Remember Me? Read online

  Remember Me?

  Sophie Kinsella

  With the same wicked humor and delicious charm that have won her millions of devoted fans, Sophie Kinsella, author of the #1 New York Times bestseller Shopaholic Baby, returns with an irresistible new novel and a fresh new heroine who finds herself in a life-changing and utterly hilarious predicament…

  When twenty-eight-year-old Lexi Smart wakes up in a London hospital, she's in for a big surprise. Her teeth are perfect. Her body is toned. Her handbag is Vuitton. Having survived a car accident-in a Mercedes no less-Lexi has lost a big chunk of her memory, three years to be exact, and she's about to find out just how much things have changed.

  Somehow Lexi went from a twenty-five-year-old working girl to a corporate big shot with a sleek new loft, a personal assistant, a carb-free diet, and a set of glamorous new friends. And who is this gorgeous husband-who also happens to be a multimillionaire? With her mind still stuck three years in reverse, Lexi greets this brave new world determined to be the person she…well, seems to be. That is, until an adorably disheveled architect drops the biggest bombshell of all.

  Suddenly Lexi is scrambling to catch her balance. Her new life, it turns out, comes complete with secrets, schemes, and intrigue. How on earth did all this happen? Will she ever remember? And what will happen when she does?

  Sophie Kinsella

  Remember Me?

  © 2008

  To Atticus

  Prologue

  Of all the crap, crap, crappy nights I’ve ever had in the whole of my crap life.

  On a scale of one to ten we’re talking…a minus six. And it’s not like I even have very high standards.

  Rain spatters down my collar as I shift from one blistered foot to the other. I’m holding my denim jacket over my head as a makeshift umbrella, but it’s not exactly waterproof. I just want to find a taxi, get home, kick off these stupid boots, and run a nice hot bath. But we’ve been waiting here for ten minutes and there’s no sign of a cab.

  My toes are agony. I’m never buying shoes from Cut-Price Fashion again. I bought these boots last week in the sale (flat black patent; I only ever wear flats). They were half a size too small, but the girl said they would stretch and that they made my legs look really long. And I believed her. Honestly, I’m the world’s biggest sucker.

  We’re all standing together on the corner of some street in southwest London that I’ve never been to before, with music pounding faintly from the club below our feet. Carolyn’s sister is a promoter and got us discounted entry, so that’s why we schlepped all the way here. Only now we have to get home, and I’m the only one even looking for a cab.

  Fi has commandeered the only nearby doorway and has her tongue down the throat of the guy she chatted up earlier at the bar. He’s cute, despite the weird little mustache. Also, he’s shorter than Fi-but then, a lot of guys are, given she’s nearly six feet tall. She has long dark hair and a wide mouth, and an oversized laugh to match. When Fi is really tickled by something, she brings the whole office to a standstill.

  A few feet away, Carolyn and Debs are sheltering underneath a newspaper arm in arm, caterwauling “It’s Raining Men” as if they’re still on the karaoke stage.

  “Lexi!” Debs yells, extending an arm for me to join in. “It’s raining men!” Her long blond hair is all ratty in the rain, but she’s still bright-faced. Debs’s two favorite hobbies are karaoke and jewelry making-in fact, I’m wearing a pair of earrings she made me for my birthday: teeny silver Ls with dangling seed pearls.

  “It isn’t bloody raining men!” I call back morosely. “It’s just raining!”

  I normally love karaoke too. But I’m not in a singing mood tonight. I feel all sore inside, like I want to curl up away from everyone else. If only Loser Dave had turned up like he promised. After all those luv u Lexi texts; after vowing faithfully to be here at ten. I sat waiting all that time, watching the door, even when the other girls told me to give up on him. Now I feel like a sappy moron.

  Loser Dave works in car telesales and has been my boyfriend since we got together at Carolyn’s friend’s barbecue last summer. I don’t call him Loser Dave to insult him-it’s just his nickname. No one remembers how he got it and he won’t tell; in fact, he’s always trying to make people call him something else. He started referring to himself as Butch a while ago, because he reckons he looks like Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction. He has a buzz cut, I suppose-but the resemblance ends there.

  Anyway, it didn’t catch on. To his workmates he just is Loser Dave, the way I’m Snaggletooth. I’ve been called that since I was eleven. And sometimes Snagglehair. To be fair, my hair is pretty frizzy. And my teeth are kind of crooked. But I always say they give my face character.

  (Actually, that’s a lie. It’s Fi who says they give my face character. Personally, I’m planning to fix them, as soon as I’ve got the cash and can psych myself up to having braces in my mouth-i.e., probably never.)

  A taxi comes into sight and I immediately stick out my hand-but some people ahead flag it down first. Great. I shove my hands in my pockets and miserably scan the rainy road for another yellow light.

  It’s not just Loser Dave standing me up that’s bothering me: it’s the bonuses. Today was the end of the financial year at work. Everyone was given paper slips saying how much they’d got and started jumping about with excitement, because it turns out the company’s 2003-2004 sales were better than anyone expected. It was like Christmas came ten months early. Everyone was gabbing all afternoon about how they were going to spend the money. Carolyn started planning a holiday to New York with her boyfriend, Matt. Debs booked highlights at Nicky Clarke-she’s always wanted to go there. Fi called Harvey Nichols and reserved herself a new cool bag called a Paddington or something.

  And then there was me. With nada. Not because I haven’t worked hard, not because I didn’t meet my targets, but because to get a bonus you have to have worked for the company for a year, and I missed qualifying by a week. One week. It’s so unfair. It’s so penny-pinching. I’m telling you, if they asked me what I thought about it-

  Anyway. Like Simon Johnson would ever ask the opinion of an associate junior sales manager (flooring). That’s the other thing: I have the worst job title ever. It’s embarrassing. It hardly even fits on my business card. The longer the title, I’ve decided, the crappier the job. They think they’ll blind you with words and you won’t notice you’ve been stuck in the corner of the office with the lousy accounts no one else wants to work on.

  A car splashes through a puddle near the pavement and I jump back, but not before a shower of water hits me in the face. From the doorway I can hear Fi hotting things up, murmuring into the ear of the cute guy. I catch a few familiar words and, despite my mood, have to clamp my lips together so I don’t laugh. Months ago, we had a girls’ night in, and ended up confessing all our dirty-talk secrets. Fi said she uses the same line each time and it works a treat: “I think my underwear’s melting off.”

  I mean. Would any guy fall for that?

  Well, I guess, by Fi’s record, they do.

  Debs confessed that the only word she can use without cracking up during sex is hot. So all she ever says is “I’m hot.” “You’re so hot.” “This is really hot.” Mind you, when you’re as stunning as Debs, I wouldn’t think you’d need much of a repertoire.

  Carolyn has been with Matt for a million years and declared she never talks in bed at all except to say “ow” or “higher,” or once, as he was about to come, “Oh crap, I left my hair straighteners on.” I don’t know if she really meant it; she’s got a pretty quirky sense of humor, just like Matt. They’re both superbright-almost geeky-but cool with it. When we’re all out together the two of them throw so many insults at each other, it’s
hard to know if they’re ever serious. I’m not sure even they know.

  Then it was my turn, and I told the truth, which is that I compliment the guy. Like, with Loser Dave, I always say “You have beautiful shoulders” and “You have such beautiful eyes.”

  I didn’t admit that I say these things because I’m always secretly hoping to hear back from a guy that I’m beautiful too.

  Nor did I admit that it’s never yet happened.

  Anyway. Whatever.

  “Hey, Lexi.” I look up to see that Fi has unsuckered herself from the cute guy. She ducks under my denim jacket and gets out a lipstick.

  “Hi,” I say, blinking rainwater off my lashes. “Where’s lover boy gone?”

  “To tell the girl he came with that he’s leaving.”

  “Fi!”

  “What?” Fi looks unrepentant. “They’re not an item. Or much of one.” She carefully redoes her mouth in pillar-box red. “I’m getting a whole new load of makeup,” she says, frowning at the blunt end of the lipstick. “Christian Dior, the whole lot. I can afford it now!”

  “You should!” I nod, trying to sound enthusiastic. A moment later Fi looks up with realization.

  “Oh, bollocks. Sorry, Lexi.” She puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “You should have got a bonus. It’s not fair.”

  “It’s fine.” I try to smile. “Next year.”

  “You okay?” Fi narrows her eyes at me. “You want to go for a drink or anything?”

  “No, I need to get to bed. I’ve got an early start in the morning.”

  Fi’s face clears suddenly and she bites her lip. “Jesus. I forgot all about that, too. What with the bonuses and everything…Lexi, I’m sorry. This is a really shit time for you.”

  “It’s fine!” I say at once. “It’s…I’m trying not to make it a huge deal.”

  No one likes a whinger. So somehow I make myself smile brightly, just to show I’m fine with being the snaggly-toothed, stood-up, no-bonus girl whose dad just died.

  Fi is silent for a moment, her green eyes glittering in the passing headlights.

  “Things’ll turn around for you,” she says.

  “You think?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nods, with more energy. “You just have to believe it. Come on.” She squeezes me. “What are you, woman or walrus?” Fi’s been using that expression since we were both fifteen, and it makes me smile every time. “And you know what?” she adds. “I think your dad would have wanted you to turn up to his funeral hungover.”

  She met my dad a couple of times. She’s probably right.

  “Hey, Lexi.” Fi’s voice is suddenly softer, and I brace myself. I’m in a pretty edgy mood as it is, and if she says something nice about my dad, I might cry. I mean, I didn’t know him that well or anything, but you only get one dad… “Do you have a spare condom?” Her voice pierces my thoughts.

  Right. So I probably didn’t need to worry about the sympathy overload.

  “Just in case,” she adds with a wicked grin. “I mean, we’ll probably just chat about world politics or whatever.”

  “Yeah. I’m so sure.” I root around inside my green birthday-present Accessorize bag for the matching coin purse and produce a Durex, which I discreetly hand to her.

  “Thanks, babe.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Listen, d’you want to come to mine tomorrow night? After it’s all over? I’ll make spaghetti carbonara.”

  “Yeah.” I smile gratefully. “That would be great. I’ll call you.” I’m already looking forward to it. A plate of delicious pasta, a glass of wine, and telling her all about the funeral. Fi can make the grimmest things seem funny…I know we’ll end up in stitches.

  “Hey, there’s a taxi! Taxiii!” I hurry to the edge of the pavement as the cab pulls up and beckon to Debs and Carolyn, who are screeching out “Dancing Queen.” Carolyn’s glasses are spattered with raindrops, and she’s about five notes ahead of Debs. “Hi there!” I lean through the window to the taxi driver, my hair dripping down my face. “Could you possibly take us first to Balham, and then-”

  “Sorry, love, no karaoke.” The taxi driver cuts me off with a baleful glance at Debs and Carolyn.

  I stare at him, confused. “What d’you mean, no karaoke?”

  “I’m not ’aving them girls in ’ere, doin’ me ’ead in with their bloody singing.”

  He has to be joking. You can’t ban people for singing.

  “But-”

  “My cab, my rules. No drunks, no drugs, no karaoke.” Before I can reply, he puts the taxi into gear and roars away down the road.

  “You can’t have a ‘no karaoke’ rule!” I shout after the cab in outrage. “It’s…discrimination! It’s against the law! It’s…”

  I trail off helplessly and look around the pavement. Fi has disappeared back into Mr. Cutie’s arms. Debs and Carolyn are doing the worst “Dancing Queen” routine I’ve ever seen; in fact, I don’t blame that taxi driver. The traffic is whooshing by, drenching us with spray; rain is drumming through my denim jacket into my hair; thoughts are circling around my head like socks in a dryer.

  We’ll never find a taxi. We’ll be stuck out here in the rain all night. Those banana cocktails were noxious-I should have stopped after four. I have my dad’s funeral tomorrow. I’ve never been to a funeral before. What if I start sobbing and everyone stares at me? Loser Dave’s probably in bed with some other girl right this second, telling her she’s beautiful while she moans “Butch! Butch!” My feet are blistered and they’re freezing-

  “Taxi!” I instinctively scream the word, almost before I’ve registered the distant yellow light. It’s coming up the road, signaling left. “Don’t turn!” I wave frantically. “Over here! Here!”

  I have to get this cab. I have to. Clutching my denim jacket over my head, I run along the pavement, skidding slightly, yelling till I’m hoarse. “Taxi! Taxi!” As I reach the corner the pavement is crowded with people, and I skirt around them and up the steps to some grand municipal building. There’s a balustraded platform with steps going right and left. I’ll hail the taxi from up here, then run down and jump in. “TAXI! TAAA-XIII!”

  Yes! It’s pulling up. Thank God! At last-I can get home, run a bath, forget all about today.

  “Here!” I call out. “Just coming, wait a sec-”

  To my consternation I notice a guy in a suit on the pavement below heading toward the taxi. “It’s ours!” I roar, and start pelting down the opposite steps. “It’s ours! I hailed that cab! Don’t you even dare-Argh! Aaaaargh!”

  Even as my foot skids on the wet step I’m not sure what’s happening. Then, as I start falling, my thoughts rush with disbelief: I’ve slipped on my stupid, cheap, shiny-soled boots. I’m tumbling right over, down the steps, like a three-year-old. I scrabble desperately at the stone balustrade, scraping my skin, wrenching my hand, dropping my Accessorize bag, grabbing for anything, but I can’t stop myself-

  Oh shit.

  The ground’s coming straight toward me-there’s nothing I can do-this is really, really going to hurt…

  Chapter 1

  How long have I been awake? Is it morning yet?

  I feel so rough. What happened last night? God, my head hurts. Okay, I’m never drinking again, ever.

  I feel so woozy I can’t even think, let alone…

  ***

  Oww. How long have I been awake?

  My head is splitting and kind of foggy. And my mouth is parched. This is the most monster hangover I’ve ever had. I’m never drinking again, ever.

  Is that a voice?

  No, I have to sleep…

  ***

  How long have I been awake? Five minutes? Half an hour, maybe? It’s kind of hard to tell.

  What day is it, anyway?

  For a moment I just lie still. My head is pounding with a rhythmic pain, like some sort of massive concrete-breaker. I’m dry-throated and aching all over. My skin feels like sandpaper.

  Where was I last night? What’s wrong with my brain? I
t’s like a fog has descended over everything.

  I’m never drinking again. I must have alcohol poisoning or something. I’m trying to remember last night as hard as I can-but all that’s coming into my head is stupid stuff. Old memories and images from the past, flashing by in random order, like some kind of iPod shuffle in my brain.

  Sunflowers waving against a blue sky…

  Amy as a newborn baby, looking like a little pink sausage in a blanket…

  A plate of salty french fries on a wooden pub table; hot sunshine on my neck; my dad sitting opposite in a Panama hat, blowing out cigar smoke and telling me, “Eat up, sweetheart”…

  The sack race at school. Oh God, not this memory again. I try to block it out, but too late, it’s rushing in… I’m seven years old, it’s sports day, and I’m winning by miles, but it feels so uncomfortable to be out front that I stop and wait for all my friends. They catch up-then somehow in the melee I trip and wind up coming in last. I can still feel the humiliation, hear the laughter, feel the dust in my throat, the taste of bananas…

  Hang on. Somehow I force my brain to hold steady for a moment.

  Bananas.

  Through the fog another memory is glimmering. I’m desperately trying to retrieve it, to reach for it…

  Yes. Got it. Banana cocktails.

  We were drinking cocktails at some club. That’s all I can remember. Bloody banana cocktails. What on earth did they put in them?

  I can’t even open my eyes. They feel heavy and stuck down, like that time I used false eyelashes with dodgy glue from the market, then tottered into the bathroom the next morning to find one eye glued shut with what looked like a dead spider on top of it. Really attractive, Lexi.

  Cautiously, I move a hand up to my chest and hear a rustle of sheets. They don’t sound like the ones at home. And there’s a weird lemony smell in the air, and I’m wearing some soft cottony T-shirt thing I don’t recognize. Where am I? What on earth-