Remember Me?

“Yeah, yeah.” He's nodding thoughtfully. “I remember that night. Well, in fact... that's why we split up.” “Why?” I say, puzzled. “Because I never turned up. You chucked me. Finito.” He takes a gulp of wine, visibly relaxing. “Really?” I say, astonished. “I chucked you?” “Next morning. You'd had enough, so that was it. We were over.” I frown as I try to imagine the scene. “So, did we have a big row?” “Not so much a row,” Loser Dave says after a moment's consideration. “More like a mature discussion. We agreed it was right to end things and you said you might be making the biggest mistake in the world, but you couldn't stop your jealous, possessive nature.”

“Really?” I say dubiously. “Yeah. I offered to come along to your dad's funeral, show support, but you turned me down, said you couldn't bear the sight of me.” He takes a gulp of wine. “I didn't bear you a grudge, though. I said, 'Lexi, I will always care for you. Whatever you want, I want.' I gave you a single rose and a final kiss. Then I walked away. It was beautiful.” I put my glass down and survey him. His gaze is as open and blameless as it used to be when he conned customers into taking extra-?premium total-?scam insurance on their cars. “So that's exactly what happened?” I say. “Word for word.” He picks up the menu. “Fancy some garlic bread?” Is it my imagination or does he seem a whole lot more cheerful since he's heard I have amnesia? 246 “Loser Dave... is that really what happened?” I give him my severest, most penetrating look. “Of course,” he says in an injured tone. “And stop calling me Loser Dave.” “Sorry.” I sigh, and start unwrapping a bread stick. Maybe he's telling the truth. Or a Loser-?Dave version of it, at least. Maybe I did chuck him. I was certainly pissed off with him. “So... did anything else happen back then?” I snap the bread stick in two and start nibbling it. “Is there anything you can remember? Like, why did I suddenly get so careeroriented? Why did I shut my friends out? What was going on in my head?” “Search me.” Loser Dave is perusing the specials menu. “D'you fancy sharing the lasagne for two?” “It's all just s o . . . confusing.” I rub my brow. “I feel like I've been plonked in the middle of a map, with one of those big arrows pointing to me. 'You Are Here.' And what I want to know is, how did I get here?” At last Loser Dave lifts his eyes from the specials menu. “What you want is GPS,” he says, like the Dalai Lama making a pronouncement on top of a mountain.

“That's it! Exactly!” I lean forward eagerly. “I feel lost. And if I could just trace the path, if I could navigate back somehow...” Loser Dave is nodding wisely. “I can do you a deal.” “What?” I say, not understanding.

“I can do you a deal on GPS.” He taps his nose. “We're branching out at Auto Repair.” For a moment I think I might explode with frustration. “I don't literally need GPS!” I almost yell. “It's a metaphor! Me-?ta-?phor!”

“Right, right. Yeah, of course.” Loser Dave nods, his brow furrowed as though he's digesting my words and mulling them over. “Is that a built-?in system?” I don't believe it. Did I actually go out with this guy? “Yeah, that's right,” I say finally. “Honda makes it. Let's have the garlic bread.” When I arrive home later, I'm planning to ask Eric what he knows about my breakup with Loser Dave. We must have talked about all our old relationships, surely. But when I walk into the loft, I sense straightaway that this isn't the moment. He's striding around, on the phone, looking stressed. “Come on, Lexi.” He puts his hand briefly over the phone. “We'll be late.” “For what?” “For what?” echoes Eric, looking as though I've asked him what gravity is. “For the launch!” Shit. It's the Blue 42 launch party tonight. I did know that; it just slipped my mind. “Of course,” I say hurriedly. “I'll just go and get ready.” “Shouldn't your hair be up?” Eric casts a critical eye over me. “It looks unprofessional.” “Oh. Er...right. Yes.” Totally flustered, I change into a black silk tailored suit, put on my highest black pumps, and quickly shove my hair up into its chignon. I accessorize with diamonds, then turn to survey myself. Aargh. I look so boring. Like an actuary or something. I need... something else. Don't I have any brooches anymore? Or any silk flowers or scarves or sparkly hair clips? 248 Anything fun? I root around for a bit in my drawers, but can't find anything except a plain quilted beige hair band. Great. That's a real style statement.