Remember Me?

“Jon?” Amy pauses, lipstick in hand. “You mean the one you had sex with?” “What?” My voice shoots out like a rocket. “Are you sure?”

Oh my God. It's true. “Yeah.” Amy seems surprised by my reaction. “You told me at New Year's Eve. You were quite pissed.” “What else did I tell you?” My heart is thumping wildly. “Tell me everything you can remember.” “You told me everything!” Her eyes light up. “All the gory details. It was your first-?ever time, and he lost the condom, and you were freezing to death on the school field...” “School field?” I stare at Amy, my mind trying to make sense of this. “Do you mean... are you talking about James?” “Oh yeah!” She clicks her tongue in realization. “That's who I meant. James. The guy in the band when you were at school. Why, who are you talking about?” She finishes her lipstick and regards me with fresh interest. “Who's Jon?” “He's no one,” I say hastily. “Just...some guy. He's nothing.” You seethere's no evidence. If I was really having an affair I would have left a trail. A note, or a photo, or a diary entry. Or Amy would know, or something... And the point is, I'm happily married to Eric. That's the point. It's much later that evening. Mum and Amy left a while ago, after we finally managed to cajole one whippet off the 190 balcony and another out of Eric's Jacuzzi, where it was having a fight with one of the towels. And now I'm in the car with Eric, zipping along the Embankment. He's having a meeting with Ava, his interior designer, and suggested I come along and see the show flat of his latest development, Blue 42. All Eric's buildings are called “Blue” and then some number. It's the company's brand. It turns out that having a brand is a crucial part of selling loft-?style living, as is having the right music on when you walk in, and the right cutlery on the show table. Apparently Ava is a genius at choosing the right cutlery.

I learned about Ava from the marriage manual. She's forty-?eight, divorced, worked in LA for twenty years, has written a series of books called things like Tassel and Fork, and designs all the show homes for Eric's company. “Hey, Eric,” I say as we drive along. “I was looking at my bank statement today. I seem to pay all this regular money to something called Unito. I rang up the bank, and they said it's an offshore account.“ ”Uh-?huh.” Eric nods as though he's not remotely interested. I wait for him to say something else, but he turns on the radio. “Don't you know anything about it?” I say over the sound of the news. “No.” He shrugs. “Not a bad idea, though, putting some of your money offshore.” “Right.” I'm dissatisfied by his response; I almost feel like I want to pick a fight about it. But I don't know why. “I just need to get some petrol.” Eric swings off the road into a BP station. “I won't be a moment...”

“Hey,” I say as he opens the door. “Could you get me some chips in the shop? Salt 'n' vinegar if they have them.” “Chips?” He turns back and stares at me as though I've asked for some heroin. “Yes, chips.” “Darling.” Eric looks perplexed. “You don't eat chips. It was all in the manual. Our nutritionist has recommended a low-?carb, high-?protein diet.” “Well...I know. But everyone's allowed a little treat once in a while, aren't they? And I really feel like some chips.” For a moment Eric seems lost for an answer. “The doctors warned me you might be irrational, and make odd, out-?of-?character gestures,” he says, almost to himself. “It's not irrational to eat a packet of chips!” I protest. “They're not poison.” “Sweetheart... I'm thinking of you.” Eric adopts a loving tone. “I know how hard you've worked at reducing those two dress sizes. We invested a lot in your personal trainer. If you want to throw it away on a bag of chips, then that's your choice. Do you still want the chips?“ ”Yes,” I say, a bit more defiantly than I meant to.

I see a flash of annoyance pass over Eric's face, which he manages to convert into a smile. “No problem.” He shuts the car door with a heavy clunk. A few minutes later I see him walking briskly back from the garage, holding a packet of chips.

“Here you are.” He drops them on my lap and starts the engine. “Thank you!” I smile gratefully, but I'm not sure he notices. As he drives off, I try to open the packetbut my left hand is still clumsy after the accident and I can't get a 192 proper grip on the plastic. At last I put the packet between my teeth, yank as hard as I can with my right hand... and the entire packet explodes.

Shit. There are chips everywhere. All over the seats, all over the gear stick, and all over Eric. “Jesus!” He shakes his head in annoyance. “Are those in my hair?”