by Alice Feeney
The storm outside has stepped up another gear. The snow is still falling and the wind is now wailing, but it’s warm enough on the sofa in front of the fire. Bob is gently snoring on the rug at our feet and, maybe it’s the tiredness from the journey, or the wine, but I feel strangely… content. My fingers walk towards Adam’s – I can’t remember the last time we touched each other – but my hand stops short, as if scared of getting burnt. Affection is like playing the piano and you can forget how to do it without practice.
I can feel him staring but continue to look down at my hands. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me? Blurred features? A familiar but undefinable outline of a person? Do I just look the same as everyone else to him?
Ten years is a long time to be married to someone you forget.
I haven’t been completely honest with him about this weekend away. I haven’t been completely honest about a lot of things, and sometimes I think he knows. But I tell myself that isn’t possible. We’ve tried date nights, and marriage counselling, but spending more time together isn’t always the same as spending less time apart. You can’t get this close to a cliff edge without seeing the rocks at the bottom, and even if my husband doesn’t know the full story, he knows that this weekend is a last attempt to mend what got broken.
What he doesn’t know is that if things don’t go according to plan, only one of us will be going home.
Adam
We sit in silence after dinner. The frozen curry wasn’t as grim as I expected, and the wine was considerably better. I could do with another glass. I notice Amelia’s hand close to mine on the sofa. I have an overwhelming urge to hold it and don’t know what’s come over me – affection has been absent without leave for a long time in our marriage. Just as I am about to reach for her hand, she withdraws it to her lap. Probably for the best, given what this weekend is really about, and what I plan to do.
Staring at the flames dancing in the enormous fireplace, my mind wanders down other paths to other things. Work, mostly. I’ve adapted three of Henry Winter’s novels for film over the past decade and I’m proud of each one. Getting those screenplays green-lit was a real turning point in my career, but I haven’t spoken to the man for a long time. I don’t know why I’m thinking of him now. This room probably, it’s more like a library than a lounge, he would have loved it.
I’m between projects at the moment. I can’t seem to get excited about anything my agent sends my way, and I wonder whether it is time to start working on something of my own again. I’ve been meaning to do that for a while, but I guess I had the confidence kicked out of me. Maybe this is the right time to—
‘Maybe you could revisit one of your own screenplays, if you’re not working on anything else for a while,’ Amelia says, interrupting my thoughts as though she can hear them. I hate that she can always read my mind; how do women do that?
‘It isn’t the right time,’ I reply.
‘What about that one you spent years working on, might that be worth another look?’
She can’t even remember the name of my favourite screenplay. I don’t know why it bothers me, but it does. She used to be far more interested in my work, and seemed to really care about my writing. Her indifference these days hurts more than it should.
‘My agent said there was a new eight-part thriller I might be up for. Another novel adaption. But an old one…’ I look over my shoulder at all the bookcases. ‘… might even be a copy of it on one of these shelves.’
‘We agreed no work this weekend,’ she snaps, suffering a sense of humour bypass.
‘I was joking, and you brought it up!’
‘Only because I could hear you thinking about it. And you were pulling that vacant face you pull when you’re not really here, even when you’re sitting by my side.’
I can’t see what face she’s pulling, but I resent her tone. Amelia doesn’t understand. I always need to be working on a story or the real world gets too loud. I can’t seem to talk about anything lately without her getting upset. She sulks if I’m too quiet, but opening my mouth feels like navigating a minefield. I can’t win. I haven’t told her about what happened with Henry Winter because that’s something else she wouldn’t understand. Henry and his books weren’t just work for me, he became a surrogate father figure. I doubt he felt the same way, but feelings don’t have to be mutual to be real.
The wind rattles the stained-glass windows, and I’m grateful for anything that might drown out the loudest thoughts inside my head. I wouldn’t want her to hear those. My hands still need something to do – I no longer want to hold hers and my fingers feel redundant without my phone. I take my wallet from my pocket and find the crumpled paper crane between the leather folds. The silly old origami bird has always brought me luck, and comfort. I hold it for a while, and don’t care that Amelia sees me doing it.
‘I’ve been carrying this paper bird around with me for such a long time,’ I say.
She sighs. ‘I know.’
‘I showed it to Henry Winter the first time I met him at his fancy London house.’
‘I remember the story.’
She sounds bored and miserable and it makes me feel the same. I’ve heard all of her stories before too and none of them are particularly thrilling.
I wish people were more like books.
If you realise halfway through a novel that you aren’t enjoying it anymore, you can just stop and find something new to read. Same with films and TV dramas. There is no judgement, no guilt, nobody even needs to know unless you choose to tell them. But with people, you tend to have to see it through to the end, and sadly not everyone gets to live happily ever after.
The snow has turned to sleet. Large, angry droplets pelt the windows before crying down the glass like tears. Sometimes I want to cry but I can’t. Because that wouldn’t fit with who my wife thinks I am. We’re all responsible for casting the stars in the stories of our own lives, and she cast me in the role of her husband. Our marriage was an open audition, and I’m not sure either of us got the parts we deserved.
Her face is an unrecognisable blur, her features swirling like an angry sea. It feels like I am sitting next to a stranger, not my wife. We’ve been together all day and I feel claustrophobic. I’m someone who needs space, a little time on my own. I don’t know why she has to be so… suffocating.
Amelia snatches the paper crane from my fingertips.
‘You spend too long living in the past instead of focussing on the future,’ she says.
‘Wait, no!’ I cry, as she throws my lucky charm into the fire.
I’m up and off the tartan sofa in a flash, and almost burn my hand retrieving the bird. One edge is singed, but otherwise undamaged. That’s it. The final act. If I wasn’t sure before I am now, and I’m counting down the hours until this is over once and for all.
Cotton
Word of the year:
growlery noun a place of refuge or sanctuary for use while one is feeling out of sorts. A private room, or den, to growl in.
28th February 2010 – our second anniversary
Dear Adam,
Another year, another anniversary, and it was a great one! Since you sold the first Henry Winter adaptation, you have been busier with work than ever before. The Hollywood studio who bought it at auction paid more for those 120 pages than I could earn in ten years. It was amazing, and I’m so happy for you, but so sad for us because now we see even less of each other than we used to. You don’t seem to need me or my input into your work as much at all now. But I understand. I really do.
A lot has changed for you during the last twelve months, but sadly not for me. We still don’t have a baby. You kept your word about taking some time off for our anniversary, though – something which had become inconceivable in recent months – so that we could go away for the weekend. You arranged for a neighbour to look after Bob, told me to pack a bag, and my passport, but wouldn’t tell me where we were going. I swapped my dog-hair-covered jeans for a designer dress I�
��d found in a Notting Hill charity shop, and even splashed out on a new lipstick.
You hailed a black cab as soon as we left the flat for our anniversary weekend away. I thought the taxi might take us to St Pancras…or the airport. But after thirty minutes of negotiating London’s all-day rush hour, we stopped on a residential street in Hampstead Village, one of your favourite parts of London. Probably because Henry Winter owns a house there. It’s super posh, but I didn’t think people like us needed a passport to visit, so I wondered why you had told me to bring mine.
After paying the driver, including a generous tip, we clambered out onto the pavement with our bags and you reached inside your pocket.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, eyeing up the small but perfectly wrapped gift in your hand. The ribbon was tied in such a pretty bow, I wondered if someone had done it for you.
‘Happy anniversary,’ you replied with a grin.
‘We weren’t meant to exchange presents until Sunday—’
‘Oh, really? I’ll take it back then.’
I grabbed the pretty parcel. ‘I’ve seen it now, so may as well open it. I hope it’s cotton. That’s the traditional gift for surviving two years of marriage.’
‘I think it’s about celebrating, not surviving, and I didn’t know I’d married someone so demanding.’
‘Yes, you did,’ I said, carefully removing the paper.
It revealed a small velvet box – the kind that might contain jewellery – and was turquoise, my favourite colour. I think I was half expecting earrings, but when I opened the lid, I found a key.
‘If you could live in any house on this street, which one would you choose?’ you asked.
I stared up at the old, detached, double-fronted Victorian house we were standing outside. Its red-brick walls were overgrown with what looked like a mix of wisteria branches and ivy. Some of the glass in the bay windows was smashed, others were boarded up. It was the definition of a fixer-upper – broken but beautiful – and I couldn’t help noticing the SOLD sign outside.
‘Are you serious?’ I asked.
‘Almost always.’
I felt like a kid who had been given the key to a chocolate factory.
The front door was the same turquoise colour as the velvet box and had been recently painted, unlike any other part of the building. When the key opened the door, I cried – I couldn’t believe that we owned an actual house, having struggled to pay the rent for a shitty tiny studio flat for so long.
The scene inside was just as derelict as the view from the street. The whole place smelled of damp, there were missing floorboards, peeling wallpaper, and ancient fixtures and fittings covered in dust and cobwebs. Loose wires hung from holes in the ceiling where I presumed lights must once have been, and there was graffiti on some of the walls. But I was already in love. I wandered around the large, bright rooms, all of which were empty but filled with possibilities and potential.
‘Did you decorate it yourself?’ I asked and you laughed.
‘No, I thought maybe you could. I know it needs a bit of work—’
‘A bit?’
‘But we never would have been able to afford it otherwise.’
‘I love it.’
‘Do you?’ you asked.
‘Yes. All I got you was a pair of socks.’
‘Well, that’s ruined the surprise…’
‘At least my gift was made of cotton.’
‘Which year is bricks? We could wait until then…’
My anxiety rose to the surface and spoiled our fun. ‘Can we really afford it?’
You smiled to cover your lie hesitation, but I still saw it. You’ve always liked to measure out your answers before giving them, never offering too much or too little.
‘Yes, it’s been a very good year. I’ve been a bit too busy to enjoy it, but I think it’s time we started living the life we always dreamed of. Don’t you? I thought we could take our time renovating… do some of the work ourselves. Turn it into our very own growlery and make this our forever home.’ I made a mental note to look up the word ‘growlery’. ‘If you think the ground floor is good, you should see upstairs,’ you said.
My hands felt their way up the old wooden banister, and my feet were cautious – careful not to twist an ankle on any of the broken steps in the gloom. There were more cobwebs, dust, and dirt covering almost every surface, but I could already see how beautiful things might be one day. And I’ve never been scared of hard work.
I followed you along the landing, until we reached a large bedroom. I gasped out loud when I saw the beautifully made-up bed – it was the only furniture in the house – and there was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the floor.
‘The sheets are a hundred percent Egyptian cotton. See, I didn’t forget. Happy anniversary, Mrs Wright,’ you said, wrapping your arms around me.
‘What about the other bedrooms?’ I asked.
‘Well, I think we should get to work on filling them, don’t you?’
We’ve been here for three days, only leaving to go for walks and to get food. Thank you for a wonderful weekend, a very happy anniversary, and for being the love of my life. I plan to spend all my spare time renovating this house and decorating every room until it’s the forever home we both dreamed of. It’s hard to imagine feeling luckier than I do right now.
All my love,
Your wife
xx
Amelia
It’s hard to imagine feeling unhappier than I do right now.
I didn’t mean to throw the paper crane on the fire, I just… snapped. It wasn’t my fault, it was his for making me feel this crazy in the first place. I watch as he slips it back inside his wallet before looking up at me with nothing but hate in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that,’ I say, but Adam doesn’t answer.
Sometimes I feel like one of the abandoned pets I see at work every day, the way my husband disappears inside his writing all the time. Leaving me behind. Forgotten. This is always a difficult time of year in my job. All the people who bought puppies for Christmas, often discover they don’t want them for life around Valentine’s Day. A German Shepherd called Lucky was brought in this week, sadly his name tag had no address. I would have liked to have been able to track down his owners and have them arrested. Lucky had been left tied to a lamppost in the rain, severely malnourished, starving, covered in fleas and filth, and soaked to the skin. The vet said his wounds could only be a result of regular beatings over a long period of time. That poor old dog wasn’t ‘lucky’ at all, and neither is the paper crane Adam keeps in his wallet. It’s just superstitious nonsense.
‘I don’t know why you are so angry all the time,’ he says.
His words make me angrier.
‘I’m not angry,’ I say, sounding it. ‘I’m just tired of being the only one making an effort in this relationship. We never talk anymore. It’s like living with a housemate, not a husband. You never ask about my day, or my work, or how I’m feeling. Just what’s for dinner? or where is my blue shirt? or have you seen my keys? I’m not a housewife. I have a life and a job of my own. You make me feel so unlikable, and unloved, and invisible, and…’
I rarely cry, but I can’t stop myself.
Adam hardly ever shows affection these days, as though he can’t remember how, but he does the strangest thing then. He holds me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, and before I can ask which part he is specifically apologising for, he kisses me. Properly. Holding my face in his hands, the way we used to kiss when we first got together, before life pushed us apart.
I feel my cheeks blush, as though I’ve been kissed by a stranger, not my husband.
I’ve got good at feeling guilty for doing what is best for me. And guilt is one of those emotions that rarely comes with an off switch. Sometimes I feel like I need to check out of life the way other people check out of hotels. Sign whatever I need to sign, hand back the keys to the life I am living, and find somewh
ere new. Somewhere safe. But maybe there is still something worth staying for?
‘It’s been a long day, I think we’re both just a bit tired,’ Adam says.
‘We could head upstairs, find the bedroom, have an early night?’ I suggest.
‘How about another glass of wine first?’
‘Good idea. I’ll take the plates out and grab the bottle.’
I don’t know why he left it in the kitchen if he wanted more, but don’t mind going to fetch it. This is the most intimate things have been between us for months. The music has stopped, and I can hear the wind whistling through any cracks and crevices it can find in the chapel walls. The stone floor is so cold it seems to bite my socked feet. I’m in a hurry to get back to the warmth of the other room, but something about the stained-glass windows catches my eye. When I take a closer look, they do seem very unusual. There are no religious scenes, only a series of different coloured faces.
I freeze when one of them moves.
And then I scream, because the white face in the window is real. Someone is outside and they are staring right at me.
Adam
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, running into the kitchen.
I heard something smash before Amelia started screaming, and I can see that she has dropped the bottle of red wine. There are pieces of glass all over the stone floor, and I grab Bob’s collar to stop him from walking on them. ‘What happened? Are you OK?’
‘No. There’s someone outside!’
‘What? Where?’
‘The window,’ she says, pointing.
I walk over and peer out into the darkness. ‘I can’t see anything—’
‘Well, they’ve gone now. They ran as soon as I screamed,’ she says, and starts to pick up the broken pieces of glass.
‘I’ll go outside, take a look.’