Remember Me?

“Really?” I feel a pang of hope. “So I'm not a horrible bitch-?boss-?from-?hell ?” “Darling, there's no way you're horrible. Or a bitchboss- from-?hell.” Eric sounds so sure, I relax in relief. There'll be an explanation. Maybe some wires have got crossedthere's been a misunderstanding, it'll all be fine “I'd say you were... tough,” he adds. My relieved smile freezes on my face. Tough? I don't like the sound of tough. “Do you mean tough in a good way?” I try to sound casual. “Like, tough, but still really friendly and nice?” “Sweetheart, you're focused. You're driven. You drive your department hard. You're a great boss.“ He smiles. ”Now, I must go. I'll see you later.” The screen goes dark and I stare at it, totally unreassured. In fact, I'm more alarmed than ever.

Tough. Isn't that just another way of saying "bitch-?bossfrom- helP? Whatever the truth is, I can't let all this get to me. I have to keep everything in perspective. It's an hour later, and my spirits have risen a little. I've put on my new diamond necklace. I've sprayed myself with lots of expensive scent. And I've had a sneaky little glass of wine, which has made everything look a lot better. So maybe things aren't as perfect as I thought. Maybe I've fallen out with my friends; maybe Byron is after my job; maybe I don't have a clue who Tony Dukes is. But I can put it all right. I can learn my job. I can build bridges with Fi and the others. I can google Tony Dukes. And the point is, I'm still the luckiest girl in the world. I have a gorgeous husband, a wonderful marriage, and a stunning apartment. I mean, just look around! Tonight the place looks even more jaw-?dropping than ever. The florist has been and goneand there are arrangements of lilies and roses everywhere. The dining table has been extended and laid for dinner with gleaming silverware and crystal and a centerpiece like at weddings. There are even place cards written out in calligraphy! Eric said it was a “casual little supper.” God knows what we do when it's formal. Maybe have ten butlers in white gloves or something. I carefully apply my Lancome lipstick and blot it. When I've finished I can't help staring at myself in the mirror. My hair is up and my dress fits to perfection and there are diamonds at my ears and throat. I look like some elegant girl in an ad. Like any minute a caption will appear on the screen below me. Ferrero Rocher. For the finer things in life. British Gas. Keeping you warm in your million-?billionpound trendy loft apartment.

I step back and automatically the lights change from the mirror spotlight to more of an ambient glow. The “intelligent lighting” in this room is like magic: it figures out where you are from heat sensors and then adjusts accordingly. I quite like trying to catch it out by running around the room and shouting, “Ha! Not so intelligent now, are you?” When Eric's out, obviously. “Darling!” I jump, and turn to see him standing at the door, in his business suit. “You look wonderful.” “Thanks!” I glow with pleasure and pat my hair. “One tiny thing. Briefcase in the hall. Good idea?” His smile doesn't waver, but I can hear the annoyance in his voice. Shit. I must have left it there. I was so preoccupied when I arrived home, I didn't think. “I'll move it,” I say hastily. “Sorry.” “Good.” He nods. “But first, taste this.” He hands me a glass of ruby-?red wine. “It's the Chateau Branaire Ducru. We bought it on our last trip to France. I'd like your opinion.” “Right.” I try to sound confident. “Absolutely.” Oh no. What am I going to say? Cautiously I take a sip and swill it around my mouth, racking my brain for all the wine-?buff words I can think of. Leathery. Oaky. A fine vintage. Come to think of it, they all just bullshit, don't they? Okay, I'll say it's a divinely full-?bodied vintage with hints of strawberries. No, blackcurrants. I swallow the mouthful and nod knowledgeably at Eric. “You know, I think this is a div” “It's shocking, isn't it?” Eric cuts me off. “Corked. Totally off.” Off? “Oh! Er... yes!” I regain my composure. “Way past the sell-?by date. Urggh.” I make a face. “Revolting!'' That was a close shave. I put the glass down on a side table and the intelligent lighting adjusts again. ”Eric,“ I say, trying not to give away my exasperation. ”Can we have a lighting mix that just stays the same all night? I don't know if that's possible“ ”Anything is possible.“ Eric sounds a bit offended. ”We have infinite choice. That's what loft-?style living is all about.“ He passes me a remote control. ”Here. You can 158 override the system with this. Pick a mood. I'll go arid sort out the wine."

I head into the sitting room, find Lighting on the remote, and start experimenting with moods. Daylight is too bright. Cinema is too dark. Relax is dull I scroll much farther down. Reading... Disco... Hey. We have disco lights? I press the remoteand laugh out loud as the room is suddenly filled with pulsating multicolored lights. Now let's try Strobe. A moment later the room is flashing black and white and I gleefully start robotic dancing around the coffee table. This is like a club! Why didn't Eric tell me we had this before? Maybe we have dry ice, too, and a mirror ball “Jesus Christ, Lexi, what are you doing!” Eric's voice pierces the flashing room. “You put the whole fucking apartment on Strobe Light! Gianna nearly chopped her arm off!” “Oh no! Sorry.” Guiltily I fumble for the remote and jab it until we're back on disco. “You never told me we had disco and strobe lights! This is fantastic!” “We never use them.” Eric's face is a multicolored whirl. “Now find something sensible, for God's sake.” He turns and disappears. How can we have disco lights and never use them? What a waste! I have to have Fi and the others around for a party. We'll get some wine and nibbles, and we'll clear the floor and ramp up the volume And then my heart constricts as I remember. That won't be happening anytime soon. Or maybe ever. Deflated, I switch the lighting to Reception Area One, which is as good as anything else. I put down the remote, walk over to the window, and stare out at the street below, suddenly determined. I'm not giving up. These are my friends. I'm going to find out what's been going on. And then I'm going to make up with them. My plan for the dinner party was to memorize each guest's face and name using visualization techniques. But this scheme disintegrates almost at once when three golfing buddies of Eric's arrive together in identical suits, with identical faces and even more identical wives. Their names are things like Greg and Mick and Suki and Pooky, and they immediately start discussing a skiing holiday we all apparently went on once.