February 2020
My husband doesn’t recognize my face.
I feel him staring at me as I drive, and wonder what he sees.
Nobody else looks familiar to him either, but it is still strange to think
that the man I married wouldn’t be able to pick me out in a police
lineup.
I know the expression his face is wearing without having to look.
It’s the sulky, petulant, “I told you so” version, so I concentrate on
the road instead. I need to. The snow is falling faster now, it’s like
driving in a whiteout, and the windscreen wipers on my Morris Minor
Traveller are struggling to cope. The car—like me—was made in
1978. If you look after things, they will last a lifetime, but I suspect
my husband might like to trade us both in for a younger model.
Adam has checked his seat belt a hundred times since we left home,
and his hands are balled into conjoined fists on his lap. The journey
from London up to Scotland should have taken no more than eight
hours, but I daren’t drive any faster in this storm. Even though it’s
starting to get dark, and it seems we might be lost in more ways
than one.
Can a weekend away save a marriage? That’s what my husband
said when the counselor suggested it. Every time his words replay in
my mind, a new list of regrets writes itself inside my head. To have
wasted so much of our lives by not really living them, makes me feel
so sad. We weren’t always the people we are now, but our memories
of the past can make liars of us all. That’s why I’m focusing on the
future. Mine. Some days I still picture him in it, but there are
moments when I imagine what it would be like to be on my own
again. It isn’t what I want, but I do wonder whether it might be best
for both of us. Time can change relationships like the sea reshapes
the sand.
He said we should postpone this trip when we saw the weather
warnings, but I couldn’t. We both know this weekend away is a last
chance to fix things. Or at least to try. He hasn’t forgotten that.
It’s not my husband’s fault that he forgets who I am.
Adam has a neurological glitch called prosopagnosia, which
means he cannot see distinguishing features on faces, including his
own. He has walked past me on the street on more than one
occasion, as though I were a stranger. The social anxiety it inevitably
causes affects us both. Adam can be surrounded by friends at a
party and still feel like he doesn’t know a single person in the room.
So we spend a lot of time alone. Together but apart. Just us. Face
blindness isn’t the only way my husband makes me feel invisible. He
did not want children—always said that he couldn’t bear the thought
of not recognizing their faces. He has lived with the condition his
whole life, and I have lived with it since we met. Sometimes a curse
can be a blessing.
My husband might not know my face, but there are other ways
he has learned to recognize me: the smell of my perfume, the sound
of my voice, the feel of my hand in his when he still used to hold it.
Marriages don’t fail, people do.
I am not the woman he fell in love with all those years ago. I
wonder whether he can tell how much older I look now? Or if he
notices the infiltration of gray in my long blond hair? Forty might be
the new thirty, but my skin is creased with wrinkles that were rarely
caused by laughter. We used to have so much in common, sharing
our secrets and dreams, not just a bed. We still finish each other’s
sentences, but these days we get them wrong.
“I feel like we’re going in circles,” he mutters beneath his breath,
and for a moment I’m not sure whether he’s referring to our
marriage or my navigational skills. The ominous-looking slate sky
seems to reflect his mood, and it’s the first time he’s spoken for
several miles. Snow has settled on the road ahead, and the wind is
picking up, but it’s still nothing compared with the storm brewing
inside the car.
“Can you just find the directions I printed out and read them
again?” I say, trying, but failing, to hide the irritation in my voice.
“I’m sure we must be close.”
Unlike me, my husband has aged impossibly well. His forty-plus
years are cleverly disguised by a good haircut, tanned skin, and a
body shaped by an overindulgence in half-marathons. He has always
been very good at running away, especially from reality.
Adam is a screenwriter. He started far below the bottom rung of
Hollywood’s retractable ladder, not quite able to reach it on his own.
He tells people that he went straight from school into the movie
business, which is only an off-white lie. He got a job working at the
Electric Cinema in Notting Hill when he was sixteen, selling snacks
and film tickets. By the time he was twenty-one, he’d sold the rights
to his first screenplay. Rock Paper Scissors has never made it beyond
development, but Adam got an agent out of the deal, and the agent
got him work, writing an adaptation of a novel. The book wasn’t a
bestseller, but the film version—a low-budget British affair—won a
Bafta, and a writer was born. It wasn’t the same as seeing his own
characters come to life on-screen—the roads to our dreams are
rarely direct—but it did mean that Adam could quit selling popcorn
and write full-time.
Screenwriters don’t tend to be household names, so some people
might not know his, but I’d be willing to bet money they’ve seen at
least one of the films he’s written. Despite our problems, I’m so
proud of everything he has achieved. Adam Wright built a reputation
in the business for turning undiscovered novels into blockbuster
movies, and he’s still always on the lookout for the next. I’ll admit
that I sometimes feel jealous, but I think that’s only natural given
the number of nights when he would rather take a book to bed. My
husband doesn’t cheat on me with other women, or men, he has
love affairs with their words.
Human beings are a strange and unpredictable species. I prefer
the company of animals, which is one of the many reasons why I
work at Battersea Dogs Home. Four-legged creatures tend to make
better companions than those with two, and dogs don’t hold
grudges or know how to hate. I’d rather not think about the other
reasons why I work there; sometimes the dust of our memories is
best left unswept.
The view beyond the windscreen has offered an ever-changing
dramatic landscape during our journey. There have been trees in
every shade of green, giant glistening lochs, snowcapped mountains,
and an infinite amount of perfect, unspoiled space. I am in love with
the Scottish Highlands. If there is a more beautiful place on Earth, I
have yet to find it. The world seems so much bigger up here than in
London. Or perhaps I am smaller. I find peace in the quiet stillness
and the remoteness of it all. We haven’t seen another soul for more
than an hour, which makes this the perfect location for what I have
planned.
We pass a stormy sea on our left and carry on north, the sound
of crashing waves serenading us. As the winding road shrinks into a
narrow lane, the sky—which has changed from blue, to pink, to
purple, and now black—is reflected in each of the partially frozen
lochs we pass. Farther inland, a forest engulfs us. Ancient pine trees,
dusted with snow, and taller than our house, are being bent out of
shape by the storm as though they are matchsticks. The wind wails
like a ghost outside the car, constantly trying to blow us off course,
and when we slide a little on the icy road, I grip the steering wheel
so tight that the bones in my fingers seem to protrude through my
skin. I notice my wedding ring. A solid reminder that we are still
together, despite all the reasons we should perhaps be apart.
Nostalgia is a dangerous drug, but I enjoy the sensation of happier
memories flooding my mind. Maybe we’re not as lost as we feel. I
steal a glance at the man sitting beside me, wondering whether we
could still find our way back to us. Then I do something I haven’t
done for a long time, and reach to hold his hand.
“Stop!” he yells.
It all happens so fast. The blurred, snowy image of a stag
standing in the middle of the road ahead, my foot slamming on the
brake, the car swerving and spinning before finally skidding to a halt
just in front of the deer’s huge horns. It blinks twice in our direction
before calmly walking away as if nothing happened, disappearing
into the woods. Even the trees look cold.
My heart is thudding inside my chest as I reach for my handbag.
My trembling fingers find my purse and keys and almost all other
contents before locating my inhaler. I shake it and take a puff.
“Are you okay?” I ask, before taking another.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Adam replies.
I have bitten my tongue so many times already on this trip, it
must be full of holes.
“I don’t remember you having a better one,” I snap.
“An eight-hour drive for a weekend away…”
“We’ve been saying for ages that it might be nice to visit the
Highlands.”
“It might be nice to visit the moon, too, but I’d rather we talked
about it before you booked us on a rocket. You know how busy
things are for me right now.”
“Busy” has become a trigger word in our marriage. Adam wears
his busyness like a badge. Like a Boy Scout. It is something he is
proud of: a status symbol of his success. It makes him feel
important, and makes me want to throw the novels he adapts at his
head.
“We are where we are because you’re always too busy,” I say
through gritted, chattering teeth. It’s so cold in the car now, I can
see my own breath.
“I’m sorry, are you suggesting it’s my fault that we’re in
Scotland? In February? In the middle of a storm? This was your idea.
At least I won’t have to listen to your incessant nagging once we’ve
been crushed to death by a falling tree, or died from hypothermia in
this shit-can car you insist on driving.”
We never bicker like this in public, only in private. We’re both
pretty good at keeping up appearances and I find people see what
they want to see. But behind closed doors, things have been wrong
with Mr. and Mrs. Wright for a long time.
“If I’d had my phone, we’d be there by now,” he says,
rummaging around in the glove compartment for his beloved mobile,
which he can’t find. My husband thinks gadgets and gizmos are the
answer to all of life’s problems.
“I asked if you had everything you needed before we left the
house,” I say.
“I did have everything. My phone was in the glove compartment.”
“Then it would still be there. It’s not my job to pack your things
for you. I’m not your mother.”
I immediately regret saying it, but words don’t come with gift
receipts and you can’t take them back. Adam’s mother is at the top
of the long list of things he doesn’t like to talk about. I try to be
patient while he continues searching for his phone, despite knowing
he’ll never find it. He’s right. He did put it in the glove compartment.
But I took it out before we left home this morning and hid it in the
house. I plan to teach my husband an important lesson this
weekend and he doesn’t need his phone for that.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re back on the road and seem to be
making progress. Adam squints in the darkness as he studies the
directions I printed off—unless it’s a book or a manuscript, anything
written on paper instead of a screen seems to baffle him.
“You need to take the first right at the next roundabout,” he says,
sounding more confident than I would have expected.
We are soon reliant on the moon to light our way and hint at the
rise and fall of the snowy landscape ahead. There are no
streetlights, and the headlights on the Morris Minor barely light the
road in front of us. I notice that we are low on petrol again, but
haven’t seen anywhere to fill up for almost an hour. The snow is
relentless now, and there has been nothing but the dark outlines of
mountains and lochs for miles.
When we finally see a snow-covered old sign for Blackwater, the
relief in the car is palpable. Adam reads the last set of directions
with something bordering on enthusiasm.
“Cross the bridge, turn right when you pass a bench overlooking
the loch. The road will bend to the right, leading into the valley. If
you pass the pub, you’ve gone too far and missed the turning for the
property.”
“A pub dinner might be nice later,” I suggest.
Neither of us says anything when the Blackwater Inn comes into
view in the distance. I turn off before we reach the pub, but we still
get close enough to see that its windows are boarded up. The
ghostly building looks as though it has been derelict for a long time.
The winding road down into the valley is both spectacular and
terrifying. It looks like it has been chiseled out of the mountain by
hand. The track is barely wide enough for our little car, and there’s a
steep drop on one side with not a single crash barrier.
“I think I can see something,” Adam says, leaning closer to the
windscreen and peering into the darkness. All I can see is a black
sky and a blanket of white covering everything beneath it.
“Where?”
“There. Just beyond those trees.”
I slow down a little as he points at nothing. But then I notice
what looks like a large white building all on its own in the distance.
“It’s just a church,” he says, sounding defeated.
“That’s it!” I say, reading an old wooden sign up ahead.
“Blackwater Chapel is what we’re looking for. We must be here!”
“We’ve driven all this way to stay in … an old church?”
“A converted chapel, yes, and I did all the driving.”
I slow right down, and follow the snow-covered dirt track that
leads away from the single-lane road and into the floor of the valley.
We pass a tiny thatched cottage on the right—the only other building
I
can see for miles—then we cross a small bridge and are
immediately confronted by a flock of sheep. They are huddled
together, eerily illuminated by our headlights, and blocking our path.
I gently rev the engine, and try tapping the car horn, but they don’t
move. With their eyes glowing in the darkness they look a little
supernatural. Then I hear the sound of growling in the back of the
car.
Bob—our giant black Labrador—has been quiet for most of the
journey. At his age he mostly likes to sleep and eat, but he is afraid
of sheep. And feathers. I’m scared of silly things too, but I am right
to be. Bob’s growling does nothing to scare the herd. Adam opens
the car door without warning, and a flurry of snow immediately
blows inside, blasting us from all directions. I watch as he climbs
out, shields his face, then shoos the sheep, before opening a gate
that had been hidden from view behind them. I don’t know how
Adam saw it in the dark.
He climbs back into the car without a word, and I take my time
as we trundle the rest of the way. The track is dangerously close to
the edge of the loch and I can see why they named this place
Blackwater. As I pull up outside the old white chapel, I start to feel
better. It’s been an exhausting journey, but we made it, and I tell
myself that everything will be okay as soon as we get inside.
Stepping out into a blizzard is a shock to the system. I wrap my
coat around me, but the icy cold wind still knocks the air out of my
lungs and the snow pummels my face. I get Bob from the boot, and
the three of us trudge through the snow toward two large gothic
looking wooden doors. A converted chapel seemed romantic at first.
Quirky and fun. But now that we’re here, it does feel a bit like the
opening of our own horror film.
The chapel doors are locked.
“Did the owners mention anything about a key box?” Adam asks.
“No, they just said that the doors would be open,” I say.
I stare up at the imposing white building, shielding my eyes from
the unrelenting snow, and take in the sight of the thick white stone
walls, bell tower, and stained-glass windows. Bob starts to growl
again, which is unlike him, but perhaps there are more sheep or
other animals in the distance? Something that Adam and I just can’t
see?
“Maybe there is another door around the back?” Adam suggests.
“I hope you’re right. The car already looks like it might need
digging out of the snow.”
We traipse toward the side of the chapel, with Bob leading the
way, straining on his lead as though tracking something. Although
there are endless stained-glass windows, we don’t find any more
doors. And despite the front of the building being illuminated by
exterior lights—the ones we could see from a distance—inside, it’s
completely dark. We carry on, heads bowed against the relentless
weather until we have come full circle.
“What now?” I ask.
But Adam doesn’t answer.
I look up, shielding my eyes from the snow, and see that he is
staring at the front of the chapel. The huge wooden doors are now
wide open.
ADAM
If every story had a happy ending, then we’d have no reason to start
again. Life is all about choices, and learning how to put ourselves
back together when we fall apart. Which we all do. Even the people
who pretend they don’t. Just because I can’t recognize my wife’s
face, it doesn’t mean I don’t know who she is.
“The doors were closed before, right?” I ask, but Amelia doesn’t
answer.
We stand side by side outside the chapel, both shivering, with
snow blowing around us in all directions. Even Bob looks miserable,
and he’s always happy. It’s been a long and tedious journey, made
worse by the steady drumbeat of a headache at the base of my
skull. I drank more than I should with someone I shouldn’t have last
night. Again. In alcohol’s defense, I’ve done some equally stupid
things while completely sober.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” my wife says eventually, but I
think we’ve both already hurdled over several.
“The doors didn’t just open by themselves—”
“Maybe the housekeeper heard us knocking?” she interrupts.
“The housekeeper? Which website did you use to book this place
again?”
“It wasn’t on a website. I won a weekend away in the staff
Christmas raffle.”
I don’t reply for a few seconds, but silence can stretch time so it
feels longer. Plus, my face feels so cold now, I’m not sure I can
move my mouth. But it turns out that I can.
“Just so I’ve got this clear … you won a weekend away, to stay in
an old Scottish church, in a staff raffle at Battersea Dogs Home?”
“It’s a chapel, but yes. What’s wrong with that? We have a raffle
every year. People donate gifts, I won something good for a
change.”
“Great,” I reply. “This has definitely been ‘good’ so far.”
She knows I detest long journeys. I hate cars and driving full
stop—never even took a test—so eight hours trapped in her tin-can
antique on four wheels, during a storm, isn’t my idea of fun. I look
at the dog for moral support, but Bob is too busy trying to eat
snowflakes as they fall from the sky. Amelia, sensing defeat, uses
that passive-aggressive singsong tone that used to amuse me.
These days it makes me wish I was deaf.
“Shall we go inside? Make the best of it? If it’s really bad we’ll
just leave, find a hotel, or sleep in the car if we have to.”
I’d rather eat my own liver than get back in her car.
My wife says the same things lately, over and over, and her
words always feel like a pinch or a slap. “I don’t understand you”
irritates me the most, because what’s to understand? She likes
animals more than she likes people; I prefer fiction. I suppose the
real problems began when we started preferring those things to
each other. It feels like the terms and conditions of our relationship
have either been forgotten, or were never properly read in the first
place. It isn’t as though I wasn’t a workaholic when we first met. Or
“writeraholic” as she likes to call it. All people are addicts, and all
addicts desire the same thing: an escape from reality. My job just
happens to be my favorite drug.
Same but different, that’s what I tell myself when I start a new
screenplay. That’s what I think people want, and why change the
ingredients of a winning formula? I can tell within the first few pages
of a book whether it will work for the screen or not—which is a good
thing, because I get sent far too many to read them all. But just
because I’m good at what I do, doesn’t mean I want to do it for the
rest of my life. I’ve got my own stories to tell. But Hollywood isn’t
interested in originality anymore, they just want to turn novels into
films or TV shows, like wine into water. Different but same. But does
that rule also apply to relationships? If we play the same characters
for too long in a marriage, isn’t it inevitable that we’ll get bored of
the story and give up, or switch off before we reach the end?
“Shall we?” Amelia says, interrupting my thoughts and staring up
at the bell tower on top of the creepy chapel.
“Ladies first.” Can’t say I’m not a gentleman. “I’ll grab the bags
from the car,” I add, keen to snatch my last few seconds of solitude
before we go inside.
I spend a lot of time trying not to offend people: producers,
executives, actors, agents, authors. Throw face blindness into that
mix, and I think it’s fair to say I’m Olympian level when it comes to
walking on eggshells. I once spoke to a couple at a wedding for ten
minutes before realizing they were the bride and groom. She didn’t
wear a traditional dress, and he looked like a clone of his many
groomsmen. But I got away with it because charming people is part
of my job. Getting an author to trust me with the screenplay of their
novel can be harder than persuading a mother to let a stranger look
after their firstborn child. But I’m good at it. Sadly, charming my wife
seems to be something I’ve forgotten how to do.
I never tell people about having prosopagnosia. Firstly, I don’t
want that to define me, and honestly, once someone knows, it’s all
they want to talk about. I don’t need or want pity from anyone, and
I don’t like being made to feel like a freak. What people don’t ever
seem to understand, is that for me, it’s normal not to be able to
recognize faces. It’s just a glitch in my programming; one that can’t
be fixed. I’m not saying I’m okay with it. Imagine not being able to
recognize your own friends or family? Or not knowing what your
wife’s face looks like? I hate meeting Amelia in restaurants in case I
sit down at the wrong table. I’d choose takeout every time were it
up to me. Sometimes I don’t even recognize my own face when I
look in the mirror. But I’ve learned to live with it. Like we all do when
life deals us a less than perfect hand.
I think I’ve learned to live with a less than perfect marriage, too.
But doesn’t everyone? I’m not being defeatist, just honest. Isn’t that
what successful relationships are really about? Compromise? Is any
marriage really perfect?
I love my wife. I just don’t think we like each other as much as
we used to.
“That’s nearly all of it,” I say, rejoining her on the chapel steps,
saddled with more bags than we can possibly need for a few nights
away. She glares at my shoulder as if it has offended her.
“Is that your laptop satchel?” she asks, knowing full well that it
is.
I’m hardly a rookie so I can’t explain or excuse my mistake. I
imagine Amelia pulling a Go to Jail–card face. This is not a good
start. I will not be allowed to write this weekend or pass Go. If our
marriage were a game of Monopoly, my wife would charge me
double every time I accidentally landed on one of her hotels.
“You promised no work,” she says in that disappointed, whiney
tone that has become so familiar. My work paid for our house and
our holidays; she didn’t complain about that.
When I think about everything we have—a nice home in London,
a good life, money in the bank—I think the same thing as always:
we should be happy. But all the things we don’t have are harder to
see. Most friends our age have elderly parents or young children to
worry about, but we only have each other. No parents, no siblings,
no children, just us. A lack of people to love is something we’ve
always had in common. My father left when I was too young to
remember anything about him, and my mother died when I was still
in school. My wife’s childhood was no less Oliver Twist, she was an
orphan before she was born.
Bob saves us from ourselves by growling at the chapel doors
again. It’s strange, because he never does that, but I’m grateful for
the distraction. It’s hard to believe he used to be a tiny puppy,
abandoned in a shoe box and dumped in the trash. Since then he
has grown into the biggest black Labrador I have ever seen. He has
a collection of gray hairs on his chin these days, and walks more
slowly than he used to, but the dog is the only one still capable of
unconditional love in our family of three. I’m sure everyone thinks
we treat him like a surrogate child, even if they are too polite to say
so. I always said I didn’t mind not having a real one. People who
don’t get to name their children get to name a different future.
Besides, what’s the point in wanting something you know you can’t
have? Too late for that now.
I don’t normally feel forty. I sometimes struggle to understand
where the years went and when I transitioned from boy to man.
Maybe doing a job that I love has something to do with that. My
work makes me feel young, but my wife makes me feel old. The
marriage counselor was Amelia’s idea, and this trip was theirs. “Call
me Pamela,” the so-called expert, thought a weekend away might fix
us. I guess all the weekends and evenings spent together at home
were null and void. Weekly visits to share the most private corners
of our lives with a complete stranger cost more than just the
extortionate fee. For that money, and several other reasons, I
repeatedly called the woman Pammy or Pam every time we met.
“Call me Pamela” didn’t like that, but I didn’t like her much so it
helped make things even. My wife didn’t want anyone else to know
that we were having problems, but I suspect some might have
noticed. Most people can see the writing on the wall, even if they
can’t always read what it says.
Can a weekend away really save a marriage? That’s what Amelia
said when “Call me Pamela” suggested it. I don’t think so. Which is
why I came up with my own plan for us long before I agreed to
hers. But now we’re here … climbing the chapel steps … and I don’t
know if I can go through with it.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I say, stopping just before
going inside.
“Yes. Why?” she asks, as though she can’t hear the dog growling
and the wind howling.
“I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right—”
“This isn’t a horror story written by one of your favorite authors,
Adam. This is real life. Maybe the wind blew the doors open?”
She can say what she likes, but the doors weren’t just closed
before. They were locked and we both know it.
We find ourselves in what posh people call a boot room and I put
the bags down. A puddle of melting snow forms around my feet. The
flagstone floor looks ancient, and there is built-in storage along the
back wall with rustic wooden cubbyholes designed for boots. There
are also rows of hooks for coats, all of which are empty. We don’t
remove our snow-covered shoes or jackets. Partly because it is just
as cold in here as it was outside, but also perhaps because it still
seems uncertain whether we are staying.
One wall is covered in mirrors, small ones, no bigger than my
hand. They are all odd shapes and sizes with intricate metal frames,
and have been hung haphazardly in place with rusty nails and rustic
twine. There must be fifty sets of our faces reflected back at us.
Almost as though all the versions of ourselves we became to try and
make our marriage work, have gathered together to look down on
who we’ve become. Part of me is glad I can’t recognize them. I’m
not sure I’d like what I saw if I could.
That isn’t the only interesting feature of interior design. The
skulls and antlers of two stags have been mounted like trophies on
the farthest whitewashed wall, with four white feathers protruding
from the holes where their eyes must once have been. It’s a little
strange, but my wife takes a closer look and stares in fascination,
like she’s visiting an art gallery. There is an old church bench in the
corner that attracts my attention. It looks antique and is covered in
dust, as if nobody has been here for a very long time. As first
impressions go, this isn’t a great one.
I remember the way Amelia and I used to be together, in the
beginning. Back then, we just clicked—we loved the same food, the
same books, and the sex was the best I’d ever had. Everything I
could and couldn’t see about her was beautiful. We had so much in
common and we wanted the same things in life. Or at least, I
thought we did. These days she seems to want something else.
Maybe someone else. Because I’m not the one who changed.
“You don’t need to draw in the dust to make a point,” Amelia
says. I stare at the small, childish, smiley face she is referring to on
the church bench. I hadn’t noticed it before.
I didn’t draw it.
The large wooden outside doors slam closed behind us before I
can defend myself.
We both spin around, but there is nobody here except us. The
whole building seems to tremble, the tiny mirrors on the wall swing
a little on their rusty nails, and the dog whimpers. Amelia looks at
me, her eyes wide, and her mouth forming a perfect O. My mind
tries to offer a rational explanation, because that’s what it always
does.
“You thought the wind might have blown the doors open …
maybe it blew them shut,” I say, and Amelia nods.
The woman I married more than ten years ago would never
believe that. But these days, my wife only ever hears what she
wants to hear, and sees what she wants to see.
ROCK
Word of the year:
limerence noun. An involuntary state of mind
caused by a romantic attraction to another person
combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need
to have one’s feelings reciprocated.
October 2007
Dear Adam,
It was something at first sight when we met.
I wasn’t sure what, but I know you felt it too.
The Electric Cinema was a first date with a difference. We’d
both gone to see a film alone but I sat in your seat by
mistake, we got talking, and left together after the movie.
Everyone thought we were crazy and that the whirlwind
romance wouldn’t last, but I’ve always got great satisfaction
from proving people wrong. As have you. It’s one of the many
things we have in common.
I
confess that moving in together wasn’t exactly how I
imagined. It’s harder to hide the darker side
real you from
someone you live with, and you did a better job of concealing
all the clutter when I only came to visit. I have renamed the
hallway Story Street, because it is lined with so many
teetering piles of manuscripts and books, we have to sidestep
to pass through it. I knew that reading and writing were a big
part of your life, but we might need to find something bigger
than a basement studio in an old Notting Hill town house now
that I live here too. I am so happy though. I’ve gotten used to
playing second fiddle in the orchestra of us, and I accept that
there will always be three of us in this relationship: you, me,
and your writing.
It
was the cause of our first big argument, do you
remember? I suppose I should have known better than to
search through the drawers in your desk, but I was only
looking for matches. That’s when I found the manuscript for
Rock Paper Scissors, with your name neatly typed in Times
New Roman on the front page. I had the flat to myself, and a
decent bottle of wine, so I read the whole thing that night.
From the look on your face when you came home, anyone
would have thought I’d read your diary.
But I think I understand now. That manuscript wasn’t just
an unsold story; it was like an abandoned child. Rock Paper
Scissors was your first ever screenplay but it’s never made it
to screen. You’ve collaborated with three producers, two
directors, and one A-list actor. You spent so many years
writing draft after draft, but it still never got beyond
development. It must be upsetting that your favorite story has
been forgotten about, left to die in a desk drawer, but I’m sure
it won’t stay that way forever. I’ve become your official first
reader since then—a role I am very proud of—and your
writing just gets better and better.
I know you’d rather see your own tales turned into films,
but for now it’s all about other people’s. I still haven’t quite
gotten used to the amount of time you spend reading their
novels, because someone somewhere thinks they might work
on screen. But I’ve watched you disappear inside a book like a
rabbit inside a magician’s hat, and I’ve learned to accept that
sometimes you are a bit self-involved
don’t resurface for days.
Luckily, books are something else we have in common,
though I think it’s fair to say we have different taste. You like
horror stories, thrillers, and crime novels, which are not my
cup of tea at all. I’ve always thought there must be something
seriously wrong with people who write dark and twisted
fiction. I prefer a good love story. But I’ve tried to be
understanding about your work—even though it sometimes
hurts when you choose to spend your time in a world of
fantasy, instead of here in the real one, with me.
I think that’s why I got so upset when you said we couldn’t
get a dog. I’ve been nothing but supportive of you and your
career since we met, but sometimes I worried that our future
was really only about yours. I know working for Battersea
Dogs Home isn’t as glamorous as being a screenwriter, but I
like my job, it makes me happy. Your reasons for not getting a
dog were rational (you always are). The flat is ridiculously
small, and we do both work long hours, but I’d always said I
could take the dog to work with me. You bring your work
home after all.
I
see abandoned puppies every day, but this one was
different. As soon as I saw that beautiful ball of black fur, I
knew he was the one. What kind of monster puts a tiny
Labrador puppy in a shoe box, throws him in a dumpster, and
leaves him there to die? The vet said he was no more than six
weeks old, and the rage I felt was all-consuming. I know what
it is like to be abandoned by someone who is supposed to
love you. There is nothing worse.
I wanted to bring the puppy home the next day, but you
said no, and I was heartbroken for the first time since we met.
I thought I still had time to persuade you, but the following
afternoon, one of the receptionists at Battersea came into my
office and said that someone had come to adopt the dog. It’s
my job to assess all would-be pet owners, so as I walked
down the corridor to meet them, I secretly hoped they would
be unsuitable. Nobody goes to a home where they won’t
really be loved on my watch.
The first thing I saw when I stepped into the waiting room
was the puppy. All alone, sitting in the middle of the cold
stone floor. He was such a tiny smudge of a thing. Then I
noticed the little red collar he was wearing, and the silver,
bone-shaped name tag. It didn’t make sense. I hadn’t even
met the prospective owners yet, so they had no business
behaving as though the dog was theirs already. I scooped the
puppy up off the floor to take a closer look at the inscription
on the shiny metal:
WILL YOU MARRY ME?
I nearly dropped him.
I don’t know what my face did when you stepped out from
behind the door. I know I cried. I remember half my team
seemed to be watching us through the observation window.
They had tears in their eyes too, and big smiles on their faces.
Everyone was in on it apart from me! Who knew you were so
good at keeping secrets?
I’m sorry I didn’t say yes straight away. I think I went into
shock when you went down on one knee. When I saw the
sapphire engagement ring—which I knew had been your
mother’s—I was overcome with a wave of emotions that I
couldn’t quite process. And with everyone staring at us, I felt
completely overwhelmed.
“I think it’s best to make all important life decisions with a
game of rock paper scissors,” I teased, because I believe in
your writing just as much as I believe in us, and I don’t think
we should ever give up on either.
You smiled. “So, just to clarify, if I lose, it’s a yes?”
I nodded and formed a fist.
My scissors cut your paper, just like they always do when
we play that game, so it wasn’t really that much of a gamble.
Whenever I win at anything you always like to think you let
me.
For the first few months of our relationship, I mocked you
for using too many long words, and you teased me back for
not knowing what they meant.
“I don’t know whether this is limerence or love,” is what
you said after kissing me for the first time. I had to look it up
when I got home. The odd things you sometimes came out
with, along with the disparity in our vocabulary, started our
tradition of “word of the day” before bedtime. Yours are often
better than mine because I let you win too sometimes