are all rich and everything, but I can't ask someone else to cook my supper. It's obscene. “Nothing?” She pauses. “Are you going out?” “No! I just thought... maybe I'd do the cooking myself tonight.” “Oh, I see,” she says. “Well, it's up to you.” Her face set, she picks up a cushion and bangs it out with more vigor. “I hope you enjoyed the soup last night,” she adds, without looking at me. “It was delicious!” I say hastily. “Thanks! Lovely... flavors.” “Good,” she says in a stiff voice. “I do my best.” Oh God. She isn't offended, is she? “Let me know what you'd like me to buy for you to cook,” she continues, slapping the cushion down. “If you're after something new, or different...” Shit. She is offended. “Or...er...well.” My voice is scratchy with nerves. “Actually, on second thought... maybe you could make a little something. But I mean, don't make any effort. Just a sandwich would be fine.“ ”A sandwich?“ She raises her head incredulously. ”For your dinner?”

“Or...whatever you like! Whatever you enjoy cooking!” Even as I say the words I know how stupid this sounds. I back away, pick up a property magazine that's lying on a side table, and open it at a piece about fountains.

How am I ever going to get used to all this? How did I turn into someone with a housekeeper, for God's sake? “Aiee! The sofa has been damaged!” Gianna's accent suddenly sounds far more Italian than cockney. She yanks her iPod speakers out of her ears and gestures at the torn 122 fabric in horror. “Look! Ripped! Yesterday morning it was perfect.” She looks at me defensively. “I tell youI left it in good condition, no rips, no marks...” The blood rushes to my head. “That... that was me.” I stammer. “I did it.”

“You?”

“It was a mistake,” I gabble. “I didn't mean to. I broke this glass leopard and...” I'm breathing hard. “I'll order another sofa cover, I promise. But please don't tell Eric. He doesn't know.” “He doesn't know?” Gianna seems bewildered. “I put the cushion over the rip.” I swallow. “To hide it.” Gianna stares at me for a few disbelieving moments. I stare back pleadingly, unable to breathe. Then her severe face creases into a laugh. She puts down the cushion she's holding and pats me on the arm. “I'll sew it. Little tiny stitches. He'll never know.” “Really?” I feel a wash of relief. “Oh, thank God. That would be wonderful. I'd be so grateful.” Gianna is surveying me with a perplexed frown, her broad arms folded across her chest. “You're sure nothing happened when you bumped your head?” she says at last. “Like... personality transplant?” “What?” I give an uncertain laugh. “I don't think s o . . .” The door buzzer goes off. “Oh, I'd better get this.” I hurry to the front door and lift the answer phone. “Hello?”

“Hello?” comes a guttural voice. “Car delivery for Gardiner.” My new car is parked in a place at the front of the building, which according to the porter is my own private spot. It's a silver Mercedes, which I can tell from the badge-?thing on the front. And it's a convertible. Apart from that, I couldn't tell you much about itexcept I'm guessing it cost a fortune. “Sign here... and here...” The deliveryman is holding out a clipboard. “Okay.” I scribble on the paper. “Here's your keys... all your paperwork. Cheers, love.” The guy retrieves his pen from my hand and heads out the gates, leaving me alone with the car, a bundle of papers, and a set of shiny car keys. I dangle them in my fingers, feeling a frisson of excitement. I've never been a car person. But then, I've never been this close to a glossy, brand-?new Mercedes before. A brand-?new Mercedes which is all mine. Maybe I'll just check it over inside. With an instinctive gesture I hold out the key fob and press the little button then jump as the car bleeps and all the lights flash on. Well, I've obviously done that before. I open the door, slide into the driver's seat, and inhale deeply. Wow. Now, this is a car. This knocks Loser Dave's crappy Renault out of the park. It has the most wonderful, intoxicating scent of new leather. The seats are wide and comfortable. The dashboard is gleaming wood veneer. Cautiously I place my hands on the steering wheel. They seem to grip it quite naturallyin fact, they seem to belong there. I really don't want to take them off. I sit there for a few moments, watching the entry gates rise and fall as a BMW drives out. The thing i s . . . I can drive. At some stage I must have passed my test, even if I don't remember doing it. And this is such a cool car. It would be a shame not to have a go. Experimentally I push the key into the slot beside the 124 steering wheeland it fits! I rotate it forward, like I've seen people do, and there's a kind of roar of protest from the engine. Shit. What did I do? I turn it forward again, more cautiously, and this time there's no roar, but a few lights pop on around the dashboard.