“Wow. This is nice.” I run my fingers cautiously over the bracelet, then reach in again and retrieve two chandelier earrings. Caught up among the knotted strands of gold is a ring, and after a bit of careful unweaving I manage to untangle it.
There's a general intake of breath. Someone whispers, “Oh my God.” I'm holding a huge, shiny, diamond solitaire ring. The type you get in movies. The type you see on navy-?blue velvet in jewelers' windows with no price tag. At last I tear my gaze away and see that both nurses are riveted too. “Hey!” Nicole suddenly exclaims. “There's something else. Hold out your hand, Lexi ” She tips up the bag and taps the corner. There's a moment's stillnessthen out onto my palm falls a plain gold band. There's a kind of rushing in my ears as I stare down at it. “You must be married!” Nicole says brightly. No. No way. Surely I'd know if I was married? Surely I'd sense it deep down, amnesia or no amnesia. I turn the ring over in my clumsy fingers, feeling hot and cold all over. “She is.” The second nurse nods. “You are. Don't you remember, love?” I shake my head dumbly. “You don't remember your wedding?” Nicole looks agog. “You don't remember anything about your husband?” “No.” I look up suddenly with horror. “I didn't marry Loser Dave, did I?”
“I don't know!” Nicole gives a giggle and claps her hand over her mouth. “I'm sorry. You just looked so appalled. D'you know what his name is?” She looks at the other nurse, who shakes her head. “Sorry. I've been on the other ward. But I know there's a husband.” “Look, the ring's engraved!” Nicole exclaims, taking it from me. “ 'A.S. and E.G. June 3,2005.' Coming up on their two-?year anniversary.” She hands it back. “Is that you?” I'm breathing fast. It's true. It's carved here in solid gold. “I'm A.S.,” I say at last. “A for Alexia. But I have no idea who E.G. is.”
The E from my phone, I suddenly realize. That must have been him texting me. My husband. “I think I need some cold water....” Feeling giddy, I totter into the bathroom, splash water on my face, then lean forward across the cold enamel basin and stare at my bashed-?up, familiar-?unfamiliar reflection. I feel like I'm about to have a meltdown. Is someone still playing a gigantic prank on me? Am I hallucinating? I'm twenty-?eight, I have perfect white teeth, a Louis Vuitton bag, a card saying “director,” and a husband. How the hell did all that happen?
Chapter 4
Edward. Ethan. Errol. It's an hour later and I'm still in a state of shock.
I keep looking in disbelief at my wedding ring resting on the bedside cabinet. I, Lexi Smart, have a husband. I don't feel old enough to have a husband. Elliott. Eamonn. Egbert. Please, God, not Egbert. I've ransacked the Louis Vuitton bag. I've looked all the way through the diary. I've skimmed through all my stored mobile numbers. But I still haven't found out what E stands for. You'd think I'd remember my own husband's name. You'd think it would be engraved in my psyche. When the door opens, I stiffen, almost expecting it to be him. But it's Mum again, looking pink and harassed. “Those traffic wardens have no hearts. I was only twenty minutes at the vet, and” “Mum, I've got amnesia.” I cut her off in a rush.
“I've lost my memory. I've lost a whole chunk of my life. I'm really... freaked out.” “Oh. Yes, the nurse mentioned it.” Her gaze briefly meets mine, then flicks away again. Mum's not the greatest at eye contact; she never has been. I used to get quite frustrated by it when I was younger, but now I just see it as one of those Mum things. Like the way she won't learn the names of TV programs properly, even after you've told her five hundred times it's not The Simpsons Family. Now she's sitting down and peeling off her waistcoat. “I know exactly how you feel,” she begins. “My memory gets worse every day. In fact, the other day” “Mum...” I inhale deeply, trying to stay calm. “You don't know how I feel. This isn't like forgetting where you put something. I've lost three years of my life! I don't know anything about myself in 2 0 0 7 . I don't look the same, none of my things are the same, and I found these rings which apparently belong to me, and I just have to know something...” My voice is jumping about with apprehension. “Mum... am I really married?” “Of course you're married!” Mum appears surprised that I need to ask. “Eric will be here any minute. I told you that earlier.“ ”Eric's my husband?“ I stare at her. ”I thought Eric was a dog.“ ”A dog?“ Mum raises her eyebrows. ”Goodness, darling! You did get a bump on the head!“ Eric. I'm rolling the name around my head experimentally. My husband, Eric. It means nothing to me. It's not a name I feel either way about. 7 love you, Eric. With my body I thee worship, Eric. 46 I wait for some sort of reaction in my body. Surely I should respond? Surely all my love cells should be waking up? But I feel totally blank and nothing-?y. ”He had a very important meeting this morning. But otherwise he's been here with you night and day.“ ”Right.“ I digest this. ”So... so what's he like?“ ”He's very nice,“ says Mum, as though she's talking about a sponge cake. ”Is h e . . . ” I stop. I can't ask if he's good-?looking. That would be really shallow. And what if she avoids the question and says he has a wonderful sense of humor? What if he's obese? Oh God. What if I got to know his beautiful inner soul as we exchanged messages over the Internet, only now I've forgotten all about that and I'll have to pretend his looks don't matter to me? We lapse into silence and I find myself eyeing up Mum's dressLaura Ashley, circa 1975. Frills come in and out of fashion, but somehow she doesn't notice. She still wears the same clothes she wore when she first met my dad, and the same long flicky hair, the same frosted lipstick. It's like she thinks she's still in her twenties. Not that I would ever mention this to her. We've never been into cozy mother-?daughter chats. I once tried to confide in her, when I split up with my first boyfriend. Big mistake. She didn't sympathize, or hug me, or even really listen. Instead she got all pink and defensive and sharp with me, as if I was deliberately trying to wound her by talking about relationships. I felt like I was negotiating a land-?mine site, treading on sensitive bits of her life I didn't even realize existed.