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Chapter 3

They've made me a nice strong cup of tea. Because that cures amnesia, doesn't it, a cup of tea? No, stop it. Don't be so sarky. I'm grateful for the tea. At least it's something to hold on to. At least it's something real.Advertisement

As Dr. Harman talks about neurological exams and CT scans, I'm somehow managing to keep it together. I'm nodding calmly, as if to say, “Yeah, no problem. I'm cool with all of this.” But inside I'm not remotely cool. I'm freaking. The truth keeps hitting me in the guts, over and over, till I feel giddy. When at last he gets paged and has to leave, I feel a huge sense of relief. I can't be talked at anymore. I'm not following any of what he says, anyway. I take a gulp of tea and flop back on my pillows. (Okay, I take it all back about the tea. It's the best thing I've tasted for a long time.) Maureen has gone off duty and Nicole has stayed in the room and is scribbling on my chart. “How are you feeling?” 34 “Really, really... really weird.” I try to smile. “I don't blame you.” She smiles back sympathetically. “Just take it easy. Don't push yourself. You've got a lot to take in. Your brain is trying to reboot itself.” She consults her watch and writes down the time. “When people get amnesia,” I venture, “do the missing memories come back?” “Usually.” She gives a reassuring nod. I shut my eyes tight and try throwing my mind back as hard as I can. Waiting for it to net something, snag on something. But there's nothing. Just black, frictionless nothing. “So, tell me about 2007.” I open my eyes. “Who's prime minister now? And president of America?” “That would be Tony Blair,” replies Nicole. “And President Bush.” “Oh. Same.” I cast around. “So...have they solved global warming? Or cured AIDS?” Nicole shrugs. “Not yet.” You'd think a bit more would have happened in three years. You'd think the world would have moved on. I'm a bit unimpressed by 2007, to be honest. “Would you like a magazine?” Nicole asks. “I'm just going to sort you out some breakfast.” She disappears out of the door, then returns and hands me a copy of Hello! I run my eyes down the headlinesand feel a jolt of shock. “ 'Jennifer Aniston and Her New Man.'” I read the words aloud uncertainly. “What new man? Why would she need a new man?”

“Oh yes.” Nicole follows my gaze, unconcerned. “You know she split up from Brad Pitt?” “Jennifer and Brad split?” I stare up at her, aghast. “You can't be serious! They can't have done!”

“He went off with Angelina Jolie. They've got a daughter.” “No!” I wail. “But Jen and Brad were so perfect together! They looked so good, and they had that lovely wedding picture and everything ” “They're divorced now.” Nicole shrugs, like it's no big deal. I can't get over this. Jennifer and Brad are divorced. The world is a different place. “Everyone's pretty much got used to it.” Nicole pats my shoulder soothingly. “I'll get you some breakfast. Would you like full English, continental, or fruit basket? Or all three?” “Um... continental, please. Thanks very much.” I open the magazine, then put it down again. “Hang on. Fruit basket? Did the NHS suddenly get a load of money or something?” “This isn't NHS.” She smiles. “You're in the private wing.” Private? I can't afford to go private. “I'll just refresh your tea...” She picks up the smart china pot and starts to pour. “Stop!” I exclaim in panic. I can't have any more tea. It probably costs fifty quid a cup. “Something wrong?” Nicole says in surprise. “I can't afford all this,” I say in an embarrassed rush. “I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm in this posh room. I should have been taken to an NHS hospital. I'm happy to move...” “It's all covered by your private health insurance,” she says. “Don't worry.” “Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Oh, right.” I took out private health insurance? Well, of course I did. I'm twenty-?eight now. I'm sensible. 36 I'm twenty-?eight years old. It hits me right in the stomach, as though for the first time. I'm a different person. I'm not me anymore. I mean, obviously I'm still me. But I'm twenty-?eight-?yearold me. Whoever the hell that is. I peer at my twenty-?eightyear- old hand as though for clues. Someone who can afford private health insurance, obviously, and gets a really good manicure, and... Wait a minute. Slowly I turn my head and focus again on the glossy Louis Vuitton. No. It's not possible. This zillion-?pound, designer, moviestar- type bag couldn't really be “Nicole?” I swallow, trying to sound nonchalant. “D'you think... Is that bag... mine?” “Should be.” Nicole nods. “I'll just check for you...” She opens the bag, pulls out a matching Louis Vuitton wallet, and snaps it open. “Yes, it's yours.” She turns the wallet around to display a platinum American Express card with Lexi Smart printed across it. My brain is short-?circuiting as I stare at the embossed letters. That's my platinum credit card. This is my bag. “But these bags cost, like... a thousand quid.” My voice is strangled. “I know they do.” Nicole suddenly laughs. “Go on, relax. It's yours!” Gingerly I stroke the handle, hardly daring to touch it. I can't believe this belongs to me. I mean... where did I get it? Am I earning loads of money or something? “So, I was really in a car crash?” I look up, suddenly wanting to know everything about myself, all at once. “I was really driving? In a Mercedes?” “Apparently.” She takes in my expression of disbelief. “Didn't you have a Mercedes in 2004, then?” pqdm.com