Remember Me?
Page 10
“Are you joking? I can't even drive!” When did I learn to drive? When did I suddenly start to afford designer handbags and Mercedes cars, for God's sake? “Look in your bag,” suggests Nicole. “Maybe the things inside will jog your memory.” “Okay. Good idea.” There are flutters in my stomach as I pull open the bag. A smell of leather, mixed with some unfamiliar perfume, rises from the inside. I reach inand the first thing I pull out is a tiny gold-?plated Estee Lauder compact. At once I flip it open to have a look. “You've had some cuts to the face, Lexi,” Nicole says quickly. “Don't be alarmedthey'll heal.” As I meet my own eyes in the tiny mirror, I feel sudden relief. It's still me, even if there's a huge graze on my eyelid. I move the mirror about, trying to get a good view, flinching as I see the bandage on my head. I tilt it farther down: there are my lips, looking weirdly full and pink, as if I was snogging all last night, and Oh my God. Those aren't my teeth. They're all white. They're all gleamy. I'm looking at a stranger's mouth. “Are you okay?” Nicole interrupts my daze. “Lexi?” “I'd like a proper mirror, please,” I manage at last. “I need to see myself. Have you got one you could bring me?” “There's one in the bathroom.” She comes forward. “In fact, it's a good idea for you to get moving. I'll help you.” I heave myself out of the high metal bed. My legs are wobbly, but I manage to totter into the adjoining bathroom. “Now,” she says, before she closes the door. “You have had some cuts and bruising, so your appearance may be a little bit of a shock. Are you ready?” 38 “Yes. I'll be fine. Just show me.” I take a deep breath and steel myself. She swings the door shut to reveal a full-?length mirror on the back of it. Is that... me? I can't speak. My legs have turned to jelly. I grip a towel rail, trying to keep control of myself. “I know your injuries look bad.” Nicole has a strong arm around me. “But believe me, they're just surface wounds.” I'm not even looking at the cuts. Or the bandage or the staple on my forehead. It's what's underneath. “That's not...” I gesture at my reflection. “That's not what I look like.” I close my eyes and visualize my old self, just to make sure I'm not going crazy. Mouse-?colored frizzy hair, blue eyes, slightly fatter than I'd like to be. Nice-?ish face but nothing special. Black eyeliner and bright pink Tesco lipstick. The standard Lexi Smart look. Then I open my eyes again. A different girl is staring back at me. Some of my hair has been messed up by the crash, but the rest is a bright, unfamiliar shade of chestnut, all straight and sleek with not one bit of frizz. My toenails are perfectly pink and polished. My legs are tanned golden brown, and thinner than before. And more muscled. “What's changed?” Nicole is looking at my reflection curiously. “Everything!” I manage. “I look all... sheeny.” “Sheeny?” She laughs. “My hair, my legs, my teeth...” I can't take my eyes off those immaculate pearly whites. They must have cost a bloody fortune. “They're nice!” She nods politely. “No. No. No.” I'm shaking my head vigorously. “You don't understand. I have the worst teeth in the world. My nickname is 'Snaggletooth.'“ ”Shouldn't think it is anymore.“ Nicole raises an amused eyebrow. ”And I've lost loads of weight And my face is different; I'm not sure exactly how...“ I scan my features, trying to work it out. My eyebrows are thin and groomed... my lips seem fuller somehow.... I peer more closely, suddenly suspicious. Have I had something done? Have I turned into someone who has work done? I tear myself away from the mirror and pull the door open, my head spinning. ”Take it easy,“ Nicole warns, hurrying after me. ”You've had a shock to the system. Maybe you should take things one step at a time ” Ignoring her, I grab the Louis Vuitton bag and start yanking things out of it, examining each item closely as though it might impart a message. God, just look at this stuff. A Tiffany key fob, a pair of Prada sunglasses, a lip gloss: Lancome, not Tesco. And here's a small, pale-?green Smythson diary. I hesitate for a moment, psyching myself upthen open it. With a jolt I see my own familiar handwriting. Lexi Smart, 2007 is scribbled inside the front cover. I must have written those words. I must have doodled that feathery bird in the corner. But I have absolutely no recollection of doing so.
Feeling as if I'm spying on myself, I start leafing through the tiny pages. There are appointments on every page: Lunch 12:30. Drinks P. Meeting Gillartwork. But they're all written in initials and abbreviations. I can't glean much from this. I flick onward to the end and a bunch of business cards falls out of the diary. I pick one up, glance down at the name-?and freeze. It's a card from the company I work at, Deller Carpets although it's been given a trendy new logo. And the name is printed in clear charcoal gray. LEXI SMART DIRECTOR, FLOORING I feel as though the ground has fallen away from me. “Lexi?” Nicole is regarding me in concern. “You've gone very pale.” “Look at this.” I hold the card out, trying to keep a grip on myself. “It says 'director' on my business card. That's, like, boss of the whole department. How could I possibly be the boss?” My voice rises more shrilly than I intended. “I've only been at the company a year. I didn't even get a bonus!” Hands trembling, I slot the card back between the diary pages and reach into the bag again. I have to find my phone. I have to call my friends, my family, someone who knows what's going on Got it. It's a sleek new model that I don't recognize, but it's still pretty simple to work out. I haven't got any voice messages, although there's a new unread text. I select it and peer at the tiny screen. Running late, I'll call when I can. E. Who's “E”? I rack my brains but can't think of a single person I know whose name begins with E. Someone new at work? I go to my stored textsand the first one is from “E”: I don't think so. E. 41 Is “E” my new best friend or something? I'll trawl through my messages later. Right now I have to talk to someone who knows me, who can tell me exactly what's been going on in my life these last three years... I speed-?dial Fi's number and wait, drumming my nails, for a reply. “Hi, you've reached Fiona Roper. Please leave a message.” “Hey, Fi,” I say as soon as the beep sounds. “It's me, Lexi! Listen, I know this'U sound weird, but I've had an accident. I'm in hospital and I just... I need to talk to you. It's quite important. Can you give me a call? Bye!” As I close the phone, Nicole puts a hand on it reprovingly. “You're not supposed to use these in here,” she says. “You can use a landline, though. I'll set you up with a receiver.” “Okay.” I nod. “Thanks.” I'm about to start scrolling through all my old texts, when there's a knock on the door and another nurse comes in, holding a pair of bags. “I've got your clothes here.” She puts a shopping bag down on my bed. I reach in, pull out a pair of dark jeans, and stare at them. What are these? The waist is too high and they're way too narrow, almost like tights. How are you supposed to get a pair of boots on under those? “Oh, 7 For All Mankind,” says Nicole, raising her eyebrows. “Very nice.” Seven for what? “I'd love a pair of those.” She strokes a leg admiringly. “About two hundred quid a pop, aren't they?” Two hundred pounds? For jeans? “And here's your jewelry,” adds the other nurse, holding out a transparent plastic bag. “It had to come off for the scans.” 42 Still stunned by the jeans, I take the bag. I've never been a jewelry-?type person, unless you count TopShop earrings and a Swatch. Feeling like a kid with a Christmas stocking, I reach into the bag and pull out a tangle of gold. There's an expensive-?looking bracelet made of hammered gold, and a matching necklace, plus a watch.
Feeling as if I'm spying on myself, I start leafing through the tiny pages. There are appointments on every page: Lunch 12:30. Drinks P. Meeting Gillartwork. But they're all written in initials and abbreviations. I can't glean much from this. I flick onward to the end and a bunch of business cards falls out of the diary. I pick one up, glance down at the name-?and freeze. It's a card from the company I work at, Deller Carpets although it's been given a trendy new logo. And the name is printed in clear charcoal gray. LEXI SMART DIRECTOR, FLOORING I feel as though the ground has fallen away from me. “Lexi?” Nicole is regarding me in concern. “You've gone very pale.” “Look at this.” I hold the card out, trying to keep a grip on myself. “It says 'director' on my business card. That's, like, boss of the whole department. How could I possibly be the boss?” My voice rises more shrilly than I intended. “I've only been at the company a year. I didn't even get a bonus!” Hands trembling, I slot the card back between the diary pages and reach into the bag again. I have to find my phone. I have to call my friends, my family, someone who knows what's going on Got it. It's a sleek new model that I don't recognize, but it's still pretty simple to work out. I haven't got any voice messages, although there's a new unread text. I select it and peer at the tiny screen. Running late, I'll call when I can. E. Who's “E”? I rack my brains but can't think of a single person I know whose name begins with E. Someone new at work? I go to my stored textsand the first one is from “E”: I don't think so. E. 41 Is “E” my new best friend or something? I'll trawl through my messages later. Right now I have to talk to someone who knows me, who can tell me exactly what's been going on in my life these last three years... I speed-?dial Fi's number and wait, drumming my nails, for a reply. “Hi, you've reached Fiona Roper. Please leave a message.” “Hey, Fi,” I say as soon as the beep sounds. “It's me, Lexi! Listen, I know this'U sound weird, but I've had an accident. I'm in hospital and I just... I need to talk to you. It's quite important. Can you give me a call? Bye!” As I close the phone, Nicole puts a hand on it reprovingly. “You're not supposed to use these in here,” she says. “You can use a landline, though. I'll set you up with a receiver.” “Okay.” I nod. “Thanks.” I'm about to start scrolling through all my old texts, when there's a knock on the door and another nurse comes in, holding a pair of bags. “I've got your clothes here.” She puts a shopping bag down on my bed. I reach in, pull out a pair of dark jeans, and stare at them. What are these? The waist is too high and they're way too narrow, almost like tights. How are you supposed to get a pair of boots on under those? “Oh, 7 For All Mankind,” says Nicole, raising her eyebrows. “Very nice.” Seven for what? “I'd love a pair of those.” She strokes a leg admiringly. “About two hundred quid a pop, aren't they?” Two hundred pounds? For jeans? “And here's your jewelry,” adds the other nurse, holding out a transparent plastic bag. “It had to come off for the scans.” 42 Still stunned by the jeans, I take the bag. I've never been a jewelry-?type person, unless you count TopShop earrings and a Swatch. Feeling like a kid with a Christmas stocking, I reach into the bag and pull out a tangle of gold. There's an expensive-?looking bracelet made of hammered gold, and a matching necklace, plus a watch.
