by Alice Feeney
‘I can’t go outside in my nightie!’ I whispered, when I heard you open the front door.
‘Sure you can, you still look just as beautiful as the day we got married, and besides, it’s the only way to show you your real anniversary present.’
‘I thought it was the theatre ticket,’ I said.
‘Give me some credit.’
‘Can’t, sorry. You’re already in too much debt.’
‘This year’s gift is meant to be made of wood, right?’
I took a few more uncertain steps, the cold path biting my bare feet, until they reached the grass. We stopped and you removed my makeshift blindfold.
There was a leafless and ugly little tree in the middle of what used to be my perfect lawn.
‘It’s a tree,’ you said.
‘I can see that.’
‘I know you’ve always wanted a magnolia so—’
‘Is that what it is?’ You looked hurt. ‘I’m sorry, it’s really sweet of you. I love it. I mean, not right now maybe, but when the flowers come out, I bet it will look amazing.’ You looked happy again. ‘Thank you, it’s the perfect gift. Now go and get your screenplay made into a Hollywood blockbuster, so Bob and I can walk down a red carpet in Leicester Square.’
As soon as you had my permission you were out the door, and I was alone on our anniversary. Again.
Looking back now – hindsight is such a bitch – I think everything would have been fine had a smoke alarm not gone off at the theatre that afternoon. Everyone in the audience was evacuated not long after the curtain went up, the fire brigade was called, and the matinee performance I was meant to see got cancelled.
That’s why I came back to the house earlier than planned.
I found myself staring at a couple on the Tube ride home. They were our age, but holding hands and grinning at each other like two smitten teenagers. I bet that they always spent anniversaries together, and I started to wonder where we sat on the scale of normal. The jury in my head was still out when I arrived back at Hampstead station. The heavens opened as I started walking and I was drenched by the time I reached our garden gate. I felt inexplicable rage at the sight of the ugly magnolia tree you had planted, and by the time I reached the front door my hands were shaking with crankiness and cold.
As I struggled to slot the key in the lock, I heard a woman laughing inside our home. When I opened the door and stepped into the hall, I felt like I must be dreaming. There was a Hollywood actress drinking wine in my kitchen. With you. On our anniversary.
‘What are you doing home so early?’ you asked, looking as upset as I felt.
‘The play was cancelled,’ I said, staring at her the whole time – I couldn’t help it. October O’Brien was even more beautiful in real life than she was in all the pictures I’d Googled online. Her extremely pale, porcelain-like skin was flawless, and her copper, pixie cut hair shone beneath our kitchen lights. If I had mine styled that way I would look like a boy, but she looked like a happy elf princess, with her big green eyes and wide white smile. Even in my twenties I never looked that good.
Then you introduced us, as though coming home to find your husband drinking wine in the afternoon with another woman – who you have only ever seen on TV and in films – was normal. I was about to make a complete tit of myself, but then October’s perfect red lips smiled and she explained what you should have.
‘It’s so lovely to meet you,’ she purred, holding out a perfectly manicured hand. For a moment I wasn’t sure whether to shake it, kiss it, or slap it away. I had an odd urge to curtsy. ‘Your husband confessed last night that he has never cooked you an anniversary meal. I said I didn’t want anything to do with his screenplay until that situation was rectified, and when he said he couldn’t cook, I offered to help. It was supposed to be a surprise… but maybe it was a bad one?’
I felt my face get hot for several reasons all at once.
Firstly, I wished I had cleaned our fridge more recently, then I panicked about the condition of our old pots and pans – worried what she must think about me and us and the state of our kitchen. Then I wished I’d worn a little more make-up, because next to this beautiful creature, I felt like a bedraggled old bat.
I needn’t have worried. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more kind or generous woman – no wonder you wanted to work with her. Bob fell in love with our house guest, too, but he loves everyone. I insisted that October stay and eat the meal she had prepared with us – you didn’t argue – and once I had changed into some dry clothes and opened another bottle, we had the most wonderful evening. All three courses were delicious – especially the chocolate pudding. I thought I’d be intimidated by someone like October O’Brien. She’s so stunning, successful, and smart… but she was utterly charming, modest, and sweet. It made me realise that regardless of who everyone thinks celebrities are, at the end of the day they’re just people. Like you and me. Even the disturbingly beautiful ones.
‘I knew you’d love her too if you met her,’ you said when October left.
‘You were right, but I love you more.’
‘Almost always?’ you asked and smiled. ‘So you don’t mind me working with her now? And you won’t get jealous?’
‘Who says I was jealous?’ I replied, and you raised an eyebrow.
‘You’ve no need to be. She’s lovely, but she’s still an actress.’
‘Do you think I’m lovely?’
‘You’re my MIP,’ you said.
‘MIP?’
‘Most Important Person.’
Thank you for a very memorable anniversary this year, one I certainly won’t forget. Five years. Where did it go? So many memories, mostly happy ones, and I’m looking forward to making more with you in the future. I suspect everyone has a Most Important Person. I am yours and you are mine. Now and forever.
Your wife
xx
Robin
Robin sits perfectly still, hiding in a cold, dark corner of the chapel, until the visitors are all back upstairs again. The man came down twice, and she almost got caught. She wonders if he would recognise her at all now. Regardless of his face blindness, she fears she must have changed beyond all recognition since they last met.
When Robin let herself inside over an hour ago, she thought they’d gone to bed for the night, and had to hide when she heard him coming down the old, wooden spiral staircase. He somehow managed to avoid all the creakiest steps. Luckily, the lounge – which she always thought was more of a library with sofas – had plenty of dark spaces, and the bookcases provided ample cover until she could see who it was. After that she let herself into the secret room. Secrets are only secrets for the people who don’t know them yet. They can morph into lies when shared, and like caterpillars turning into butterflies, beautiful lies can fly far, far away. There is nothing Robin doesn’t know about this old chapel: she used to live here.
She could still live here now if she wanted, but chooses not to.
Robin doesn’t like being inside the place any longer than necessary these days. She always has to summon a colossal amount of courage to step inside those old chapel doors, and on the rare occasions when doing so can’t be avoided, she does what she needs to do as quickly as possible before getting out again. The visitors would want to get out too if they knew the truth about where they were staying, but people see what they want to see.
The secret room is tucked behind the library and Robin hates this part of the chapel the most. It’s easy enough to find behind the bookcase – if you know where to look – but you have to use your eyes. Most people go through life with their eyes shut. And books are good at hiding all kinds of things, especially closed books, just like closed people.
Some memories are claustrophobic, and the variety this room invokes always smother her, making it hard to breathe. Robin stays as still as possible, studying the parquet floor in the secret room as if it were a puzzle she might be able to solve, trying not to look at anything that will remind her of a past she
would rather forget. But memories don’t take orders; they come and go as they please.
The moon is full and bright tonight. It shines through the stained-glass windows casting a series of patterns that seem strange and unfamiliar. The sight of her own shadow on the wall catches her eye, and it makes her feel small. Even her shadow looks sad. Robin doesn’t mean to make a fist, but when she sees her silhouette do the same, she holds her hand higher, changing the shape of her fingers. First a rock. Then flat, like paper. Then she makes a cutting motion, like scissors, and smiles.
When she is sure it is safe to do so, Robin stands to leave. She freezes when she thinks she sees someone, but it is only her own reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. The sight shocks her: she almost didn’t recognise herself. There are no mirrors back in her little cottage. The woman in the mirror here, staring back at her in the secret room looks so old, and her pale skin is so white she could be mistaken for a ghost.
Robin reaches inside her pocket for the key to lock the secret room behind her, but her fingers find something else instead, providing her with a small wave of much needed comfort: her favourite red lipstick. It’s worn down to a flattened stump. She remembers the first time she used it: it rained that night and she got badly hurt. But it reinforced the importance of not trusting anyone except herself.
The best lessons are often the ones we don’t realise we’re being taught.
Robin applies a tiny bit of lipstick – wanting to save what is left for as long as possible – then admires her new reflection in the mirror. She smiles again but it doesn’t take, her mouth soon turning down at the edges. Still, it’s an improvement, and it gives her the courage to do what she came here to do.
The visitors didn’t look happy when they arrived, or when she watched them through the window. As she lurked downstairs, running her fingers along the spines of the books in the lounge, she noted that the visitors didn’t sound happy either. She listened to them as they talked in the bedroom upstairs. Their voices carried, and their words seemed to bounce from the double-height vaulted ceiling up above straight down into her ears.
It seems strange to her that the visitors really thought they could stay here for free. Only fools believe in something for nothing. She had to suppress a laugh when she heard them agreeing to leave in the morning. But her amusement soon turned into anger. That’s the biggest problem with people nowadays: they don’t appreciate what they have, they always want more. They don’t want to work for it. They don’t want to earn it. And they bitch and moan like spoilt brats when they don’t get their own way. Too many people think the world owes them something, and blame others for their own poor life choices. And everyone thinks they can just run away if things don’t go according to their plans.
That won’t be happening here.
The visitors can say what they like, they can even choose to believe it if that helps them sleep when they lay their heads back down on her pillows. The storm outside might have stopped – for now – but nobody is leaving here tomorrow morning. After what she has already seen and heard, Robin is fairly sure that at least one of them will never leave this place again.
Amelia
It’s still dark outside, but I shake Adam awake.
‘Bob’s gone. I can’t find him!’
I watch impatiently as my husband rubs the sleep from his eyes, blinks into the darkness, and peers around the bedroom. It smells as though we are in a chapel now. That musty scent of old Bibles and blind faith. The only source of light is the flame from the candlestick I’m holding, and it takes Adam a while to remember where we are. It’s as cold in here as I suspect it is outside now thanks to the complete loss of power overnight, and he instinctively pulls the bedcovers around himself.
I pull them back off. ‘Did you hear me? Bob is missing!’
‘He was sleeping out on the landing,’ Adam says, suppressing a yawn.
‘Well, he isn’t there now.’
‘Maybe he went downstairs—’
‘He isn’t there either! I searched the whole place, he’s not here!’
Now Adam looks worried.
He is finally hearing what I am saying. The unfamiliar concern on his face makes me feel worse – I’m the one who worries, not him. When I am most anxious, he always remains calm. We balance each other’s emotions, that’s how our marriage works. Or used to.
‘Well, the front doors were definitely locked and Bob doesn’t have a key, so he must be here somewhere. I’ll help you look,’ he says, lighting the other candle and pulling on a jumper over his pyjamas – a feeble attempt to combat the cold. ‘I’m sure if we put some food in his bowl he’ll come running – he normally does.’
Adam is still half asleep, but drags himself out of bed and hurries onto the landing. He pauses to stare at the empty dog bed – as though I might be making it up that Bob is missing – then hurries ahead of me down the stairs. I notice that he deliberately misses some of the steps, which creak loudly when I walk on them.
‘How did you know which steps not to walk on?’ I ask, following him a little more closely.
‘What?’
‘You skipped some of the steps. The ones that creak.’
‘Oh… well, it annoys me. Like squeaky cupboards or doors.’
‘But we only arrived last night. How did you know which—’
‘I might not be able to remember faces, but facts and figures, or the things most people overlook – like which steps creak – tend to stick in my mind. You know that about me.’
Adam does often remember peculiar details. A photographic memory of sorts, for unimportant things. I decide to drop it – we have bigger issues to worry about right now – and together we search every corner of every room for the missing dog.
‘I don’t understand it, the doors are still locked, he can’t have got out,’ Adam says.
‘Well, he didn’t vanish into thin air,’ I reply, pouring some kibble into Bob’s food bowl and calling his name.
The invitation is met with a silence that sounds even more ominous than before. I don’t know what to do. I pick up my phone, but of course there is no signal, and who would I call even if there were?
‘We should search outside,’ Adam says, and we hurry to the boot room.
He unlocks the old chapel doors, and heaves them open.
The scene they reveal stops us both in our tracks.
The sun is starting to rise behind a mountain in the distance, and there is just enough light outside for us to see a wall of snow higher than my knees. Everything is covered in a thick blanket of white, and I can barely make out the shape of our car on the driveway. If Bob really is out there somewhere, in snow this deep, he won’t last long.
Adam reads my mind and does his best to calm the panicked thoughts swirling inside it.
‘You saw me open the doors, they were definitely locked. The snow is taller than Bob – even if he could have got out, he wouldn’t have; that dog doesn’t even like the rain. He must be inside, did you look in the crypt?’
‘After last night? With just a candle? Of course not.’
‘I’ll use the torch on my phone,’ he says.
I’m about to correct him – he’s forgotten that his mobile is still back in London – but then I watch as he hurries to find the old leather satchel he uses for his work. It’s so tatty, I should get him something new. He reaches inside and pulls out his phone.
The one he pretended he couldn’t find in the car when he had it with him all along.
The reason why a person lies is almost always more interesting than the lie itself. My husband shouldn’t tell them; he isn’t very good at it.
Adam
I grab my mobile, turn on the torch, and hurry to the trapdoor. It’s closed, so I don’t see how Bob could have got down there, but it’s also the only place we haven’t looked. I open it and rush down the stone steps as fast as I dare. All I find are the same dusty wine racks, and a dirty, home-made-looking pamphlet on the floor:
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br /> The History of Blackwater Chapel
I’m sure that wasn’t there before.
‘Bob isn’t down there,’ I say coming up the steps, distracted by the piece of paper in my hands.
Amelia doesn’t reply, just stares. If I could see the expression on her face, I know it would be a bad one – her arms are folded and she’s standing in that stance that means trouble. For me.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I thought you couldn’t find your phone?’
Busted.
The guilt I feel is soon replaced with anger.
‘Well, luckily I noticed you removing my phone from the car before we left. You lied to me about that and you’ve been acting strange for weeks. Is there anything else you’ve been lying to me about? Is Bob really missing?’
‘Don’t do that. You know I love Bob.’
‘I thought you loved me.’
The idea that Amelia had something to do with Bob’s disappearance is unthinkable, but after her crazy behaviour recently, I don’t know what to think.
‘All I wanted was a nice weekend away. Just the two of us, for once. Not me, you, and your bloody work. The writing, the books, the screenplays… that’s all you ever seem to care about these days. That’s why I took your phone out of the car, because you spend so many hours looking at it all the time you make me feel invisible.’
She starts to cry then – always her Get Out of Jail Free card – and I can’t stay angry with her. It isn’t as though I’ve been honest about everything.
‘Do you have a signal on your phone, maybe we could call someone?’ she asks. I’m on a different network to her, so it’s a sensible question.
‘No. I already checked.’
Her body language suggests she’s relieved, but that doesn’t make sense. I must be reading her wrong. I hate who we’ve become, but I’m not to blame for all of it. Trust can’t be borrowed, if you take it away you can’t give it back.
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
I say the words so quietly I’m surprised she hears them.