Rock Paper Scissors

by Alice Feeney

  ‘OK. That sounds like a good plan. I’m still going to write a quick note though, just in case.’

  I reach inside my handbag for a pen, and find an old envelope to scribble on.

  Sorry to disturb you, we didn’t mean to intrude. We are staying at Blackwater Chapel. There is no phone at the property, and no power due to the storm, no water thanks to frozen pipes, and no mobile signal. If you have a phone we could borrow, we’d really appreciate it and promise to reimburse you for the call. We’ve lost our dog. If you see him, his name is Bob and we’re offering a generous reward for his safe return.

  Many thanks,

  Amelia

  I show the note to Adam.

  ‘Why did you add that bit about the reward?’

  ‘Just in case she is a witch and wants to turn Bob into a rabbit too,’ I whisper, before trying to push the note through the letterbox. It seems to be sealed up, so I slide the envelope beneath the door instead. I hear a noise then, and take a quick step back. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ Adam asks.

  I watch as he salutes a blackbird, just in case it’s a magpie. It’s one of his many superstitious habits that often make me love and loathe him at the same time. The idea that failing to salute a magpie will result in bad luck waiting for you around the next corner is a myth my logical mind has never believed in. But he does. Because his mother did. Given our current circumstances, maybe I should start saluting too.

  ‘I heard something,’ I whisper, when we are a little further away. ‘I think she was on the other side of the door the whole time we were standing there talking. Which means she heard every word.’

  Robin

  Robin did hear every word.

  She reads the note that the woman pushed under the door, then screws it up into a ball before throwing it on the fire.

  Robin isn’t a witch – not that she cares what they think – but has frankly been called far worse. So what if she doesn’t keep the cottage spotlessly clean? It’s her home and how she chooses to live is her business. Some people think money is the answer to all of life’s problems, but they’re wrong, sometimes money is the cause of them. Some people think money can buy love, or happiness, or even other people. But Robin won’t be bought. Everything she has now is hers. She earned it, or found it, or made it all by herself. She doesn’t need or want anyone else’s money or things or opinions. Robin can take care of Robin. Besides, this cottage might not look like much, but it was somewhere she used to run away to as a child. Just like her mother before her. Sometimes home is more of a memory than a place.

  The comments about her personal appearance hurt a bit, more than they should have. But name-calling stings no more than nettles these days, and the initial irritation soon fades to nothing. Besides, being dismissed as an elderly woman amuses her in some ways. Just because her hair has turned grey, it doesn’t mean that Robin is old. She tells herself that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about – the man can’t even recognise his own reflection. But although vanity has never been one of her qualities, it doesn’t mean she is immune to insults.

  She tidies herself and the place up a little – because she wants to, not because of what he said – then carefully pulls back the corner of one bedsheet curtain, to check that the visitors aren’t still lurking outside. She is pleased to see that they are halfway up the hill already. Out of the way and earshot.

  Now that she is sure they cannot see or hear anything else that they shouldn’t, Robin sits down in the old leather chair and lights her pipe. She just needs a little something to steady herself and her nerves, and this is the last chance she’ll get to smoke it. The only visitors she is used to these days are Patrick the postman – who knows better than to knock or say hello – and Ewan, the local farmer who grazes his sheep on the land around Blackwater Loch. He sometimes drops by with milk or eggs to say thank you – she lets the animals feed for free, and understands that farming has become a tough business. He also tells her snippets of gossip about various characters in town – not that Robin wants to know – but most people stay away.

  Because all the locals know the stories about Blackwater Chapel.

  Robin looks out of the window to check on the visitors one last time. They’re near the top of the hill now, so it’s safe to go out. She puts on her coat and Oscar stares up at her. A few years ago, Robin would have thought that a house rabbit was a ridiculous idea, but as it turns out, they make surprisingly good companions. Robin slips a red leather collar inside her pocket, then heads off towards the chapel alone. She knows what happened to the visitors’ dog because she took him. But Robin doesn’t feel guilty about that at all, even though she used to own a dog herself, and knows how upset they must be.

  Bad people deserve the bad things that happen to them.

  Iron

  Word of the year:

  chuffed adjective feeling happy or very pleased.

  28th February 2014 – our sixth anniversary

  Dear Adam,

  This has been a good year for us both, hasn’t it? You were happy, which made me happy, as though it were contagious. Henry Winter asked you to adapt another of his novels for film – a murder mystery with a hint of horror this time, called The Black House – and things seem to be moving in the right direction with your own screenplays too, with Rock Paper Scissors now in pre-production!

  We have October O’Brien to thank for that. Having an A-list actress on board didn’t just help open doors for your own projects in Hollywood, it attracted the attention of a great producer, someone you trust. The three of you have spent an insane amount lots of time together this year, with you disappearing to LA with them more than once, not that I mind. Besides, thanks to October, we’ve just had one of our best anniversaries ever.

  I told her that we’ve never been away for our anniversary because you’re always too busy working – it’s true – and that’s when she suggested we celebrate our sixth in style at her French villa. It was very kind, especially when she’s had such a horrible time lately. The press found out about a speeding ticket, one of many as it turns out. October’s pretty face – and very expensive car – was in the newspapers for all the wrong reasons. October loves driving fast cars, but now she has to go to court and because of all the previous offences, it sounds like she might lose her licence.

  The Eurotunnel crossing was much faster than I imagined it would be. We parked on the train, and just over thirty minutes later we were in Calais, as if by magic. Bob used his pet passport for the first time, and it was so easy to travel with a dog. I saw one woman crossing the channel with a rabbit in the passenger seat of her car. It wore a tiny red harness and walked on a lead, I’d never seen anything like it!

  We drove through Paris – I wanted to see Notre-Dame – and after lunch in a little café on the bank of the River Seine, we strolled through the ‘Bouquinistes of Paris’, and the booksellers of Paris did not disappoint. Each had their own display of second-hand books – hundreds of them – beneath a sea of green-roofed huts lining the path along the river. Just as their predecessors had been doing for hundreds of years.

  You were in your element.

  ‘Do you know these book stalls were declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1991?’ you said, stopping to literally smell the books. It’s something you always do, and although I once found it a little peculiar, I now find it endearing. I love the way you pick up a book in your hands, carefully turning the pages as if the paper were made of gold, then smell them, as if you might be able to breathe in the story.

  ‘I did not know that,’ I replied, having heard you tell this tale several times before.

  That’s a funny thing about marriage that nobody ever mentions. People think that when a couple run out of stories to tell each other, their time is up. I could listen to your stories all day, even the ones I’ve already heard, because every time you tell a story it’s a little different. Nobody knows everything about another person, no matter how
long they’ve been together, but if you ever feel like you know too much then something is wrong.

  ‘It is said that the Seine is the only river in the world that runs between two bookshelves,’ you said, and you held my hand.

  ‘I like that,’ I replied, because I did. I still do.

  ‘I like you,’ you replied, then you kissed me.

  We haven’t kissed in public like that for years. At first, I felt self-conscious – I wasn’t sure I could remember how – but then I gave in to the idea of us being us again. The people we used to be. We time travelled to the moment when I was the girl you wanted to marry, and you were the man I hoped might ask.

  October has loaned us her French home in Champagne while she is filming another movie in America. She has four different homes dotted around the world. Maybe that’s why she’s so good at changing her accent and look. Her French house is a twenty-minute walk from Moët & Chandon on Avenue de Champagne – which I’m quite convinced is the best address I’ve ever heard – and I can see why she likes living here more than London or Dublin. I feel like we are in Disneyland for wine lovers. The main avenue is a cobblestoned wonderland for anyone who enjoys a glass of fizz. Elegant chateaus line the street on either side, each owned by the world’s oldest and best-known wine makers. The town itself is filled with award-winning restaurants and cute little bars, all serving champagne as if it were lemonade.

  Your favourite actress’s French hideaway is in the perfect location: close enough to walk to the centre of town, but far away enough to feel like we are in the countryside, with sweeping views of vineyards and the valley below. The building was once a small, derelict former independent winery. Now it is a luxury house, all wooden beams and big glass windows. Modern, but with enough original features to make it feel like a home. Not too shabby at all for a woman under thirty. She seems to have caught the renovation bug, and already has her eye on another abandoned property she wants to transform, according to you. Somewhere a little more remote.

  We arrived late, so after a supper of cooked Camembert, jam, and fresh French bread, washed down with a bottle of champagne – bien sûr – it was straight to bed.

  ‘Happy anniversary,’ you said the next morning, kissing me awake.

  I wasn’t sure where I was at first, but then relaxed when I saw the stunning view from the guest bedroom: nothing but blue sky, sunshine, and vineyards. You smiled when you gave me my gift and looked rather pleased with yourself. I’m so sorry if I looked a little disappointed when I opened it; I was still half asleep and wasn’t expecting you to give me a bookmark. Don’t get me wrong, as bookmarks go it’s a very nice one: made of iron to represent our sixth year and engraved:

  Iron so glad I married you.

  You seemed to think that was hilarious.

  ‘I’m just chuffed that you love reading as much as I do these days,’ you said. ‘It’s nice when we spend an evening with a couple of books and a bottle of something good in front of the fire, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nobody under seventy uses the word “chuffed” anymore,’ I replied.

  It is true – I do read as much as you these days. What choice do I have? It’s either read together or be alone.

  I gave you your gift: a very elaborate-looking vintage iron key. You seemed as unimpressed as I probably did a few minutes earlier, and I decided we might need to work on our gift-buying choices.

  ‘What does it open?’ you asked.

  ‘A secret,’ I said, and reached beneath the white sheets.

  I think you’ll remember what we did then, twice, in October O’Brien’s bedroom. It was the best sex we’ve had in a long time. There were several photos of our lovely host hanging on the walls: October winning a Bafta, or posing with members of the royal family for the charity work she does, or smiling with other young, beautiful, Hollywood A-listers that I should probably know the names of, but don’t. I had to turn away at one point, worried she was watching us.

  I hate myself for thinking it, but I hope it was me you were picturing in her bed.

  I had a little nose about the place while you were taking a shower. Who wouldn’t? There were inspirational mottos dotted around, including a framed print that said: YOU GET WHAT YOU WORK FOR, NOT WHAT YOU WISH FOR and – my personal favourite – BE THE PERSON YOUR DOG THINKS YOU ARE. I didn’t know she had one. There was also some unopened mail on the doormat, and two of the envelopes I picked up were addressed to an R. O’Brien.

  ‘I didn’t know October was married,’ I said, putting the post on the dressing table, and having a quick peek inside her drawers.

  ‘She isn’t,’ you replied from the bathroom.

  ‘Then who is R. O’Brien?’

  ‘What?’ you asked, shouting over the sound of the shower.

  ‘These letters are all addressed to someone called R. O’Brien.’

  ‘October is just her stage name. It helps keep her private life private,’ you said. ‘Good thing too the way the press sometimes go after her. That business about the speeding ticket and all the headlines it generated, you’d have thought she killed someone.’ Then you immediately changed the subject, and I was glad, because I wanted this time away to be all about us. Only us.

  I gave you that iron key because I want to tell you the truth about everything. All of it. We’re so happy at the moment, and I don’t want there to be secrets between us anymore. But when you unwrapped it, and held the key to everything in your hand, something felt wrong. Why ruin our present or jeopardise our future with my past? Better to let us live this happy version of us a little while longer.

  All my love,

  Your wife

  xx

  Adam

  I take better care of myself than my wife, she spends too long taking care of others. By the time we reach the top of the hill, she is red in the face and more than a little out of breath. I could have made it easier, gone a little slower perhaps, but I wanted to get us both as far away from that cottage as soon as possible.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ she says.

  ‘That’s because there is nothing to see.’

  Strictly speaking, neither of these things are true.

  There is a full three-sixty-degree view of the valley from up here – just as I predicted there would be – with only snowy mountains and wilderness as far as the eye can see. It’s stunning, but a view of another house, or a petrol station, or a phone box, might have been preferable, given the circumstances. A beautiful but barren landscape is exactly what I feared: nowhere to run. Or hide. We are completely cut off.

  I did see something, though.

  Back at the cottage.

  It’s been bothering me ever since.

  I didn’t recognise the woman – I never recognise anyone – but I did get a strange sense of déjà vu. I try to tuck it away in one of the darker corners of my mind – out of sight – and look at my wife instead. She has her back to me, busy taking in the view of the valley. I can tell she is trying to catch her breath and gather her thoughts, both seem to have escaped her. I wish I could see my wife the way other people do. I recognise the shape of Amelia’s body, the length and style of her hair. I know the smell of her shampoo, her moisturising cream, and the perfume I give her for birthdays or Christmas. I know her voice, her quirks, and mannerisms.

  But when I stare at her face, I could be looking at anyone.

  I read a thriller about a woman with prosopagnosia last year. I was genuinely excited at first – not much has been written about face blindness. I thought it might be a good premise and make a good TV drama, as well as help raise awareness of the condition, but sadly not. The writing was as disappointing and mediocre as the plot, and I turned the job down. I spend so much time rewriting other people’s stories, I wish I was better at rewriting my own.

  Sometimes I think that I should have been an author. An author’s words are treated like gold, they’re untouchable and get to live happily ever after inside their books – even the bad ones. A screenwriter’s wor
ds are jelly beans in comparison; if an executive doesn’t like them, they chew them up and spit them out. Along with whoever wrote them. My own real-life experience would have made a better thriller than that novel. Imagine not being able to recognise your wife, or your best friend, or the person responsible for killing your mother right in front of you as a kid.

  My mother was the person who taught me to read and fall in love with stories. We would devour novels from the library together in the council flat I grew up in, and she said that books would take me anywhere if I let them. Kind lies are the cousins of white ones. She also said that my eyes would turn square from all the TV I insisted on watching, but when our battered old set broke, my mother sold all of her jewellery – except for her beloved sapphire ring – at the pawn shop to get me another one. She knew that the characters I loved in books, films and TV shows, filled the gaps left by absent family and non-existent friends when I was a child.

  Watching her die will always be the worst thing that ever happened to me.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Amelia asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  It was a long and steep climb to the top of this hill – both of us are unsuitably dressed for the hike and the weather – and it seems it was all for nothing. Neither of us has a signal on our phones, even up here. There’s no sign of Bob or any way of calling for help. I can see the chapel in the distance down below, and it looks so much smaller than before. Less threatening. The sky, on the other hand, has darkened since we left. The clouds seem determined to block out the sun, and Amelia is shivering. It was OK when we were on the move, but I feel the cold too since we stopped, and I know we shouldn’t stand still for long. When you reach the top of a hill, you can often look back and see the whole path you took to make the journey. But while you’re on the path, it’s sometimes impossible to see where you are going or where you have been. It feels like a metaphor for life, and I’d be tempted to write the thought down if I wasn’t so damn cold. I take one final look around, but other than the chapel and the cottage, there really is nothing to see except a snow-covered landscape for miles in all directions.