“Don't worry. It wasn't you. I mean, it was you but it wasn't you ” Fi trails off. She seems pretty confused too. “I'd better go.” I glance at my watch and get to my feet. “Maybe Loser Dave will have some answers.” “Hey, Lexi,” says Fi, looking embarrassed. “You missed one.” She jerks her thumb at my skirt. I reach behind and 242 pull off yet another Post-?it. It reads Simon Johnson: I would. “I so wouldn't,” I say, crumpling it. “Wouldn't you?” Fi grins wickedly. “I would.” “No, you wouldn't!” I can't help a giggle at her expression. “I reckon he's quite fit.” “He's ancient! He probably can't even do it anymore.” I catch her eye and suddenly we're both laughing helplessly, like in the old days. I drop my jacket and sit on the arm of the sofa, clutching my stomach, unable to stop. I don't think I've laughed like this since the accident. It's like all my strains and tensions are coming out; everything's being laughed away. “God, I've missed you,” Fi says at last, still gulping. “I've missed you too.” I take a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts. “Fi, really. I'm sorry for whatever I was like... or whatever I did” “Don't be a sap.” Fi cuts me off kindly but firmly, handing me my jacket. “Go and see Loser Dave.” Loser Dave's done really well for himself, it turns out. I mean, really well. He now works for Auto Repair Workshop at their head office, and has some quite senior sales role. As he gets out of the lift, he's all dapper in a pin-?striped suit, with much longer hair than the buzz cut he used to have, and rimless glasses. I can't help jumping up from my seat in the lobby and exclaiming, “Loser Dave! Look at you!” Immediately he winces, and looks warily around the lobby. “No one calls me Loser Dave anymore,” he snaps in a low voice. “I'm David, okay?”
“Oh, right. Sorry... e r . . . David. Not Butch?” I can't resist adding, and he shoots me a glare. His paunch has disappeared too, I notice as he leans against the foyer desk to talk to the receptionist. He must be working out properly these days, as opposed to his old routine, which was five heaves of a dumbbell, followed by cracking open a beer and turning on the soccer. Now I look back, I can't believe I put up with him. Scuzzy boxer shorts littered over his flat. Crude, antifeminist jokes. Complete paranoia that I was desperate to trap him into marriage and three kids and domestic drudgery. I mean. He should be so lucky. “You're looking good, Lexi.” As he turns away from the reception desk he eyes me up and down. “It's been a while. Saw you on the telly, of course. That Ambition show. Kind of program I might have wanted to take part in once.” He shoots me a pitying glance. “But I've leapfrogged over that level now. I'm on the fast track. Shall we go?” I'm sorry, I just can't take Loser Dave seriously as “David the fast-?track businessman.” We head out of the office toward what Loser Dave calls a “good local eatery,” and all the while he's on his phone, talking loudly about “deals” and “mill,” his eyes constantly sliding toward me. “Wow,” I say as he puts his phone away at last. “You're really senior now.” “Got a Ford Focus.” He casually shoots his cuffs. “Company AmEx card. Use of the corporate ski chalet.” “That's great!” We've reached the restaurant now, which is a small Italian place. We sit down and I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands. Loser Dave seems a bit edgy, fiddling with the plastic menu and endlessly checking his phone. “David,” I begin. “I don't know if you got the message about why I wanted to meet up?” 244 “My secretary told me you wanted to talk over old times?” he says cautiously. “Yeah. The thing is, I had this car accident. And I'm trying to piece together my life, work out what happened, talk about our breakup...” Loser Dave sighs. “Sweetheart, is this really a good idea, dredging all that up again? We both had our say at the time.“ ”Dredging up all what?“ ”You know...“ He looks around and catches the eye of a nearby lounging waiter. ”Could we get some service here? Some vino? Bottle of house red, please.“ ”But I don't know! I have no idea what happened!“ I lean farther forward, trying to get his attention. ”I have amnesia. Didn't your secretary explain? I don't remember anything.“ Very slowly Loser Dave turns back and stares at me, as though suspecting a joke. ”You've got amnesia?“ ”Yes! I've been in hospital, everything.“ ”Fuck me.“ He shakes his head as a waiter comes over and goes through the rigamarole of pouring and tasting. ”So you don't remember anything?“ ”Nothing from the last three years. And what I want to know is, why did we split? Did something happen... or did we drift apart... or what?“ Loser Dave doesn't answer straightaway. He's eyeing me over his glass. ”So is there anything you do remember?“ ”The last thing is the night before my dad's funeral. I was in this nightclub, and I was really pissed off with you because you didn't turn u p . . . and then I fell down some steps in the rain And that's all I remember.”
