Free Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella Page A

Claus.
    “Mum…” I try to control my frustration. “Why are you showing me a dog?”
    “Darling, it’s Tosca!” Mum appears wounded. “She would have looked very different in 2004. And here’s Raphael with Amy last week, both looking lovely…”
    “I look
hideous
.” Amy snatches the picture and rips it up before I can even see it.
    “Stop ripping up the pictures!” I almost yell. “Mum, did you bring photographs of anything else? Like people?”
    “Hey, Lexi, do you remember this?” Amy comes forward, holding up a distinctive necklace with a rose made out of jade. I squint at it, trying desperately to dredge some memory up.
    “No,” I say at last. “It doesn’t jog anything at all.”
    “Cool. Can I have it, then?”
    “Amy!” says Mum. She riffles through the pictures in her hand with dissatisfaction. “Maybe we should just wait for Eric to come with the wedding DVD. If that doesn’t trigger your memory, nothing will.”
    The wedding DVD.
    My wedding.
    Every time I think about this, my stomach curls up with a kind of excited, nervous anticipation. I have a wedding DVD. I had a wedding! The thought is alien. I can’t even imagine myself as a bride. Did I wear a pouffy dress with a train and a veil and some hideous floral headdress? I can’t even bring myself to ask.
    “So…he seems nice,” I say. “Eric, I mean. My husband.”
    “He’s super.” Mum nods absently, still leafing through pictures of dogs. “He does a lot for charity, you know. Or the company does, I should say. But it’s his own company, so it’s all the same.”
    “He has his own company?” I frown, confused. “I thought he was a real-estate agent.”
    “It’s a company that
sells properties,
darling. Big loft developments all over London. They sold off a large part of it last year, but he still retains a controlling interest.”
    “He made ten million quid,” says Amy, who’s still crouched down by the bag of photos.
    “He
what
?” I stare at her.
    “He’s stinking rich.” She looks up. “Oh, come on. Don’t say you hadn’t guessed that?”
    “Amy!” says Mum. “Don’t be so vulgar!”
    I can’t quite speak. In fact, I’m feeling a bit faint. Ten million quid?
    There’s a knock at the door. “Lexi? May I come in?”
    Oh my God. It’s him. I hastily check my reflection and spray myself with some Chanel perfume that I found in the Louis Vuitton bag.
    “Come in, Eric!” calls Mum.
    The door swings open—and there he is, manhandling two shopping bags, another bunch of flowers, and a gift basket full of fruit. He’s wearing a striped shirt and tan trousers, a yellow cashmere sweater, and loafers with tassels.
    “Hi, darling.” He puts all his stuff down on the floor, then comes over to the bed and kisses me gently on the cheek. “How are you doing?”
    “Much better, thanks.” I smile up at him.
    “But she still doesn’t know who you are,” Amy puts in. “You’re just some guy in a yellow sweater.”
    Eric doesn’t look remotely fazed. Maybe he’s used to Amy being bolshy.
    “Well, we’re going to tackle that today.” He hefts one of the bags, sounding energized. “I’ve brought along photos, DVDs, souvenirs…. Let’s reintroduce you to your life. Barbara, why don’t you put on the wedding DVD?” He hands a shiny disc to Mum. “And to get you started, Lexi…our wedding album.” He heaves an expensive-looking calfskin album onto the bed and I feel a twang of disbelief as I see the embossed words.
             
    A LEXIA AND E RIC
    JUNE 3, 2005
             
    I open it and my stomach seems to drop a mile. I’m staring at a black-and-white photograph of me as a bride. I’m wearing a long white sheath dress; my hair’s in a sleek knot; and I’m holding a minimalist bouquet of lilies. Nothing pouffy in sight.
    Wordlessly I turn to the next page. There’s Eric standing next to me, dressed in black tie. On the following page we’re holding glasses of champagne and