BeginReading
TableofContents
AbouttheAuthor
CopyrightPage
Thankyouforbuyingthis
FlatironBooksebook.
Toreceivespecialoffers,bonuscontent,
andinfoonnewreleasesandothergreatreads,
signupforournewsletters.
Orvisitusonlineat
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
Foremailupdatesontheauthor,clickhere
Theauthorandpublisherhaveprovidedthisebooktoyouforyourpersonaluseonly.Youmaynotmakethisebookpubliclyavailableinanyway.Copyrightinfringementisagainstthelaw.Ifyoubelievethecopyofthisebookyouarereadinginfringesontheauthor’scopyright,pleasenotifythepublisherat:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
FormyDaniel,ofcourse
AMELIA
February2020
Myhusbanddoesn’trecognizemyface.
IfeelhimstaringatmeasIdrive,andwonderwhathesees.Nobodyelselooksfamiliartohimeither,butitisstillstrangetothinkthatthemanImarriedwouldn’tbeabletopickmeoutinapolicelineup.
Iknowtheexpressionhisfaceiswearingwithouthavingtolook.It’sthesulky,petulant,“Itoldyouso”version,soIconcentrateontheroadinstead.Ineedto.Thesnowisfallingfasternow,it’slikedrivinginawhiteout,andthewindscreenwipersonmyMorrisMinorTravellerarestrugglingtocope.Thecar—likeme—wasmadein1978.Ifyoulookafterthings,theywilllastalifetime,butIsuspectmyhusbandmightliketotradeusbothinforayoungermodel.Adamhascheckedhisseatbeltahundredtimessincewelefthome,andhishandsareballedintoconjoinedfistsonhislap.ThejourneyfromLondonuptoScotlandshouldhavetakennomorethaneighthours,butIdaren’tdriveanyfasterinthisstorm.Eventhoughit’sstartingtogetdark,anditseemswemightbelostinmorewaysthanone.
Canaweekendawaysaveamarriage?That’swhatmyhusbandsaidwhenthecounselorsuggestedit.Everytimehiswordsreplayinmymind,anewlistofregretswritesitselfinsidemyhead.Tohavewastedsomuchofourlivesbynotreallylivingthem,makesmefeelsosad.Weweren’talwaysthepeoplewearenow,butourmemoriesofthepastcanmakeliarsofusall.That’swhyI’mfocusingonthefuture.Mine.SomedaysIstillpicturehiminit,buttherearemomentswhenIimaginewhatitwouldbeliketobeonmyownagain.Itisn’twhatIwant,butIdowonderwhetheritmightbebestforbothofus.Timecanchangerelationshipsliketheseareshapesthesand.
Hesaidweshouldpostponethistripwhenwesawtheweatherwarnings,butIcouldn’t.Webothknowthisweekendawayisalastchancetofixthings.Oratleasttotry.Hehasn’tforgottenthat
It’snotmyhusband’sfaultthatheforgetswhoIam.
Adamhasaneurologicalglitchcalledprosopagnosia,whichmeanshecannotseedistinguishingfeaturesonfaces,includinghisown.Hehaswalkedpastmeonthestreetonmorethanoneoccasion,asthoughIwereastranger.Thesocialanxietyitinevitablycausesaffectsusboth.Adamcanbesurroundedbyfriendsatapartyandstillfeellikehedoesn’tknowasinglepersonintheroom.Sowespendalotoftimealone.Togetherbutapart.Justus.Faceblindnessisn’ttheonlywaymyhusbandmakesmefeelinvisible.Hedidnotwantchildren—alwayssaidthathecouldn’tbearthethoughtofnotrecognizingtheirfaces.Hehaslivedwiththeconditionhiswholelife,andIhavelivedwithitsincewemet.Sometimesacursecanbeablessing.
Myhusbandmightnotknowmyface,butthereareotherwayshehaslearnedtorecognizeme:thesmellofmyperfume,thesoundofmyvoice,thefeelofmyhandinhiswhenhestillusedtoholdit.
Marriagesdon’tfail,peopledo.
Iamnotthewomanhefellinlovewithallthoseyearsago.IwonderwhetherhecantellhowmucholderIlooknow?Orifhenoticestheinfiltrationofgrayinmylongblondhair?Fortymightbethenewthirty,butmyskiniscreasedwithwrinklesthatwererarelycausedbylaughter.Weusedtohavesomuchincommon,sharingoursecretsanddreams,notjustabed.Westillfinisheachother’ssentences,butthesedayswegetthemwrong.
“Ifeellikewe’regoingincircles,”hemuttersbeneathhisbreath,andforamomentI’mnotsurewhetherhe’sreferringtoourmarriageormynavigationalskills.Theominous-lookingslateskyseemstoreflecthismood,andit’sthefirsttimehe’sspokenforseveralmiles.Snowhassettledontheroadahead,andthewindispickingup,butit’sstillnothingcomparedwiththestormbrewinginsidethecar.
“CanyoujustfindthedirectionsIprintedoutandreadthemagain?”Isay,trying,butfailing,tohidetheirritationinmyvoice.“I’msurewemustbeclose.”
Unlikeme,myhusbandhasagedimpossiblywell.Hisforty-plusyearsarecleverlydisguisedbyagoodhaircut,tannedskin,andabodyshapedbyanoverindulgenceinhalf-marathons.Hehasalwaysbeenverygoodatrunningaway,especiallyfromreality.
Adamisascreenwriter.HestartedfarbelowthebottomrungofHollywood’sretractableladder,notquiteabletoreachitonhisown.Hetellspeoplethathewentstraightfromschoolintothemoviebusiness,whichisonlyanoff-whitelie.HegotajobworkingattheElectricCinemainNottingHillwhenhewassixteen,sellingsnacksandfilmtickets.Bythetimehewastwenty-one,he’dsoldtherightstohisfirstscreenplay.RockPaperScissorshasnevermadeitbeyonddevelopment,butAdamgotanagentoutofthedeal,andtheagentgothimwork,writinganadaptationofanovel.Thebookwasn’tabestseller,butthefilmversion—alow-budgetBritishaffair—wonaBafta,andawriterwasborn.Itwasn’tthesameasseeinghisowncharacterscometolifeon-screen—theroadstoourdreamsarerarelydirect—butitdidmeanthatAdamcouldquitsellingpopcornandwritefull-time.
Screenwritersdon’ttendtobehouseholdnames,sosomepeoplemightnotknowhis,butI’dbewillingtobetmoneythey’veseenatleastoneofthefilmshe’swritten.Despiteourproblems,I’msoproudofeverythinghehasachieved.AdamWrightbuiltareputationinthebusinessforturningundiscoverednovelsintoblockbustermovies,andhe’sstillalwaysonthelookoutforthenext.I’lladmitthatIsometimesfeeljealous,butIthinkthat’sonlynaturalgiventhenumberofnightswhenhewouldrathertakeabooktobed.Myhusbanddoesn’tcheatonmewithotherwomen,ormen,hehasloveaffairswiththeirwords.
Humanbeingsareastrangeandunpredictablespecies.Ipreferthecompanyofanimals,whichisoneofthemanyreasonswhyIworkatBatterseaDogsHome.Four-leggedcreaturestendtomakebettercompanionsthanthosewithtwo,anddogsdon’tholdgrudgesorknowhowtohate.I’drathernotthinkabouttheotherreasonswhyIworkthere;sometimesthedustofourmemoriesisbestleftunswept.
Theviewbeyondthewindscreenhasofferedanever-changingdramaticlandscapeduringourjourney.Therehavebeentreesineveryshadeofgreen,giantglisteninglochs,snowcappedmountains,andaninfiniteamountofperfect,unspoiledspace.IaminlovewiththeScottishHighlands.IfthereisamorebeautifulplaceonEarth,Ihaveyettofindit.TheworldseemssomuchbiggerupherethaninLondon.OrperhapsIamsmaller.Ifindpeaceinthequietstillnessandtheremotenessofitall.Wehaven’tseenanothersoulformorethananhour,whichmakesthistheperfectlocationforwhatIhaveplanned.
Wepassastormyseaonourleftandcarryonnorth,thesoundofcrashingwavesserenadingus.Asthewindingroadshrinksintoanarrowlane,thesky—whichhaschangedfromblue,topink,topurple,andnowblack—isreflectedineachofthepartiallyfrozenlochswepass.Fartherinland,aforestengulfsus.Ancientpinetrees,dustedwithsnow,andtallerthanourhouse,arebeingbentoutofshapebythestormasthoughtheyarematchsticks.Thewindwailslikeaghostoutsidethecar,constantlytryingtoblowusoffcourse,andwhenweslidealittleontheicyroad,Igripthesteeringwheelsotightthatthebonesinmyfingersseemtoprotrudethroughmyskin.Inoticemyweddingring.Asolidreminderthatwearestilltogether,despiteallthereasonsweshouldperhapsbeapart.Nostalgiaisadangerousdrug,butIenjoythesensationofhappiermemoriesfloodingmymind.Maybewe’renotaslostaswefeel.Istealaglanceatthemansittingbesideme,wonderingwhetherwecouldstillfindourwaybacktous.ThenIdosomethingIhaven’tdoneforalongtime,andreachtoholdhishand.
“Stop!”heyells.
Itallhappenssofast.Theblurred,snowyimageofastagstandinginthemiddleoftheroadahead,myfootslammingonthebrake,thecarswervingandspinningbeforefinallyskiddingtoahaltjustinfrontofthedeer’shugehorns.Itblinkstwiceinourdirectionbeforecalmlywalkingawayasifnothinghappened,disappearingintothewoods.Eventhetreeslookcold.
MyheartisthuddinginsidemychestasIreachformyhandbag.Mytremblingfingersfindmypurseandkeysandalmostallothercontentsbeforelocatingmyinhaler.Ishakeitandtakeapuff.
“Areyouokay?”Iask,beforetakinganother.
“Itoldyouthiswasabadidea,”Adamreplies.
Ihavebittenmytonguesomanytimesalreadyonthistrip,itmustbefullofholes.
“Idon’trememberyouhavingabetterone,”Isnap.
“Aneight-hourdriveforaweekendaway…”
“We’vebeensayingforagesthatitmightbenicetovisittheHighlands.”
“Itmightbenicetovisitthemoon,too,butI’dratherwetalkedaboutitbeforeyoubookedusonarocket.Youknowhowbusythingsareformerightnow.”
“Busy”hasbecomeatriggerwordinourmarriage.Adamwearshisbusynesslikeabadge.LikeaBoyScout.Itissomethingheisproudof:astatussymbolofhissuccess.Itmakeshimfeelimportant,andmakesmewanttothrowthenovelsheadaptsathishead.
“Wearewherewearebecauseyou’realwaystoobusy,”Isaythroughgritted,chatteringteeth.It’ssocoldinthecarnow,Icanseemyownbreath.
“I’msorry,areyousuggestingit’smyfaultthatwe’reinScotland?InFebruary?Inthemiddleofastorm?Thiswasyouridea.AtleastIwon’thavetolistentoyourincessantnaggingoncewe’vebeencrushedtodeathbyafallingtree,ordiedfromhypothermiainthisshit-cancaryouinsistondriving.”
Weneverbickerlikethisinpublic,onlyinprivate.We’rebothprettygoodatkeepingupappearancesandIfindpeopleseewhattheywanttosee.Butbehindcloseddoors,thingshavebeenwrongwithMr.andMrs.Wrightforalongtime.
“IfI’dhadmyphone,we’dbetherebynow,”hesays,rummagingaroundintheglovecompartmentforhisbelovedmobile,whichhecan’tfind.Myhusbandthinksgadgetsandgizmosaretheanswertoalloflife’sproblems.
“Iaskedifyouhadeverythingyouneededbeforeweleftthehouse,”Isay.
“Ididhaveeverything.Myphonewasintheglovecompartment.”
“Thenitwouldstillbethere.It’snotmyjobtopackyourthingsforyou.I’mnotyourmother.”
Iimmediatelyregretsayingit,butwordsdon’tcomewithgiftreceiptsandyoucan’ttakethemback.Adam’smotherisatthetopofthelonglistofthingshedoesn’tliketotalkabout.Itrytobepatientwhilehecontinuessearchingforhisphone,despiteknowinghe’llneverfindit.He’sright.Hedidputitintheglovecompartment.ButItookitoutbeforewelefthomethismorningandhiditinthehouse.Iplantoteachmyhusbandanimportantlessonthisweekendandhedoesn’tneedhisphoneforthat.
Fifteenminuteslater,we’rebackontheroadandseemtobemakingprogress.AdamsquintsinthedarknessashestudiesthedirectionsIprintedoff—unlessit’sabookoramanuscript,anythingwrittenonpaperinsteadofascreenseemstobafflehim.
“Youneedtotakethefirstrightatthenextroundabout,”hesays,soundingmoreconfidentthanIwouldhaveexpected.
Wearesoonreliantonthemoontolightourwayandhintattheriseandfallofthesnowylandscapeahead.Therearenostreetlights,andtheheadlightsontheMorrisMinorbarelylighttheroadinfrontofus.Inoticethatwearelowonpetrolagain,buthaven’tseenanywheretofillupforalmostanhour.Thesnowisrelentlessnow,andtherehasbeennothingbutthedarkoutlinesofmountainsandlochsformiles.
Whenwefinallyseeasnow-coveredoldsignforBlackwater,thereliefinthecarispalpable.Adamreadsthelastsetofdirectionswithsomethingborderingonenthusiasm.
“Crossthebridge,turnrightwhenyoupassabenchoverlookingtheloch.Theroadwillbendtotheright,leadingintothevalley.Ifyoupassthepub,you’vegonetoofarandmissedtheturningfortheproperty.”
“Apubdinnermightbenicelater,”Isuggest.
NeitherofussaysanythingwhentheBlackwaterInncomesintoviewinthedistance.Iturnoffbeforewereachthepub,butwestillgetcloseenoughtoseethatitswindowsareboardedup.Theghostlybuildinglooksasthoughithasbeenderelictforalongtime.
Thewindingroaddownintothevalleyisbothspectacularandterrifying.Itlookslikeithasbeenchiseledoutofthemountainbyhand.Thetrackisbarelywideenoughforourlittlecar,andthere’sasteepdropononesidewithnotasinglecrashbarrier.
“IthinkIcanseesomething,”Adamsays,leaningclosertothewindscreenandpeeringintothedarkness.AllIcanseeisablackskyandablanketofwhitecoveringeverythingbeneathit.
“Where?”
“There.Justbeyondthosetrees.”
Islowdownalittleashepointsatnothing.ButthenInoticewhatlookslikealargewhitebuildingallonitsowninthedistance.
“It’sjustachurch,”hesays,soundingdefeated.
“That’sit!”Isay,readinganoldwoodensignupahead.“BlackwaterChapeliswhatwe’relookingfor.Wemustbehere!”
“We’vedrivenallthiswaytostayin…anoldchurch?”
“Aconvertedchapel,yes,andIdidallthedriving.”
Islowrightdown,andfollowthesnow-covereddirttrackthatleadsawayfromthesingle-laneroadandintothefloorofthevalley.Wepassatinythatchedcottageontheright—theonlyotherbuildingIcanseeformiles—thenwecrossasmallbridgeandareimmediatelyconfrontedbyaflockofsheep.Theyarehuddledtogether,eerilyilluminatedbyourheadlights,andblockingourpath.Igentlyrevtheengine,andtrytappingthecarhorn,buttheydon’tmove.Withtheireyesglowinginthedarknesstheylookalittlesupernatural.ThenIhearthesoundofgrowlinginthebackofthecar.
Bob—ourgiantblackLabrador—hasbeenquietformostofthejourney.Athisagehemostlylikestosleepandeat,butheisafraidofsheep.Andfeathers.I’mscaredofsillythingstoo,butIamrighttobe.Bob’sgrowlingdoesnothingtoscaretheherd.Adamopensthecardoorwithoutwarning,andaflurryofsnowimmediatelyblowsinside,blastingusfromalldirections.Iwatchasheclimbsout,shieldshisface,thenshoosthesheep,beforeopeningagatethathadbeenhiddenfromviewbehindthem.Idon’tknowhowAdamsawitinthedark.
Heclimbsbackintothecarwithoutaword,andItakemytimeaswetrundletherestoftheway.ThetrackisdangerouslyclosetotheedgeofthelochandIcanseewhytheynamedthisplaceBlackwater.AsIpullupoutsidetheoldwhitechapel,Istarttofeelbetter.It’sbeenanexhaustingjourney,butwemadeit,andItellmyselfthateverythingwillbeokayassoonaswegetinside.
Steppingoutintoablizzardisashocktothesystem.Iwrapmycoataroundme,buttheicycoldwindstillknockstheairoutofmylungsandthesnowpummelsmyface.IgetBobfromtheboot,andthethreeofustrudgethroughthesnowtowardtwolargegothic-lookingwoodendoors.Aconvertedchapelseemedromanticatfirst.Quirkyandfun.Butnowthatwe’rehere,itdoesfeelabitliketheopeningofourownhorrorfilm.
Thechapeldoorsarelocked.
“Didtheownersmentionanythingaboutakeybox?”Adamasks.
“No,theyjustsaidthatthedoorswouldbeopen,”Isay.
Istareupattheimposingwhitebuilding,shieldingmyeyesfromtheunrelentingsnow,andtakeinthesightofthethickwhitestonewalls,belltower,andstained-glasswindows.Bobstartstogrowlagain,whichisunlikehim,butperhapstherearemoresheeporotheranimalsinthedistance?SomethingthatAdamandIjustcan’tsee?
“Maybethereisanotherdooraroundtheback?”Adamsuggests.
“Ihopeyou’reright.Thecaralreadylookslikeitmightneeddiggingoutofthesnow.”
Wetraipsetowardthesideofthechapel,withBobleadingtheway,strainingonhisleadasthoughtrackingsomething.Althoughthereareendlessstained-glasswindows,wedon’tfindanymoredoors.Anddespitethefrontofthebuildingbeingilluminatedbyexteriorlights—theoneswecouldseefromadistance—inside,it’scompletelydark.Wecarryon,headsbowedagainsttherelentlessweatheruntilwehavecomefullcircle.
“Whatnow?”Iask.
ButAdamdoesn’tanswer.
Ilookup,shieldingmyeyesfromthesnow,andseethatheisstaringatthefrontofthechapel.Thehugewoodendoorsarenowwideopen.
ADAM
Ifeverystoryhadahappyending,thenwe’dhavenoreasontostartagain.Lifeisallaboutchoices,andlearninghowtoputourselvesbacktogetherwhenwefallapart.Whichwealldo.Eventhepeoplewhopretendtheydon’t.JustbecauseIcan’trecognizemywife’sface,itdoesn’tmeanIdon’tknowwhosheis
“Thedoorswereclosedbefore,right?”Iask,butAmeliadoesn’tanswer.
Westandsidebysideoutsidethechapel,bothshivering,withsnowblowingaroundusinalldirections.EvenBoblooksmiserable,andhe’salwayshappy.It’sbeenalongandtediousjourney,madeworsebythesteadydrumbeatofaheadacheatthebaseofmyskull.IdrankmorethanIshouldwithsomeoneIshouldn’thavelastnight.Again.Inalcohol’sdefense,I’vedonesomeequallystupidthingswhilecompletelysober.
“Let’snotjumptoconclusions,”mywifesayseventually,butIthinkwe’vebothalreadyhurdledoverseveral.
“Thedoorsdidn’tjustopenbythemselves—”
“Maybethehousekeeperheardusknocking?”sheinterrupts.
“Thehousekeeper?Whichwebsitedidyouusetobookthisplaceagain?”
“Itwasn’tonawebsite.IwonaweekendawayinthestaffChristmasraffle.”
Idon’treplyforafewseconds,butsilencecanstretchtimesoitfeelslonger.Plus,myfacefeelssocoldnow,I’mnotsureIcanmovemymouth.ButitturnsoutthatIcan.
“JustsoI’vegotthisclear…youwonaweekendaway,tostayinanoldScottishchurch,inastaffraffleatBatterseaDogsHome?”
“It’sachapel,butyes.What’swrongwiththat?Wehavearaffleeveryyear.Peopledonategifts,Iwonsomethinggoodforachange.”
“Great,”Ireply.“Thishasdefinitelybeen‘good’sofar.”
SheknowsIdetestlongjourneys.Ihatecarsanddrivingfullstop—nevereventookatest—soeighthourstrappedinhertin-canantiqueonfourwheels,duringastorm,isn’tmyideaoffun.Ilookatthedogformoralsupport,butBobistoobusytryingtoeatsnowflakesastheyfallfromthesky.Amelia,sensingdefeat,usesthatpassive-aggressivesingsongtonethatusedtoamuseme.ThesedaysitmakesmewishIwasdeaf.
“Shallwegoinside?Makethebestofit?Ifit’sreallybadwe’lljustleave,findahotel,orsleepinthecarifwehaveto.”
I’drathereatmyownliverthangetbackinhercar.
Mywifesaysthesamethingslately,overandover,andherwordsalwaysfeellikeapinchoraslap.“Idon’tunderstandyou”irritatesmethemost,becausewhat’stounderstand?Shelikesanimalsmorethanshelikespeople;Ipreferfiction.Isupposetherealproblemsbeganwhenwestartedpreferringthosethingstoeachother.Itfeelslikethetermsandconditionsofourrelationshiphaveeitherbeenforgotten,orwereneverproperlyreadinthefirstplace.Itisn’tasthoughIwasn’taworkaholicwhenwefirstmet.Or“writeraholic”asshelikestocallit.Allpeopleareaddicts,andalladdictsdesirethesamething:anescapefromreality.Myjobjusthappenstobemyfavoritedrug
Samebutdifferent,that’swhatItellmyselfwhenIstartanewscreenplay.That’swhatIthinkpeoplewant,andwhychangetheingredientsofawinningformula?Icantellwithinthefirstfewpagesofabookwhetheritwillworkforthescreenornot—whichisagoodthing,becauseIgetsentfartoomanytoreadthemall.ButjustbecauseI’mgoodatwhatIdo,doesn’tmeanIwanttodoitfortherestofmylife.I’vegotmyownstoriestotell.ButHollywoodisn’tinterestedinoriginalityanymore,theyjustwanttoturnnovelsintofilmsorTVshows,likewineintowater.Differentbutsame.Butdoesthatrulealsoapplytorelationships?Ifweplaythesamecharactersfortoolonginamarriage,isn’titinevitablethatwe’llgetboredofthestoryandgiveup,orswitchoffbeforewereachtheend?
“Shallwe?”Ameliasays,interruptingmythoughtsandstaringupatthebelltowerontopofthecreepychapel.
“Ladiesfirst.”Can’tsayI’mnotagentleman.“I’llgrabthebagsfromthecar,”Iadd,keentosnatchmylastfewsecondsofsolitudebeforewegoinside.
Ispendalotoftimetryingnottooffendpeople:producers,executives,actors,agents,authors.Throwfaceblindnessintothatmix,andIthinkit’sfairtosayI’mOlympianlevelwhenitcomestowalkingoneggshells.Ioncespoketoacoupleataweddingfortenminutesbeforerealizingtheywerethebrideandgroom.Shedidn’twearatraditionaldress,andhelookedlikeacloneofhismanygroomsmen.ButIgotawaywithitbecausecharmingpeopleispartofmyjob.Gettinganauthortotrustmewiththescreenplayoftheirnovelcanbeharderthanpersuadingamothertoletastrangerlookaftertheirfirstbornchild.ButI’mgoodatit.Sadly,charmingmywifeseemstobesomethingI’veforgottenhowtodo.
Inevertellpeopleabouthavingprosopagnosia.Firstly,Idon’twantthattodefineme,andhonestly,oncesomeoneknows,it’salltheywanttotalkabout.Idon’tneedorwantpityfromanyone,andIdon’tlikebeingmadetofeellikeafreak.Whatpeopledon’teverseemtounderstand,isthatforme,it’snormalnottobeabletorecognizefaces.It’sjustaglitchinmyprogramming;onethatcan’tbefixed.I’mnotsayingI’mokaywithit.Imaginenotbeingabletorecognizeyourownfriendsorfamily?Ornotknowingwhatyourwife’sfacelookslike?IhatemeetingAmeliainrestaurantsincaseIsitdownatthewrongtable.I’dchoosetakeouteverytimewereituptome.SometimesIdon’tevenrecognizemyownfacewhenIlookinthemirror.ButI’velearnedtolivewithit.Likewealldowhenlifedealsusalessthanperfecthand.
IthinkI’velearnedtolivewithalessthanperfectmarriage,too.Butdoesn’teveryone?I’mnotbeingdefeatist,justhonest.Isn’tthatwhatsuccessfulrelationshipsarereallyabout?Compromise?Isanymarriagereallyperfect?
Ilovemywife.Ijustdon’tthinkwelikeeachotherasmuchasweusedto.
“That’snearlyallofit,”Isay,rejoiningheronthechapelsteps,saddledwithmorebagsthanwecanpossiblyneedforafewnightsaway.Sheglaresatmyshoulderasifithasoffendedher.
“Isthatyourlaptopsatchel?”sheasks,knowingfullwellthatitis.
I’mhardlyarookiesoIcan’texplainorexcusemymistake.IimagineAmeliapullingaGotoJail–cardface.Thisisnotagoodstart.IwillnotbeallowedtowritethisweekendorpassGo.IfourmarriagewereagameofMonopoly,mywifewouldchargemedoubleeverytimeIaccidentallylandedononeofherhotels
“Youpromisednowork,”shesaysinthatdisappointed,whineytonethathasbecomesofamiliar.Myworkpaidforourhouseandourholidays;shedidn’tcomplainaboutthat.
WhenIthinkabouteverythingwehave—anicehomeinLondon,agoodlife,moneyinthebank—Ithinkthesamethingasalways:weshouldbehappy.Butallthethingswedon’thavearehardertosee.Mostfriendsouragehaveelderlyparentsoryoungchildrentoworryabout,butweonlyhaveeachother.Noparents,nosiblings,nochildren,justus.Alackofpeopletoloveissomethingwe’vealwayshadincommon.MyfatherleftwhenIwastooyoungtorememberanythingabouthim,andmymotherdiedwhenIwasstillinschool.Mywife’schildhoodwasnolessOliverTwist,shewasanorphanbeforeshewasborn.
Bobsavesusfromourselvesbygrowlingatthechapeldoorsagain.It’sstrange,becauseheneverdoesthat,butI’mgratefulforthedistraction.It’shardtobelieveheusedtobeatinypuppy,abandonedinashoeboxanddumpedinthetrash.SincethenhehasgrownintothebiggestblackLabradorIhaveeverseen.Hehasacollectionofgrayhairsonhischinthesedays,andwalksmoreslowlythanheusedto,butthedogistheonlyonestillcapableofunconditionalloveinourfamilyofthree.I’msureeveryonethinkswetreathimlikeasurrogatechild,eveniftheyaretoopolitetosayso.IalwayssaidIdidn’tmindnothavingarealone.Peoplewhodon’tgettonametheirchildrengettonameadifferentfuture.Besides,what’sthepointinwantingsomethingyouknowyoucan’thave?Toolateforthatnow.
Idon’tnormallyfeelforty.IsometimesstruggletounderstandwheretheyearswentandwhenItransitionedfromboytoman.MaybedoingajobthatIlovehassomethingtodowiththat.Myworkmakesmefeelyoung,butmywifemakesmefeelold.ThemarriagecounselorwasAmelia’sidea,andthistripwastheirs.“CallmePamela,”theso-calledexpert,thoughtaweekendawaymightfixus.Iguessalltheweekendsandeveningsspenttogetherathomewerenullandvoid.Weeklyvisitstosharethemostprivatecornersofourliveswithacompletestrangercostmorethanjusttheextortionatefee.Forthatmoney,andseveralotherreasons,IrepeatedlycalledthewomanPammyorPameverytimewemet.“CallmePamela”didn’tlikethat,butIdidn’tlikehermuchsoithelpedmakethingseven.Mywifedidn’twantanyoneelsetoknowthatwewerehavingproblems,butIsuspectsomemighthavenoticed.Mostpeoplecanseethewritingonthewall,eveniftheycan’talwaysreadwhatitsays.
Canaweekendawayreallysaveamarriage?That’swhatAmeliasaidwhen“CallmePamela”suggestedit.Idon’tthinkso.WhichiswhyIcameupwithmyownplanforuslongbeforeIagreedtohers.Butnowwe’rehere…climbingthechapelsteps…andIdon’tknowifIcangothroughwithit.
“Areyousureyouwanttodothis?”Isay,stoppingjustbeforegoinginside.
“Yes.Why?”sheasks,asthoughshecan’thearthedoggrowlingandthewindhowling.
“Idon’tknow.Somethingdoesn’tfeelright—”
“Thisisn’tahorrorstorywrittenbyoneofyourfavoriteauthors,Adam.Thisisreallife.Maybethewindblewthedoorsopen?”
Shecansaywhatshelikes,butthedoorsweren’tjustclosedbefore.Theywerelockedandwebothknowit.
WefindourselvesinwhatposhpeoplecallabootroomandIputthebagsdown.Apuddleofmeltingsnowformsaroundmyfeet.Theflagstonefloorlooksancient,andthereisbuilt-instoragealongthebackwallwithrusticwoodencubbyholesdesignedforboots.Therearealsorowsofhooksforcoats,allofwhichareempty.Wedon’tremoveoursnow-coveredshoesorjackets.Partlybecauseitisjustascoldinhereasitwasoutside,butalsoperhapsbecauseitstillseemsuncertainwhetherwearestaying.
Onewalliscoveredinmirrors,smallones,nobiggerthanmyhand.Theyarealloddshapesandsizeswithintricatemetalframes,andhavebeenhunghaphazardlyinplacewithrustynailsandrustictwine.Theremustbefiftysetsofourfacesreflectedbackatus.Almostasthoughalltheversionsofourselveswebecametotryandmakeourmarriagework,havegatheredtogethertolookdownonwhowe’vebecome.PartofmeisgladIcan’trecognizethem.I’mnotsureI’dlikewhatIsawifIcould.
Thatisn’ttheonlyinterestingfeatureofinteriordesign.Theskullsandantlersoftwostagshavebeenmountedliketrophiesonthefarthestwhitewashedwall,withfourwhitefeathersprotrudingfromtheholeswheretheireyesmustoncehavebeen.It’salittlestrange,butmywifetakesacloserlookandstaresinfascination,likeshe’svisitinganartgallery.Thereisanoldchurchbenchinthecornerthatattractsmyattention.Itlooksantiqueandiscoveredindust,asifnobodyhasbeenhereforaverylongtime.Asfirstimpressionsgo,thisisn’tagreatone.
IrememberthewayAmeliaandIusedtobetogether,inthebeginning.Backthen,wejustclicked—welovedthesamefood,thesamebooks,andthesexwasthebestI’deverhad.EverythingIcouldandcouldn’tseeaboutherwasbeautiful.Wehadsomuchincommonandwewantedthesamethingsinlife.Oratleast,Ithoughtwedid.Thesedayssheseemstowantsomethingelse.Maybesomeoneelse.BecauseI’mnottheonewhochanged.
“Youdon’tneedtodrawinthedusttomakeapoint,”Ameliasays.Istareatthesmall,childish,smileyfacesheisreferringtoonthechurchbench.Ihadn’tnoticeditbefore.
Ididn’tdrawit.
ThelargewoodenoutsidedoorsslamclosedbehindusbeforeIcandefendmyself.
Webothspinaround,butthereisnobodyhereexceptus.Thewholebuildingseemstotremble,thetinymirrorsonthewallswingalittleontheirrustynails,andthedogwhimpers.Amelialooksatme,hereyeswide,andhermouthformingaperfectO.Mymindtriestoofferarationalexplanation,becausethat’swhatitalwaysdoes.
“Youthoughtthewindmighthaveblownthedoorsopen…maybeitblewthemshut,”Isay,andAmelianods.
ThewomanImarriedmorethantenyearsagowouldneverbelievethat.Butthesedays,mywifeonlyeverhearswhatshewantstohear,andseeswhatshewantstosee.
ROCK
Wordoftheyear:limerencenoun.Aninvoluntarystateofmindcausedbyaromanticattractiontoanotherpersoncombinedwithanoverwhelming,obsessiveneedtohaveone’sfeelingsreciprocated.October2007DearAdam,Itwassomethingatfirstsightwhenwemet.Iwasn’tsurewhat,butIknowyoufeltittoo.TheElectricCinemawasafirstdatewithadifference.We’dbothgonetoseeafilmalonebutIsatinyourseatbymistake,wegottalking,andlefttogetherafterthemovie.Everyonethoughtwewerecrazyandthatthewhirlwindromancewouldn’tlast,butI’vealwaysgotgreatsatisfactionfromprovingpeoplewrong.Ashaveyou.It’soneofthemanythingswehaveincommon.Iconfessthatmovingintogetherwasn’texactlyhowIimagined.It’shardertohidethedarkersiderealyoufromsomeoneyoulivewith,andyoudidabetterjobofconcealingalltheclutterwhenIonlycametovisit.IhaverenamedthehallwayStoryStreet,becauseitislinedwithsomanyteeteringpilesofmanuscriptsandbooks,wehavetosidesteptopassthroughit.Iknewthatreadingandwritingwereabigpartofyourlife,butwemightneedtofindsomethingbiggerthanabasementstudioinanoldNottingHilltownhousenowthatIliveheretoo.Iamsohappythough.I’vegottenusedtoplayingsecondfiddleintheorchestraofus,andIacceptthattherewillalwaysbethreeofusinthisrelationship:you,me,andyourwriting.Itwasthecauseofourfirstbigargument,doyouremember?IsupposeIshouldhaveknownbetterthantosearchthroughthedrawersinyourdesk,butIwasonlylookingformatches.That’swhenIfoundthemanuscriptforRockPaperScissors,withyournameneatlytypedinTimesNewRomanonthefrontpage.Ihadtheflattomyself,andadecentbottleofwine,soIreadthewholethingthatnight.Fromthelookonyourfacewhenyoucamehome,anyonewouldhavethoughtI’dreadyourdiary.ButIthinkIunderstandnow.Thatmanuscriptwasn’tjustanunsoldstory;itwaslikeanabandonedchild.RockPaperScissorswasyourfirsteverscreenplaybutit’snevermadeittoscreen.You’vecollaboratedwiththreeproducers,twodirectors,andoneA-listactor.Youspentsomanyyearswritingdraftafterdraft,butitstillnevergotbeyonddevelopment.Itmustbeupsettingthatyourfavoritestoryhasbeenforgottenabout,lefttodieinadeskdrawer,butI’msureitwon’tstaythatwayforever.I’vebecomeyourofficialfirstreadersincethen—aroleIamveryproudof—andyourwritingjustgetsbetterandbetter.Iknowyou’dratherseeyourowntalesturnedintofilms,butfornowit’sallaboutotherpeople’s.Istillhaven’tquitegottenusedtotheamountoftimeyouspendreadingtheirnovels,becausesomeonesomewherethinkstheymightworkonscreen.ButI’vewatchedyoudisappearinsideabooklikearabbitinsideamagician’shat,andI’velearnedtoacceptthatsometimesyouareabitself-involveddon’tresurfacefordays.Luckily,booksaresomethingelsewehaveincommon,thoughIthinkit’sfairtosaywehavedifferenttaste.Youlikehorrorstories,thrillers,andcrimenovels,whicharenotmycupofteaatall.I’vealwaysthoughttheremustbesomethingseriouslywrongwithpeoplewhowritedarkandtwistedfiction.Ipreferagoodlovestory.ButI’vetriedtobeunderstandingaboutyourwork—eventhoughitsometimeshurtswhenyouchoosetospendyourtimeinaworldoffantasy,insteadofhereintherealone,withme.Ithinkthat’swhyIgotsoupsetwhenyousaidwecouldn’tgetadog.I’vebeennothingbutsupportiveofyouandyourcareersincewemet,butsometimesIworriedthatourfuturewasreallyonlyaboutyours.IknowworkingforBatterseaDogsHomeisn’tasglamorousasbeingascreenwriter,butIlikemyjob,itmakesmehappy.Yourreasonsfornotgettingadogwererational(youalwaysare).Theflatisridiculouslysmall,andwedobothworklonghours,butI’dalwayssaidIcouldtakethedogtoworkwithme.Youbringyourworkhomeafterall.Iseeabandonedpuppieseveryday,butthisonewasdifferent.AssoonasIsawthatbeautifulballofblackfur,Iknewhewastheone.WhatkindofmonsterputsatinyLabradorpuppyinashoebox,throwshiminadumpster,andleaveshimtheretodie?Thevetsaidhewasnomorethansixweeksold,andtherageIfeltwasall-consuming.Iknowwhatitisliketobeabandonedbysomeonewhoissupposedtoloveyou.Thereisnothingworse.Iwantedtobringthepuppyhomethenextday,butyousaidno,andIwasheartbrokenforthefirsttimesincewemet.IthoughtIstillhadtimetopersuadeyou,butthefollowingafternoon,oneofthereceptionistsatBatterseacameintomyofficeandsaidthatsomeonehadcometoadoptthedog.It’smyjobtoassessallwould-bepetowners,soasIwalkeddownthecorridortomeetthem,Isecretlyhopedtheywouldbeunsuitable.Nobodygoestoahomewheretheywon’treallybelovedonmywatch.ThefirstthingIsawwhenIsteppedintothewaitingroomwasthepuppy.Allalone,sittinginthemiddleofthecoldstonefloor.Hewassuchatinysmudgeofathing.ThenInoticedthelittleredcollarhewaswearing,andthesilver,bone-shapednametag.Itdidn’tmakesense.Ihadn’tevenmettheprospectiveownersyet,sotheyhadnobusinessbehavingasthoughthedogwastheirsalready.Iscoopedthepuppyupoffthefloortotakeacloserlookattheinscriptionontheshinymetal:WILLYOUMARRYME?Inearlydroppedhim.Idon’tknowwhatmyfacedidwhenyousteppedoutfrombehindthedoor.IknowIcried.Irememberhalfmyteamseemedtobewatchingusthroughtheobservationwindow.Theyhadtearsintheireyestoo,andbigsmilesontheirfaces.Everyonewasinonitapartfromme!Whoknewyouweresogoodatkeepingsecrets?I’msorryIdidn’tsayyesstraightaway.IthinkIwentintoshockwhenyouwentdownononeknee.WhenIsawthesapphireengagementring—whichIknewhadbeenyourmother’s—IwasovercomewithawaveofemotionsthatIcouldn’tquiteprocess.Andwitheveryonestaringatus,Ifeltcompletelyoverwhelmed.“Ithinkit’sbesttomakeallimportantlifedecisionswithagameofrockpaperscissors,”Iteased,becauseIbelieveinyourwritingjustasmuchasIbelieveinus,andIdon’tthinkweshouldevergiveuponeither.Yousmiled.“So,justtoclarify,ifIlose,it’sayes?”Inoddedandformedafist.Myscissorscutyourpaper,justliketheyalwaysdowhenweplaythatgame,soitwasn’treallythatmuchofagamble.WheneverIwinatanythingyoualwaysliketothinkyouletme.Forthefirstfewmonthsofourrelationship,Imockedyouforusingtoomanylongwords,andyouteasedmebackfornotknowingwhattheymeant.“Idon’tknowwhetherthisislimerenceorlove,”iswhatyousaidafterkissingmeforthefirsttime.IhadtolookitupwhenIgothome.Theoddthingsyousometimescameoutwith,alongwiththedisparityinourvocabulary,startedourtraditionof“wordoftheday”beforebedtime.YoursareoftenbetterthanminebecauseIletyouwintoosometimes.Perhapswecouldstarthavingawordoftheyear?Thisyear’sshouldbe“limerence,”Istillhaveasoftspotforthatone.Iknowyouthinkwordsareimportant—whichmakessensegivenyourchosencareer—butIhaverealizedrecentlythatwordsarejustwords,aseriesofletters,arrangedinacertainorder,mostlikelyinthelanguagewewereassignedatbirth.Peoplearecarelesswiththeirwordsnowadays.Theythrowthemawayinatextoratweet,theywritethem,pretendtoreadthem,twistthem,misquotethem,liewith,without,andaboutthem.Theystealthem,thentheygivethemaway.Worstofall,theyforgetthem.Wordsareonlyofvalueifwerememberhowtofeelwhattheymean.Wewon’tforget,willwe?Iliketothinkthatwhatwehaveismorethanjustwords.I’mgladIfoundyoursecretscreenplayhiddenawayinyourdesk,andIunderstandwhyitmeansmoretoyouthananythingelseyouhavewritten.ReadingRockPaperScissorswaslikegettingalittleglimpseofyoursoul;apartofyouthatyouweren’tquitereadytoshowme,butweshouldn’thidesecretsfromeachotherorourselves.Yourdarkandtwistedlovestory,aboutamanwhowritesalettertohiswifeeveryyearontheiranniversary,evenaftershedies,hasinspiredmetostartwritingsomelettersofmyown.Toyou.Onceayear.Idon’tknowwhetherI’llsharethemwithyouyet,butmaybeonedayourchildrencanreadhowwewroteourownlovestory,andlivedhappilyeverafter.YourfuturewifexxADAM
Islammedthechapeldoorsclosed.Ididn’tmeantodoitthathard,orrealizeitwasgoingtomakesuchaloudbang.AndIdon’tknowwhyIdidn’tjustconfesstoitratherthanblamingthewind.MaybebecauseI’mtiredofbeingtoldoffbymywifeeveryfiveminutes.
Thereisanotherdoorinthebootroom,rightinthemiddleofthewallofminiaturemirrors.Bobstartsscratchingatit,leavingmarksonthewood.Alongwiththegrowlingearlier,it’ssomethingelsehe’sneverdonebefore.
Ihesitatebeforeturningthehandle,butwhenIdo,thedooropensrevealingalong,darkhallway.Thesoundofourfootstepsonthestonefloorseemstoechooffthewhitewalls,asthethreeofuswalktowardthenextdoorinthedistance.Whenwestepthroughthat,allIcanseeisdarkness.Butwhenmyfingersfindalightswitch,Iseethatweareinaverynormal-lookingkitchen.It’senormous,butstilllookscozyandhomely.Ifitweren’tforthevaultedceiling,exposedbeams,andstained-glasswindows,youwouldneverknowthattheroomusedtobepartofachapel.
Alargecream-coloredstovetakescenterstage,surroundedbyexpensive-lookingcabinets.Thereisasolid-lookingwoodentableinthemiddleoftheroom,surroundedbyrestoredchurchpews.It’sthekindofkitchenyouseeinmagazines,exceptforthethicklayerofdustcoveringeverysinglesurface.
Somethingonthetablecatchesmyeye.Itakeastepcloserandseethatitisatypednote,addressedtous.
DearAmelia,Adam,andBob,Pleasemakeyourselvesathome.Thebedroomattheendofthelandinghasbeenmadeupforyou.Thereisfoodinthefreezer,wineinthecrypt,andyou’llfindextrafirewoodinthelogstoreoutbackshouldyouneedit.Wehopeyouenjoyyourstay.
“Well,atleastweknowwe’reintherightplace,”Ameliasays,twistingherengagementringaroundherfinger.It’ssomethingshealwaysdoeswhenshe’snervous.OneofthoselittlequirksIusedtofindendearing.
“Whoisthe‘we’inthenote?”Iask.
“What?”
“‘Wehopeyouenjoyyourstay.’Yousaidyouwonthisweekendawayinaraffle,butwhoownstheplace?”
“Idon’tknow…IjustgotanemailsayingthatI’dwon.”
“Fromwho?”
Ameliashrugs.“Thehousekeeper.ShesentthedirectionsandapictureofthechapelwithBlackwaterLochinthebackground.Itlookedamazing.Ican’twaitforyoutoseeitindaylight—”
“Okay,butwhatwashername?”
Sheshrugs.“Idon’tknow.Whatmakesyouthinkit’sawoman?Menarealsocapableofcleaning,evenifyouneverdo.”
Iignorethesnipe,I’velearnedit’sbestto,butevenmywifecan’tdenythatthereissomethingverystrangeaboutallofthis.
“We’reherenow,”shesays,wrappingherarmsaroundme.Thehugfeelsawkward,likewe’reoutofpractice.“Let’strytomakethemostofit.It’sonlyforacoupleofnightsanditwillbeoneofthosefunnystorieswecantellourfriendsafterwards.”
Ican’tseeexpressionsonfaces,butshecan,soItrytokeepmineneutralandresistpointingoutthatwedon’treallyhaveanyfriendsanymore.Notonesthatweseetogether.Oursocialcirclehasbecomeabitsquare.ShehasherlifeandIhavemine.
Weexploretherestofthegroundfloor,whichhasbasicallybeendividedintotwohugerooms:thekitchen,andalargelounge,whichlooksmorelikealibrary.Bespokewoodenbookcaseslinethewallsfromfloortoceiling—exceptfortheoccasionalstained-glasswindow—andalltheshelvesarecrammedfullwithbooks.They’reneatlyarrangedandcolorcoordinated,possiblyorganizedbysomeonewithabittoomuchtimeontheirhands.
Anintricatelydesignedwoodenspiralstaircasedominatesthemiddleoftheroomononeside.Ontheother,thereisanenormousstonefireplace,blackenedwithsootandage,andliterallybigenoughtositin.Thegratehasalreadybeenpreparedwithpaper,kindling,andlogs,andthereisaboxofmatchesbesideit.Ilightitstraightaway—theplaceisfreezingandsoarewe.Ameliatakesthematchboxfrommyhand,andlightsthechurchcandlesonthegothic-lookingmantelpiece,aswellasafewothersshefindsinhurricanelanternsdottedaroundtheroom.Itlooksandfeelsalotcozieralready.
Theunevenstonefloor—whichmusthavebeenthesamewhenthechapelwasstillachapel—iscoveredinancient-lookingrugs,andthetwotartansofaseithersideofthefireplacelookwell-lovedandworn.Thereareindentationsontheseatandcushions,asthoughsomeonemighthavebeensittingtheremomentsbeforewearrived.
JustasI’mstartingtorelax,thereisaneerietappingandscrapingsoundatoneofthewindows.Bobbarks,andmyownheartstartstoracealittlewhenIseewhatlookslikeaskeletalhandbangingontheglass.Butit’sjustatree.Itsbare,bonelikebranches,beingblownagainstthebuildingbythegaleoutside.
“Whydon’tyouputsomemusicon?Maybewecandrownoutthesoundofthestorm?”Ameliasays,andIobedientlyfindthebagwhereIpackedthetravelspeakers.Ihaveamuchbetterselectionofmusiconmyphonethanshedoes,butthenIrememberitnotbeinginthecar.Istareatmywifeandwonderifthiswasatest.
“Idon’thavemymobile,”Isay,wishingIcouldseeherexpression.
Idon’tliketotalkaboutfaceblindness,notevenwithher.Thethingsthatdefineusarerarelywhatwemightchoose.Butsometimes,whenIlookatotherpeople’sfaces,thefeaturesonthemstarttoswirllikeavanGoghpainting.
“Ithinkasurgeonwouldstruggletoseparateyoufromyourphonemostofthetime.It’sprobablyablessingindisguisethatyouleftitathomebymistake.Therearesomealbumsyoulikeonmine,andabreakfromstaringatscreensalldaywilldoyougood,”shesays.
Butit’sabadandwronganswer.
Isawherremovemymobilefromtheglovecompartmentbeforewelefthomethismorning.Ialwaysputitinthereforlongjourneys—IfeelnauseousifIlookatscreensincarsortaxis—andsheknowsthat.Iwatchedhertakeitoutandputitbackinthehouse.ThenIlistenedtoherlieaboutitallthewayhere.
Havingbeenmarriedforsolong,Iknowbetterthantothinkthatmywifedoesn’thavesomesecrets—Icertainlydo—butIhaveneverknownhertobehavelikethis.Idon’thavetoseeherfacetoknowwhensheisn’ttellingmethetruth.Youcanfeelitwhensomeoneyouloveislying.WhatIdon’tknow,yet,iswhy.
AMELIA
IwatchAdamasheaddsanotherlogtothefire.He’sbehavingevenmorestrangelythannormalandlookstired.Bobseemsequallyunimpressed,stretchedoutontherug.Theyarebothpronetogrumpinesswhenhungry.Wehaveplentyofdogfood—AdamalwayssaysthatItakebettercareofthedogthanIdoofhim—butthatdoesn’thelpsolvetheproblemofwhatwecaneat.Ishouldhavepackedmorethanjustbiscuitsandsnacksforthejourney.TheshopIintendedtostopatclosedearlyduetothestorm,andmybackupplanofdinnerattheBlackwaterInnwasanepicfail—thederelictpublookedlikeithadbeenabandonedforyears.
“Thenoteinthekitchensaidsomethingabouttherebeingfoodinthefreezer.Whydon’tweseewhatwecanfind?”Isuggest,walkingbacktowardthekitchenwithoutwaitingforananswer.
ThecupboardsareemptyandIcan’tfindafreezer.
Thefridgeisalsobareandnotevenpluggedin.Thereisacoffeemachine,butnocoffee,ortea.Therearen’tevenanypotsandpans.Idofindtwoplates,twobowls,twowineglasses,andtwoknivesandforks,butthat’sit.Thepropertyissobig,itseemsoddtoonlyhavetwoofeverything.
IcanhearAdamintheotherroom.He’sputononeofthealbumswelovedlisteningtowhenwefirstmet,andIfeelmyselfsoftenalittle.Thatversionofuswasagoodone.Sometimesmyhusbandremindsmeofthestraydogsatwork—someonewhoneedsprotectingfromtherealworld.It’sprobablywhyhespendssomuchofhislifedisappearinginsidestories.Believinginsomeoneisoneofgreatestgiftsyoucangivethem,it’sfreeandtheresultscanbepriceless.Itrytoapplythatruletomypersonallifeaswellasmywork.
Lastweek,IinterviewedthreeprospectiveownersatBatterseaforacockapoocalledBertie.Thefirstwasablondwomaninherlateforties.Stablehomeenvironment,goodjob,greatonpaper.Considerablylesssoinperson.Donnawaslateforherappointment,butsatdowninmylittleofficewithouteventhehintofanapology,dressedinbubblegumpinkrunninggear,andstabbingherphonewithamatchingfakenail.
“Isthisgoingtotakelong?Ihavealunchdate,”shesaid,barelylookingup
“Well,wealwaysliketomeetpotentialnewowners.IwonderifyoucouldtellmewhatitwasaboutBertiethatmadeyouinterestedinadoptinghim?”
Herfacefoldedinonitself,asifI’daskedhertosolveacomplexequation.
“Bertie?”Shepouted.
“Thedog…”
Shecackled.“Ofcourse,sorry,I’mgoingtochangehisnametoLolaonceIgethimhome.Everyonehasacockapoonow,don’tthey?I’veseenthemalloverInsta.”
“Wedon’trecommendchangingadog’snamewhenthey’reabitolder,Donna.AndBertieisaboy.ChanginghisnametoLolawouldbelikemecallingyouFred.Oncewe’vehadachat,I’lltakeyoutomeetBertieandseehowthetwoofyougetalong.Butyouwon’tbeabletotakehimhometoday,I’mafraid.Thereareseveralstepstothisprocess.Sothatwecanbesureit’stherightfit.”
“I’msureI’llbefine.”
“Therightfitforthedog.”
“But…I’veboughtthematchingoutfitsalready.”
“Outfits?”
“Yes,offeBay.Ghostbusterscostumes.Oneforme,andaminidogversionforLola.MyInstafollowersaregonnaloveit!Doesitdotricks?”
IrejectedDonna’sapplication.IrejectedthenexttwopeoplewhocametoseeBertietoo—eventhoughonethreatenedto“speaktomymanager”andtheothercalledmea“seeyounextTuesday.”Nobodygoestoahomewheretheywon’treallybelovedonmywatch.
Thereareasmanyvarietiesofheartbreakastherearelove,butfearisalwaysthesame,andI’mnotashamedtoadmitthatI’mafraidofsomanythingsrightnow.IthinkperhapstherealreasonIamsoscaredoflosing—orleaving—myhusband,isbecauseIdon’thaveanyoneelse.I’veneverknownwhatitisliketohavearealfamily,andI’vealwaysbeenbetteratcollectingacquaintancesthanmakingfriends.OntherareoccasionswhenIfeellikeIhavemetsomeoneIcantrust,Iholdon.Tight.Butmyjudgmentcanbefaulty.TherearesomepeopleinmylifeIshouldn’thavewalkedawayfrom:Ishouldhaverun.
Inevermetmyparents.Iknowthatmydadlikedoldcars,perhapsthat’swhyIdotoo,andwhyIcan’tletgoofmyancientMorrisMinordespiteAdam’sconstantcomplaints.Ifindithardtotrustnewthings,orplaces,orpeople.MydadswappedhisvintageMGMidgetforabrand-newfamilycarjustbeforeIwasborn.Newdoesn’talwaysmeanbetter.Thebrakesfailedonthewaytothehospitalwhenmymumwasinlabor,atrucksmashedintothedriver’ssideoftheircarandtheybothdiedinstantly.Thedoctor—whohadbeendrivingintheotherdirection—somehowdeliveredmeintotheworldonthesideofthestreet.Hecalledmeamiraclebaby,andnamedmeAmeliabecauseofhisobsessionwiththeaviator.Shelikedtoflyawaytoo.IflewfromonefosterhometotheotheruntilIwaseighteen.
“I’mguessingpeopledon’tstayhereveryoften.It’sfreezingcoldandeverythingiscoveredindust,”Adamsays,appearingbehindmeandmakingmejump.“Sorry,didn’tmeantoscareyou.”
Hedid.
“Iwasn’tscared…”
Iwas.
“I’mjusttiredfromthedriveandIcan’tfindanythingtoeat.”
“Didyoutryinhere?”heasks,headingforanarcheddoorinthecornerofthekitchen.
“Yes,butit’slocked,”Ireply,withoutlookingup.Adamalwaysthinksheknowsbetterthanme.
“Perhapsthehandlewasjustabitstiff,”hesays,asthedoorcreaksopen.
Heflicksaswitch,andwhenIcatchup,Iseethatthedoorleadstowhatlookslikeawalk-inlarder.Buttheshelvesarefilledwithtoolsinsteadoffood.Thereareneatlystackedboxesofnailsandscrews,nutsandbolts,different-sizedspannersandhammers,andaselectionofsawsandaxeshangingonthebackwall.Therearealsoaseriesofstrange-lookingsmallertoolsIdon’trecognize,likeminiaturechisels,curvedknives,androundbladesallwithmatchingwoodenhandles.Thedamp,darkspaceislitbyasinglelightbulbdanglingdownfromtheceiling.Itstrugglestoilluminateeverythingbelow,butit’simpossibletomissthelargechestfreezerinthecorneroftheroom.It’sbiggerthanme—thekindyoumightfindinasupermarket—and,unlikethefridge,Ialreadyknowitispluggedinfromthehummingsounditmakes.
Ihesitatebeforeliftingthelidbutneedn’thaveworried.
Thefreezerisstockedfullofwhatlooklikeindividualhome-madefrozenmeals.Eachfoilcontainerandcardboardlidiscarefullylabeledwithelaboratejoined-upwriting.Theremustbeoverahundreddinnersforoneinhere,andquitetheselection:lasagna,spaghettibolognese,roastbeef,steakpie,toadinthehole…
“Chickencurry?”Isuggest.
“Soundsgood.Nowwejustneedsomewine.Luckily,IthinkImighthavefoundthecrypt,”Adamsays.
Hehasdiscoveredatorchamongalltheothertools,andisshiningitonthestonefloor.It’sonlythenthatIrealizesomeofthegiantslabswearestandingonareoldheadstones,thenamesengravedonthemwornawayafteryearsofbeingwalkedover.
“Downhere,”Adamsays,shiningthetorchonanancient-lookingwoodentrapdoor.
Ishiver,andnotjustbecausethisroomisinexplicablycold.
PAPER
Wordoftheyear:shenaniganspluralnoun.Secretordishonestactivityormaneuvering.Sillyorhigh-spiritedbehavior;mischief.28thFebruary2009—ourfirstanniversaryDearAdam,It’sourfirstweddinganniversaryand,aspromised,Iamwritingmyannualsecretlettertoyou,justlikethecharactersinyourfavoritescreenplay.I’mconvincedRockPaperScissorswillbeabighitinHollywoodoneday,andevenifIneverletyoureadthelettersIwrite,Istilllovetheideaofbeingabletolookbackatthetruestoryofyouandmewhenweareolder.Thepasttwelvemonthshavebeenquitetherollercoasterforus.Gettingmarriedonaleapdaywasmyidea,goingtoScotlandforourhoneymoonwasyours.Ifthereisamorebeautifulcorneroftheworld,Ihaveyettofindit.Ihopewe’llvisitthereoften.Igotpromotedatwork,andyouwereaskedtowriteamodernadaptationofAChristmasCarolforaBBCspecial.Iknowitisn’twhatyoureallywanttobedoing,butthecommissionwasarelief.Aftertwofailedpilots,yourwritingworkwasdryingup.Youkeptsayingthatithappenstoeveryone,butit’sobviousyouneverthoughtitwouldhappentoyou.I’vebeentryingtohelp—readingbooksaboutwritingandscreenplays,teachingmyselfaboutstorytelling—andyoualwaysaskmetoreadwhatyou’vewritten.Ienjoyfeelinglikepartoftheprocess,andaswellasbeingyourfirstreader,I’vestartededitingsomeofyourwork.Justafewnotesonthemanuscripthereandthere,whichyouoftenmostlysometimesseemtoappreciate.IjustwishtherewassomethingmoreIcoulddotohelp.Ibelieveinyouandyourstories.Beingmarriedtoascreenwriterisn’tasglamorousaspeoplethink,neitherislivinginastudioflatinNottingHill.Ourmorningroutineashusbandandwifeisalmostalwaysthesame.Ifthiswereanormalday,youwouldhavekissedmeonthecheek,gotup,putonyourdressinggown,madesomecoffeeandtoast,thensatdownatyourtinylittledeskinthecornerofthestudiotostartwork.Yourjobseemstoinvolvealotoftimedaydreamingstaringatyourlaptopandoccasionallytappingthekeyboard.Youliketostartearly,butthatdoesn’talwayspreventyoufromstillwritinglateatnight.Sometimesyouonlyseemtostoptosleeporeat.ButIdon’tmind.I’velearnedthatyouhavealowthresholdforboredomandthatworkisyourfavoritecure.Ifthiswereanormalday,Iwouldhaveironedmyuniformonthebed—wedon’townaboardandthere’snoroomorrealneedforone—thenI’dhavedressedmyselfwhilethefabricwasstillwarm.Iwouldhaveputsomeofyourleftovercoffeeinmyflask,grabbedBob,andjumpedinmyoldbangerofacarformycommute.EverydayisbringyourpettoworkdayatBatterseaDogsHome.Buttodaywasnotanormalday.It’sourfirstanniversary,it’stheweekend,andIreadsomethingveryexcitingassoonasIwokeup.“He’sdead!”“Whoisdead?”youasked,rubbingthesleepfromyoureyes.Yourvoicewasanoctavelowerthannormal,asitalwaysisaftertoomuchredwinethenightbefore.You’vestarteddrinkingmorethanyouusedto,andthecheapalcoholonlyseemstooilthehamsterwheeloflate-nightwritingyou’recurrentlytrappedin.Butwecan’taffordthegoodstuff.Theshoestringwe’relivingonislookingalittlefrayed,andthatkeepsusbothawake.Iheldmyphonerightinfrontofyourface,sothatyoucouldreadtheheadline.“HenryWinter.”“HenryWinterdied?”yousaid,sittingupandgivingmeyourhalf-fullattention.IalreadyknewthatHenryWinterwasyourfavoriteauthor,youtalkedabouthimandhisbooksoftenenough,andhowyouwouldlovetoseethemonscreen.Theelderlywriterisfamousfornotbeingfamous,rarelygivesinterviews,andhaslookedthesameformorethantwentyyears:anunsmilingoldmanwithanovergrownmopofwhitehairandthebluesteyesI’veeverseen.Intherarephotosofhimonline,healwayswearstweedjacketsandbowties.Ithinkit’sadisguise:apersonahehidesbehind.Idonotshareyourenthusiasmforthemanorhiswork,butthatdoesn’tchangethefactthatheisoneofthemostsuccessfulauthorsofalltime.Morethanahundredmillioncopiesofhismurdermysteriesandcreepythrillershavebeensoldincountriesaroundtheglobe,andheisagiantintheliteraryworld.Albeitanunfriendlyone.“No,HenryWinterisaliveandwell.”Iresistedtheurgetoaddtheword“sadly.”“Thatmanwilllivetobeahundred.It’shisagentwhoisdead.”IwaitedforyoutoreactthewayIhopedyouwould,butinsteadyoujustyawned.“Whyareyouwakingmeupwiththisnews?”youasked,closingyoureyesandburrowingbackdownunderthebedcovers.Yourthirtiessuityou.Youaregrowingintoyourgoodlooks.“Youknowwhy,”Isaid.Youstoppedpretendingthatyoudidn’t,butshookyourhead.“HehasneversaidyestoanyTVorfilmadaptationsofhisbooks.Ever.Hisagentdyingisn’tgoingtochangethat,andevenifitdoes,HenryWinterisnevergoingtoagreetomewritingascreenplayofhiswork,whenhehasspentalifetimesayingnotoeverybodyelse.”“Well,Iagreethatyoudon’tstandachancewiththatattitude.Butwiththegatekeeperremovedfromplay,isn’titworthashot?Maybehisagentwastheonewhodidn’tliketheidea?Someauthorsdoeverythingtheiragentstellthemtodo.Justimagineifhesaidyes.”Yourhairfelloveryoureyes—alwaystoobusywritingtovisitthebarbers—soIcouldn’tseewhatyouwerethinking.ButIdidn’tneedto.WebothknewthatifyoucouldgetHenryWintertoletyouadaptoneofhisnovels,itwouldbeagamechangerforyourcareer.“Ithinkyoushouldgetyouragenttosetupameeting,”Isaid.“Myagentisboredofme.Idon’tmakehimenoughmoney.”“Thatisn’ttrue.Writingisaficklebusiness,butyou’reaBAFTAAward–winningscreenwriter—”“TheBaftawasyearsago—”“Withastar-studdedCV—”“Ihaven’tbeennominatedforasingleprizesince—”“Andastringofsuccessfuladaptations.Whatharmcoulditdo?”“Whatgoodcoulditdo?Besides,ifHenryWinter’sagentjustdied,thepoormanisprobablygrieving.Itwouldbeinappropriate.”“Soisnotpayingthismonth’srent.”Yourna?vetéaboutsomeoftheauthorsyouadmiresomuchbafflesme.You’reoneofthemostintelligentpeopleI’veevermet,butyouareeasilyfooledseeallauthorsthroughrose-tintedreadingglasses.Theabilitytowriteagoodbookdoesn’tmakesomeoneagoodperson.Icouldtellthiswasn’tabattleIwasgoingtowinwithoutchangingstrategy,soIopenedthedrawerinmybedsidecabinet,andtookoutasmallbrownpaperparcel.“Whatisthis?”youaskedasIputitonthebed.“Openitandsee.”Youuntiedthestringwithsuchcare,asthoughyoumightwanttokeepthewrapping.Webothdidn’thavemuchtocallourownaschildren,andIthinkalittleofthat“makedoandmend”mind-setfollowspeoplelikeusintoadulthood.Findingthemoneytopayforourweddingwasanotherchallengethisyear.Itwasn’tthevenue—therowsofchairsintheregistryofficeweremostlyemptywithnofamilyoneitherside,andonlyahandfulofclosefriendslivinginLondon.Iadoreyourmother’ssapphireengagementring.Itfitsperfectly—asthoughitwerealwaysmine—andInevertakeitoff,buttherewerestillweddingringstobuy,andasuit,andadress.Gettingmarriedcostsaprettypenny,andpenniesareprettiestwhenyoudon’thavemanyofthem.“It’sacrane,”Iexplained,savingyoufromhavingtoaskwhatthegiftwaswhenyouheldituptothelight.“Paperisthetraditionalgiftforafirstweddinganniversary,sowhenanabandonedpoodlecalledOrigamiwasdumpedonthedoorstepofBatterseaDogsHomeovernightlastweek,itgavemetheidea.ItaughtmyselftomakeitbywatchingaYouTubevideo,andchosethecranebecauseitisasymbolofhappinessandgoodfortune.”“It’s…lovely,”yousaid.“It’smeanttobringgoodluck.”Iknewyouwouldlikeitmoreonceyouknewthat.You’rethemostsuperstitiousmanI’veevermet.I’mactuallyveryfondofthewayyousalutemagpies,avoidwalkingunderladders,andareappalledbypeoplewhoopenumbrellasindoors.Ifinditendearing.Luck,whetheritisthegoodorbadvariety,issomethingyoutakeveryseriously.Ismiledasyouslippedthelittlepapercraneinsideyourwallet.Iwonderifyou’llkeepitinthereforever?Ihopeso,Iliketheideaofthat.Unlesssomethingluckiercomesalong.“Ididn’tforget,”yousaid.“Ijustdidn’tknowweweredoingthistoday.Technicallyitisn’touranniversaryuntil2012.”“Isthatso?”“Well,wegotmarriedonFebruarytwenty-ninth2008.Todayisthetwenty-eighth.Itwon’tbealeapyearagainforanotherthreeyears.”“Wemightbedeadbythen.”“Ordivorced.”“Don’tsaythat.”“Sorry.”You’vebeensobusylately.I’mnotsurprisedyouforgot.Besides,you’reonlyaman,forgettinganniversariesissomethingyou’repreprogrammedtodo.“You’lljusthavetomakeituptome,”Isaid.Thenyouslippedyourhandinsidemypajamabottoms.Ithinkyou’llrememberwhatwedidafterthatwithoutmewritingitdown.Ididn’ttellyou,butImadeawish.Ifwehaveababythistimenextyear,you’llknowitcametrue.Iknewyouneededtoworkthisweekend—despiteitbeingouranniversary—andthestudioisbarelybigenoughforthreeatthebestoftimes,soIleftyoutowrite,andBobtosleep,andwentouttospendanafternoonintown.Iquiteenjoymyowncompany,soI’venevermindedthatyouneedtobealonetoo.IwanderedaroundCoventGardenforawhile,thenspentacoupleofhoursattheNationalPortraitGallery.Ilovelookingatallthosefaces,andit’ssomewherewecannevergotogether.Notbeingabletorecognizeanyonemakesitabitofadulldayoutforyou.WhenIgothome,ourlittlebasementflatwassofullofcandlesthatyouhadtoremovethebatteriesfromthesmokealarm.Thecoffeetable—wedon’thaveroomforadiningone—hadbeensetwithtwoplates,twosetsofcutlery,twoglasses,andabottleofchampagne.ThemenuforourfavoriteIndiantakeawaywasleaningagainstit,alongwithanenvelopewithmynameon.YouandBobwatchedasIopenedit.HAPPYANNIVERSARY!Itreadontheoutside.Thethreewordsontheinsidewerelesspredictable:Hesaidyes.“Whatdoesthismean?”Iasked.Thesmileonyourfaceandthelookinyoureyesalreadytoldmetheanswer.Ijustcouldn’tbelieveit.“YouarelookingatthefirstscreenwriterinhistorytoeverbetrustedtoadaptoneofHenryWinter’snovels,”yousaid,beaminglikeaschoolboywhojustscoredthewinninggoal.“Areyouserious?”“Almostalways.”“Thenlet’sopenthechampagne!”“Ithinkyourluckypapercranegotmethegig,”yousaid,poppingthecorkandfillingthetumblers—wedon’thaveflutes.“Myagentcalledme,completelyoutoftheblue,tosaythatHenryWinterwantedtomeetme.IthoughtIwasdreamingatfirst—whatwithyousuggestingtheideaonlythismorning—butIwasn’t,itwasreal!Imethimthisafternoon.”Weclinkedglasses.YoutookasipandItookalargegulp.“And?”“MyagentgavemeanaddressinNorthLondon,saidIhadtobethereatoneo’clockonthedot.Therewasamassivegateoutside,Ihadtobebuzzedin,andthenthiswoman—whoIpresumewassomekindofhousekeeper—ledmethroughtoalibrary.ItwaslikebeinginaHenryWintercrimenovel,andIhalfexpectedthelightstogooutandsomeonetoattackmewithacandlestick.Buttheninhewalks,alittleshorterinreallifethanIwasexpecting,butwearingatweedjacketandbluebowtie.Hepouredtwoglassesofwhiskey—thefirstofmany—andthenwejusttalked.”“Andheaskedyoutowriteascreenplayofoneofhisbooks?”Youshookyourhead.“No,hedidn’tmentionitonce.”Myexcitementstartedtofadealittlearoundtheedgeswhenyousaidthat.“Wejusttalkedabouthisnovels,allofthem,andheaskedlotsofquestionsaboutme…andyou.Ishowedhimthecraneyoumadeformeanditwastheonlytimehesmiled.Thewholeafternoonfeltsosurreal,asifIhadmadeitup,butthenmyagentcalledagainhalfanhourafterIleft,andsaidthatHenrywouldlikemetowriteanadaptationofhisfirstnovel,TheDoppelg?nger.IfHenrylikesit,hesaysIcansellit!Suchshenanigans!”“Nobodyhasusedtheword‘shenanigans’sincethewar,”Iteased.“Maybethatcouldbewordoftheday,oreventheyear?”ThenIcried.Youpresumedtheyweretearsofhappinessandatleastsomeofthemwere.“I’msoproudofyou,”Isaid.“Everythingwillchangenow,you’llsee.Onceyou’vewrittenthefirstadaptationofHenryWinter’swork,therewillbestudiosbangingonthedoorbeggingyoutowriteforthem,”Iadded,knowingitwastrue.ThenweclinkedglassesagainandIdownedmychampagneWefinishedthebottleandthencelebratedmyfavoriteway—twiceinoneday!Severalmanuscriptswerehurtasaresult,butthereisn’talotofspaceinourflatandwecouldn’tquitemakeittothebedroom.Insomeways,tonightfeltlikethebestnightofourlives.Butnowyou’refastasleepandI’mwideawake—asusual—andforthefirsttimesincewegotmarried,IhaveanewsecretthatIhavetokeepfromyou.OneI’mnotsureIcanevershare.Weweaveourlivesoutofthreadsofopportunityandstitchesofchance,nobodywantsafuturefullofholes.ButIworrythatifyouknewHenryWinteronlytrustedyouwithhisbookbecauseofme,itmightbetheendofus.IsupposeIcan’tsharethisletterwithyounoweither.Maybeoneday.Allmylove,YourwifexxAMELIA
Adamheavesthericketytrapdooropen.Asetofstonestepsleaddown,andhedoesn’thesitate.
“Becareful,”Icallafterhim,andhelaughs.
“Don’tworry,Ithinkalotofoldchapelshavecrypts.Besides,what’stheworstthatcanhappen?Unlessitisasecretdungeon,containingtherottingcorpsesofthelastpeoplewhostayedhere.Thatwouldatleastexplainthesmell.”
IstaywhereIam,butlistentothesoundofhisfootstepsuntilhedisappearsfromview.Thetorchlightflickers,thengoesout.
Everythingissilent.
IrealizethatI’mholdingmybreath.
ButthenAdamswears,andalightcomesondownbelow.
“Areyouokay?”Iask.
“Yes,justbumpedmyheadonthelowceilingwhenthetorchdied.Probablyneedsnewbatteries.ButI’vefoundalightswitch,andI’mpleasedtoreportthattherearenoghostsorgargoylesdownhere,justracksfullofwine!”
Adamemergeslikeatriumphantexplorer,withasmileandadustybottleofred.Imanagetofindacorkscrewand—eventhoughneitherofusarewinesnobs—wetakeasipandconcludethat2008wasanexcellentyearforRiberadelDuero.Somepeoplesaythatmarriageislikewineandgetsbetterwithage,butIguessitalldependsonthegrapes.Therearedefinitelyyearsthatweremorepleasurablethanothers,andI’dhavebottledthemifIcould.
IstarttorelaxonceI’vehadaglassandwehaveeaten.Thefrozenchickencurrywassurprisinglytastyafterbeingblastedinthemicrowave,andIcanfeelmyselfbegintounwindaswedrinkourwineinfrontofthefire,intheloungethatismorelikealibrary.Thecomfortinghissandcrackleishypnotic,andtheflamesseemtoskipandsway,castingshadowypatternsallaroundtheroomfullofbooks.
Thestormoutsidehassteppedupanothergear.Thesnowisstillfallingandthewindisnowwailing,butit’swarmenoughonthesofainfrontofthefire.Bobisgentlysnoringontherugatourfeetand,maybeit’sthetirednessfromthejourney,orthewine,butIfeelstrangely…content.MyfingerswalktowardAdam’s—Ican’trememberthelasttimewetouchedeachother—butmyhandstopsshort,asifscaredofgettingburned.Affectionislikeplayingthepianoandyoucanforgethowtodoitwithoutpractice.
Icanfeelhimstaringbutcontinuetolookdownatmyhands.Iwonderwhatheseeswhenhelooksatme?Blurredfeatures?Afamiliarbutundefinableoutlineofaperson?DoIjustlookthesameaseveryoneelsetohim?
Tenyearsisalongtimetobemarriedtosomeoneyouforget.
Ihaven’tbeencompletelyhonestwithhimaboutthisweekendaway.Ihaven’tbeencompletelyhonestaboutalotofthings,andsometimesIthinkheknows.ButItellmyselfthatisn’tpossible.We’vetrieddatenights,andmarriagecounseling,butspendingmoretimetogetherisn’talwaysthesameasspendinglesstimeapart.Youcan’tgetthisclosetoacliffedgewithoutseeingtherocksatthebottom,andevenifmyhusbanddoesn’tknowthefullstory,heknowsthatthisweekendisalastattempttomendwhatgotbroken.
Whathedoesn’tknow,isthatifthingsdon’tgoaccordingtoplan,onlyoneofuswillbegoinghome.
ADAM
Wesitinsilenceafterdinner.Thefrozencurrywasn’tasgrimasIexpected,andthewinewasconsiderablybetter.Icoulddowithanotherglass.InoticeAmelia’shandclosetomineonthesofa.Ihaveanoverwhelmingurgetoholditanddon’tknowwhat’scomeoverme—affectionhasbeenabsentwithoutleaveforalongtimeinourmarriage.JustasIamabouttoreachforherhand,shewithdrawsittoherlap.Probablyforthebest,givenwhatthisweekendisreallyabout,andwhatIplantodo.
Staringattheflamesdancingintheenormousfireplace,mymindwandersdownotherpathstootherthings.Work,mostly.I’veadaptedthreeofHenryWinter’snovelsforfilmoverthepastdecadeandI’mproudofeachone.Gettingthosescreenplaysgreen-lightedwasarealturningpointinmycareer,butIhaven’tspokentothemanforalongtime.Idon’tknowwhyI’mthinkingofhimnow.Thisroomprobably,it’smorelikealibrarythanalounge,hewouldhavelovedit.
I’mbetweenprojectsatthemoment.Ican’tseemtogetexcitedaboutanythingmyagentsendsmyway,andIwonderwhetheritistimetostartworkingonsomethingofmyownagain.I’vebeenmeaningtodothatforawhile,butIguessIhadtheconfidencekickedoutofme.Maybethisistherighttimeto—
“Maybeyoucouldrevisitoneofyourownscreenplays,ifyou’renotworkingonanythingelseforawhile,”Ameliasays,interruptingmythoughtsasthoughshecanhearthem.Ihatethatshecanalwaysreadmymind;howdowomendothat?
“Itisn’ttherighttime,”Ireply.
“Whataboutthatoneyouspentyearsworkingon,mightthatbeworthanotherlook?”
Shecan’tevenrememberthenameofmyfavoritescreenplay.Idon’tknowwhyitbothersme,butitdoes.Sheusedtobefarmoreinterestedinmywork,andseemedtoreallycareaboutmywriting.Herindifferencethesedayshurtsmorethanitshould.
“Myagentsaidtherewasaneweight-partthrillerImightbeupfor.Anothernoveladaptation.Butanoldone…”Ilookovermyshoulderatallthebookcases“…theremightevenbeacopyofitononeoftheseshelves.”
“Weagreednoworkthisweekend,”shesnaps,sufferingasenseofhumorbypass
“Iwasjoking,andyoubroughtitup!”
“OnlybecauseIcouldhearyouthinkingaboutit.Andyouwerepullingthatvacantfaceyoupullwhenyou’renotreallyhere,evenwhenyou’resittingbymyside.”
Ican’tseewhatfaceshe’spulling,butIresenthertone.Ameliadoesn’tunderstand.Ialwaysneedtobeworkingonastoryortherealworldgetstooloud.Ican’tseemtotalkaboutanythinglatelywithouthergettingupset.ShesulksifI’mtooquiet,butopeningmymouthfeelslikenavigatingaminefield.Ican’twin.Ihaven’ttoldheraboutwhathappenedwithHenryWinterbecausethat’ssomethingelseshewouldn’tunderstand.Henryandhisbooksweren’tjustworkforme,hebecameasurrogatefatherfigure.Idoubthefeltthesameway,butfeelingsdon’thavetobemutualtobereal.
Thewindrattlesthestained-glasswindows,andI’mgratefulforanythingthatmightdrownouttheloudestthoughtsinsidemyhead.Iwouldn’twanthertohearthose.Myhandsstillneedsomethingtodo—Inolongerwanttoholdhersandmyfingersfeelredundantwithoutmyphone.Itakemywalletfrommypocketandfindthecrumpledpapercranebetweentheleatherfolds.Thesillyoldorigamibirdhasalwaysbroughtmeluck,andcomfort.Iholditforawhile,anddon’tcarethatAmeliaseesmedoingit.
“I’vebeencarryingthispaperbirdaroundwithmeforsuchalongtime,”Isay.
Shesighs.“Iknow.”
“IshowedittoHenryWinterthefirsttimeImethimathisfancyLondonhouse.”
“Irememberthestory.”
Shesoundsboredandmiserableanditmakesmefeelthesame.I’veheardallofherstoriesbeforetoo,andnoneofthemareparticularlythrilling.
Iwishpeopleweremorelikebooks.
Ifyourealizehalfwaythroughanovelthatyouaren’tenjoyingitanymore,youcanjuststopandfindsomethingnewtoread.SamewithfilmsandTVdramas.Thereisnojudgment,noguilt,nobodyevenneedstoknowunlessyouchoosetotellthem.Butwithpeople,youtendtohavetoseeitthroughtotheend,andsadlynoteveryonegetstolivehappilyeverafter.
Thesnowhasturnedtosleet.Large,angrydropletspeltthewindowsbeforecryingdowntheglassliketears.SometimesIwanttocrybutIcan’t.Becausethatwouldn’tfitwithwhomywifethinksIam.We’reallresponsibleforcastingthestarsinthestoriesofourownlives,andshecastmeintheroleofherhusband.Ourmarriagewasanopenaudition,andI’mnotsureeitherofusgotthepartswedeserved.
Herfaceisanunrecognizableblur,herfeaturesswirlinglikeanangrysea.ItfeelslikeIamsittingnexttoastranger,notmywife.We’vebeentogetheralldayandIfeelclaustrophobic.I’msomeonewhoneedsspace,alittletimeonmyown.Idon’tknowwhyshehastobeso…suffocating.
Ameliasnatchesthepapercranefrommyfingertips.
“Youspendtoolonglivinginthepastinsteadoffocusingonthefuture,”shesays.
“Wait,no!”Icry,asshethrowsmyluckycharmintothefire.
I’mupandoffthetartansofainaflash,andalmostburnmyhandretrievingthebird.Oneedgeissinged,butotherwiseundamaged.That’sit.Thefinalact.IfIwasn’tsurebeforeIamnow,andI’mcountingdownthehoursuntilthisisoveronceandforall.
COTTON
Wordoftheyear:growlerynoun.Aplaceofrefugeorsanctuaryforusewhileoneisfeelingoutofsorts.Aprivateroom,orden,togrowlin.28thFebruary2010—oursecondanniversaryDearAdam,Anotheryear,anotheranniversary,anditwasagreatone!SinceyousoldthefirstHenryWinteradaptation,youhavebeenbusierwithworkthaneverbefore.TheHollywoodstudiowhoboughtitatauctionpaidmoreforthose120pagesthanIcouldearnintenyears.Itwasamazing,andI’msohappyforyou,butsosadforusbecausenowweseeevenlessofeachotherthanweusedto.Youdon’tseemtoneedmeormyinputintoyourworkasmuchatallnow.ButIunderstand.Ireallydo.Alothaschangedforyouduringthelasttwelvemonths,butsadlynotforme.Westilldon’thaveababy.Youkeptyourwordabouttakingsometimeoffforouranniversarythough—somethingwhichhadbecomeinconceivableinrecentmonths—sothatwecouldgoawayfortheweekend.YouarrangedforaneighbortolookafterBob,toldmetopackabag,andmypassport,butwouldn’ttellmewhereweweregoing.Iswappedmydoghair–coveredjeansforadesignerdressI’dfoundinaNottingHillcharityshop,andevensplashedoutonanewlipstick.Youhailedablackcabassoonaswelefttheflatforouranniversaryweekendaway.IthoughtthetaximighttakeustoSt.Pancras…ortheairport.ButafterthirtyminutesofnegotiatingLondon’sall-dayrushhour,westoppedonaresidentialstreetinHampsteadVillage,oneofyourfavoritepartsofLondon.ProbablybecauseHenryWinterownsahousethere.It’ssuperposh,butIdidn’tthinkpeoplelikeusneededapassporttovisit,soIwonderedwhyyouhadtoldmetobringmine.Afterpayingthedriver,includingageneroustip,weclamberedoutontothepavementwithourbagsandyoureachedinsideyourpocket.“What’sthat?”Iasked,eyeingupthesmallbutperfectlywrappedgiftinyourhand.Theribbonwastiedinsuchaprettybow,Iwonderedifsomeonehaddoneitforyou.“Happyanniversary,”yourepliedwithagrin.“Weweren’tmeanttoexchangepresentsuntilSunday—”“Oh,really?I’lltakeitbackthen.”Igrabbedtheprettyparcel.“I’veseenitnow,somayaswellopenit.Ihopeit’scotton.That’sthetraditionalgiftforsurvivingtwoyearsofmarriage.”“Ithinkit’saboutcelebrating,notsurviving,andIdidn’tknowI’dmarriedsomeonesodemanding.”“Yes,youdid,”Isaid,carefullyremovingthepaper.Itrevealedasmallvelvetbox—thekindthatmightcontainjewelry—andwasturquoise;myfavoritecolor.IthinkIwashalfexpectingearrings,butwhenIopenedthelid,Ifoundakey.“Ifyoucouldliveinanyhouseonthisstreet,whichonewouldyouchoose?”youasked.Istaredupattheold,detached,double-frontedVictorianhousewewerestandingoutside.Itsredbrickwallswereovergrownwithwhatlookedlikeamixofwisteriabranchesandivy.Someoftheglassinthebaywindowswassmashed,otherswereboardedup.Itwasthedefinitionofafixer-upper—brokenbutbeautiful—andIcouldn’thelpnoticingtheSOLDsignoutside.“Areyouserious?”Iasked.“Almostalways.”Ifeltlikeakidwhohadbeengiventhekeytoachocolatefactory.Thefrontdoorwasthesameturquoisecolorasthevelvetboxandhadbeenrecentlypainted,unlikeanyotherpartofthebuilding.Whenthekeyopenedthedoor,Icried—Icouldn’tbelievethatweownedanactualhouse,havingstruggledtopaytherentforashittytinystudioflatforsolong.Thesceneinsidewasjustasderelictastheviewfromthestreet.Thewholeplacesmelledofdamp,thereweremissingfloorboards,peelingwallpaper,andancientfixturesandfittingscoveredindustandcobwebs.LoosewireshungfromholesintheceilingwhereIpresumedlightsmustoncehavebeen,andtherewasgraffitionsomeofthewalls.ButIwasalreadyinlove.Iwanderedaroundthelarge,brightrooms,allofwhichwereemptybutfilledwithpossibilitiesandpotential.“Didyoudecorateityourself?”Iaskedandyoulaughed.“No,Ithoughtmaybeyoucould.Iknowitneedsabitofwork—”“Abit?”“Butweneverwouldhavebeenabletoafforditotherwise.”“Iloveit.”“Doyou?”youasked.“Yes.AllIgotyouwasapairofsocks.”“Well,that’sruinedthesurprise…”“Atleastmygiftwasmadeofcotton.”“Whichyearisbricks?Wecouldwaituntilthen…”Myanxietyrosetothesurfaceandspoiledourfun.“Canwereallyaffordit?”Yousmiledtocoveryourliehesitation,butIstillsawit.You’vealwayslikedtomeasureoutyouranswersbeforegivingthem,neverofferingtoomuchortoolittle.“Yes,it’sbeenaverygoodyear.I’vebeenabittoobusytoenjoyit,butIthinkit’stimewestartedlivingthelifewealwaysdreamedof.Don’tyou?Ithoughtwecouldtakeourtimerenovating…dosomeoftheworkourselves.Turnitintoourveryowngrowleryandmakethisourforeverhome.”Imadeamentalnotetolookuptheword“growlery.”“Ifyouthinkthegroundfloorisgood,youshouldseeupstairs,”yousaid.Myhandsfelttheirwayuptheoldwoodenbanister,andmyfeetwerecautious—carefulnottotwistanankleonanyofthebrokenstepsinthegloom.Thereweremorecobwebs,dust,anddirtcoveringalmosteverysurface,butIcouldalreadyseehowbeautifulthingsmightbeoneday.AndI’veneverbeenscaredofhardwork.Ifollowedyoualongthelanding,untilwereachedalargebedroom.IgaspedoutloudwhenIsawthebeautifullymade-upbed—itwastheonlyfurnitureinthehouse—andtherewasabottleofchampagneinanicebucketonthefloor.“ThesheetsareahundredpercentEgyptiancotton.See,Ididn’tforget.Happyanniversary,Mrs.Wright,”yousaid,wrappingyourarmsaroundme.“Whatabouttheotherbedrooms?”Iasked.“Well,Ithinkweshouldgettoworkonfillingthem,don’tyou?”We’vebeenhereforthreedays,onlyleavingtogoforwalksandtogetfood.Thankyouforawonderfulweekend,averyhappyanniversary,andforbeingtheloveofmylife.Iplantospendallmysparetimerenovatingthishouseanddecoratingeveryroomuntilit’stheforeverhomewebothdreamedof.It’shardtoimaginefeelingluckierthanIdorightnow.Allmylove,YourwifexxAMELIA
It’shardtoimaginefeelingunhappierthanIdorightnow.
Ididn’tmeantothrowthepapercraneonthefire,Ijust…snapped.Itwasn’tmyfault;itwashisformakingmefeelthiscrazyinthefirstplace.Iwatchasheslipsitbackinsidehiswalletbeforelookingupatmewithnothingbuthateinhiseyes.
“I’msorry.Idon’tknowwhyIdidthat,”Isay,butAdamdoesn’tanswer.
SometimesIfeellikeoneoftheabandonedpetsIseeatworkeveryday,thewaymyhusbanddisappearsinsidehiswritingallthetime.Leavingmebehind.Forgotten.Thisisalwaysadifficulttimeofyearinmyjob.AllthepeoplewhoboughtpuppiesforChristmas,oftendiscovertheydon’twantthemforlifearoundValentine’sDay.AGermanshepherdcalledLuckywasbroughtinthisweek,sadlyhisnametaghadnoaddress.Iwould’velikedtohavebeenabletotrackdownhisownersandhavethemarrested.Luckyhadbeenlefttiedtoalamppostintherain,severelymalnourished,starving,coveredinfleasandfilth,andsoakedtotheskin.Thevetsaidhiswoundscouldonlybearesultofregularbeatingsoveralongperiodoftime.Thatpoorolddogwasn’t“lucky”atall,andneitheristhepapercraneAdamkeepsinhiswallet.It’sjustsuperstitiousnonsense.
“Idon’tknowwhyyouaresoangryallthetime,”hesays.
Hiswordsmakemeangrier.
“I’mnotangry,”Isay,soundingit.“I’mjusttiredofbeingtheonlyonemakinganeffortinthisrelationship.Wenevertalkanymore.It’slikelivingwithahousemate,notahusband.Youneveraskaboutmyday,ormywork,orhowI’mfeeling.Just‘what’sfordinner?’or‘whereismyblueshirt?’or‘haveyouseenmykeys?’I’mnotahousewife.Ihavealifeandajobofmyown.Youmakemefeelsounlikable,andunloved,andinvisible,and…”
Irarelycry,butIcan’tstopmyself.
Adamhardlyevershowsaffectionthesedays,asthoughhecan’trememberhow,buthedoesthestrangestthingthen.Heholdsme.
“I’msorry,”hewhispers,andbeforeIcanaskwhichpartheisspecificallyapologizingfor,hekissesme.Properly.Holdingmyfaceinhishands,thewayweusedtokisswhenwefirstgottogether,beforelifepushedusapart.
Ifeelmycheeksblush,asthoughI’vebeenkissedbyastranger,notmyhusband.
I’vegottengoodatfeelingguiltyfordoingwhatisbestforme.Andguiltisoneofthoseemotionsthatrarelycomeswithanoffswitch.SometimesIfeellikeIneedtocheckoutoflifethewayotherpeoplecheckoutofhotels.SignwhateverIneedtosign,handbackthekeystothelifeIamliving,andfindsomewherenew.Somewheresafe.Butmaybethereisstillsomethingworthstayingfor?
“It’sbeenalongday,Ithinkwe’rebothjustabittired,”Adamsays.
“Wecouldheadupstairs,findthebedroom,haveanearlynight?”Isuggest.
“Howaboutanotherglassofwinefirst?”
“Goodidea.I’lltaketheplatesoutandgrabthebottle.”
Idon’tknowwhyheleftitinthekitchenifhewantedmore,butdon’tmindgoingtofetchit.Thisisthemostintimatethingshavebeenbetweenusformonths.Themusichasstopped,andIcanhearthewindwhistlingthroughanycracksandcrevicesitcanfindinthechapelwalls.Thestonefloorissocolditseemstobitemysockedfeet.I’minahurrytogetbacktothewarmthoftheotherroom,butsomethingaboutthestained-glasswindowscatchesmyeye.WhenItakeacloserlook,theydoseemveryunusual.Therearenoreligiousscenes,onlyaseriesofdifferentcoloredfaces.
Ifreezewhenoneofthemmoves.
AndthenIscream,becausethewhitefaceinthewindowisreal.Someoneisoutsideandtheyarestaringrightatme.
ADAM
“What’swrong?”Iask,runningintothekitchen.
IheardsomethingsmashbeforeAmeliastartedscreaming,andIcanseethatshehasdroppedthebottleofredwine.Therearepiecesofglassalloverthestonefloor,andIgrabBob’scollartostophimfromwalkingonthem.“Whathappened?Areyouokay?”
“No.There’ssomeoneoutside!”
“What?Where?”
“Thewindow,”shesays,pointing.
Iwalkoverandpeeroutintothedarkness.“Ican’tseeanything—”
“Well,they’vegonenow.TheyranassoonasIscreamed,”shesays,andstartstopickupthebrokenpiecesofglass.
“I’llgooutside,takealook.”
“No!Areyoucrazy?We’reinthemiddleofnowhere,whoknowswhocouldbeoutthere?Shit!”
She’scutherfingeronasharppieceofbottle,andthesightofbloodmakesmequeasy.Icanwriteaboutallkindsofhorrificthingsforthescreen,butwhenitcomestoreallife,I’mawuss.
“Here,”Isay,handingheracleanhanky.
IwrapmyarmsaroundAmeliaandholdhertight,closeenoughtosmellherhair.Thefamiliarscentofshampoostirsmemoriesofhappiertimes.Ican’tseeabeautifulface,butI’vealwaysfeltasthoughIhaveaninstinctforinnerbeauty.WhenIthinkaboutthenightwefirstmet,Icanstillremembereverythingaboutherwithsuchclarity,andhowIwanted,needed,toknowherbetter.I’vealwaystrustedmygutwhenitcomestopeopleandI’mrarelywrong.Icantellwhethersomeoneisgoodorbadwithinacoupleofminutesofmeetingthem,andtimeandlifetendtoprovemeright.Almostalways.
“I’llcleanthatup,”Isay,steppingawayandfindingadustpanandbrushinthefirstcupboardIopen.
“Howdidyouknowthatwasinthere?”sheasks,andIhesitatebeforeanswering.
“Luckyguess,Isuppose.Areyouokay?Doyouneedyourinhaler?”
Ameliahasasthma,andsometimesthestrangestthingscantriggeranattack.Sheoncehadhereyeonapinkcoatinashopwindowformonths.Squirrelledawayhermoneytosaveupforit.Boughtit,woreitonetime,andwhenitwasreducedtohalfpricetheverynextday,sheliterallyhadafit.Ameliahasalwaysbeensomeonetocountpennies,eventhoughshenolongerneedsto.
“Ireallywantedthisweekendtobeperfect,”shesays,soundinglikeshemightcry.“Italreadyfeelslikenothingisgoingaccordingtoplan—”
“Look,thisplaceisabitcreepy,we’vehadsomewine,andwe’rebothtired.Doyouthinkmaybeyouimaginedit?”
IusedthetoneIreserveforsmallchildren,orhigh-maintenanceauthorswhodon’tlovethescreenplaysoftheirbooks,butIcantellitwasn’ttherightthingtodoevenbeforesheerupts.
“No,Ididn’tbloodyimagineit.There.Was.A.Face.Inthewindowoutside,lookingrightatme.”
“Okay,I’msorry!”Isay,tippingthebrokenglassinthebin.“Whatdidtheylooklike?”
“Itwasaface!”
“Aman?Awoman?”
“Idon’tknow,itallhappenedtoofast…Itoldyou,assoonasIscreamed,theyran.”
“Maybeitwasthemysterioushousekeeper?”Ameliastaresatmebutdoesn’tanswer.“What?”
“Perhapsweshouldcallthehousekeeperandtellthemthatsomeoneisoutside?”
“Whatdoyouthinkthey’regoingtodoaboutit?”Isay,butsheisn’tlistening,andisalreadysearchingforherphone.
“Great,”shesays,findingit.
“Nosignal?”
“Notevenonebar.”
Bob,seeminglyboredofourexchange,haswanderedoutofthekitchenanddownthecorridortowardthebootroomwherewecamein.Weonlynoticethathe’sgonewhenhestartstogrowlattheoldwoodenchapeldoors,teethbared,hacklesraised.It’sthethirdtimeourolddoghasdonesomethingcompletelyoutofcharactersincewearrived.
“That’sit.I’mgoingoutsidetotakealook,”Isay,pullingonmycoat.
“Pleasedon’tgooutthere,”Ameliawhispers,asthoughsomeonemightbeabletohearus.
“Don’tbedaft,”Itellher,attachingthedog’sleadtohiscollar.“I’vegotBobforprotection.Haven’tI,boy?”
Bobstopsgrowlingandwagshistailatthesoundofhisownname.
“Bobistheworld’sworstguarddog,he’safraidoffeathers!”shesays.
“Yes,buttheydon’tknowthat.Ifthereissomeoneoutthere,I’llscarethemoffandwecanopenanotherbottleofwine.”
ThesnowblowsinsideassoonasIopenthedoors,andtheblastofcoldknockstheairfrommylungs.Bobgoesberserk,growlingandbarkingandstrainingonthelead,somuchsoIstruggletoholdontohim.It’spitch-black,andhardtoseeanythingatallatfirst,butasweblinkintothedarkness,itsoonbecomesterrifyinglyclearwhythedogissoupset.Justoutside,nomorethanafewfeetaway,thereareseveralpairsofeyesstaringatus.
LEATHER
Wordoftheyear:bibliokleptnoun.Apersonwhostealsstories.Abookthief.28thFebruary2011—ourthirdanniversaryDearAdam,Isuspectmostcouplescelebrateanniversariesalone—atablefortwoataspecialrestaurantperhaps—butnotyouandme.Notthisyear.Tonight,wespentouranniversarywithseveralhundredstrangers,anditfeltlikealleyeswereonus.Ihaveneverknownanyonewhohatespartiesasmuchasyoudo,andyetyouseemtogotosomanylately.I’mnotsuggestingthatyou’reantisocial,andIdounderstandwhyyoudreadthemsomuch.Gatheringsofmorethanahandfulofpeopleareproblematicwhenyoucan’trecognizeasingleface.SoafancyfilmindustrypartyatTowerBridge,withhundredsofpretentiouspeoplewhoallthinkyoushouldknowwhotheyare,mustbelikewalkingblindfoldedintoanego-filledminefield.“Pleasegostraightin,Mr.Wright,”purredthewomanonthedoor,withawidesmileandbusy-lookingclipboard.I’dwatchedwhileshecarefullycheckedotherpeople’snamesoffhercolor-codedlist,buttherewasnoneedwithyou.Everyoneknowswhoyouarenow—thenewkidontheblockwhogottostay.Screenwritingisalastlaughbusiness.Noneofthesepeoplegaveyouasidewaysglancewhenyouweredownonyourluck,butwithablockbusterfilmunderyourbelt—thankstoHenryWinter’snovel—theyallwanttobeyourbestfriendagain.Fornow.Thereasonyoustartedinvitingmetothebigparties,events,andawardceremonies,wassothatIcouldwhisperwhopeoplearewhentheyapproachus,tosaveyoutheembarrassmentofnotrecognizingsomeonethatyoushould.NotthatImind.Iquiteenjoyit—unlikeyou—andit’sfundressinguponceinawhile,gettingmyhairdone,andwearinghighheelsagain.Thereisn’tmuchcallforthatsortofthingwhenyou’reworkingwithdogsallday.Wehaveaprettygoodroutinenow.Afterafewyearsoflisteningtoyoutalkaboutproducers,executives,directors,actors,andauthors,Ihadalreadyimaginedacastoftheirfaces.ButnowIknowwhattheyalllooklikeinreallife,andwespendeveningslikethesechattingtopeoplefromyourworld.Irarelyhavemuchincommonwiththem,butfinditeasyenoughtotalkaboutbooksandfilmsandTVdramas—everyonelovesagoodstory.IwaslookingforwardtoseeinginsideTowerBridgeforthefirsttime,andthepromiseoffreechampagneandposhfingerfoodcreatedbyaMichelin-starredchefisstillsuchatreat.ButassoonasIspottedHenryWinter’snameontheguestlist,Idreadedgoinginside.Fromthatmoment,itwasobviousthattherealreasonwewerespendingouranniversarywithstrangers,wasbecauseyouwerehopingtobumpintoHenryandpersuadehimtogiveyouanotherbook.You’vealreadyaskedtwice.Itoldyounottobeg,butyoualwaysthinkyouknowbestwouldn’tlisten.Writingisahardwaytomakeaneasyliving.TowerBridgewasilluminatedagainsttheLondonnightskywhenwearrived.Thepartywasalreadyinfullswing,thedullbeatofmusicandlaughterupaboveus,competingwiththegentlelappingofthemurkyThamesdownbelow.Assoonastheliftspatusoutontothetopfloor,Icouldtellthatitwasgoingtobeaninterestingevening.ThespacewassmallerthanIhadimagined,littlemorethanalongcorridorcrammedfulloffilmtypes.AwaitersqueezedpastwithatrayofchampagneandIwashappytorelievehimoftwoglasses.Havingtakenapregnancytestthatmorning,justincase,Iknewtherewasnoreasonnottodrink.I’vestoppedtellingyouthemonthlybadnews,andyou’vestoppedasking.“Happyanniversary,”youwhispered,andweclinkedglassesbeforeyoutookasip.Itookseveralmyself,sothatmychampagneflutewasalreadyhalfempty.Ifindalcoholhelpsdrownmysocialanxiety,whichIstillexperienceeverytimeIattendaneventlikethis.Everyonehereknowswhoyouare.Theonlyexpectationsyoustillstruggletoliveuptoareyourown.ButIhaveneverfeltasifIfitinwiththesepeople,perhapsbecauseIdon’t.Ipreferdogs.Itookanothersip,thenIdidwhatIwastheretodoandsubtlyscannedtheroom,myeyessearchingforwhatyourscouldnotsee.Weexchangedanniversarygiftsthismorning.Igaveyoualeathersatchelwithyourinitialsembossedonitingoldlettering.I’vewatchedyoucarryingyourpreciousmanuscriptsaroundinuglybagsforyears,soitseemedlikeanappropriatepresent.Yourgifttomewasapairofknee-highleatherbootsI’dhadmyeyeon.IthoughtImightbetoooldtowearthem—atthirty-two—butyouclearlydisagreed.IworethemforthefirsttimetonightandInoticedyoustaringatmylegsinthetaxienroutetotheparty.Itfeltnicetofeelwanted.“Incoming,”Iwhisperedintoyourearaswemadeourwaydownthepackedcorridorofpartygoers.“Good,bad,orugly?”youasked.“Bad.Theproducerwhowantedyoutoworkonthatcrimenoveladaptationlastmonth…theonewhogotsnootywhenyouturnedherdown.Lisa?Linda?Liz?”“LizzyParks?”“Yes.”“Shit.Everypartyhasapooper.Doesshelookpissedyet?”youasked.“Verymuchso.”“Hassheseenus?”“Affirmative.”“Damn.Thatwomantreatswriterslikefactoriesandtheirworkliketinsofbakedbeans.Itwasn’tevenherbooktoadapt.She’sawalking,talking,biblioklept—”“Codered.”“Lizzy,darling,howareyou?Youlookwonderful,”yousaid,inthatvoiceyouonlyusewhenspeakingtosmallchildrenorpretentiouspeople.Ihopeyounevertalktomelikethat,I’llbeupsetifyoudo.Youkissedtheairbesideeachother’scheeks,andImarveledathowyoudowhatyoudo.It’sasthoughyouhaveaswitch,onewhichIamclearlymissing.Youbecomeadifferentversionofyourselfatparties,theoneeveryoneloves:charming,complimentary,clever,popular,thecenteroftheirattention.Nothingliketheshy,quietmanIknowwhodisappearsintohisnew,ratherlovely,writingshedeveryday.Itwaslikewatchingaperformance.Iloveallthedifferentversionsofyou,butIprefermyAdam,therealonewhoonlyIgettosee.“Incoming,”Iwhisperedagain,afterenjoyingaperfectlycookedscallop,toppedwithasmidgenofpeapuree,servedonaminiatureseashell,andeatenwithatinysilverspoon.“Whonow?”youasked.Iknewthisone.“Nathan.”Iwatchedwhileyoushookhishandandlistenedwhileyoutalkedshop.Thebossofthestudiohostingthepartyisoneofthosemenwhoisalwaysworkingtheroom.Constantlylookingoverhisoryourshoulder,toseewhoelsehecouldorshouldbechattingup.Hewasamanwholikedtotaxjoy,alwayssiphoningoffalittleofsomeoneelse’sinordertoincreasehisown.Youintroducedme,andIfeltmyselfshrinkalittleunderhisgaze.“Andwhatdoyoudo?”heasked.ItwasaquestionIhated.Notbecauseoftheanswer,butbecauseofotherpeople’sresponsestoit.“IworkforBatterseaDogsHome,”Isaid,andmademyfacesmile.“Oh,gosh.Goodforyou.”Idecidednottoexplainhoworwhyitwasn’tgoodformethatsomanypeoplewerecruelorirresponsiblewhenitcomestoanimals.Ialsothoughtitbesttoignorehiscondescendingtone.Iwastaughttoalwaysbepolite:youcan’tcrossabridgeifyouburnit.Luckilytheconversationandthecompanymovedonasbothalwaysdoatthesethings,andwefoundourselvesaloneatlast.“Anysignofhim?”youwhispered.Ididn’tneedtoaskwho.“Afraidnot.Wecouldtrytheotherside?”Weheadeddownthesecondcorridor,anindoortunnellinkingonetowertotheotherabovethefamousbridge.TheviewoftheThamesandLondonlitupdownbelowwasspectacular.“CanyouseeHenrynow?”youaskedagain,andlookedsosadwhenIsaidthatIcouldn’t.Likealittleboywhohadbeenstoodupbythegirlofhisdreams.Therewasaninvisiblequeueofpeoplepreparingtopounceonyouallevening,waitingfortheirchancetosayhello:producerswhowantedtoworkwithyou,executiveswhowishedtheyhadn’tbeenunkindtoyouinthepast,andotherwriterswhowishedthattheywereyou.Myfeetwerestartingtohurt,soIwasdelighted—aswellassurprised—whenyousuggestedleavingearly.Youhailedablackcab,andassoonaswewereonthebackseat,youkissedme.Yourhandfoundthetopofmynewleatherboots,thenslidupbetweenmylegsandundermydress.Assoonaswegothome,youstartedpullingmyclothesoffinthehallway,untilthebootswereallIwaswearing.Sexontherecentlyrenovatedstaircasewasanewexperience.Icouldstillsmellthevarnish.Later,wedrankwhiskeyinbed,talkedaboutthepartyandallthepeoplewemettonight:thegood,thebad,andtheugly.“Doyoustilllovemeasmuchasyoudidwhenwegotmarried?”Iasked.“Almostalways,”yourepliedwithacheekygrin.It’soneofyourfavoritethingstosay.YoulookedsohandsomethatallIcoulddowaslaugh.Ialmostalwaysloveyoutoo.ButIdidn’tmentionthatI’dseenHenryWinterseveraltimesduringtheevening,wearinghistrademarktweedjacket,bowtie,andastrangeexpressiononhisheavilylinedface.Helookedolderthanhedoesinhisauthorphotos.Withhisthickwhitehair,blueeyes,andextremelypaleskin,itwasabitlikeseeingaghost.Ididn’ttellyouthatyourfavoriteauthorhadbeenstaringinourdirection,constantlyfollowingusaroundtheparty,desperatelytryingtogetyourattention.Threeyearsandsomanysecrets.Aretherethingsthatyoukeepfrommetoo?Allmylove,YourwifexxAMELIA
Adamlaughswhenthesheepoutsidethechapeldoorstartbleating.EvenIfindithardnottosmileashedragsBob—whoisstillbarkinglikemad—backinside.
Whenwefirstsawthemultiplesetsofeyesstaringinourdirection,itfeltlikeascenefromascarymovie,butAdam’storchsoonrevealedthattheonlynosyneighborslurkingoutsidethechapelwerethesmallflockofsheepwedrovepastonthetrackearlier.Theyprobablyfollowedusherehopingsomeonemightfeedthem.Inthedark,theirbodiesblendedinwiththethickblanketofwhitesnowthathascoveredeverythingsincewearrived,sothatallwecouldseeweretheireyes.
“We’lllaughaboutthisoneday,”Adamsays,takingoffhiscoatagain.
I’mnotsosureaboutthat.
Ikeepmyjacketon—I’mfreezing—andwatchashelocksthefrontdoorswithagiantoldkey.I’veneverseenitbefore,butI’msotired,maybeitwastherethewholetimeandIjustdidn’tnotice.I’vebeenplanningthistripforsolong,Icouldn’twaittogetawayandpracticallybulliedhimintocominghere,butnowIfeelstrangelyhomesick.
Adamisaself-confessedhermit.Heishappiestinhiswritingshedwithhischaracters,disappearingsofarinsidetheimaginaryworldinhishead,hesometimesstrugglestofindhiswayback.Iswearwe’dnevergoanywhereifitweren’tforme.He’sproudofourhome,soamI,butthatdoesn’tmeanweshouldneverleaveit.Thedetached,double-frontedVictorianhouseinHampsteadVillageisalongwayfromthecouncilestatehegrewupon,butAdamdoesn’ttellpeopleaboutthatpartofhispast.Hedoesn’tjustrewritehisownhistory,hedeletesit.
Idon’talwaysfeellikeIbelonginsuchanaffluentcornerofLondon,buthefitsrightin,despiteleavingschoolatsixteentoworkinacinema,withtoomuchambitionandtoofewacademiccredits.Buteveryonelovesatrier,andAdamhasneverlearnedhowtogiveup.Thereisatheaterdirectortwodoorsdownfromourhouse,anewsreaderonourright,andanOscar-nominatedactresslivesnextdoorontheleft.Itcanbeintimidating:worryingwhoImightbumpintowhenIwalkthedog.Ihavelittleincommonwithourself-madeneighbors,unlikemyhusband.NotthatIhaveanythingagainstsocialclimbers—I’vealwaysfoundthehigheryouclimbinlifethebettertheview.Butsometimeshissuccessmakesmefeellikeafailure.Adamistherealdealthesedays,whereasI’mstillmoreofafirstdraft;aworkinprogress.
Hekissesmeontheforeheadthen.It’ssogentle,likeaparentkissingachildgoodnightbeforeturningoffthelights.TherehavebeensomanytimesrecentlywhenhehasmademefeelasthoughI’mnotgoodenough.ButmaybeI’vebeenprojectingmyowninsecurities.Maybehedoesstillcare.
“There’snoneedtofeelembarrassed,”hesays,andIworrythatImighthavebeenthinkingoutloud.
“Aboutwhat?”
“Imaginingafaceinthewindowandsmashingthatratherlovelybottleofwine.”HesmilesatmeandImakemyfacesmileback,untilhesays,“Youjustneedtorelax.”
Whenevermyhusbandtellsmetorelaxittendstohavetheoppositeeffect.Idon’tsayanything—hewouldn’ttakemeseriouslyifIdid—butIdon’tthinkIimaginedthefaceinthewindow.Unlikehim,Iliveinreality,full-time.I’msureofwhatIsaw,almostcertain,andIcan’tseemtoshakethefeelingofbeingwatched.
ROBIN
Robinsteppedbackfromthechapelwindowassoonasthewomaninsidesawher,butitwastoolate.Whenshestartedtoscream,Robinran.
IthasbeenalongtimesinceanyonecametovisitBlackwater.Overayearsinceshehasseenanyoneunexpectedhereatall,asidefromtheoccasionalhiker—lostdespiteallthegadgetsandgizmostheyseemtocarrynowadays—andtherearealwaysplentyofdeerandsheepinthevalley.Butnopeople.It’stooremoteandtoofaroffthebeatentrackformosttouriststovisit,andeventhelocalsknowtostayaway.BlackwaterLochandthechapelbesideithavehadareputationforaslongasshecanremember,andithasneverbeengood.
Luckily,Robinlikesherowncompanyandisn’tafraidofghosts.Thelivinghavealwaysbeenmoreofaconcernforher,whichiswhyshe’sbeenwatchingthevisitorsandtheirdogeversincetheyarrived.
Robinhadknownastormwascoming,soitwasasurprisewhentheydrovepastherlittlethatchedcottageattheendofthetrack.Shedidn’tthinkanyonewouldbecrazyenoughtotakethecoastalroadorriskthemountainlanesinthisweather.Robindoesn’townaTV,buttherehadbeenseveralwarningsontheradio,andyoudidn’tneedtobeameteorologisttolookoutsidethewindow.Ithasbeencloudyandbitterlycoldfordays,justlikeitalwaysisbeforethesnowcomes.RobinhasspentseveralyearsofherlifelivingintheHighlands,sosheknowsnottotrusttheScottishweather,ithasarhythmofitsownandnorules.Whenastormisontheway,allthelocalsmaketimetoprepareandtakethenecessaryprecautions,becausetheyknowfrompastexperiencethatitcouldmeanbeingstrandedortrappedindoorsfordays.Nobodyintheirrightmindwouldcomehereatthistimeofyear.Unlesstheywantedtogetcutofffromtherestoftheworld.
Robinhadwatchedfromthewindowinhercottage,hidingbehindhermakeshiftcurtains,transfixedbythesightofthevisitors’carasitgotcloser.Itwasanold-fashioned,mintgreenthing,andlookedasthoughitbelongedinamuseum,notontheroad.HowtheyhadmanagedtogetallthewaytoBlackwaterwasnothinglessthanamiracleoramystery.Robincouldn’tdecidewhich.
Shewatchedastheycarriedondownthelanetowardthechapel,beforeparkingdangerouslyclosetotheedgeoftheloch.Itwaspitch-blackoutside.Thewindwaspickingupandthesnowwasfallinghard,butthevisitorsseemedoblivioustothedanger.Thechapelwasonlyashortwalkawayfromhercottage,soshefollowedthemtogetacloserlook,keepingherdistance.
Robinwatchedthemgetoutoftheircar,andwaspleasedtoseethebigblackdogleapfromtheboot.Shehasalwaysbeenfondofanimals,butsheeparen’tthebestwhenitcomestocompany.Evenfromafewmetersawayshethoughtthemanappearedtiredandunhappy,butthenlongjourneysdotendtohavethateffectonpeople,andtheybothlookedliketheyhadbeenonone.Robinstoodperfectlystillasthecoupleandtheirdogwalkeduptotheoldchapel,onlytofindthedoorslockedandnobodytheretogreetthem.Theybothseemedsocoldanddefeated.Someonehadtoletthemin.
Thewomanhadbeentheonedrivingthecar,andRobinwasfascinatedbyeverythingabouther:thefashionableclothesshewore,thelongblondhair,andexpertlyappliedmakeup.Robinhasn’thadanythingnewtowearforyears,shedressesforwarmthandcomfort.Thereisnothinginherwardrobethatisn’tmadefromcotton,wool,ortweed.Mostdaysshewearsauniformoflong-sleevedT-shirtsbeneathherancientdungarees,alongwithtwopairsofknittedsockstokeepherfeetwarm.Robin’shairislongandgraynow,andshecutsitherselfwhenthetanglesgettootroublesome.Herrosycheeksaretheresultofcoldwinds,notblusher,andevenshefindsithardtorememberatimebeforeshelookedandlivedthisway.
Robinwatchedthemgoinside,thenshewalkedaroundthechapel,lookinginthroughthestained-glasswindows.Shewishedshecouldhearwhattheyweresaying,butthewindstoletheirwordsfromherears.Thelayersshewaswearinghadpaidoff,butshewasn’timmunetothecold.Orcuriosity.Despitethedustthathadsettledsincethelasttimesomeoneinhabitedtheplace,thevisitorssoonseemedtomakethemselvesathome.Theylitcandlesandthefirethathadbeenpreparedforthem,warmedsomefood,dranksomewine.Thedogstretchedoutontherug,andthecouplealmostheldhandsatonepoint.Fromtheoutsidelookingin,itwasquitearomanticscene.Butlookscanbedeceiving,everyoneknowsthat.
Theydidn’tlookscaredatall.
Shewonderedifitwasbecausetheyweretogether.Theworldcanseemlessfrighteningwhenyoudon’thavetofaceitalone.Butthenlifeisagameofchoices,andsomeofRobin’shavebeenwrong.Shecanadmitthatnow,evenifonlytoherselfbecausethereisnobodylefttotell.Watchingthecouplestarttorelaxinsidethechapel,sheknewthattheyhadmadepoorchoicestoo.Andcomingherewasprobablytopofthelist.
AMELIA
“What’swrong?”Adamsays.It’saquestionmyhusbandfrequentlyaskswithoutreallywantingtoknowtheanswer.
“Nothing.Whatnow?”Ireplyaswestandinthebootroomstaringateachother.Icatchsightofmyreflectioninsomeoftheminiaturemirrorsonthewall,andlookaway.ThisplaceisalittletooAliceinWonderlandformyliking.Allthat’smissingisawhiterabbit.
“Iwaslookingforwardtoanotherglassofwinebutyousmashedthatideawhenyoudroppedthebottle…”Adamsays.
“Well,yousaidthecryptwasfullofthem.Wecouldjustopenanother—”
“Itwas,that’strue,andit’syourturntogodownthere.”
“What?”
“Onceyouseethereisnothingtobeafraidof,you’llstopbeingscared.”
I’mnotsureIagreewithhislogic,butIdohaveafeministbackbone,andanythingmyhusbandcandoIcandojustaswell.So,althoughIdon’twanttogodownintothecrypt,Iwill.Tomakeapointaswellasgetsomemuch-neededalcohol.
InoticethatAdamcloseseachdoorbehindusasweheadbacktowardthekitchen,asthoughtryingtokeepsomethingout.AlthoughI’msurehemustjustbetryingtokeeptheheatin.Whenwereachthelarder,heheavesopenthetrapdoorinthefloor,andmysensesareimmediatelyassaultedbythedank,mustysmell.
“Whatisthat?”Iask.
Heshrugs.“Damp?”
It’sfarmorepungentthananydampsmellI’veencounteredbefore.
“Passmethetorch,”Isay.
“Thebatteryiscompletelydeadnow,butthereisalightswitchdownthere.It’sontherightassoonasyoureachthebottom.”
HeholdsthetrapdooropenasIstartdownthestonesteps.Thereisnorailtoholdonto,soIfeelmywaydownthewall.Itisn’tjustcold,it’swet.Slimymightbeamoreaccuratedescription.Myfingersfindtheswitch,andanuglyfluorescenttubeontheceilingcomestolife,creatinganeeriegreenglow.Thehummingsounditmakesisoddlycomforting.
Adamwasright,therearenoghostsorgargoyles,buttheplacedefinitelyfeelsspooky.Everythingismadeofancient-lookingstone—thewalls,theceiling,thefloor—andit’ssocolddownherethatIcanseemybreath.Icountthreerustedmetalringsembeddedinthewall,anddomybestnottothinkaboutwhattheywereusedfor.Ispottheracksofwineinthedistanceandhurrytotakeacloserlook,keentogetbackupstairs.Someofthebottlesarecoatedinsomuchgrimeanddust,it’simpossibletoreadthelabels,butIspotwhatlookslikeabottleofMalbec.
Thenthelightsgoout.
“Adam?”Icall.
Thetrapdoorupabovemeslamsshut.
“Adam!”Iscream,buthedoesn’tanswer,andallIcanseeisblack.
ROBIN
Robinhasneverbeenafraidofthedark.Orstorms.OrthestrangethingsthatsometimeshappenatBlackwaterChapel.But,unlikethevisitors,Robinisalwaysprepared.
Earliertoday,shemadethemonthlytriptotowntogeteverythingsheneeded.Thejourneythroughthevalleyandthemountainstakesjustoveranhourthereandback,andshoppinghasneverbeenoneofRobin’sfavoritethingstodo.She’salittlerustywhenitcomestopeopleskills;livingaloneforalongtimecandothattoaperson.Thesolitudeofherlifeissomethingshehaslearnedtolivewith,butshestillworriesaboutthestrangesoundshermouthmakesthesedays,ontherareoccasionswhensheopensit.Soshetendstokeepitshut.
Beingshyandbeingunfriendlyarenotthesamething,butsadlymostpeoplecannottellthedifference.
HeroldLandRoverhasseenbetterdays—abitlikeitsowner—butitisatleasteasytodriveanddependable,evenintheworstkindsofweather.“Town”isreallyjustthenearestvillage.AsleepyplacecalledHollowgroveonthewildwestScottishcoast.Itconsistsoflittlemorethanahandfulofhousesanda“localstore.”Theshop—whichdoublesupasthepostoffice—onlystocksessentialitemsatthebestoftimes.Everyonestartstopanicbuywhentheyknowthere’sastormontheway,andalotoftheshelveswerealreadyempty.Thefreshfruitandvegwereallgone,aswasthebread,andtoiletrolls.Whypeopleneededtostockpilethemwasbeyondher.
Robinsnaffledthelastpintofmilk,somecheese,somematches,candles,andsixtinsofHeinzspaghettihoops.ShehadatleasttwentytinsofHeinzbakedbeansathomealready,andacupboardfullofnothingbutDelMontetinnedmandarins,alongwithenoughcartonsoflong-lifemilktohydrateaprimaryschool.Herdietarychoicesarenothingtodowiththestorm.Robinlikestinnedfood.Andshelikestoalwayshaveenoughofitneatlystackedathome,toknowthatshewouldn’tstarveanytimesoon.
Sheaddedthelastfewjarsofbabyfoodontheshelvestoherbasket.Thewomanbehindthetillpausedbeforescanningthem—asalways—andRobinfeltherselfshrinkalittleundertheweightofherstare.Shehadbeenbuyingbabyfoodinthisshopforaslongasanyonecouldremember,butpeopleknewbetterthantoaskaboutababy.Theyallknewshedidn’thaveone.
Thecashier’snamebadgeread:PATTY.Alongwiththewoman’sface,itmadeRobinthinkofrawburgermeat,whichmadeherfeelnauseated.Pattywasinherfiftiesbutlookedolderinherfrumpyclothesandredapron.Shehadmessy,boyish,blondhair,sallowskin,anddarkshadowsbeneathherbeadyeyes.Robinnoticedthatthewomangulpedalotfornoreason,whichseemedonlytoaccentuateherdroopingjowls.Pattywasapersonwhowallowedinbitchygossipandself-pity.Robindidn’tmeantojudgethewomanwhowasjudgingher,shetendedtosteerclearofrudeorunkindhumanbeings,andshehadwitnessedPattybeingboth.Thewomanworeherbitternesslikeabadge;thekindofpersonwhowritesone-starbookreviews.
Robinthoughtaboutsayinghello—knowingthat’swhat“normalpeople”do.Butiftherewasalitmustestforkindness,itwasclearPattywouldfaileverytime.SoeventhoughRobinsometimeslongedtostrikeupaconversation,justtoseeifshestillcould,Pattywassomeoneshedidn’tcaretotalkto.
BythetimeRobingotbacktothecottage,thepowerwasalreadyout,andtheplacewasdarkandcold.Itwasn’tmuch—asmallstonebuildingwithtworooms,athatchedroof,andanoutsidetoilet.Butitwashers.Anditwasasclosetoahomeasshehadthesedays.Thecottagehadbeenbuiltbyhandmorethantwohundredyearsago,forthepriestwholookedafterthechapelwhenitwasstillusedforitsoriginalpurpose.Someofthethickwhitestonewallshavecrumbledinplaces,torevealdarkgranitebricks.Thefingerprintsofthemenwhomadethemarestillvisible,twocenturieslater,anditalwayscheersRobinuptothinkthatnobodydisappearscompletely.Weallleavesomesmallpartofourselvesbehind.
Robin’smothersometimessleptinthiscottage.Yearsago,whenRobinwasjustachildandthingswere…difficultathome.Hermotherhadakeyandwouldcomeherewheneversheneededtorunaway,orhide.Shewasahappywomantrappedinsideofasadone.Shelovedtosing,andcook,andsew,andhadthemostwonderfulabilitytomakeeverything—includingherself—lookpretty.Eventhissadlittlecottage.Robinwouldfollowherhere—shealwaystookhermother’ssideinanyargument—andtheywouldsittogetherinfrontofthefire.Comfortingeachotherwithoutwords,andwaitingforthelatestmaritalstormtoblowover.Theplacebecamearamshacklesanctuaryforthemboth.Theymadeitcozy,withhomemadecurtainsandcushions,candlesforlight,andblanketsforwarmth.ButallofthatwaslonggonewhenRobinreturnedyearslater.JustlikeRobin’smother.Nothingbutthedustofamemory.
Thethatchisalittlemorerecentthanthecottage’swalls,andnotwithoutholes,buttheycanberepairedwhentheweathergetswarmer.Whichitwill,becauseitalwaysdoes.That’sthethingRobinhaslearnedaboutlifenowthatsheisolder:theworldkeepsturning,andtheyearsgoby,regardlessofhowmuchshewishesshecouldturnbacktime.Shewondersaboutthatalot:whypeopleonlylearntoliveinthemomentwhenthemomenthaspassed.
Robindoesn’thavemuchinthewayoffurniture.Herbedismadefromaseriesofwoodenpalletsthatshefoundonthesideoftheroad,butit’ssurprisinglycomfythankstoathicklayerofwoolenblanketsandhomemadecushions.Intheroomwiththefireplace—whereshespendsmostofhertimetokeepwarm—thereisasmalltablewithawonkyleg,andanoldleatherarmchairthatsherescuedfromadumpsterinGlencoe.HavingbelongingsthatwereherownwasmoreimportanttoRobinthanhowtheylookedorwheretheycamefrom.Shedidn’thavemuchwhenshearrivedhere,justasuitcasefilledwithherfavoritethings.Robinlefteverythingelsebehind.
Theplates,cutlery,cups,andglassesinthecottagewereallborrowed—somemightsaytaken—fromcafesandpubsshehadvisitedintheHighlands.Robinneversawitastheftwhensheslippedthedirtyitemsintoherbag,becauseshealwaysleftatip.Shetookaguestbookfromatearoomonce,thoughshewasn’tsurewhy.Maybeallthefriendly,handwrittenmessagesinsidemadeherfeellesslonely.Robincollectedallofthethingssheneededbeforethemoneyranout.Shedidn’thaveeverythingshewanted,butthatwasadifferentstory.Thecashshehadleftwaskeptforemergenciesonly,andthiswasdefinitelyoneofthose.
Withnoelectricityfortheforeseeablefuture,shelightssomecandlesbeforebuildingalittlefireinthegrateforwarmth.Thenshetiesacanofbakedbeansabovetheflames.Hotmealsareimportantincoldweather,andthisisn’tthefirsttimeRobinhascookedforherselfinastorm.Whenthetinisempty,she’llwashitout,carvetwoeyesandasmileinthetin,thenuseitasacandleholder.Therearetin-shapedfacesalloverherlittlehome.Somehappy,somesad.Someangry.
Wearingmismatchingovengloves,sheremovesthecanfromabovethefireandeatsthehotbeansstraightfromthetin.Itsavesonbothtimeandwashingup.Whenshehasfinishedherowndinner,sheopensajarofbabyfoodandspoonsthecontentsintoabowl.Sheknowshe’lleatwhenheishungry.
Robineasesintotheoldleatherarmchair.She’swearingfingerlessmittensindoors,butherhandsarestillfreezing.Shethrowsanotherlogonthefire,thensearchesinsidehercardiganpocketforthewoodenpipe,holdingontoitlikeanoldfriend.Itwasn’talwayshers—somethingelsesheborrowed.Sometimesit’senoughjusttofeelit,butnottonight.Shetakesitout,alongwithasmall,roundtinoftobacco.It’saRattray’spipe,madeinScotland,justlikeher.AclassicBlackSwan.
Sheunscrewsthetin,andsprinklesthreepinchesoftobaccojustlikehetaughtherwhenshewasalittlegirl.Itfeelslikefeatheringanestbeforeburningitdown.Afewstrandsfallontoherlap,wheretheystay,abandonedbyunsteadyhands.Shenoticesthedryskinandbittennailsasshestrikesamatch,socloseshereyesbriefly,tohideherselffromherself,whilesheenjoysthesmellofthepipeandthenicotinehitshe’sbeencravingallday.
Robinstaresatthechapelinthedistance.Fromherwindowshecanseethatthelightsarestillon.Unlikeherlittlecottage,thechapelstillhaspower,becausetheownersufferedtoomanyScottishstormsandinstalledageneratorafewyearsago.Forallthegooditdidthem.Shelistenstotheradiowhileshewaits;Robinisgoodatwaiting.Patienceistheanswertosomanyoflife’squestions.Shesitsandshewaits,evenwhenthepipeisempty,andthefirehasburneditselfout.Shelistenstothevoicesontheradio—asfamiliarasoldfriends—whiletheyreportthatthestormhasalreadyresultedinseveralroadaccidents.Robinwondersifthevisitorsknowwhataluckyescapethey’vehad,managingtogethereinonepiece.Whensheglancesoutofthewindowagain,andseesthatthechapelisincompletedarkness,shethinksthatthevisitors’goodluckmightbeabouttochange.
Maybeithasrunoutaltogether,onlytimewilltell.
Robinhearssomethingthen,tinyfootstepsinthegloombehindher.Thebowlofbabyfoodisempty.It’sbeenlickedcompletelycleanandthatmakesherhappy.Companyiscompany,inwhateverformittakes.
AMELIA
Ifeelcrazyforthinkingit,butIdon’tthinkI’malonedowninthecrypt.Iblinkintothedarkness,andspinaround,butIcan’tseeanything.Inmyimagination,thewallsareclosinginonme,andIthinkIhearmynamebeingwhisperedintheshadows.
Amelia.Amelia.Amelia.
Mybreathingsoonstartstogetoutofcontrol.Ifeelmychesttightenasthoughaheavyweightispressingdownonmylungs,andpictureinvisiblehandsstranglingmeasmythroatstartstoclose.
Thenthetrapdooropensupabove,butIstillcan’tsee.
“Areyouokay?”Adam’svoicecallsintothedarkness.
“No!Whathappened?”
“Idon’tknow;powercut,Isuspect.Idroppedthedoorwhenthelightswentout,sorry.Tryandmakeyourwaytowardthesteps.”
“I…can’tbreathe!”
Hedoesn’tjusthearmywords,hehearstheraspingsoundofmybreathsbetweenthem.
“Whereisyourinhaler?”heshouts.
“Don’t…know.Handbag.”
“Where’sthat?”
“Can’tremember.Kitchen…table?”
“Waitthere,”hesays,asifIhaveachoice.
I’vehadasthmasinceIwasalittlegirl—beingraisedbypeoplewhochain-smokedandlivingininner-cityflatsprobablydidn’thelp.Notallofmyfosterparentswerechildfriendly.Myasthmaisn’tasmuchofaproblemthesedays,buttherearestillthingsthatcantriggeranattack.Beingtrappedinanundergroundcryptinthedarkseemstobeoneofthem.Iedgeforwardtryingtofindthestepsoutofhere,butmyfingersonlyfindadampwall,andacoldmetalring.Itmakesmeshudder.Ifonlythetorchbatterieshadn’tdied,orIhadmyphone.Ithinkofallthecandlesupinthelibrary,wishingthatIhadonenow,butthenIrememberthematchboxIusedtolightthem.It’sstillinmypocket.
ThefirstmatchIstrikegoesoutalmostinstantly—it’sanoldbox.
Iusethesecondtotryandgetmybearings,butIstillcan’tseethesteps,andI’mstrugglingtogetenoughairintomylungs.
ThethirdmatchIstrikebrieflyilluminatespartofthewall,andInoticeallthescratchmarksonthesurface.Itlookslikesomeone,orsomething,oncetriedtoclawtheirwayoutofhere.
Itrytostaycalm,remembertobreathe,butthentheflameburnsthetipsofmyfingersandIdropthefinalmatchonthefloor.
Everythingisblack.
AndthenIhearitagain.Mynamebeingwhispered.Rightbehindme.
Amelia.Amelia.Amelia.
Mybreathsaretooshallow,butIcan’tcontrolthemandIthinkI’mgoingtofaint.NomatterwhatdirectionIlookin,allIcanseeisdarkness.ThenIhearthesoundofscratching.
ADAM
IttakesfarlongerthanitshouldtofindAmelia’sinhaler.
Herasthmaattacksarefewandfarbetween,butIalwaysthinkitisbesttobepreparedfortheworst.LifemademethinkthatwayandI’mbetteroffforit.Lookingformywife’shandbagisneveraneasytask—evenforher—buttryingtoguesswhereshemighthaveleftitinanunfamiliarbuilding,incompletedarkness,issomethingthattakestime.TimeIknowshedoesn’thave.WhenIfinallyfeeltheleatherbag,Ifindtheinhalerinside,andrushbacktothetrapdoor.Bobhasstartedscratchingatthewood,andIcanhearAmeliacrying.
“Youneedtofindthesteps,”Isay.
“WhatdoyouthinkI’mtrying…todo?”
Shecan’tbreathe.
“Okay,I’llcomedown.”
“No!Don’t,you’ll…fall.”
“Stoptalkingandfocusonyourbreathing.I’mcoming.”
Ifeelmywayslowly,onefootconnectingwithonestepatatime,thesoundofAmelia’spanickedbreathingguidingmeinthedarkness.Ifindheragainsttheoppositewallfromwheresheneededtobe,andputtheinhalerinhertremblinghands.SheshakesitandIheartwopuffs.Thenthepowercomesbackon,thefluorescenttubeontheceilingflickersbacktolife,andthecryptisbathedinghostlylight.
“Theremustbeagenerator,”Isay,butAmeliadoesn’tanswer.InsteadshejustclingstomeandIwrapmyarmsaroundher.WestaylikethatforalongtimeandIfeeloddlyprotectiveofher.
WhatIshouldfeelisguilt,butIdon’t.
AMELIA
HeholdsmeandIlethim,whileIwaitformybreathingtoreturntonormal.Ithinkaboutwhatthemarriagecounseloraskedatourveryfirstsession.“CallmePamela”—asAdamnicknamedher—alwayssoundedasthoughsheknewwhatshewastalkingabout,butIconfessmyconfidenceinherdwindledalittleonceIdiscoveredshe’dbeendivorcedtwiceherself.Whatdoesmarriagemeantoyou?IrememberhowshepurredthequestionandIrememberAdam’sanswer.Marriageiseitherawinninglotteryticketorastraitjacket.Hethoughtitwasfunny.Ididn’t.
Hekissesmeontheforehead,gently,asthoughscaredImightbreak.ButI’mtougherthanherealizes.Cleverertoo.Thekissfeelsantiseptic,nothingmorethansomethingtosoothe.
“Howaboutwetakethisbottletobed?”heasks,pickinguptheMalbecandholdingmyhandasheleadsmeoutofthecrypt.Sometimesitisbesttoletpeoplethinkyouwillfollowthem,untilyouarecertainthatyouwon’tbelostonyourown.
Thereisacircularwoodenstaircaseinthemiddleofthelibrarylounge,leadinguptowhatmusthavebeenafirst-floorbalconywhenthiswasstillachapel.I’mguessingthewoodworkisalloriginal,itcertainlylooksit,andeverysecondstepcreaksinarathertheatricalway.Bobchargesahead,trottingupthestairs,almostlikeheknowswhereheisgoing.
Ican’thelpbutstareatthepictureswepassonthewhitewashedstonewalls.Theseriesofframedblack-and-whiteportraitsstartsatthebottomofthestaircase,andwindsallthewaytothetop,likeaphotographicfamilytree.Someofthepictureshavealmostcompletelyfaded,bleachedoflifebysunlightandtime,butthenewerones—closertothefirstfloor—areingoodcondition,andevenlookalittlefamiliar.Idon’trecognizethefacesinthemthough.AndthereisnopointinaskingAdam,whodoesn’tevenrecognizehisowninthemirror.Inoticethatthreeframesaremissing;discoloredrectangularshapesandrust-colorednailswheretheyusedtohang.
Aredcarpetheldinplacewithmetalrodsrunsupthemiddleofthestairs—unlikethecoldflagstoneflooringdownstairs—andtheyopenoutontoanarrowlanding.Therearefourdoorsinfrontofus.Allofthemareclosedandlookexactlythesame,exceptforonethathasaredDANGERKEEPOUTsignhangingonitshandle.Thereisatartandogbasketinfrontofit,alongwithatypednoteliketheonewefoundinthekitchenwhenwefirstarrived:
Nodogsinthebedroom.Please.Wehopeyouenjoyyourstay.
Theword“please”seemslikeanafterthoughtandalittlepassive-aggressiveonanewlineallbyitself,butperhapsI’mreadingtoomuchintoit.Bobsniffsthebed,wagshistail,andsitsdowncontentedlyasthoughitwerehisown.Mydogdoesn’tsufferfromseparationanxietythewayIdo,and—unlikeme—hecansleepanywhere,anytime.
“Well,that’shimtakencareof.Didn’tthenoteearliersaythatoneofthebedroomshadbeenmadeupforus?”Adamsays.
“Yes,butIcan’trememberwhich.”
“Onlyonewaytofindout.”
Hetrieseachoftheavailabledoors,whicharealllocked,untilthefinaloneopenswithadramaticcreaktomatchthesoundtrackofthestairs.Alongwiththehowlingwindoutside,it’senoughtogiveanyoneadoseoftheheebie-jeebies
“ThisplacecouldreallydowithsomeWD-40,”Adamsaysturningonthelight,andIfollowhiminsidetheroom.
I’mshockedbywhatIsee.
Thebedroomlooksjustlikeoursathome.Notacarboncopy—thefurnitureisdifferent—butthebediscoveredwiththesamepillows,blankets,andthrows.Andthewallshavebeenpaintedintheexactsameshade:Mole’sBreathbyFarrowandBall.Iredecoratedasasurpriseacoupleofyearsago,andI’llneverforgethowmuchAdamhatedit.
Webothstandandstareforamoment.
“Idon’tunderstandwhatI’mseeing,”Iwhisper.
“Isupposeitdoeslookabitlikeours—”
“Abit?”
“Well,wedon’thavestained-glasswindowsinLondon.”
“Thisistoostrange.”
“Wedon’thaveagrandfatherclockeither,”hesays,andthat’strue.Theantique-lookingclockinthecorneroftheroomiscompletelyoutofplace,andthesoundofittickingseemstogetlouderinmyears.
“Adam,I’mserious.Don’tyouthinkthisisallabitweird?”
“Yesandno.Theyprobablyjustgottheideafromthesameplaceasyou.Didn’tyoubuyeverythinginourbedroomfromonecompanybecauseyougotafiftypercentdiscountinthesale?Youfellinlovewithapictureofabedroomintheirbrochure,andliterallyboughtitall.Idefinitelyrememberthecreditcardbill.Maybewhoeverownsthisplacedidthesame?”
Whathe’ssayingistrue.Ididfallinlovewithapictureofabedroominabrochure,andIdidbuyalmosteverythinginit,despitetheridiculouspricetags.Isupposeitisn’tbeyondtherealmofpossibilitythatwhoeverrenovatedthechapelhassimilartaste.Theplacehasbeenbeautifullydecorated,despiteeverysurfacebeingcoveredindust.Whichmakesmenoticethat—unliketherestoftheproperty—thebedroomisspotless.Icanevensmellfurniturepolish.
“It’sclean,”Isay.
“Surelythat’sagoodthing?”
“Alltheotherroomsweredustyand—”
“Maybeweshouldreplaceourtablelampswiththeseathome?”Adamsays,interruptingmeandlightingoneoftheold-fashionedcandlestickholdersbythebed.Hehadaboxofmatchesinhispocket,likeheknewtheywouldbehere.Astheystarttoflickerandcastshadowsaroundtheroom,Ican’thelpthinkingthattheylookborrowedfromthesetofAChristmasCarol.“They’vestillgotthepricestucktothebottom.Theylooksoold,buttheymustbenew,”hesays,liftingone.
“Itallfeelsso…unauthentic,asifwe’reinafilmofourlives,andsomeonejustdressedthesetwithcheapreplicasoftheoriginals.”
“Ithinkthey’recool.”
“Ithinkthey’reafirehazard.”
Iopenanotherdoorandfindabathroomthatlooksnothinglikeoursathome.Everythingisgenuinelyold,andtherearemarksonthewallandfloorwhereI’mguessingaclaw-footbathusedtobe.Itwasthesameintherestroomdownstairs—nobath,justanemptyspacewhereoneclearlyoncestood.Thereismildewonthewalltilesandsink.WhenIturnonthetaps,thereisastrangesoundbutnothinghappens.
“Isuspectthepipesmightbefrozen,”Adamsaysfromthebedroom.
“Great.Iwashopingtotakeahotshower,”Ireply,comingouttojoinhim.Theroomisnowonlylitwithcandlelight,anditdoesfeelcozier.Inoticethathe’sopenedthewineandpouredtwoglasses.Iwanttoenjoyitthistime,sogotopulltheblinds,stillalittlecreepedoutthatsomeonemighthavebeenoutsidewatchingusearlier.Thereisanoldradiatorbelowthewindow,butit’sfreezingcoldwhichexplainswhyIam.
“ThereareotherwaysIcanthinkoftokeepwarm,”Adamsays,wrappinghisarmsaroundmywaistandkissingmyneck.
It’sbeenawhilesinceIhavesleptwithmyhusband.
Itwasdifferentwhenwefirstgottogether—wecouldn’tkeepourhandsoffeachotherbackthen—butI’msurethat’sthecaseforalotofcouples.Itsoundsdafthavingbeenmarriedforsolong,butthethoughtoftakingmyclothesofffillsmewithdread.Mybodydoesn’tlooklikeitusedto.
“I’mjustgoingtofreshenup,”Isay,takingsomethingfromtheovernightbagbeforeretreatingtothebathroom.“Checkunderthebedforghostswhileyouwait.”
“Thenwhat?”
“Waitlonger.”
Withthedoorclosedbetweenus,Istarttofeelcalmeragain.Moreincontrol.IpretendnottoknowwhyIamsonervousaboutbeingintimatewithmyownhusband,butit’soneofthoselittlewhiteliesItellmyself.Justlikewealldo.Istandbarefootonthecoldtiledfloorintheunfamiliarbathroom,andstareatthewomaninthemirror,thenIlookawayasIremovetherestofmyclothes.ThenewblacksilkandlacenightdressIboughtjustforthistripdoesn’tturnmeintosomeoneelse,butitmighthelpturnhimon.IsitwrongtowanttobedesiredbythemanImarried?
Iopenthebathroomdoor,attemptingtolooksexyasIstepoutfrombehindit,butIneedn’thavebothered.Thebedroomisempty.Adamisgone.
ADAM
Doesn’taKEEPOUTsignmakeeveryonewanttoseewhat’sbehindit?AndI’vealwaysbeenratherattractedtodanger.
IknowAmeliawilltakeforeverto“freshenup”inthebathroomandI’mboredwaiting.SoItakeasipofwine,thenstepbackoutontothelandingtoseeifBobwantstokeepmecompany.Buthe’salreadysoundasleep.Andsnoring.
That’swhentheDANGERKEEPOUTsigncatchesmyeyeandIjustcan’tresisttryingthedoorhandleitishangingon.Surelynothingthatdangerouscouldreallybelurkingbehindit.Alltheotherdoorsupherewerelocked,butwhenIturntheknob,thisoneopens.Idon’tknowwhatIwasexpecting,butIsupposeI’dhopedforsomethingmoreexcitingthananarrowwoodenstaircaseleadingupward.Icanseeanotherdooratthetopofit.Bobhasopenedoneeyeandgrumblesinmydirection.Butcuriositykilledthecat,notthedogortheman,andnowIreallywanttoknowwhat’satthetopofthestairs.
There’snolight,soIgraboneofthecandlesfromthebedroom,thenmakemywayup.Onecreakystepatatime.Ifeelsomethingtouchmyfaceinthegloom,andimaginetinyfingers,butit’sjustcobwebs.Iguessnobodyhascleanedthispartofthehouseforalongtimeeither.I’manticipatingthatthedooratthetopoftheforbiddenstairswillbelocked.Butitisn’t.AssoonasIopenit,ahugegustofwindblowsoutthecandleandalmostknocksmeoffmyfeet.
Thebelltower.
TheArcticairoutsidefeelslikeaslapintheface,buttheviewfromthetopofthechapelisspectacular.IfeellikeIcanseethewholeworldfromuphere—thevalley,theloch,themountainsinthedistance,alllitbyafatfullmoon.Thesnowhasstopped,finally,andthecloudshavepartedtorevealablackskydecoratedwithstars.Thebell—whichisconsiderablybiggerthanitlooksfromtheground—issurroundedbyfourknee-highwhitewalls.Thereisnosafetyrailandbarelyenoughroomtosidesteparoundthemainattraction,butit’sworththerisktotakeinthethree-sixty-degreeviewfromeverypossibleangle.
AsIlookupatthenightsky,itseemsalmostinconceivabletomethatsomethingsomagicalisalwaysthere.We’realltoobusylookingdowntoremembertolookupatthestars.ItmakesmesadwhenIthinkaboutallthethingsImighthavealreadymissedoutoninlife,butIplantochangethat.
Itakemyphoneoutofmypockettotakeapicture—thephonemywifethinksisstillathomeinLondon.IfeltsickwhenIsawhertakingitoutofthecarglovecompartmentbeforewelefthome,thenhidingitinthehouse.Ifeltevenworsewhensheliedaboutwhereitwas,blamingmeforleavingitbehind.She’sbeenbehavingstrangelyformonthsandnowIknowIhaven’tbeenimaginingit.
Ameliawenttoseeafinancialadvisorrecently.Shedidn’ttellmeaboutituntilaftertheevent.SaidthatIspenttoomuchtimeworryingaboutthepast,andthatshewantedtobetterprepareforthefuture.Ididn’trealizeatfirstthatshemeanthers,notours.WhatotherexplanationisthereforhersettinguplifeinsuranceinmynameandaskingmetosignitwhenshethoughtIwasdrunkacoupleofweeksago?
“Ijustthinkwe’reatanagewhereweneedtoplanahead,”shesaid,afterelevenonaschoolnightwithapeninherhand.
“I’monlyforty.”
“Andwhatifsomethinghappenedtoyou?”shepersisted.“Icouldn’taffordtopayforabighouseinHampsteadVillagebymyselfonmysalary.BobandIwouldbehomeless.”Thedog—onhearinghisname—lookedatmethen,asifhewasinonit.
“Youwouldn’tbehomeless.Worst-casescenario,youmighthavetodownsize…”
Sheshookherheadandheldthepentowardme.Isignedthepaperwork,becauseIwastootiredtoargueandbecausemywifeisoneofthosewomenwhoisdifficulttosaynoto.
Maybeit’sbecauseherparentsdiedwhenshewasborn,orperhapsit’sbecauseofallthesadthingssheseesatworkalmosteveryday,butAmeliathinksaboutdeathmorethanIthinkisnormal.Orhealthy.Especiallynowthatsheseemssopreoccupiedwithmine.
Mywifeisplanningsomething,I’msureofit.Ijustdon’tknowwhat.
AndI’mnothavingamidlifecrisis.
That’swhatshekeepsaccusingmeoflately.
Isuspecteveryonereachesanagewheretheystarttoquestionwhatthey’veachievedinlife.Whetherthechoicesthey’vemadeweretherightones.ButIalsobelievethatwhatIdo—tellingstories—isimportant.Storiesteachusaboutourpast,enrichourpresent,andcanpredictourfuture.ButthenIwouldsaythat.ThewordsIhavewrittenareallthatwillremainofmewhenI’mgone.
Actorsanddirectorsgetallthegloryinmybusiness,andmostofmycareerhasbeenspentadaptingotherpeople’snovels,butthosearemywordsthatyouhearwhenyouwatchaTVshoworfilmthatIworkedon.Mine.Ididn’tevenreadthebookIwasaskedtoadaptlastyear.Idecidedthat—onewayoranother—thestorythatgotmadewasgoingtobelongtome.TheproducerontheshowsaidshelovedmyversionmorethanthenovelandIwasecstatic.Briefly.Thensheaskedforchangesbecausethat’swhatthesepeopledo.SoImadethemandgaveinthenextdraft.Thenthedirectoraskedforchanges,becausethat’swhattheydo.Fast-forwardafewmonthsandevenoneoftheactorsaskedforchanges,becauseofcoursetheyknowthecharactersbetterthanIdo,eventhoughtheycamefrommyhead.SoeventhoughIswearmythirdorfourthdraftwasmuchbetterthantheirfinalversion,ImadethechangesbecauseifIhadn’t,Iwouldhavebeenfired,andsomeothershmuckwouldhavereplacedme.Becausethat’showthisbusinessworks.
Mylifefeelsthesameasmywork,withpeoplealwayswantingtochangeme.Itstartedwithmymother.Whenmydadleft,sheworkeddoubleshiftsatthehospitaltoraisemeandkeeparoofoverourheads.WelivedonthethirteenthfloorofablockofflatsonaSouthLondoncouncilestate.Wedidn’thavemuch,butwealwayshadenough.SheusedtotellmeoffforwatchingtoomuchTVwhenshewasworking—saidmyeyeswouldturnsquare—buttherewasn’tmuchelsetodothatdidn’tinvolvegettingintotrouble.Shepreferredtoseemereading,soIdid,andformythirteenthbirthdayshegavemethirteenbooks.TheywereallspecialeditionsbyauthorsIlovedasaboy,andIstillhavethemnow,onalittleshelfintheshedwhereIwrite.ShewroteanoteinafirsteditionofmyfavoriteStephenKingnovel:Enjoythestoriesofotherpeople’slives,butdon’tforgettoliveyourown.
Shediedthreemonthslater.
IleftschoolwhenIwassixteenbecauseIhadto,butIwasalwaysdeterminedtomakeherproud.EverythingI’vedonesincethenwasabouttryingtobecomesomeoneshewouldn’twanttochange.
Ihadastringofgirlfriendswhotriedtochangemetoo,butcouldn’t,untilImetmywife.Forthefirsttimeinmylife,Ifoundsomeonewholovedmeforbeingme,anddidn’twanttochangewhothatwas.Icouldfinallybemyselfandwritemyownstory,withoutfearofbeingabandonedorreplaced.Maybethat’swhyIlovedhersomuch,inthebeginning.Butmarriagechangespeoplewhethertheylikeitornot.Youcan’tunbreakaneggwhenyou’vealreadywhiskeditintoanomelette.
Itrytoshakethenegativethoughtsfrommymindandconcentrateontheview.Beingthishighupremindsmeoflivingonthethirteenthfloorasakid.AtnightwhenIcouldn’tsleep—theflathadthinwalls—Iwouldopenmybedroomwindowasfarasitwouldgoandstareupatthenightsky.ThethingIremembermostweretheplanes—I’dneverbeenonone.Iusedtocountthem,andimagineallthosepeoplecleverenough,luckyenough,andrichenoughtobeflyingawaysomewheredifferenttome.Ifelttrapped,eventhen.UnliketheviewfromablockofflatsinLondon,therearenobuildingsinanydirectionhere,nosignoflifeatall,andeverythingiscoveredinsnow,bathedinmoonlight.Wearetrulyalonehere,whichwaswhatAmeliawanted.
Peopleshouldbemorecarefulwhattheywishfor.
Thereisasideofmywifethatnobodyelsesees,becausesheissogoodathidingit.JustbecauseAmeliaworksforananimalcharity,itdoesn’tmakeherasaint.Itdoesn’tmeanshe’sneverdoneanythingbad,quitetheopposite.Thereareforestslessshadythanmywife.Shemightbeabletofooleveryoneelse,butIknowwhoshereallyisandwhatsheiscapableof.That’swhyIamemotionallybankruptthesedays—anyloveIhadleftforherisspent.
I’mnotpretendingtobeblamelessinallthis.
IneverthoughtIwasthekindofmanwhowouldcheatonhiswife.
ButIdid.Andsomehow,shefoundout.
Isupposethatmakesmesoundlikethebadguy,butthere’salsoabadgirlinthisstory.Twowrongssometimesmakeanugly.AndIwasn’ttheonlyonewhosleptwithsomeonetheyshouldn’thave.SodidSaintAmelia.
AMELIA
“Adam?”
Istandonthelanding,holdingacandle,andcallinghisname.Buthedoesn’tanswer.
Bobstaresupatme,annoyedthatIhavedisturbedhissleep,thenhelooksatthedoorwiththeDANGERKEEPOUTsignandsighs.SometimesIthinkourdogisclevererthanweknow.ButthenIrememberallthetimesIhaveseenhimrunningincircleschasinghisowntail,andrealizehe’sjustasbemusedbylifeastherestofus.
I’veneverbeengreatatstickingtorules,soIignorethesignandopenthedoor.Itrevealsanarrowwoodenstaircase,leadingtoanotherdooratthetop.Itakeafewsteps,thenalmostdropthecandlewhenIwalkintoaspider’sweb.Idesperatelytrytobrushitawayfrommyface,butitstillfeelsasthoughsomethingiscrawlingacrossmyskininthedark.
“Adam?Areyouupthere?”
“Yes,theviewisamazing.Bringthewine,andacoupleofblankets,”hesays,andtherushofreliefIfeelsurprisesme.
Fiveminuteslater,wearehuddledtogetherinthebelltowerofthechapel,andhe’sright,theviewreallyisquitemagical.Thereisn’talotofroom,andI’mcold—evenwiththeblanketwrappedaroundmyshoulders—butthewineishelping,andwhenAdamseesmeshiver,heputshisarmsaroundme.
“Ican’trememberthelasttimeIsawafullmoon,”hewhispers.
“Orsomanystars,”Ireply.“Theskyissoclear.”
“Nolightpollution.Canyouseethatbrighteststar,justtotheleftofthemoon?”heasks,pointingupatthesky.Inod,andwatchashemoveshisfingerasthoughwritingtheletterW.“ThesefivestarsformtheconstellationCassiopeia.”Adamisfullofrandomknowledge,sometimesIthinkit’sthereasonwhythereisnoroomleftinsidehisheadtothinkaboutus,orme.
“WhichoneisCassiopeiaagain?”
“CassiopeiawasaqueeninGreekmythologywhosevanityandarroganceledtoherdownfall.”MyhusbandknowsmorethanIdoaboutagreatmanythings.He’swellreadandabitofapeacockwhenitcomestogeneralknowledge.ButiftherewereanIQtestforemotionalintelligence,I’dhaveahigherscoreeverytime.Thereisanedgetohistoneashetalksaboutthestars,andIdon’tthinkIamimaginingit.
Iwashavingabitofaclearoutrecently,sortingthroughsomeoldthings,andIfoundaprettyboxofweddingkeepsakes.Itwaslikeamarriagetimecapsule.OnethatIhadcarefullycurated,thenhiddenawayformyfutureselftofind.ThereweresomecardsfromfriendsandcolleaguesattheDogsHome,littleLEGOcaketoppersofabrideandgroom,andaluckysixpence.Adam’ssuperstitionsinsistedIneededthatonourbig—rathersmall—day,andweagreedthathismother’ssapphireringwasbothmysomethingborrowedandsomethingblue.Atthebottomofthebox,Ifoundanenvelopecontainingourhandwrittenvows.Allthosepromise-shapedgoodintentionsmademecry.Itremindedmeoftheusweusedtobe,andwhoIthoughtwe’dbeforever.Butpromiseslosetheirvaluewhenbrokenorchipped,likedusty,forgottenantiques.Thesadtruthaboutourpresentalwayspunctuatesmyhappymemoriesofourpastwithfullstops.
Iwonderifallmarriagesendthesamewayeventually.Maybeitisonlyeveramatteroftimebeforelifemakestheloveunravel.ButthenIthinkaboutthoseoldmarriedcouplesyouseeonthenewseveryValentine’sDay,theoneswhohavebeentogetherforsixtyyearsandarestillverymuchinlove,grinningfalseteethsmilesforthecamerasliketeenagesweethearts.Iwonderwhattheirsecretisandwhynobodyevershareditwithus?
Myownteethstarttochatter.“Maybeweshouldheadbackinside?”
“Whateveryouwant,mylove.”Adamonlycallsme“mylove”whenheisdrunkandIrealizethatmostofthebottleisempty,eventhoughI’veonlyhadoneglassofwine.
Itrytoturnbacktowardthedoor,butheholdsontome.Theviewshiftsfromsomethingspectacularintosomethingsinister;ifeitherofusweretofallfromthebelltower,we’dbedead.Idon’thaveafearofheights,butIdohaveafearofdying,soIpullaway.AsIdo,Ibumpintothebell.Nothardenoughtomakeitring,justtosway,andassoonasitdoes,Ihearbizarreclickingsounds,followedbyacacophonyofhigh-pitchedscreeching.Ittakesmymindamomenttoprocesswhatitisseeingandhearing.
Bats,lotsofthem,flyoutofthebellandintoourfaces.Adamstaggersbackward,dangerouslyclosetothelowwall,flinginghisarmsinfrontofhisfaceandtryingtoswatthemaway.Hestumblesandeverythingseemstoswitchtoslowmotion.Hismouthisopenandhiseyesarewideandwild.He’sfallingbackwardandreachingformeatthesametime,butIseemtobefrozentothespot,paralyzedwithfearasthebatscontinuetoflyaroundourheads.It’sasifwearetrappedinsideourownbespokehorrorfilm.Adamfallshardagainstthewall,andcriesoutaspartofitcrumblesandfallsaway.Isnapoutofmytrance,grabhisarm,andyankhimbackfromtheedge.Secondslaterthereisaloudbangastheancientbrickscrashdownontothegroundbelow.Thesoundseemstoechoaroundthevalleyasthebatsflyoffinthedistance.
Isavedhim,buthedoesn’tthankmeordisplayanyhintofgratitude.Myhusband’sexpressionisoneI’veneverseenhisfacewearbefore,anditmakesmefeelafraid.
ADAM
Shealmostletmefall.
IknowAmeliawasscaredtoo,butshealmostletmefall.Thatisn’tsomethingIcanjustforget.Orforgive.
We’releaving.Idon’tcarehowlateitis,orthatthere’ssnowontheroad.Idon’trememberusevendiscussingit.I’mjustgladthatwearegettingoutofthisplace.EventhoughIdon’twanttoadmitit—tomyselforanyoneelse—Iamtrapped.Inthiscar,inthismarriage,inthislife.Tenyearsago,IthoughtIcoulddoanything,beanyone.Theworldseemedfullofendlesspossibilities,butnowit’snothingbutaseriesofdeadends.SometimesIjustwantto…startagain.
Theroadaheadisdark,therearenostreetlights,andIknowwedon’thavemuchpetrolleft.Ameliaisn’ttalkingtome—hasn’tspokenformorethananhour—butthesilenceisarelief.Nowthatwe’vegivenupontheweekendaway,theonlythingI’mstillworriedaboutistheweather.Thesnowhasstopped,butthereisheavyrainbouncingoffthebonnet,performinganunpleasantpercussion.Weshouldslowdown,butIthinkbetterofsayingso—nobodylikesapassenger-seatdriver.It’seeriehowwehaven’tseenasingleothercarorbuildingsinceweleft.Iknowit’sthemiddleofthenight,buteventheroadsseemstrange.Theviewrarelychangesasthoughwe’restuckinaloop.Thestarshavealldisappearedandtheskyseemsadarkershadeofblack.InoticethatI’mcolderthanbeforetoo.
IturntolookatAmeliaandsheisanunrecognizableblur,thefeaturesonherfaceswirlinglikeanangrysea.ItfeelslikeIamsittingnexttoastranger,notmywife.Thestenchofregretdiffusesthroughthecarlikeacheapairfreshener,andit’simpossiblenottoknowhowunhappywebothare.Whenitcomestomarriage,youcan’talwaysmake-doandmend.Itrytospeak,butthewordsgetstuckinmythroat.I’mnotevensurewhatIwasgoingtosay.
ThenIspottheshapeofawomanwalkingontheroadinthedistance.
She’sdressedinred.
Ithinkit’sacoatatfirst,butaswegetnearer,Icanseethatsheiswearingaredkimono.
Therainisfallingharder,bouncingoffthetarmac,andthewomanissoakedtotheskin.Sheshouldn’tbeoutside.Sheshouldn’tbeintheroad.She’sholdingsomethingbutIcan’tseewhat.
“Slowdown,”Isay,butAmeliadoesn’thearme,ifanythingsheseemstospeedup.
“Slowdown!”Isayagain,louderthistime,butsheputsherfootontheaccelerator.
Ilookatthespeedometerasitrisesfromseventymilesanhour,toeighty,thenninety,beforethedialspinscompletelyoutofcontrol.Iholdmyhandsinfrontofmyface,asthoughtryingtoprotectmyselffromthesceneahead,andseethatmyfingersarecoveredinblood.Thepitter-patterofbullet-sizedraindropsonthecarisdeafening,andwhenIlookup,Iseethattherainhasturnedred.
Thewomanisalmostrightinfrontofusnow.
Sheseesourheadlights,shieldshereyes,butdoesn’tmoveoutoftheway.
Iscreamasshehitsthebonnet.Thenwatchinhorrorasherbodybouncesoffthecrackedwindscreenandsoarsintotheair.Herredsilkkimonobillowsoutbehindherlikeabrokencape.
AMELIA
“Wakeup!”
Isayitthreetimes,gentlyshakinghim,beforeAdamopenshiseyes.
Hestaresatme.“Thewoman,she—”
“Whatwoman?”
“Thewomaninthered—”
Thisagain.Ishouldhaveknown.
“Thewomanintheredkimono?Sheisn’treal,Adam.Remember?Itwasjustadream.”
Helooksatmethewayayoungchildlooksataparentwhentheyarescared.Allthecolorhasdrainedfromhisfaceandit’scoveredinsweat.
“You’reokay,”Isay,takinghisclammyhandinmine.“Thereisnowomaninaredkimono.You’reherewithme.You’resafe.”
Liescanhealaswellashurt.
Hebarelyspoketomewhenwecamedownfromthebelltowerearlier.Idon’tknowwhetheritwastheshockofalmostfallingwiththecrumblingwall,orthebats,ortoomuchredwine,buthegotundressed,climbedintotheunfamiliarbed—thatlooksjustlikeourownathome—andwentstraighttosleepwithoutaword.
It’sbeenawhilesinceAdamhadoneofhisnightmares,buttheyhappenoftenenoughandarealwaysthesame,exceptthatheseestheaccidentfromadifferentpointofview.Sometimesinthedreamsheisinthecar,inothersheiswalkingalongthestreet,ortherearethedreamswhereheiswatchingthescenefromthewindowofacouncilflatonthethirteenthfloorofatowerblock,banginghisfistsontheglass.Heneverrecognizesmestraightawayafterward—whichisnormalforusgivenhisfaceblindness—butsometimeshethinksIamsomeoneelse.ItalwaystakesseveralminutestocalmhimdownandconvincehimthatI’mnot.Hisdreamshaveahabitofhauntinghim,regardlessofwhetherheisasleeporawake.Hismindisn’tpanningforgold;it’ssearchingforsomethingmuchdarker.Tinynuggetsofburiedregretssometimesslipthroughthegaps,buttheheaviestofmemoriestendtosinkratherthanrisetothesurface.
IwishIknewhowtomakethemstop.
Iconsiderstrokingthefrecklesonhisshoulder,orrunningmyfingersthroughhissalt-and-pepperhairlikeIusedto.ButIdon’t.BecauseIcanhearbells.
Afterplayingacreepytune,thegrandfatherclockinthecornerofthebedroomstartstochimemidnightlikeanapprenticeBigBen.Ifweweren’tfullyawakealready,webotharenow.
“I’msorryIwokeyou,”hesays,hisbreathingstillfasterthanitshouldbe
“It’sokay.Ifyouhadn’t,theclockalmostcertainlywouldhave,”Itellhim.ThenIdowhatIalwaysdo:takeoutmypadandapencil,andwriteitalldownassoonaspossibleafterward.Becauseitisn’tjustadream—oranightmare—it’samemory.
Heshakeshishead.“Wedon’thavetodothistonight—”
Itakeasilentregisterofhisemotions,tickingoffthefamiliarpatternonebyone:fear,regret,sorrow,andguilt.Itisthesameeverytime.
“Yes,wedo,”Isay,havingalreadyfoundoneofthefewblankpagesleftinthenotebook.IalwaysthoughtIcouldexcavatehisunhappymemoriesandreplacethemwithbetterones.Ofus.ThesedaysI’mnotsosure.
Adamsighs,leansbackonthebed,andtellsmeeverythingthathecanrememberbeforetheedgesofthedreamfadetoomuchtosee.
Thenightmaresalwaysbeginthesameway:withthewomanintheredkimono.
Despitetheattire,sheisnotJapanese.Adamfindsithardtodescribeherface—hestruggleswithfeaturesindreamsthesamewayhedoesinreallife—butweknowthatsheisaBritishwomaninherearlyforties,aroundthesameageIamnow.She’sattractive.Healwaysremembersherredlipstick,intheexactsameshadeasherkimono.Shehaslongblondhairlikemetoo,buthersisshorter,shoulderlength.
Hedoesn’tsayhernametonight,butwebothknowwhatitis.
Theorderofwhathappensinthedreamsometimeschanges,butthewomaninredisalwaysthere.Soisthecarintherain.It’sthereasonwhyAdamdoesn’townoneanddoesn’tdrive.Heneverevenwantedtolearnhow.
Thereisateenageboyinthenightmarestooandhe’sterrified.
Adamsawithappen:thewoman,thecar,theaccident.
Notjustinadream,inreallife.
Itwasthenighthismotherdied.Hewasthirteen.
Adamcouldn’trecognizethepersoninthecaralmostthirtyyearsago,whenitmountedthepavementandcollidedwithhismumashewatched.Butthatdoesn’tmeanhedidn’tknowwhotheywere.Itcouldhavebeenafriend,ateacher,aneighbor—allfaceslookthesametohim.Imaginenotknowingifsomeoneyouknewwasresponsibleforkillingsomeoneyouloved.Nowonderhestrugglestotrustpeople,evenme.Ifmyhusbanddidn’tsufferfromprosopagnosia,hiswholelifemighthaveunfoldeddifferently,buthewasn’tabletodescribewhohehadseentothepolice.Notthen,notnow.Andhestillblameshimself.Hismotherwaswalkinghisdogwhenithappened,becausehewastoolazytodoit.
Itmakesmefeelsadhowheidolizesaghost.
Byallaccounts,Adam’smotherwasaniceenoughwoman—shewasanurseandverypopularontheestatewheretheylived—butshewasn’tperfect.Andshedefinitelywasn’tasaint.Ifinditstrangehowhecompareseveryotherwomaninhislifetoher.Includingme.Thepedestalheputhisdeadmotheronisn’tjustwonky,it’sbroken.Forexample,heseemstohaveconvenientlyforgottenwhyshewaswearingtheredkimono.It’swhatshealwayswore—alongwiththematchinglipstick—whenevermale“friends”cametovisitthelittlecouncilflatthattheylivedin.Theplacehadthinwalls,thinenoughforAdamtohearthathismotherhadadifferent“friend”stayinherbedalmosteveryweek.
Memoriesareshape-shiftersanddreamsarenotboundbytruth,whichiswhyIwriteeverythinghechoosestorememberdown.Iwanttofixhim.AndIwanthimtolovemeforit.Butnoteverythingthatgetsbrokencanberepaired.
Onedayhemightrememberthefacehesawthatnight,andtheunansweredquestionsthathavehauntedhimforyearsmightfinallygetanswered.I’vetriedsohardtomakethenightmaresstop:herbalremedies,mindfulnesspodcastsbeforebed,specialtea…butnothingseemstohelp.Wheneverythingiswrittendown,Iturnoffthelightsothatweareindarknessagain,andhopehe’llbeabletogetbacktosleep.
Itdoesn’ttakelong.
Adamissoongentlysnoring,butIcan’tseemtoswitchoff.
Iswallowasleepingpill—they’represcription,andIonlytakethemwhennothingelseworks—butI’vebeenpoppingmorethanusuallately.I’mtoopreoccupiedwiththegrowingnumberofcracksinourrelationship,theonesthataretoobigtofillinorskimover.Iknowexactlywhyandwhenourmarriagestartedtounravel.Lifeisunpredictableatbest,unforgivableatworst.
Imusthavedozedoffatsomepoint—thepillfinallykickingin—becauseIwakeupwithanunsettlingsenseofdéjàvu.IttakesafewsecondsformetorememberwhereIam—theroomispitch-black—butasIblinkintothedarknessandmyeyesadjusttothelight,IrememberthatweareinBlackwaterChapel.Asliverofmoonlightbetweenthewindowblindandthewallilluminatesatinycorneroftheroom,andIstraintoseethetimeonthefaceofthegrandfatherclock.Itsslendermetalhandsstillsuggestitisonlyhalfpastmidnight,whichmeansIhaven’tbeenasleepforverylong.Mymindfeelsfuzzy,butthenIrememberwhatwokemebecauseIhearitagain.
Thereisanoisedownstairs.
ROBIN
Robincan’tsleepeither.
She’sworriedaboutthevisitors.Theyshouldn’thavecomehere.
Whenshelooksoutfrombehindhercurtainandseesthatthechapelisincompletedarkness,sheknowswhatsheneedstodo.
Itlooksfartherawaythanitis.ButRobinthinksthedistancebetweenplacescansometimesbeasdifficulttoperceiveasthedistancebetweenpeople.Somecouplesseemcloserthantheyreallyare,whileothersappearfurtherapart.Whenshewatchedthemeatingtheirfrozendinnersontraysontheirlapsearlier,thevisitorsdidn’tlookespeciallyhappytogether.Orinlove.Butmarriagecandothattothebestofpeopleaswellastheworst.Orperhapsshewasjustimaginingit.
Thewalkacrossthefieldsfromhercottagetothechapelwouldnormallytakenomorethantenminutes.Evenlesswhenrunning,asshediscoveredearlier.Butnowthatsomuchsnowhasfallen,ittakeslongerthanitshouldtonavigateapathforherselfwithoutslippingover.Itdoesn’thelpthatherWellingtonbootsareseveralsizestoobig.They’resecondhand:shedoesn’thaveherown.ShewouldhavehadtodriveallthewaytoFortWilliamtobuyapair,therearenoshoeshopssellingfootwearnearBlackwaterLochoreveninHollowgrove.Shecouldhaveboughtsomeonlinebutthatwouldrequireacreditcardinsteadofcash,whichisallshehasnowadays.Robincutupallhercardsalongtimeago.Shedidn’twantanyonetohaveanywayoffindingher.
Sheenjoysthesoundofsnowbeingcompactedbeneathherfeet,it’stheonlynoisetodentthesilence,apartfromthedistantclickingofbats.Shelikestowatchthemswoopingoverthelochatnight,it’saratherbeautifulsighttosee.Robinreadrecentlythatbatsgivebirthtotheirbabieswhilehangingupsidedown.Thentheyhavetocatchtheirchildrenbeforetheyfalltoofar,butthatpartisthesameforallparents.Herpathtonightislitbythelightofafullmoon,withoutitthenightskywouldbeaseaofblack,asthecloudshavehiddenallbutthebrighteststarsagainnow.Butthat’sokay:Robinhasneverbeenafraidofthedark.
Sheisn’tbotheredbyasnowstormorhowlingwind,andshedoesn’tmindbeingcutofffromtherestoftheworldforafewdays—it’snotsodifferentfromhernormalroutineifshe’shonest.AndRobindoesalwaystrytobetruthful,especiallywithherself.Shehasgottenusedtolivingherenow,eventhoughsheonlyplannedtostayforashortwhilewhenshearrived.Lifemakesotherplanswhenpeopleforgettolive.Weeksturnedintomonths,andmonthsturnedintoyears,andwhenwhathappened,happened,sheknewshecouldn’tleave.
Thevisitorswon’tbeabletoleavewhentheywanttoeither,notthattheyknowthatyet.It’simpossiblenottofeelatinybitsorryforthem.
Robinreachestheirsnow-coveredcarandstopsforamoment.Sherecognizedthemanassoonashegotout,andthememoryofitwindsher.Shedidn’tknowifshe’deverseehimagain.Wasn’tevensureshewantedto.He’soldernow,butsherarelyforgetsaface,andcouldneverforgethis.Hermindwandersbackintime,andshethinksaboutwhathappenedwhenhewasaboy.Whathesawandwhathedidn’t.Thestoryisastragicnowasitwasthen,andRobinwondersifhestillhasthenightmaresaboutthewomaninred.Shethinksthetimehascomeforhimtobetoldthetruth,butheisn’tgoingtolikeit.Peoplerarelydo.
WhenRobinreachesthechapel’slargewoodendoors,shetakesonelastlookaround,butthereisnobodyheretoseewhatsheisabouttodo.Themoonlightthatwaskindenoughtolightherpathrevealsthelochandthemountainsinthedistance,andshecan’thelpbutnoticehowunspoiledandbeautifulthisplaceis.Peoplewhodouglythingsdonotbelonghereshethinks,asshelooksatthevisitors’MorrisMinorcoveredinsnow.It’sherfavoritekindofweather,becausethesnowcoverstheworldinabeautifulblanketofwhite,hidingeverythingthatisdarkanduglyunderneath.
Lifeislikeagamewherepawnscanbecomequeens,butnoteveryoneknowshowtoplay.Somepeoplestaypawnstheirwholelivesbecausetheyneverlearnedtomaketherightmoves.Thisisjustthebeginning.Nobodyhasplayedtheircardsyetbecausetheydidn’tknowtheywerebeingdealt.
Robintakesakeyfromhercoatpocketandquietlyletsherselfinsidethechapel.
LINEN
Wordoftheyear:hornswoggleverb.Togetthebetterofsomeonebycheatingordeception.29thFebruary2012—ourfourthanniversaryDearAdam,Ifeelasthoughwehavealwayssharedthesamedreams—andnightmares—butit’sbeenadifficultyear.Youletmedownshouldhavebeenbymyside,butyouweren’t.Isatinthewaitingroomaloneandafraid,despiteyoupromisingtobetherewithme.Afterthreeyearsoftrying,twoyearsofappointments,awholecastofdifferentdoctorsandnurses,seeminglyendlesstripstohospitalsandclinicsforthelasttwelvemonths,andonefailedroundofIVF,Ifeelbroken.ThiswasnothowIwantedtospendouranniversary.Ishouldhaveknowntodaywouldbeawful,itdidn’tstartwell.TwoyoungdogswererescuedlastnightfromaflatinSouthLondon.TheywerebroughttoBatterseaandIwasoneofthefirsttoseethem.Despiteallmyyearsinthisjob,evenIwasshocked.Thebeagleshadbeenleftaloneforalongtime.Theon-callvetguessedatleastaweek.Iftheyhadn’tdrunkwaterfromthetoilettheywouldhavebeendeadalready.Theiremaciatedbodiesmadethemlookliketoyswithallthestuffingpulledout.Wedideverythingwecouldtotryandsavethem,buttheydiedthismorning.Intheendtherewasnothingmorewecoulddoanditwaskindertoputthemdown.TheirownerwasonholidayinSpainandIwishwecouldhavegivenheralethalinjectioninstead.SometimesIdespisehumanbeings,somaybeitisjustaswellwe’veneverbeenabletomakeone.WeweresupposedtomeetatLondonBridgeatoneo’clockthisafternoon.I’vebeenhavingproblemssleepingrecently,I’mexhausted,butIwasstillthereandontime.Becausetheappointmentatthefertilityclinicwasimportanttome.Ithoughtitwasimportanttous,butyou’vebeenmoreselfishdistractedthaneverlately.Iwasworriedyoumightforget,soItextedtoremindyou.Fivetimes.Youdidn’treply.OnthisoccasionIreallydothinkyoushouldhaveputyourwifebeforeyourwriting.LondonBridgewasbusyandloud,andnotjustwithcommuters.MeninhardhatsseemedtobeeverywherewhenIsteppedoutsidethestation,andtherewasanimpressivecollectionofcranesblockingmyviewofthesky.TheShardisverymuchunderconstructionand,accordingtothepassersbythatIeavesdroppedon,itisgoingtobethetallestbuildinginEurope.I’msureitwillbeforawhile.Untilsomeonebuildssomethingtaller.I’mwillingtobetitwon’ttakelong,becausehumansarealwaystryingtooutdooneanotherEvenwhentheypretendtocare.IcalledyouwhenIreachedtheentranceoftheclinic.Yourphonerangtwicebeforebeingdivertedtovoicemail.Iknowwhoyouwerewith.Aproducerwhohasshownaninterestinyourfirst-everscreenplay:RockPaperScissors.It’sthemanuscriptIfoundinadrawerthatinspiredmetowritesecretlettersofmyown,toyou.Aflickerofattentionfromsomeoneinthebusinessaboutastoryyouhavewritten,opposedtoanadaptationofsomeoneelse’s,andyou’relikeadoginheat.Iwonderifallwritersareegomaniacswithlowself-esteem?Orisitjustyou?Yousaidthelunchmeetingwithherwouldn’ttakelong,butIguessgettingyourfirstbornintoproductionwasmoreimportantthanusmakingarealchildofourown.OurGPreferredustotheclinicinLondonBridge.Eventually.Everythingtodowithustryingforachildhasbeenabattlefromdayone.Ijustneverthoughtitwouldresultinusfightingwitheachother.I’vebecomefamiliarwiththesterile,soullessplaceoverthelastfewmonths.IfIweretoaddupallthehoursthatIsatinthatwaitingroom—oftenalone—IsuspectImusthavespentseveraldaysofmylifethere.WaitingforsomethingIalwaysknewmightneverhappen.Ittookmonthstogetanappointment,followedbyseveralmoremonthsofbeingprodded,poked,andinterviewedbycounselorswhointrudedintoourmostprivatesorrow.Lookingbacknow,Isometimeswonderhowwemanagedtosurvivethislong.WheneverIfeltmostalone,ItoldmyselfthatyoulovedmeandthatIlovedyou.Itbecameasilentmantrainsidemyhead,theretosteadymewheneveritfeltlikeImightfall.Butourmarriageisn’tassolidorstableasIthought.Iknowyoufoundtheappointmentsdifficult.I’msuresteppingintoaprivateroom,beingabletolockthedoor,choosesomeporntolookat,andjerkoffintoasamplepotmustbeverystressful.Sorry.Idon’twishtobelittleyourexperience,butIthinkmostright-mindedpeoplewouldagreethatyourcontributiontothisprocesswaslessdramatic,albeitstillpsychologicallyinvasive.I’vehadtospreadmylegs,sometimesforaroomfullofdoctorsandnurses,andletthemputmetalinstrumentsinmybody.Thesamestrangershaveseenmenaked,scannedme,feltme,touchedme,someofthemevenputtheirhandsinsideme.I’vebeentested,repeatedlystuckwithneedles,pumpedfullofdrugs,puttosleep,andoperatedon.I’vehadmyeggsharvested,pissedbloodfordaysafterward,andcouldn’tstand,letalonewalkduetocripplingpainafterabungledoperation.Butwegotthroughit,together.Yousaideverythingwouldbeokay.Youpromised,andIbelievedyou.Afterall,otherpeoplehavechildren.Peopleweknow,peoplewedon’t.Theymakeitlooksoeasy.Someofthemevengetpregnantbyaccident,theydon’tevenhavetotry.Someofthemkillthechildrengrowinginsidethem,becausetheydidn’twanttheminthefirstplace.Somepeopleweknowdidn’twanttohavechildren,buthadthemanyway.Becausetheycould.Becauseeveryoneelsedoes.Everyoneexceptus.That’showitfeels:asthoughwearetheonlycoupleinhistorythatthishashappenedto.Sometimesit’sevenworsethanthat:itfeelsasifIamaloneintheworld,andthatyouaretheonewhoabandonedme.Iwantedababysobadlythatitphysicallyhurt.Thentoday,atourfirstappointmentafteroursecond—andpossiblyfinal—roundofIVF,youweren’tthere.Youweren’ttherewhenthereceptionistcalledusandIhadtogointothatroomalone.OrwhenthemanwenicknamedDoctorDoomsatdownbehindhisdesk,andgesturedtothetwoemptychairsoppositehim.Orwhilewewaitedforyouinawkwardsilence,andhecheckedhisfoldertoremindhimselfofournames.Theclinicneverreallytreateduslikehumanbeings,morelikelonelywalkingcheckbooks.Worstofall,youweren’ttheretohearthenewswehadbeenwaitingfor.Aftereverythingwehavebeenthrough,thedoctorfinallysaidthatIwaspregnant.Ididn’tbelievehimatfirst.Imadehimrepeatit.Thenmadehimcheckthefile,convincedhewasreadingtheresultsfromsomeoneelse’snotes.Butitwastrue.DoctorDoomevengotmetolieonthebedandscannedmytummy.Hepointedoutatinyspeckonthescreenandsaiditwasourembryo.Thecontentsofyoursamplepotandmyegg,growntogetherinalab,hadbeensuccessfullyimplantedinmywomb,anditwasthereonthescreen.Aliveandgrowinginsideme.Youmissedit.YouarrivedinthereceptionoftheclinicjustasIwasleaving,andwhenyoustartedtryingtoexplain,Itoldyounottobother.I’msickofhearingyoutalkaboutyourworkasifit’stheonlythingthatmatters.Youmakeshitupforalivingandyouragentsellsit.Ithinkit’sabouttimeyouallgotoveryourselves.Theproducers,directors,actors,andauthorsyoutellmestoriesaboutsoundlikeaclassofspoiledchildren,andIdon’tunderstandwhyyouindulgethem,ortheirtempertantrums.You’vebeentrulyhornswoggledbyatleastoneofthem,evenifyouaretooblindtoseeit.I’msorry.Ihopeyouneverfindthisletterandintheunlikelyeventthatyoudo,Ididn’tmeanwhatIsaid.I’mjusthurtingtoomuchrightnow;andthathurtneedssomewheretogo.Itbreaksmyheartsometimes,thewayyougivethesepeopleallofyourtimeandsavenoneofyourselfforme.I’myourwife.Mystoriesarereal.Doesthatmakethemnotworthlisteningto?Iwantedtogetthetube,butyouinsistedwetakeacab.Irefusedtospeaktoyouforthefirsthalfofthejourney.I’msorryforthatnowtoo,butI’veneverbeenonetowashmydirtylineninpublic.IdowishI’dtoldyousooner,though.Wecouldhavebeenhappierforlongerthanwewere.Ididn’ttellyouuntilwegothome.I’dalreadylaidthekitchentablewithalinencloth—ananniversaryshouldalwaysbecelebrated—butmyfacegavethenewsawaywhenItookabottleofchampagnefromthenewSmegfridge.Renovatingthehousehashelpedkeepmebusyandtakemymindoffotherthings.Thegroundfloorisfinallyfinished,andI’mproudthatIdidmostoftheworkmyself:sandingfloors,plasteringwalls,makingromanblinds—it’samazingwhatyoucanlearnjustbywatchingafewvideosonYouTube.YoucriedwhenItoldyouIwaspregnant.IcriedwhenIshowedyouthescan.Havingdreamedofthatmomentforsolong,thatblack-and-whiteimagewastheonlythingthatmadeanyofitfeelreal.Becauseyouweren’ttheretohearit,IkeptworryingthatImighthaveimaginedwhatthedoctorsaid.“Ihopeit’sagirl,”Iwhispered.“Why?Ihopeit’saboy.Let’srockpaperscissorsforit.”Ilaughed.“Youwanttoplayrockpaperscissorstodeterminethesexofourunbornchild?”“Isthereamorescientificway?”youreplied,withaseriousface.Myscissorscutyourpaper,justlikealways.“Youletmewin!”Isaid.“Yes,becauseIdon’treallymindwhetherit’saboyoragirl.I’lllovethemeitherway,butI’llalwaysloveyoumore.”Youopenedthechampagne—Ionlyhadasmallglass—andweorderedapizza.“Ididn’tforgetouranniversary,bytheway,”yousaid,gorgingonyourthirdsliceofPepperoniPassionanhourlater.“Isthatso?”Iasked,sippinglemonadefromachampagneflute.“Istruggledwiththelinentheme,andthismorningIwasworriedI’dboughtthewrongthing—”“Sogiveittomenow.Thenyou’llknow.”YoureachedinsidetheleathersatchelIhadgivenyoutheyearbefore,andhandedmeasquareparcel.Itwassoft.I’mnormallysocarefulwhenIunwrapthings,butIwasawarethepizzawasgettingcoldsotoreatthepaper.Therewasalinencushioninside.Ithadmynamestitchedonitalongwiththefollowingwordsbeneath:SHEBELIEVEDSHECOULD,SOSHEDID.Itriednotto,butIcriedagain.Happytears.Itfeltasifyou’dalreadyknownIwaspregnant.Youbelievedinme,evenwhenIwasn’tabletobelieveinmyself.Iwasabouttothankyou,whenIlookedupandnoticedthestrangeexpressiononyourface.YouwerestaringdownatmylegsandwhenIfollowedyourgazeIcouldseewhy.Athicktrickleofbrightredbloodhadmadeitswayrightdowntomyslippers.WhenIstoodupinpanic,therewasmore.Accordingtothefirstdoctorwesawintheemergencyroom,Iwasn’tpregnantlongenoughtocallitamiscarriage.Thegynecologistwhoexaminedmenextwasalittlemoresympathetic,butnotmuch.Lookingbacknow,IwishI’dnevertoldyouatall—youwouldn’tbeabletogrieveforsomethingyouneverknewyouhad.AndI’msorryandbrokenenoughforbothofus.Iwentstraighttoourbedroomwhenwegothome,evenletBobstretchoutontheendofthebed.Itriedcryingmyselftosleep,butitdidn’twork,nothingdoes.ImighttalktotheGPaboutgettingsomesleepingpills.Inoticedthatmywatchhadstoppedatthreeminutespasteight,andIwonderedifthatwastheexacttimeourbabydied.ItookthewatchoffmywristandIdon’twanttoseeit,orwearit,everagain.I’llalwaysrememberwhatyousaidwhenyoucameupstairsandheldme:“Iloveyou.Alwayshave,alwayswill.”“Notalmostalways?”Iasked,tryingtomakeyousmile,eventhoughIwasbroken.Butyoudidn’t.Smile.Instead,youlookedmoreseriousthanIhaveeverseenyou.“Alwaysalways.I’msosorrythatwecan’tseemtohavechildren,becauseIknowhowmuchitmeanstoyou,andwhatawonderfulmotheryouwouldbe.Butitdoesn’tchangeathingforme.I’mwithyouforlife,nomatterwhat,becausethisisourfamily:you,me,andBob.Wedon’tneedanyoneoranythingelse.Nothingwilleverchangethat.”Butwordscan’tfixeverything,nomatterhowfondyouareofthem.Hourslater,whenyouweresleepingbutIstillcouldn’t,IthoughtImayaswellgetupandcomedownstairs.Bobfollowedme,asifheknewsomethingwasverywrong.Iputthecold,uneatenpizza—whichwasstillwherewehadleftitwhenIstartedtobleed—inthebin,alongwiththelinencushionyouhadgivenme.Thewordsstitchedonitaretoopainfultoeverreadagain.YoubelievedthatIcould,thenbrieflyIdid.NowI’mnotsureofanything.Idon’tknowwhoI’msupposedtobeifIcan’tbethemeIdreamedIwouldbe.AndIdon’tknowwhatthatmeansforus.IhavegrownfondofwritinglettersIwillneverletyouread.Ifinditcathartic.Theymakemefeelbetter,eventhoughIknowitwoulddestroyyouifyoufoundthem.That’swhyIhidethemaway.I’llkeepthescanfromthehospitalwiththisone.Areminderofwhatwealmosthad.I’vealreadytuckeditinsidetheenvelopetheclinicgavemewithmynameon:Mrs.AWright.I’mholdingitnow.Can’tquiteletgo.Thereceptionistusedswirlyhandwritingonmyinitial,asthoughitweresomethingpretty.Irememberwhenwegotmarried,andIfirsttookyoursurname,Ipracticedsigningmynewsignatureforweekswithswirlylettersofmyown.Iwassohappytobeyourwife,butnoneofthewishesI’vemadesincehavecometrue.Ithinkthatmightbemyfault,notyours.Ihopethatifyoueverfindoutthetruth,you’llbeabletoforgivemeandlovemenomatterwhat.Alwaysalways.Likeyoupromised.YourwifexxAMELIA
IhearanothernoisedownstairsinthechapelandIknowI’mnotimaginingit.
Ireachblindlyforthelightswitchbythebed,butitdoesn’twork.Eithertherehasbeenanotherpowercut—whichseemsoddifthereisagenerator—orsomeonehascutthepower.Itrynottoallowmyoveractiveimaginationtomakethisexperienceevenscarierthanitis.Itellmyselfthattheremustbearationalexplanation.ButthenIheartheunmistakablesoundofafootstepatthebottomofthecreakingstairs.
Iholdmybreath,determinedtohearnothingbutsilence.
Butthereisanothergroanfromelderlyfloorboards,followedbyanothercreak,andthesoundofsomeoneclimbingthestaircaseisgettinglouder.Andcloser.Ihavetocovermymouthwithmyhandtostopmyselffromscreamingwhenthefootstepsstoprightoutsidethebedroomdoor.
IwanttoreachforAdambutIamfrozenwithfear.
WhenIhearthesoundofthedoorhandlestarttoturn,Ipracticallyfalloutofthebedinmyhurrytogetawayfromwhoeverisoutthere,andwishthatIwaswearingmorethanjustaflimsynightdress.Igriptheunfamiliarfurniture,feelingmywayintheshadows,walkingasquicklyandquietlyasIcantowardthebathroom.I’mfairlysureitsdoorhadalock.AssoonasIfindwhatI’mlookingfor,Iclosethedoorbehindmeandbarricademyselfinside.Thelightswitchdoesn’tworkinhereeither,butmaybethat’sagoodthing.
Ihearthebedroomdoorslowlyopenandmorecreepingfootsteps.Iblinkintothedarkness,willingmyeyestoadjusttothelowlight,thenholdmybreathandstepbackasfarasIcanwhilethesoundofcreakingfloorboardsgetscloser.IrealizeI’vebeentwistingmyengagementringaroundmyfinger—somethingIonlydowhenI’mmostanxious.Thering—whichoncebelongedtoAdam’smother—doesn’tcomeoffanymore,andhasstartedtofeeltootight.Mychestfeelsthesameway,andmyheartisthumpingsoloudly,I’mscaredthatwhoeverisouttherecanhearitwhentheystoprightoutsidethebathroomdoor.
Thehandleturnsveryslowly.Whentheydiscoverthatthedoorislocked,theytryagain.Moreaggressivelythistime.IfeellikeI’minTheShining,buttheonlywindowinthisbathroomismadeofstainedglass—evenifitdidopen,I’dneverfitthroughit,andthefallfromthisheightdownontothegroundbelowwouldprobablykillme.Isearchforaweapon,anythingtodefendmyselfwith,butfindlittlecomfortinmyGilletteVenusrazor.Iholditoutinfrontofmeregardless,thenpressmyselfupagainstthewall,unabletogetanyfartheraway.Thetilesonmybarebackareicycold.
Everythingisquietforafewseconds.Thenthesilenceissmashedbythesoundofafistbangingonthedoor.I’msoscaredIstarttocry,tearsstreamingdownmycheeks.
“Amelia,areyouinthere?Iseverythingallright?”
Myhusband’svoiceconfusesandcalmsmeatthesametime.
“Adam?Isthatyou?”
“Whoelsewoulditbe?”
Iopenthedoorandseehimstandingthereinhispajamabottoms,stiflingayawn,withhisbedhairstickingoutinalldirections.Thelightfromtheold-fashionedcandlestickholderheiscarryingcastsghostlyshadowsaroundthebedroom,sothatnowIfeellikeI’minaCharlesDickensnovel
“Whyareyoucrying?Areyouokay?”heasks.
Mywordstripoverthemselvesinmyhurrytosaythem.“No,I’mnot.Somethingwokeme,Iheardanoisedownstairs,thelightswouldn’twork,thenIheardsomeonecomingupthestairsand—”
“Itwasjustme,silly.IwasthirstyandIwenttogetaglassofwater.ButIguessallofthepipesmustbefrozenbecausenoneofthetapswork.”
“There’snowater?”
“Orpower.Thestormmusthaveouttakenoutthegenerator.ItriedtofindafuseboxwhileIwasdownthere—justincaseIcouldfixsomething—butnojoy.Goodjobwehavethesecreepycandlesticks!”
Heholdstheflickeringflamebelowhischinandpullsaseriesofsillyfaces,likechildrendowithtorchesatHalloween.Istarttofeelbetter.Alittlebit.Atleastthereisarationalexplanation.ThenIfeelfoolish…
“IthoughtIheardanoisedownstairs.Thesoundofsomeonecreepingaround.Iwassoscared—”
“Metoo,that’swhatwokeme,”Adaminterrupts.
Afterabriefabsence,myterrorreturns.“What?”
“ThatwastheotherreasonIwentdownstairs,tocheckeverythingwasokay.Butthemaindoorsarestilllocked,thereisnootherwayinorout,thisplaceislikeFortKnox.Ihadagoodlookaround,noburglars—orsheep—havemanagedtobreakinandeverythingisfine.Justasweleftit.Besides,Bobwouldhavebarkedifastrangerhadletthemselvesin.”
Thatistrue:Bobdoesgrowlifastrangercomestothefrontdoorathome,butonlyuntilweopenit.Thenhewagshistailatdoublespeedandrollsovertoshowthevisitorshistummy—Labradorsaretoofriendlytobegoodguarddogs.
WeclimbbackintobedandIaskaquestionheneverwantstoanswer.
“Doyoueverwishthatwe’dhadchildren?”
“No.”
“Why?”
IexpectAdamtochangethesubject—that’swhatnormallyhappensnext—buthedoesn’t.“SometimesI’mgladwedon’thavekids,becauseI’mscaredthatwemighthavefuckedthemupsomehow,thewayourparentsfuckedusup.Ithinkmaybeourlinecametoanendforareason.”
IthinkIpreferreditwhenhedidn’tanswer.Idon’tlikehimdescribinguslikethat,butpartofmedoeswonderwhetherhemightberight.I’vealwaysfeltabandonedbypeopleIwasfoolishenoughtocareabout,includingmyparents.Yes,theydiedinacarcrashbeforeIwasborn,buttheresult—megrowingupalone—isthesameasiftheydesertedmedeliberately.Ifyoudon’thaveanyonetoloveorbelovedbyasachild,thenhowdoyoulearn?
Butthen,isn’tlovelikebreathing?Isn’titinstinct?Somethingwe’rebornknowinghowtodo?OrislovelikespeakingFrench?Ifnobodyteachesyou,you’llneverbefluent,andifyoudon’tpracticeyouforgethow…
Iwonderifmyhusbandreallystilllovesme.
“Idon’tlikeithere,”Iconfess.
“No,meneither.Maybeweshouldleaveinthemorning?Findanicehotelsomewhereabitlessremote?”
“Thatsoundsgood.”
“Okay.Let’strytogetsomesleepuntilitislightoutside,thenpackupandgo.Maybetakeanothersleepingpill,itmighthelp?”
Idoashesays—despitethewarningsontheprescription—becauseI’mexhausted,andifI’mgoingtohavetodriveforhoursagaintomorrow,Ineedtogetsomerest.ButbeforeIclosemyeyes,Inoticethatthegrandfatherclockinthecorneroftheroomhasstopped.I’mglad,atleastthatwon’twakeusupagaininthenight.Isquintatthetimeandseethatitstoppedatthreeminutespasteight,whichseemsstrange—Ithoughtweheardthebellsatmidnight—butmymindistootiredtoeventrytounderstand.Adamslipshisarmaroundmywaistandpullsmetohim.Ican’trememberthelasttimehedidthatinbed,ormademefeelsafelikethis.Ifnothingelse,thetriphasalreadybroughtusclosertogether.Asusual,heisasleepwithinminutes.
ADAM
Ipretendtobeasleep,andwonderhowlongI’llhavetoholdherbeforeIcangetbacktowhatIwasdoingdownstairs.
Ameliahasalwaysstruggledtosleep,butthepillshelp,andherbreathingchangeswhentheywork.SoallIhavetodoiswait.Andlisten.ThesamewayIdidalittleearlier.Thesecondpillshoulddothetrick—itnormallydoes,evenwhenIsecretlycrushthemandputtheminhertea.She’saveryanxiousindividual.It’sforherowngood.Assoonassheisasleepagain,Islideoutfrombeneaththesheets,takethecandlestickfrombesidethebed,andleavetheroomasquietlyaspossible.Idon’treallyneedittolightmyway—IknowwhereI’mgoing—butmakeamentalnotetoavoidthenoisiestfloorboards:Iknowwhichonescreak.
Bobfollowsmedownthewoodenspiralstaircase,andIlovethatabouthavingadog:theyaresolovingandloyal.Dogsaren’tunforgivingorsuspicious.Theydon’tgetjealousandstartfightsallthetimesothatyoudreadbeingwiththem.Dogsdon’tlie.Hemightbeabitdeafthesedays,butBobisalwayshappytoseeme,whereasAmeliaonlyseesthingsfromherpointofview.
I’mtired.Ofallofit.
Iusedtobelieveinlove,butthen,IusedtobelieveinFatherChristmasandtheToothFairy.I’veheardpeopledescribemarriageastwomissingpiecesofapuzzlecomingtogether,anddiscoveringthattheyareaperfectfit.Butthat’sjustwrong.Peoplearedifferentandthat’sagoodthing.Twopiecesofdifferentpuzzlescannotandwillnotfittogether,unlessonehasbeenforcedtobendorbreakorchangetofitaroundtheother.Icanseenowthatmywifehasspentalotoftimetryingtochangeme,tomakemefeelsmaller,sothatwewouldbeabetterfit.
Nobodyshouldpromisetolovesomebodyelseforever,themostanysaneindividualshoulddoispromisetotry.Whatifthepersonyoumarriedbecomesunrecognizabletenyearslater?Peoplechangeandpromises—eventheoneswetrytokeep—sometimesgetbroken.
Istartedrunningagainafewmonthsago.Writingisasolitaryprofessionandit’salsonotterriblyactive.Ispendascaryamountoftimesittingonmyarseintheshed,andtheonlypartofmybodythatgetsadecentworkoutaremyfingers,tappingawayonthekeyboard.Bobtakesmeforwalksonceadaybut—likeme—he’sgettingoninyears.Therunningwasjustaboutgettingfitandtryingtotakebettercareofmyself.Butofcourse,mywifepresumeditmeantIwasplanningtohaveanaffair.Acoupleofweeksago,sheputmyrunningshoesoutwiththetrashthenightbeforethebinsgotcollected.Isawherdoit.Thatisnotnormalbehavior.
Ijustboughtnewrunningshoes,butthey’renottheonlythinginmylifethatneedsreplacing.Imightnotbegoodatrecognizingfaces,butIcantellI’mlookingolder.Icertainlyfeelit.Perhapsbecauseeveryoneelseinmyindustryseemstobegettingyoungerthesedays:theexecutives,theproducers,theagents.Almosteveryoneinthelastwriter’sroomIwasinvolvedinlookedliketheyshouldhavebeeninschoolinstead.Thatusedtobeme.Iwasthenewkidontheblockonce.It’sstrangewhenyoustillfeelyoung,buteveryonestartstotreatyouasthoughyouareold.I’monlyinmyforties,notreadyforretirementquiteyet.
AmIattractedtootherpeople?Sure,I’mhuman,wearedesignedtobe.Neverbecauseofaprettyface—Ican’tseethoseanyway.Peopleareabitlikebooksformeinthatway,andItendtobegenuinelyturnedonbywhat’sontheinsideratherthanjustaflashycover.IadmitI’vebeenthinkingaboutsomeoneelsealotlately,imaginingwhatitwouldbelikeifIwaswiththeminstead.Butdoesn’teveryonehavelittlefantasiesoccasionally?That’salltheyareanditdoesn’tmeanI’mactuallygoingtodosomethingaboutit.ThelasttimeIsleptwithsomeoneIshouldn’thaveitdidnotendwellforme.I’velearnedthatlesson.Ithink.Besides,I’malwaysworking,Idon’thavetimetohaveanaffairthesedays.Idomybesttoplacatemywife’sconstantjealousy,butnomatterwhatIsayshejustdoesn’tseemcapableoftrustingme.
Insomeways,she’srightnotto.
Ihaveneverbeencompletelyhonestwithmywife,butthat’sforherowngood.
TherearesomanythingsIcan’ttellher;abitlikethesleepingpillsIsometimespopintoherhotdrinksbeforebedtime.Thingsshedoesn’tneedtoknow.Itwasmewhoturnedthepoweroffwhenshewasdowninthecryptearlier.Shedoesn’tunderstandfuseboxes—allIhadtodowasflickaswitchanddropthetrapdoor.Iforgotaboutthegeneratoroutside,butI’veturnedthatoffnowtoo,andwewon’tbegettingpowerbackanytimesoon.
WOOD
Wordoftheyear:menschnoun.Agoodperson.Someonewhoiskindandactswithintegrityandhonor.28thFebruary2013—ourfifthanniversaryDearAdam,I’msorryI’vebeenactingsojealouslately,I’mhopingwecanputthesepastfewmonthsbehindus.Itwouldseemstrangenottomentionthebabystuffatall.Ican’tpretenditdidn’thappen,orthatIdidn’twanttobeamother.Itwasneverabouthavingyourchildren(sorry),Ijustwantedmyown.I’vegivenupongivingupsomanythingsinlife,butIknewIcouldn’tkeeptryingforababy.NotafterthelastroundofIVFdidn’twork.Theheartbreakwaskillingme,andmyunhappinesswaskillingourmarriage.Istillsecretlyhopeditmighthappenforawhile.I’vereadallthosestoriesaboutcoupleswhogetpregnantassoonastheystoptrying,butthatisn’twhatlifehadplannedforus.ForthefirstfewmonthsIstillcriedeverytimemyperiodarrived,notthatyouaskedItoldyouthat.ButIthinkI’vemovedonnow,oratleastmovedfarenoughawaytobreatheagain.Lifecanstarttofeelfullofholeswhenthelovehasnowheretogo.Bobisn’tababy—Iknowthat—butIsupposeIdotreathimlikeasurrogatechild.AndI’vethrownmyselfbackintomyworkatthedogshometheselastfewmonths.TheunexpectedpromotionI’vebeengivendoesn’tpaymuchmorethanbefore,butit’snicetofeelrecognized.AndI’verealizedI’magoodperson.Notbeingabletogetpregnantwasn’tapunishment,itjustwasn’ttheplan.WhenIwasachildIwasrepeatedlytoldthatIwasbad,andsometimesIstillbelievedit.Buttheywerewrongaboutme.Allofthem.Wehadarowlastweek,ourfirstinages,doyouremember?Istillfeelguiltyaboutthat.Tobefair,Ithinkalotofwivesmighthavereactedthesameway.Youcamehomedrunk,andconsiderablylaterthanyousaidyouwould.ItmightnothavebotheredmesomuchifIhadn’tmadetheefforttocook.ButinsteadofpickinguponmysilentangerwhenImadeasceneofscrapingyourcold,uneatendinnerintothebin,youtoldmeallaboutOctoberO’Brien.Theyoung,award-winningIrishactresshadfalleninlovewithyourscreenplay:RockPaperScissors.She’dgottenintouchviayouragent,andanafternoonmeetingforthreeturnedintodrinksandamealfortwo.Justyouandher.Ihadn’tbeenworriedatalluntilIGoogledthegirlandsawhowbeautifulshewas.“You’llhavetomeetheryourself,”youbabbledwitharidiculousgrinonyourface.Yourlipswerealittlestainedwithredwine,atleastIhopedthat’swhatitwas.“Herthoughtsabouthowtoimprovethescriptarejust…genius!”Ihelpedyouwiththatscriptyearsago.ImightnotbeaHollywoodactress,butIread.Alot.AndIthoughtTeamUsdidaprettygoodjob.“You’regoingtoloveher…”yougushed,butIverymuchdoubtedthat.“She’ssimplydelightful…soutterlycharming,andclever,and—”“Ididn’trealizeshewasoldenoughtodrink,”Iinterrupted.I’dhadsomewinemyselfwhileIstayedupwaiting.“Don’tbelikethat,”yousaid,withalookthatmademewanttopunchyou.“Likewhat?Itisn’tasthoughwehaven’tbeenherebefore.Anactororactresssaystheyloveyourstory,theywon’trestuntilitgetsmadeinHollywood—”“Thisisdifferent.”“Isit?Thegirlisbarelyoutofschool—”“She’sinhertwentiesandshe’salreadywonaBafta—”“YouwonaBaftainyourtwenties,butitstilldidn’tgetyouwhatyouwanted.Surelyit’saproduceryouneedtobacktheproject…orastudio.”“I’vegotamuchbetterchancewithanactresslikeOctoberattached.IfsheknocksondoorsinLAtheywillopenforher.Whereaswithme,unlessIgetanotherbigbooktoadaptsoon,allthedoorsseemtobeclosing.”Ifeltbadthen.It’sbeentoughforyouthisyear.You’restillgettingwork,butnotthekindyoureallywant.Iwasabouttochangethesubject,trytobealittlekinder,butthenyoulashedoutinself-defense.“It’sashameyouaren’tstillaspassionateaboutyourcareer,thenmaybeyouwouldunderstand.”“That’snotfair,”Isaid,eventhoughitwas.“Isn’tit?Youhaven’thadadecentpayrisefromBatterseaforyears,butyoustillstay.”“BecauseIloveworkingthere.”“No,becauseyou’retooscaredtoevenconsiderworkingsomewhereelse.”“Wedon’tallwanttoruletheworld,someofusjustwanttomakeitabetterplace.”Thethoughtofyounotbeingproudofmewasutterlydevastatinghurt.Alot.IknowyouthinkIcouldbedoingmorewithmylife,butitisn’tallmyfault.Whenthepersonyoulovehastoomanybrightideas,theycancompletelyeclipseyours.AndIstilldo.Loveyou.Ispentmyambitiononyourdreamsinsteadofmyown.Yousleptinthespareroomthatnight,butwe’vemadeupsince.Justintimeforthisyear’sanniversary.Youwereawakebeforemethismorning,whichispracticallyunheardof,andunexpectedgivenhowlateyouwereuprewritingaten-year-oldscreenplayagainlastnight.Whenyoucarriedatrayofbreakfastintoourbedroom,IthoughtImustbedreaming.Inalltheyearswehavebeentogether,you’veneverdonethatbefore.SoIshouldhaveknownsomethingwaswrong.Weatedippyeggs,asIliketocallthem—soft-boiledisyourpreferredgrown-upterm—withtoast.Iwaslookingforwardtospendingthedaytogether,soIcouldn’tunderstandwhyyouwereupsoearly,orwhyyouseemedtobesokeentotakethedirtycupsandplatesbackdownstairs.“Wedon’tneedtorush,dowe?”Iasked.Yourfaceconfessedbeforeyoudid.“I’msosorry,Ineedtogoandseemyagent.Itreallywon’ttakelong—”“Butweagreedtospendthewholedaytogetherthisyear.Itookannualleave.”“Andwewill,it’sjustforacoupleofhours.IreallythinkRockPaperScissorsmightactuallygetmadethistime.Ijustwanttotalktohim,inperson—youknowit’stheonlywayIcantellwhathereallythinksaboutanything—whiletheprojecthasmomentumagain.Seeifheagreesaboutthenextstepsand…”Iknowyoucouldn’tseewhateverfaceIpulled,butyoumusthavereadmybodylanguage.“Iknowit’souranniversarybutIpromiseI’llmakeituptoyoutonight.”“We’llstillhavedinner?”Isaid.“Itwillbedrinkso’clockbyfiveP.M.atthelatest.I’llcallyouassoonasI’mdone,andIgotyouthis.”ItwasaticketforamatineeperformanceofashowIhavewantedtoseeformonths.It’sbeensoldoutsinceitopened.Theticketwasfortoday,soatleastI’dhavesomethingfuntodowhileyouwereworking.ButitalsomeantthatyouknewIwouldneedsomethingtodo.Alone.Therewasonlyoneticket.Igaveyouyouranniversarypresentthen.FiveyearsismeanttobeawoodengiftsoIgotyouarulerwithaninscription:FIVEYEARSMARRIED,WHOWOODBELIEVEIT?Yousmiled,helduptwotiesandaskedmetochooseone.Iloathethembothtobehonest,butpointedattheonewiththebirds.Itseemedstrangeevenatthetime,giventhatyounevernormallydressuptoseeyouragent.“It’snotforme,it’sforyou,”yousaid,readingmymind.Youwrappedthesilktiearoundmyfacetocovermyeyes.Thenyoutookmebythehandandledmedownstairs.“Ican’tgooutsideinmynightie!”Iwhispered,whenIheardyouopenthefrontdoor.“Sureyoucan,youstilllookjustasbeautifulasthedaywegotmarried,andbesides,it’stheonlywaytoshowyouyourrealanniversarypresent.”“Ithoughtitwasthetheaterticket,”Isaid.“Givemesomecredit.”“Can’t,sorry.You’realreadyintoomuchdebt.”“Thisyear’sgiftismeanttobemadeofwood,right?”Itookafewmoreuncertainsteps,thecoldpathbitingmybarefeet,untiltheyreachedthegrass.Westoppedandyouremovedmymakeshiftblindfold.Therewasaleaflessanduglylittletreeinthemiddleofwhatusedtobemyperfectlawn.“It’satree,”yousaid.“Icanseethat.”“Iknowyou’vealwayswantedamagnoliaso—”“Isthatwhatitis?”Youlookedhurt.“I’msorry,it’sreallysweetofyou.Iloveit.Imean,notrightnowmaybe,butwhentheflowerscomeout,Ibetitwilllookamazing.”Youlookedhappyagain.“Thankyou,it’stheperfectgift.NowgoandgetyourscreenplaymadeintoaHollywoodblockbuster,soBobandIcanwalkdownaredcarpetinLeicesterSquare.”Assoonasyouhadmypermissionyouwereoutthedoor,andIwasaloneonouranniversary.Again.Lookingbacknow—hindsightissuchabitch—Ithinkeverythingwouldhavebeenfinehadasmokealarmnotgoneoffatthetheaterthatafternoon.Everyoneintheaudiencewasevacuatednotlongafterthecurtainwentup,thefirebrigadewascalled,andthematineeperformanceIwasmeanttoseegotcanceled.That’swhyIcamebacktothehouseearlierthanplanned.Ifoundmyselfstaringatacoupleonthetuberidehome.Theywereourage,butholdinghandsandgrinningateachotherliketwosmittenteenagers.Ibetthattheyalwaysspentanniversariestogether,andIstartedtowonderwherewesatonthescaleofnormal.ThejuryinmyheadwasstilloutwhenIarrivedbackatHampsteadstation.TheheavensopenedasIstartedwalkingandIwasdrenchedbythetimeIreachedourgardengate.Ifeltinexplicablerageatthesightoftheuglymagnoliatreeyouhadplanted,andbythetimeIreachedthefrontdoormyhandswereshakingwithcrankinessandcold.AsIstruggledtoslotthekeyinthelock,Iheardawomanlaughinginsideourhome.WhenIopenedthedoorandsteppedintothehall,IfeltlikeImustbedreaming.TherewasaHollywoodactressdrinkingwineinmykitchen.Withyou.Onouranniversary.“Whatareyoudoinghomesoearly?”youasked,lookingasupsetasIfelt.“Theplaywascanceled,”Isaid,staringatherthewholetime—Icouldn’thelpit.OctoberO’BrienwasevenmorebeautifulinreallifethanshewasinallthepicturesI’dGoogledonline.Herextremelypale,porcelain-likeskinwasflawless,andhercopper,pixie-cuthairshonebeneathourkitchenlights.IfIhadminestyledthatwayIwouldlooklikeaboy,butshelookedlikeahappyelfprincess,withherbiggreeneyesandwidewhitesmile.EveninmytwentiesIneverlookedthatgood.Thenyouintroducedus,asthoughcominghometofindyourhusbanddrinkingwineintheafternoonwithanotherwoman—whoyouhaveonlyeverseenonTVandinfilms—wasnormal.Iwasabouttomakeacompletetitofmyself,butthenOctober’sperfectredlipssmiledandsheexplainedwhatyoushouldhave.“It’ssolovelytomeetyou,”shepurred,holdingoutaperfectlymanicuredhand.ForamomentIwasn’tsurewhethertoshakeit,kissit,orslapitaway.Ihadanoddurgetocurtsy.“Yourhusbandconfessedlastnightthathehasnevercookedyouananniversarymeal.IsaidIdidn’twantanythingtodowithhisscreenplayuntilthatsituationwasrectified,andwhenhesaidhecouldn’tcook,Iofferedtohelp.Itwassupposedtobeasurprise…butmaybeitwasabadone?”Ifeltmyfacegethotforseveralreasonsallatonce.Firstly,IwishedIhadcleanedourfridgemorerecently,thenIpanickedabouttheconditionofouroldpotsandpans—worriedwhatshemustthinkaboutmeandusandthestateofourkitchen.ThenIwishedI’dwornalittlemoremakeup,becausenexttothisbeautifulcreature,Ifeltlikeabedraggledoldbat.Ineedn’thaveworried.Idon’tthinkI’veevermetamorekindorgenerouswoman—nowonderyouwantedtoworkwithher.EvenBobfellinlovewithourhouseguest,butheloveseveryone.IinsistedthatOctoberstayandeatthemealshehadpreparedwithus—youdidn’targue—andonceIhadchangedintosomedryclothesandopenedanotherbottle,wehadthemostwonderfulevening.Allthreecoursesweredelicious—especiallythechocolatepudding.IthoughtI’dbeintimidatedbysomeonelikeOctoberO’Brien.She’ssostunning,successful,andsmart…butshewasutterlycharming,modest,andsweet.Itmademerealizethatregardlessofwhoeveryonethinkscelebritiesare,attheendofthedaythey’rejustpeople.Likeyouandme.Eventhedisturbinglybeautifulones.“Iknewyou’dlovehertooifyoumether,”yousaidwhenOctoberleft.“Youwereright,butIloveyoumore.”“Almostalways?”youaskedandsmiled.“Soyoudon’tmindmeworkingwithhernow?Andyouwon’tgetjealous?”“WhosaysIwasjealous?”Ireplied,andyouraisedaneyebrow.“You’venoneedtobe.She’slovely,butshe’sstillanactress.”“DoyouthinkI’mlovely?”“You’remyMIP,”yousaid.“MIP?”“MostImportantPerson.”Thankyouforaverymemorableanniversarythisyear,oneIcertainlywon’tforget.Fiveyears.Wherediditgo?Somanymemories,mostlyhappyones,andI’mlookingforwardtomakingmorewithyouinthefuture.IsuspecteveryonehasaMostImportantPerson.Iamyoursandyouaremine.Nowandforever.YourwifexxROBIN
Robinsitsperfectlystill,hidinginacold,darkcornerofthechapel,untilthevisitorsareallbackupstairsagain.Themancamedowntwice,andshealmostgotcaught.Shewondersifhewouldrecognizeheratallnow.Regardlessofhisfaceblindness,shefearsshemusthavechangedbeyondallrecognitionsincetheylastmet.
WhenRobinletherselfinsidemorethananhourago,shethoughtthey’dgonetobedforthenight,andhadtohidewhensheheardhimcomingdowntheold,woodenspiralstaircase.Hesomehowmanagedtoavoidallthecreakieststeps.Luckily,thelounge—whichshealwaysthoughtwasmoreofalibrarywithsofas—hadplentyofdarkspaces,andthebookcasesprovidedamplecoveruntilshecouldseewhoitwas.Afterthatsheletherselfintothesecretroom.Secretsareonlysecretsforthepeoplewhodon’tknowthemyet.Theycanmorphintolieswhenshared,andlikecaterpillarsturningintobutterflies,beautifulliescanflyfar,faraway.ThereisnothingRobindoesn’tknowaboutthisoldchapel:sheusedtolivehere.
Shecouldstillliveherenowifshewanted,butchoosesnotto.
Robindoesn’tlikebeinginsidetheplaceanylongerthannecessarythesedays.Shealwayshastosummonacolossalamountofcouragetostepinsidethoseoldchapeldoors,andontherareoccasionswhendoingsocan’tbeavoided,shedoeswhatsheneedstodoasquicklyaspossiblebeforegettingoutagain.Thevisitorswouldwanttogetouttooiftheyknewthetruthaboutwheretheywerestaying,butpeopleseewhattheywanttosee.
ThesecretroomistuckedbehindthelibraryandRobinhatesthispartofthechapelthemost.It’seasyenoughtofindbehindthebookcase—ifyouknowwheretolook—butyouhavetouseyoureyes.Mostpeoplegothroughlifewiththeireyesshut.Andbooksaregoodathidingallkindsofthings,especiallyclosedbooks,justlikeclosedpeople.
Somememoriesareclaustrophobic,andthevarietythisroominvokesalwayssmotherher,makingithardtobreathe.Robinstaysasstillaspossible,studyingtheparquetfloorinthesecretroomasifitwereapuzzleshemightbeabletosolve,tryingnottolookatanythingthatwillremindherofapastshewouldratherforget.Butmemoriesdon’ttakeorders;theycomeandgoastheyplease.
Themoonisfullandbrighttonight.Itshinesthroughthestained-glasswindowscastingaseriesofpatternsthatseemstrangeandunfamiliar.Thesightofherownshadowonthewallcatcheshereye,anditmakesherfeelsmall.Evenhershadowlookssad.Robindoesn’tmeantomakeafist,butwhensheseeshersilhouettedothesame,sheholdsherhandhigher,changingtheshapeofherfingers.Firstarock.Thenflat,likepaper.Thenshemakesacuttingmotion,likescissors,andsmiles.
Whensheissureitissafetodoso,Robinstandstoleave.Shefreezeswhenshethinkssheseessomeone,butitisonlyherownreflectioninthemirrorabovethemantelpiece.Thesightshocksher:shealmostdidn’trecognizeherself.Therearenomirrorsbackinherlittlecottage.Thewomaninthemirrorhere,staringbackatherinthesecretroomlookssoold,andherpaleskinissowhiteshecouldbemistakenforaghost.
Robinreachesinsideherpocketforthekeytolockthesecretroombehindher,butherfingersfindsomethingelseinstead,providingherwithasmallwaveofmuchneededcomfort:herfavoriteredlipstick.It’sworndowntoaflattenedstump.Sheremembersthefirsttimesheusedit:itrainedthatnightandshegotbadlyhurt.Butitreinforcedtheimportanceofnottrustinganyoneexceptherself.
Thebestlessonsareoftentheoneswedon’trealizewe’rebeingtaught.
Robinappliesatinybitoflipstick—wantingtosavewhatisleftforaslongaspossible—thenadmireshernewreflectioninthemirror.Shesmilesagainbutitdoesn’ttake,hermouthsoonturningdownattheedges.Still,it’sanimprovement,anditgivesherthecouragetodowhatshecameheretodo.
Thevisitorsdidn’tlookhappywhentheyarrived,orwhenshewatchedthemthroughthewindow.Asshelurkeddownstairs,runningherfingersalongthespinesofthebooksintheloungethatismorelikealibrary,shenotedthatthevisitorsdidn’tsoundhappyeither.Shelistenedtothemastheytalkedinthebedroomupstairs.Theirvoicescarried,andtheirwordsseemedtobouncefromthedouble-heightvaultedceilingupabovestraightdownintoherears.
Itseemsstrangetoherthatthevisitorsreallythoughttheycouldstayhereforfree.Onlyfoolsbelieveinsomethingfornothing.Shehadtosuppressalaughwhensheheardthemagreeingtoleaveinthemorning.Butheramusementsoonturnedintoanger.That’sthebiggestproblemwithpeoplenowadays:theydon’tappreciatewhattheyhave,theyalwayswantmore.Theydon’twanttoworkforit.Theydon’twanttoearnit.Andtheybitchandmoanlikespoiledbratswhentheydon’tgettheirownway.Toomanypeoplethinktheworldowesthemsomething,andblameothersfortheirownpoorlifechoices.Andeveryonethinkstheycanjustrunawayifthingsdon’tgoaccordingtotheirplans.
Thatwon’tbehappeninghere.
Thevisitorscansaywhattheylike,theycanevenchoosetobelieveitifthathelpsthemsleepwhentheylaytheirheadsbackdownonherpillows.Thestormoutsidemighthavestopped—fornow—butnobodyisleavingheretomorrowmorning.Afterwhatshehasalreadyseenandheard,Robinisfairlysurethatatleastoneofthemwillneverleavethisplaceagain.
AMELIA
It’sstilldarkoutside,butIshakeAdamawake.
“Bob’sgone.Ican’tfindhim!”
Iwatchimpatientlyasmyhusbandrubsthesleepfromhiseyes,blinksintothedarkness,andpeersaroundthebedroom.Itsmellsasthoughweareinachapelnow.ThatmustyscentofoldBiblesandblindfaith.TheonlysourceoflightistheflamefromthecandlestickI’mholding,andittakesAdamawhiletorememberwhereweare.It’sascoldinhereasIsuspectitisoutsidenowthankstothecompletelossofpowerovernight,andheinstinctivelypullsthebedcoversaroundhimself.
Ipullthembackoff.“Didyouhearme?Bobismissing!”
“Hewassleepingoutonthelanding,”Adamsays,suppressingayawn.
“Well,heisn’ttherenow.”
“Maybehewentdownstairs—”
“Heisn’tthereeither!Isearchedthewholeplace,he’snothere!”
NowAdamlooksworried.
HeisfinallyhearingwhatIamsaying.Theunfamiliarconcernonhisfacemakesmefeelworse—I’mtheonewhoworries,nothim.WhenIammostanxious,healwaysremainscalm.Webalanceeachother’semotions,that’showourmarriageworks.Orusedto.
“Well,thefrontdoorsweredefinitelylockedandBobdoesn’thaveakey,sohemustbeheresomewhere.I’llhelpyoulook,”hesays,lightingtheothercandleandpullingonasweateroverhispajamas—afeebleattempttocombatthecold.“I’msureifweputsomefoodinhisbowlhe’llcomerunning—henormallydoes.”
Adamisstillhalfasleep,butdragshimselfoutofbedandhurriesontothelanding.Hepausestostareattheemptydogbed—asthoughImightbemakingitupthatBobismissing—thenhurriesaheadofmedownthestairs.Inoticethathedeliberatelymissessomeofthesteps,whichcreakloudlywhenIwalkonthem.
“Howdidyouknowwhichstepsnottowalkon?”Iask,followinghimalittlemoreclosely.
“What?”
“Youskippedsomeofthesteps.Theonesthatcreak.”
“Oh…wellitannoysme.Likesqueakycupboardsordoors.”
“Butweonlyarrivedlastnight.Howdidyouknowwhich—”
“Imightnotbeabletorememberfaces,butfactsandfigures,orthethingsmostpeopleoverlook—likewhichstepscreak—tendtostickinmymind.Youknowthataboutme.”
Adamdoesoftenrememberpeculiardetails.Aphotographicmemoryofsorts,forunimportantthings.Idecidetodropit—wehavebiggerissuestoworryaboutrightnow—andtogetherwesearcheverycornerofeveryroomforthemissingdog.
“Idon’tunderstandit,thedoorsarestilllocked,hecan’thavegotout,”Adamsays.
“Well,hedidn’tvanishintothinair,”Ireply,pouringsomekibbleintoBob’sfoodbowlandcallinghisname.
Theinvitationismetwithasilencethatsoundsevenmoreominousthanbefore.Idon’tknowwhattodo.Ipickupmyphone,butofcoursethereisnosignal,andwhowouldIcalleveniftherewere?
“Weshouldsearchoutside,”Adamsays,andwehurrytothebootroom.
Heunlockstheoldchapeldoors,andheavesthemopen.
Thescenetheyrevealstopsusbothinourtracks.
Thesunisstartingtorisebehindamountaininthedistance,andthereisjustenoughlightoutsideforustoseeawallofsnowhigherthanmyknees.Everythingiscoveredinathickblanketofwhite,andIcanbarelymakeouttheshapeofourcaronthedriveway.IfBobreallyisouttheresomewhere,insnowthisdeep,hewon’tlastlong.
Adamreadsmymindanddoeshisbesttocalmthepanickedthoughtsswirlinginsideit.
“Yousawmeopenthedoors,theyweredefinitelylocked.ThesnowistallerthanBob—evenifhecouldhavegotout,hewouldn’thave—thatdogdoesn’tevenliketherain.Hemustbeinside—didyoulookinthecrypt?”
“Afterlastnight?Withjustacandle?Ofcoursenot.”
“I’llusethetorchonmyphone,”hesays.
I’mabouttocorrecthim—he’sforgottenthathismobileisstillbackinLondon—butthenIwatchashehurriestofindtheoldleathersatchelheusesforhiswork.It’ssotatty,Ishouldgethimsomethingnew.Hereachesinsideandpullsouthisphone.
Theonehepretendedhecouldn’tfindinthecarwhenhehaditwithhimallalong.
Thereasonwhyapersonliesisalmostalwaysmoreinterestingthanthelieitself.Myhusbandshouldn’ttellthem;heisn’tverygoodatit.
ADAM
Igrabmymobile,turnonthetorch,andhurrytothetrapdoor.It’sclosed,soIdon’tseehowBobcouldhavegotdownthere,butit’salsotheonlyplacewehaven’tlooked.IopenitandrushdownthestonestepsasfastasIdare.AllIfindarethesamedustywineracks,andadirty,homemade-lookingpamphletonthefloor:“TheHistoryofBlackwaterChapel.”
I’msurethatwasn’ttherebefore.
“Bobisn’tdownthere,”Isay,comingupthesteps,distractedbythepieceofpaperinmyhands.
Ameliadoesn’treply,juststares.IfIcouldseetheexpressiononherface,Iknowitwouldbeabadone—herarmsarefoldedandshe’sstandinginthatstancethatmeanstrouble.Forme.
“What?”Iask.
“Ithoughtyoucouldn’tfindyourphone?”
Busted.
TheguiltIfeelissoonreplacedwithanger.
“Well,luckilyInoticedyouremovingmyphonefromthecarbeforeweleft.Youliedtomeaboutthatandyou’vebeenactingstrangeforweeks.Isthereanythingelseyou’vebeenlyingtomeabout?IsBobreallymissing?”
“Don’tdothat.YouknowIloveBob.”
“Ithoughtyoulovedme.”
TheideathatAmeliahadsomethingtodowithBob’sdisappearanceisunthinkable,butafterhercrazybehaviorrecently,Idon’tknowwhattothink.
“AllIwantedwasaniceweekendaway.Justthetwoofus,foronce.Notme,you,andyourbloodywork.Thewriting,thebooks,thescreenplays…that’sallyoueverseemtocareaboutthesedays.That’swhyItookyourphoneoutofthecar,becauseyouspendsomanyhourslookingatitallthetimeyoumakemefeelinvisible.”
Shestartstocrythen—alwaysherGetOutofJailFreecard—andIcan’tstayangrywithher.Itisn’tasthoughI’vebeenhonestabouteverything.
“Doyouhaveasignalonyourphone,maybewecouldcallsomeone?”sheasks.I’monadifferentnetworkfromher,soit’sasensiblequestion.
“No.Ialreadychecked.”
Herbodylanguagesuggestsshe’srelieved,butthatdoesn’tmakesense.Imustbereadingherwrong.Ihatewhowe’vebecome,butI’mnottoblameforallofit.Trustcan’tbeborrowed;ifyoutakeitaway,youcan’tgiveitback.
“There’ssomethingIneedtotellyou.”
IsaythewordssoquietlyI’msurprisedshehearsthem.
Ameliastepsawayfromme.“What?”
“Lastnight…Ididn’tcomedownstairstogetaglassofwater.Isaw…somethingdownhere,beforewewenttobed.Ididn’twanttoscareyou,soIwaiteduntilyouwereasleep,thencamebackdownstairstotryandmakesenseofit.Youwerealreadysoupsetafterthecryptincident;Ididn’twanttomakemattersworse—”
“Canyoupleasegettothepoint.”
“Iwouldifyou’dletme.”
“Whatdidyoufind?”
“This,”Isay,openingoneofthekitchendrawers.ItiscrammedfullofoldnewspaperarticlesaboutOctoberO’Brien.“She’stheactresswho—”
“Iknowwhosheis,Adam.It’snotsomethingI’mlikelytoforget,”Ameliasnaps,pullingtheneatlycutpressclippingsoutonebyone,andlayingthemonthekitchentable.“Idon’tunderstand.Whywouldthesebehere—”
“AndIfoundthisdowninthecryptjustnow.Ithoughtabouthidingthatfromyoutoo—Iknowhowmuchthisweekendmeanttoyou—butIalsoknowyoudon’tlikesecrets.”
Ishowherthepamphlet.
“Whatisit?”
“Ithinkyoushouldjustreaditforyourself.Idon’tthinkwe’rereallywelcomehere.”
“Butthenwhyofferafreeweekendasaraffleprize?Theyinvitedus.”
“Whodid?”
Ameliadoesn’tanswerbecauseshedoesn’tknow.
Shepicksuptheflimsypieceofwhitepapercoveredintypedwords,thenlingersonthefrontpageasifscaredtoopenit.Iwatchinsilencewhileshereads.
TheHistoryofBlackwaterChapelAchapelhasstoodonthissite,nexttoBlackwaterLoch,sinceatleastthemid-ninthcentury.Whenthecurrentownerpurchasedthepropertyandsurroundingland,ithadalreadybeenabandonedforseveralyears.Withagreatdealofloveandhardwork,theydecidedtotransformthisderelictbuildingintoabeautifulhome.Theoriginalfeaturesincludeseveralcarvedstones,whicharedatedbetween820–840,anditisoneoftheoldestScottishchapelsonrecord.Weknowthatthechapelhasnotbeenusedforitsoriginalpurposesincethelastpriest,FatherDouglasDalton,leftin1948.Therearenosurvivingaccountsofhistimehere,onlylocal(unsubstantiated)rumorsthathefelltohisdeathfromthebelltower.Accordingtootherrecords,thechapel’scongregationdwindleddowntoalmostnothingasthelocalpopulationaged,andthatwaswhyitwasleftabandoned.Notmuchwasknownaboutthechapel’struehistory,untilbuildingworkbegantoconvertwhatwasbythenacrumblingwreckintoalivablespace.Excavationsinthecrypt,tomakeastrongerfoundation,revealedthatthechapelhadbeenusedasawitch’sprisoninthe1500s.Ironringswerefoundinthecrypt’swalls,wherewomenandchildrenconvictedofwitchcraftwerechainedbeforebeingburnedatthestake.Thebonesofmorethanonehundredsuspectedwitcheswerefoundburiedinthefloor,alongwiththeiroffspring.Testsrevealedthatoneskeletonwasthatofafive-year-oldgirl.AcollectionoflocalanecdotesandurbanlegendsallsharesimilarstoriesaboutBlackwaterChapel.Mostincludetalesofghostlyfiguresthatcanbeseenfloatingoverthelochatnight.Thereareseveralaccountsofwomendressedaswitches,withburnedfacesandsingedclothes.Rumorhasittheywalkaroundthechapelaftersundown,peeringinthroughthestained-glasswindows,searchingfortheirmurderedchildren.Therehavebeenseveralreportsofsuchsightingsinthelocalpressovertheyears,beforepeoplegotsoscaredthattheystayedaway.Almostallofthebuildersinvolvedintherenovationofthepropertysaidtheyfeltinexplicablycoldinthecrypt,andsomeclaimtheyheardtheirownnamesbeingwhisperedwhentheyweredownthere.Butit’simportanttonotethatnoteverybodywhovisitsBlackwaterChapelwitnessesparanormalactivityorghostlyapparitions.Wehopeyouenjoyyourstay.AMELIA
“WeneedtofindBob,andgetoutofhere,”Isay,assoonasI’vefinishedreading.
AdamputsthepamphletandnewspaperclippingsaboutOctoberO’Brieninakitchendrawer,thenclosesitfirmly,asifmakingthemdisappearmighthelp.I’mnotsurewhatthelinkisyetbetweenOctoberandthisplace,buthecan’tseemtolookmeintheeye.
“Ididn’twanttoscareyou—”
“I’mnotscared.I’mangry,”Iinterrupt.“Idon’tbelieveinghosts.Someoneistryingtofrightenus.Idon’tknowwhoyetorwhy—”
“Idon’tthinkweshouldjumptoconclusions.”
“Iagree.WeshouldfindBob,packup,andjumpinthecarinstead.”
We’redressedlessthanfiveminuteslater.Aftersearchingthewholechapelagainforthedog,there’snowherelefttolookexceptoutside.
Nowthatthesnowhasstoppedfalling,itfeelslikesteppingintoapainting.TheskyhasturnedfromblacktograytopalebluesinceIwokeup,andIcanseesomuchmorethanwhenwearrivedinthedarklastnight.Therearesnow-coveredmountainsanddenseforestsinthedistance.Ahandfulofwhitecloudsarereflectedonthestill,glassysurfaceofthevastloch,andtheoldwhitechapelseemstoshineintheearlymorningsun.ThenInoticethebelltowerandrememberlastnight.Thepartofthewallthatcollapsedisimpossibletomiss.NowonderthesignonthedoorreadDANGER
“Adam…”
“What?”
“Thefallenwall.”
“Whataboutit?”
“WhatifBobsomehowgotuptothebelltower,andthedamagedwall…andfell?”
“Thenhe’dbelyingbrokeninthesnow.”
Idon’tlikethewayheansweredthequestion,butIknowAdamisright.Westartsearchingoutsideinsilence.Thisisundoubtedlyoneofthemostbeautifulandunspoiledcornersoftheworld,butIcan’twaittoleave.
Ididn’tbringthebestclothesorshoesforthisweather.Thesnowissohighwehavenochoicebuttowadethroughitinourtrainers.Mysocksandfeetarewetwithinseconds,andthebottomhalfofmyjeansaresoakingandheavywithfreezingcoldwater.I’msoworriedaboutthedog,Ibarelynotice.Seeingtheplaceindaylight,wecannowtrulyappreciatetheisolationandscaleofthevastvalleywe’rein.Wedon’tfindwhatwearelookingfor,butwesoondiscoverwhathappenedtoallthemissingbathtubsintheproperty.Threeclaw-footrolltopbathsarehiddenaroundtheback,andhavebeenfilledwithplants—heatherbythelooksofit,invariousshadesofpinkandpurple.
Theyaren’ttheonlyunexpecteddiscoveries.
Westumbleacrossasmallgraveyard—asIsupposemightbeexpectedbehindanancientchurch—withacollectionofelderlylookingheadstonesalmostcompletelyhiddenbythesnow.Therearealsoaseriesofdarkwoodensculpturesdottedaroundoutsidethechapel,atleasttwoorthreeineverydirectionthatIlook.Hand-carvedrabbitsthatappeartobeleapingoutofthefrozenground,anenormoustortoise,andgiantwoodenowls,perchedonthetreestumpstheyhavebeenfashionedfrom.Theyallhavehuge,hand-chiseledeyes,whichseemtostareinourdirection,asthoughtheyareascoldandscaredasweare.Eventhetreeshavefacescarvedintothem,soit’simpossiblenottofeelwatched.
IcallBob’snameoverandover,butaftertwentyminutesofwalkingincircles,Idon’tknowwhattodo.Anon–dogpersonwouldn’tunderstand,butit’sjustasdistressingaslosingachild.
“Doyouthinksomeonehastakenhim?”Iask,whenweseemtohaverunoutofallotherideas.
“Whywouldanyonedothat?”Adamsays.
“Whydoesanyonedoanything?”
“Whothen?We’reinthemiddleofnowhere.”
“Whataboutthatlittlethatchedcottagewepassedonthetrackin?”
“Itlookedempty.”
“Shouldn’twecheck?”
Heshakeshishead.“Wecan’tjustaccusesomeoneof—”
“No,butwecouldaskfortheirhelp?They’realotclosertothemainroadthanweare,somightstillhavepower…oratleastaphonewecanuse.It’snotthatfartowalk.It’sworthtrying,isn’tit?IfBobdidgetoutsomehow,theymighthaveseenhim?”
Adamneverreallywantedtogetapuppy.Thechildhoodmemoriesthatstillhaunthisdreamsputhimoff—understandably—butthatchangedwhenhemetBob.Myhusbandhidesitwellsometimes,butIknowhelovesthatdogjustasmuchasIdo
“Okay,let’sgo,”Adamsays.HetakesmyhandandIlethim.
Somepartsofthelocharefrozen,andagainmythoughtsturntoBob.Hehatesrain,orsleet,orsnow,oranythingfallingfromthesky,buthelovesthewater—alwaysjumpinginriversorrunningintothesea.Butsurelyoursillyolddogwouldhaveknowntokeepawayfromafrozenloch.Itrynottothinkaboutitaswetrudgetowardthecottageinthedistance.Exceptforthesoundofourfootstepscompactingthefreshsnow,thecoldairishushedandmuted.Silencecanbeeeriewhenyou’renotusedtoit,andlivinginLondonandworkingatBattersea,I’mdefinitelynot.SometimesIheardogsbarkinginmysleep.Buthere,it’ssoquiet.Unnaturallyso.Therearen’tevenanybirdssinging.NowIthinkaboutit,Idon’trememberseeingany.
Itdidn’tlookthatfarwhenwesetout,butittakesusmorethanfifteenminutestoreachthecottage.It’satinything,withwhitewashedwallsjustlikethechapel,andathatchedroof.AlmostlikeaHobbithouse.It’ssosmallandremotethatIcan’timaginewhyanyonewouldwanttoliveinit,butthereisacarparkedoutside—almostcompletelyhiddenfromview—whichgivesmehopethatsomeonedoes.It’sabigvehicle,anoldLandRoverperhaps.It’shardtotellwithitbeinghalfburiedbysnow.Whateveritis,I’msureitwillcopebetterthanmycarinthisweather.
Iclearmythroatbeforeknockingonthebrightreddoor.I’mnervousforsomereason,andnotevensurewhatI’mgoingtosayifsomeoneopensit.
Ineedn’thaveworried;nobodydoes.
It’sstrangebecauseIcouldhaveswornIheardvoiceswhenwewalkedupthepath—aradioperhaps,orsomeonetalkingtoachildinahushedtone.IlookatAdam,whoshrugs,thenIknockagain.Alittleharderthistime.There’sstillnoanswer,nosignorsoundoflifeatall.
“Lookatthat,”Adamsays,staringattheroof.
Ipresumehemeansthethatch,butwhenIlookup,Iseethesmokingchimney.Somebodymustbeinside.
“Maybetheycan’thearus,”hesays.“YoustayhereandI’lltakeaquicklookaroundtheback.”
HedisappearsbeforeIcananswer,andisgonesolongIstarttoworry.
“Anything?”Iask,whenhefinallyreturns.Itmightjustbethecold,ormyimagination,buthelookspalerthanhedid.
“Yesandno,”hesays.
“Whatdoesthatmean?WejustneedtofindBob.”
“It’samessaroundback,completelyovergrownandthere’sevenanoutsidetoilet.Nooutsidebaththistimeatleast,butIthinkwhoeverlivesheremustbeold.There’snootherdoor,justacoupleofdirtywindows.Isawawomaninside,sittingnexttoafire.”
“Great—”
“Possiblynot,”hesays,interruptingmypositivethoughtswithmoreofhisnegativeones.“IknockedonthewindowtogetherattentionandIthinkIscaredher.”
“Well,that’sunderstandable—Idoubtshegetsmanyvisitorsallthewayouthere.Wecanjustapologize.I’msureshe’llwanttohelponceweexplain.”
“Idon’tthinkso.Therewerecandleseverywhere—”
“Well,therehasbeenapowercutanditisprobablyratherdarkinthere.”
“No,Imeaneverywhere.Hundredsofthem.Shelookedlikeawitchcastingaspell.”
“Don’tbedaft.Thatstupidpamphlethasputsillyideasinyourhead—”
“Thatwasn’tall.Shehadananimalonherlap.”
IpicturepoorBobandfeelsick.“Whatkindofanimal?”
“Awhiterabbit,Ithink…”Relieffloodsmyfear.ForamomentIwasterrifiedofwhatAdammightsay.“Ididn’thaveverylongtotakeitallinbeforeshesawme.”
“Andwhathappenedwhenshedid?”
“Shestaredatmeforalongtime,thenjustwalkedrightuptothewindow,ascloseasIamtoyounow.Stillcarryingthefatwhiterabbit,ifthat’swhatitwas.Thenshepulledthecurtainsshut.”
ROBIN
Robindidn’tjustpullonesetofcurtains;sheclosedthemall.
Sheblowsouteverycandletoo—therewereonlyahandful,nothundreds,butmenarepredisposedtoexaggeration—thenshesitsinthedark,waitingforherhearttostopbeatingsofast.Itneveroccurredtoherthatsomeonewouldberudeenoughtotrespassonherpropertyorwalkaroundthebackuninvited—peeringinthroughtheglassasifshewereananimalinazoo.Thecurtainsaren’treallycurtainsatall—theyaresecondhandbedsheetsnailedabovethewindows.Shenoticestheyellowtingeofpipesmokeonthethreadbarefabric.Itusedtobewhite.Butitdoesn’tmatterwhatsomethingusedtobe,solongasitdoesthejob.Andthingsdon’tneedtobebeautifultoserveapurpose.Robinmightnotbeprettyanymore,butshehaseveryrighttobehere.
Notlikethem.
Robinusedtositinthedark,justlikethis,whenshewasscaredasachild.Itwasanalltooregularoccurrence.Shedoeswhatshedidthentotrytocalmherselfdown:crossingherlegs,closinghereyes,thenfocusingonherbreathing.Slow,deep,breaths.Inandout.In…and…out.Atleastitwasonlyhimwhosawher,that’ssomethingtobegladabout.
Itseemsobviousnowthatshethinksaboutit—ofcoursethevisitorswouldcomeherelookingforhelp—she’sjustannoyedthattheymanagedtocatchheroffguard.
Robinwonderswhattheymustbethinkingnow.
Thisishardlyanormalsituationforanyofthem,farfromit,andsheexpectsthatthestressandfearmustbestartingtotakeitstoll.Marriedcouplesalwaysthinktheyknowtheirpartnersbetterthananyoneelse—especiallywhentheyhaveacoupleofyearsundertheirbelts—butthatdoesn’tmeanitistrue.Robinknowsthingsaboutbothofthemthatsheiscertaintheydonotknowabouteachother.
Shesawhimlookingattherabbitonherlap,withamixtureofhorroranddisgustonhisface.ButOscartherabbitisheronlycompanionthesedays.Likeher,heisacreatureofhabit,andalwaystendstojumpuponthearmchairafterhisbreakfastofgrass,freshvegetables,or—whenthesnowcomes—tinnedjarsofbabyfood.Atleasthe’sreal,unlikethecharactersAdamWrightmakesupinsidehisheadandspendsallhistimewith.Mr.Wrightissometimeswrong.Robinwillnotbejudgedbythesepeople.
Shecrawlstowardthefrontofthecottageonallfoursavoidingthewindows.Sheneedstoknowwhetherthevisitorshavegoneyet—thereissomuchtodoandsolittletime.Buttheyhaven’t.Gone.Sosheslidesdowntositwithherearagainstthesealed-upletterbox,stillholdingtherabbit,strokingitsfur.Itissurrealtohearthemtalkingaboutherontheothersideofthedoor.Theymightnotknowwhosheis,butRobinknowswhotheyare.Sheinvitedthemhereafterall,eveniftheydon’trealizeityet.
Theywillsoonenough.
AMELIA
“Weshouldtryknockingagain,”Isay.
“Idon’tthinkthat’sagoodidea,”Adamreplies.“Shelookedlikeanutter.”
“Shh!Shecanprobablyhearyou;thisplaceisn’tdoubleglazed.Howdoyouknowitwasawoman?”
Heshrugs.“Longhair?”
SometimesAdam’sinabilitytorecognizefeaturesonfacesismoreannoyingthanothers.
“Ifitisawoman,”Isay,“thenmaybeIshouldtrytalkingtoher.Idon’tseeanyotherbuildingsnearby,shemightbetheonlyonewhocanhelpus.”
“Whatifshedoesn’twanttohelpus?”Adamwhispers.
I’malreadyfreezing,butIfeelcolderthanIdidbeforewhenhesaysthat.IthinkabouttheOctoberO’BriennewspaperclippingshefoundstuffedinsideoneofthekitchendrawersatthechapelandIfeelsick.It’ssuchalongtimeagonow,butAdamworkedwiththeactressbeforewhathappened,happened,andIsometimesstillwonder—
“Doyouthinkshemightbewhoyousawoutsidethewindowlastnight?”hewhispers.
Ishruganditturnsintoashiver.Relievedalittlethatatleasthebelievesmeaboutthatnow.“Idon’tknow.Doyou?”
“HowwouldIknow?Ididn’tseewhatyousaw,andwebothknowIwouldn’tbeabletorecognizethemagainevenifIdid.”
“Well,wasthepersonyousawjustnowfatorthin?Oldoryoung?”
“MediumbuildIguess,andshehadlonggrayhair.”
“So,oldthen?”
“Maybe.”
“Iwonderifsheisthehousekeeper?”
“Ifsheis,she’sabadone.”
“Someonewrotethosenotesforustofind,”Iremindhim.
“Don’thousekeeperscleanthings?FromwhatIsawthroughthewindow,shedoesn’tlooklikesheknowshowtouseafeatherduster.Shemayhaveabroom…forflyingaroundatnight—”
“Thisisn’tthetimeformakingjokes.”
“WhosaysI’mjoking?Youdidn’tseewhatIsawwithallthecandlesandthewhiterabbitonherlaplikeshewascastingaspell.We’vegotenoughproblemsrightnowwithoutupsettingthelocalwitch.”
Sometimeshavinganoveractiveimaginationisacurse.ItakeoutmymobileandholdituptoseethatIstilldon’thaveanysignal.Adamwatches,thendoesthesamewithhis.
“Anything?”Iask,lookingoverhisshoulder.Butheshakeshishead,andputshisphonebackinhispocketbeforeIseethescreen.
“Notevenonebar.Whydon’tweclimbtothetopofthathill,IthinkIcanseeafootpath,”hesays,pointingatwhatlookslikeasmallmountaintome.“Oneofusmightgetasignalupthere,andifnot,atleastwe’llhaveaviewofthewholevalley.Ifthereareanyotherhouses,orpeople,orevenabusyroadwherewecouldflagsomeonedown,we’llbeabletoseeit.”
It’snotacompletelycrazyidea.
“Okay.Thatsoundslikeagoodplan.I’mstillgoingtowriteaquicknotethough,justincase.”
Ireachinsidemyhandbagforapen,andfindanoldenvelopetoscribbleon.
Sorrytodisturbyou,wedidn’tmeantointrude.WearestayingatBlackwaterChapel.Thereisnophoneattheproperty,andnopowerduetothestorm,nowaterthankstofrozenpipes,andnomobilesignal.Ifyouhaveaphonewecouldborrow,we’dreallyappreciateitandpromisetoreimburseyouforthecall.We’velostourdog.Ifyouseehim,hisnameisBobandwe’reofferingagenerousrewardforhissafereturn.Manythanks,Amelia
IshowthenotetoAdam.
“Whydidyouaddthatbitaboutthereward?”
“JustincasesheisawitchandwantstoturnBobintoarabbittoo,”Iwhisper,beforetryingtopushthenotethroughtheletterbox.Itseemstobesealedup,soIslidetheenvelopebeneaththedoorinstead.Ihearanoisethen,andtakeaquickstepback.“Comeon,let’sgo.”
“What’sthehurry?”Adamasks.
Iwatchashesalutesablackbird,justincaseit’samagpie.It’soneofhismanysuperstitioushabitsthatoftenmakemeloveandloathehimatthesametime.Theideathatfailingtosaluteamagpiewillresultinbadluckwaitingforyouaroundthenextcorner,isamythmylogicalmindhasneverbelievedin.Buthedoes.Becausehismotherdid.Givenourcurrentcircumstances,maybeIshouldstartsalutingtoo.
“Iheardsomething,”Iwhisper,whenwearealittlefartheraway.“Ithinkshewasontheothersideofthedoorthewholetimewewerestandingtheretalking.Whichmeanssheheardeveryword.”
ROBIN
Robindidheareveryword.
Shereadsthenotethatthewomanpushedunderthedoor,thenscrewsitupintoaballbeforethrowingitonthefire.
Robinisn’tawitch—notthatshecareswhattheythink—buthasfranklybeencalledfarworse.Sowhatifshedoesn’tkeepthecottagespotlesslyclean?It’sherhomeandhowshechoosestoliveisherbusiness.Somepeoplethinkmoneyistheanswertoalloflife’sproblems,butthey’rewrong,sometimesmoneyisthecauseofthem.Somepeoplethinkmoneycanbuylove,orhappiness,orevenotherpeople.ButRobinwon’tbebought.Everythingshehasnowishers.Sheearnedit,orfoundit,ormadeitallbyherself.Shedoesn’tneedorwantanyoneelse’smoneyorthingsoropinions.RobincantakecareofRobin.Besides,thiscottagemightnotlooklikemuch,butitwassomewheresheusedtorunawaytoasachild.Justlikehermotherbeforeher.Sometimeshomeismoreofamemorythanaplace.
Thecommentsaboutherpersonalappearancehurtabit,morethantheyshouldhave.Butname-callingstingsnomorethannettlesthesedays,andtheinitialirritationsoonfadestonothing.Besides,beingdismissedasanelderlywomanamusesherinsomeways.Justbecauseherhairhasturnedgray,itdoesn’tmeanthatRobinisold.Shetellsherselfthathedoesn’tknowwhathe’stalkingabout—themancan’tevenrecognizehisownreflection.Butalthoughvanityhasneverbeenoneofherqualities,itdoesn’tmeansheisimmunetoinsults.
Shetidiesherselfandtheplaceupalittle—becauseshewantsto,notbecauseofwhathesaid—thencarefullypullsbackthecornerofonebedsheetcurtain,tocheckthatthevisitorsaren’tstilllurkingoutside.Sheispleasedtoseethattheyarehalfwayupthehillalready.Outofthewayandearshot.
Nowthatsheissuretheycannotseeorhearanythingelsethattheyshouldn’t,Robinsitsdownintheoldleatherchairandlightsherpipe.Shejustneedsalittlesomethingtosteadyherselfandhernerves,andthisisthelastchanceshe’llgettosmokeit.TheonlyvisitorssheisusedtothesedaysarePatrickthepostman—whoknowsbetterthantoknockorsayhello—andEwan,thelocalfarmerwhograzeshissheeponthelandaroundBlackwaterLoch.Hesometimesdropsbywithmilkoreggstosaythankyou—sheletstheanimalsfeedforfree,andunderstandsthatfarminghasbecomeatoughbusiness.Healsotellshersnippetsofgossipaboutvariouscharactersintown—notthatRobinwantstoknow—butmostpeoplestayaway.
BecauseallthelocalsknowthestoriesaboutBlackwaterChapel.
Robinlooksoutofthewindowtocheckonthevisitorsonelasttime.They’renearthetopofthehillnow,soit’ssafetogoout.SheputsonhercoatandOscarstaresupather.Afewyearsago,Robinwouldhavethoughtthatahouserabbitwasaridiculousidea,butasitturnsout,theymakesurprisinglygoodcompanions.Robinslipsaredleathercollarinsideherpocket,thenheadsofftowardthechapelalone.Sheknowswhathappenedtothevisitors’dogbecauseshetookhim.ButRobindoesn’tfeelguiltyaboutthatatall,eventhoughsheusedtoownadogherself,andknowshowupsettheymustbe.
Badpeopledeservethebadthingsthathappentothem.
IRON
Wordoftheyear:chuffedadjective.Feelinghappyorverypleased.28thFebruary2014—oursixthanniversaryDearAdam,Thishasbeenagoodyearforusboth,hasn’tit?Youwerehappy,whichmademehappy,asthoughitwerecontagious.HenryWinteraskedyoutoadaptanotherofhisnovelsforfilm—amurdermysterywithahintofhorrorthistime,calledTheBlackHouse—andthingsseemtobemovingintherightdirectionwithyourownscreenplaystoo,withRockPaperScissorsnowinpreproduction!WehaveOctoberO’Brientothankforthat.HavinganA-listactressonboarddidn’tjusthelpopendoorsforyourownprojectsinHollywood,itattractedtheattentionofagreatproducer,someoneyoutrust.Thethreeofyouhavespentaninsaneamountlotsoftimetogetherthisyear,withyoudisappearingtoLAwiththemmorethanonce,notthatImind.Besides,thankstoOctober,we’vejusthadoneofourbestanniversariesever.Itoldherthatwe’veneverbeenawayforouranniversarybecauseyou’realwaystoobusyworking—it’strue—andthat’swhenshesuggestedwecelebrateoursixthinstyleatherFrenchvilla.Itwasverykind,especiallywhenshe’shadsuchahorribletimelately.Thepressfoundoutaboutaspeedingticket,oneofmanyasitturnsout.October’sprettyface—andveryexpensivecar—wasinthenewspapersforallthewrongreasons.Octoberlovesdrivingfastcars,butnowshehastogotocourtandbecauseofallthepreviousoffenses,itsoundslikeshemightloseherlicense.TheEurotunnelcrossingwasmuchfasterthanIimagineditwouldbe.Weparkedonthetrain,andjustoverthirtyminuteslaterwewereinCalais,asifbymagic.Bobusedhispetpassportforthefirsttime,anditwassoeasytotravelwithadog.Isawonewomancrossingthechannelwitharabbitinthepassengerseatofhercar.Itworeatinyredharnessandwalkedonalead,I’dneverseenanythinglikeit!WedrovethroughParis—IwantedtoseeNotreDame—andafterlunchinalittlecaféonthebankoftheRiverSeine,westrolledthroughthe“BouquinistesofParis,”andthebooksellersofParisdidnotdisappoint.Eachhadtheirowndisplayofsecondhandbooks—hundredsofthem—beneathaseaofgreen-roofedhutsliningthepathalongtheriver.Justastheirpredecessorshadbeendoingforhundredsofyears.Youwereinyourelement.“DoyouknowthesebookstallsweredeclaredaUNESCOWorldHeritageSitein1991?”yousaid,stoppingtoliterallysmellthebooks.It’ssomethingyoualwaysdo,andalthoughIoncefounditalittlepeculiar,Inowfinditendearing.Ilovethewayyoupickupabookinyourhands,carefullyturningthepagesasifthepaperweremadeofgold,thensmellthem,asifyoumightbeabletobreatheinthestory.“Ididnotknowthat,”Ireplied,havingheardyoutellthistaleseveraltimesbefore.That’safunnythingaboutmarriagethatnobodyevermentions.Peoplethinkthatwhenacouplerunoutofstoriestotelleachother,theirtimeisup.Icouldlistentoyourstoriesallday,eventheonesI’vealreadyheard,becauseeverytimeyoutellastoryit’salittledifferent.Nobodyknowseverythingaboutanotherperson,nomatterhowlongthey’vebeentogether,butifyoueverfeellikeyouknowtoomuchthensomethingiswrong.“ItissaidthattheRiverSeineistheonlyriverintheworldthatrunsbetweentwobookshelves,”yousaid,andyouheldmyhand.“Ilikethat,”Ireplied,becauseIdid.Istilldo.“Ilikeyou,”youreplied,thenyoukissedme.Wehaven’tkissedinpubliclikethatforyears.Atfirst,Ifeltself-conscious—Iwasn’tsureIcouldrememberhow—butthenIgaveintotheideaofusbeingusagain.Thepeopleweusedtobe.WetimetraveledtothemomentwhenIwasthegirlyouwantedtomarry,andyouwerethemanIhopedmightask.OctoberhasloanedusherFrenchhomeinChampagnewhilesheisfilminganothermovieinAmerica.Shehasfourdifferenthomesdottedaroundtheworld.Maybethat’swhyshe’ssogoodatchangingheraccentandlook.HerFrenchhouseisatwenty-minutewalkfromMo?t&ChandononAvenuedeChampagne—whichI’mquiteconvincedisthebestaddressI’veeverheard—andIcanseewhyshelikeslivingheremorethanLondonorDublin.IfeellikeweareinDisneylandforwinelovers.Themainavenueisacobblestonedwonderlandforanyonewhoenjoysaglassoffizz.Elegantchateauslinethestreetoneitherside,eachownedbytheworld’soldestandbest-knownwinemakers.Thetownitselfisfilledwithaward-winningrestaurantsandcutelittlebars,allservingchampagneasifitwerelemonade.Yourfavoriteactress’sFrenchhideawayisintheperfectlocation:closeenoughtowalktothecenteroftown,butfarawayenoughtofeellikeweareinthecountryside,withsweepingviewsofvineyardsandthevalleybelow.Thebuildingwasonceasmall,derelict,formerindependentwinery.Nowitisaluxuryhouse,allwoodenbeamsandbigglasswindows.Modern,butwithenoughoriginalfeaturestomakeitfeellikeahome.Nottooshabbyatallforawomanunderthirty.Sheseemstohavecaughttherenovationbug,andalreadyhashereyeonanotherabandonedpropertyshewantstotransform,accordingtoyou.Somewherealittlemoreremote.Wearrivedlate,soafterasupperofcookedCamembert,jam,andfreshFrenchbread,washeddownwithabottleofchampagne—biens?r—itwasstraighttobed.“Happyanniversary,”yousaidthenextmorning,kissingmeawake.Iwasn’tsurewhereIwasatfirst,butthenrelaxedwhenIsawthestunningviewfromtheguestbedroom:nothingbutbluesky,sunshine,andvineyards.Yousmiledwhenyougavememygiftandlookedratherpleasedwithyourself.I’msosorryifIlookedalittledisappointedwhenIopenedit;Iwasstillhalfasleepandwasn’texpectingyoutogivemeabookmark.Don’tgetmewrong,asbookmarksgoit’saveryniceone:madeofirontorepresentoursixthyearandengraved:IRONSOGLADIMARRIEDYOU.Youseemedtothinkthatwashilarious.“I’mjustchuffedthatyoulovereadingasmuchasIdothesedays,”yousaid.“It’snicewhenwespendaneveningwithacoupleofbooksandabottleofsomethinggoodinfrontofthefire,isn’tit?”“Nobodyunderseventyusestheword‘chuffed’anymore,”Ireplied.Itistrue—Idoreadasmuchasyouthesedays.WhatchoicedoIhave?It’seitherreadtogetherorbealone.Igaveyouyourgift:averyelaborate-lookingvintageironkey.YouseemedasunimpressedasIprobablydidafewminutesearlier,andIdecidedwemightneedtoworkonourgiftbuyingchoices.“Whatdoesitopen?”youasked.“Asecret,”Isaid,andreachedbeneaththewhitesheets.Ithinkyou’llrememberwhatwedidthen,twice,inOctoberO’Brien’sbedroom.Itwasthebestsexwe’vehadinalongtime.Therewereseveralphotosofourlovelyhosthangingonthewalls:OctoberwinningaBafta,orposingwithmembersoftheroyalfamilyforthecharityworkshedoes,orsmilingwithotheryoung,beautiful,HollywoodA-listersthatIshouldprobablyknowthenamesof,butdon’t.Ihadtoturnawayatonepoint,worriedshewaswatchingus.Ihatemyselfforthinkingit,butIhopeitwasmeyouwerepicturinginherbed.Ihadalittlenoseabouttheplacewhileyouweretakingashower.Whowouldn’t?Therewereinspirationalmottosdottedaround,includingaframedprintthatread:YOUGETWHATYOUWORKFOR,NOTWHATYOUWISHFORand—mypersonalfavorite—BETHEPERSONYOURDOGTHINKSYOUARE.Ididn’tknowshehadone.Therewasalsosomeunopenedmailonthedoormat,andtwooftheenvelopesIpickedupwereaddressedtoanR.O’Brien.“Ididn’tknowOctoberwasmarried,”Isaid,puttingthepostonthedressingtable,andhavingaquickpeekinsideherdrawers.“Sheisn’t,”yourepliedfromthebathroom.“ThenwhoisR.O’Brien?”“What?”youasked,shoutingoverthesoundoftheshower.“TheselettersarealladdressedtosomeonecalledR.O’Brien.”“Octoberisjustherstagename.Ithelpskeepherprivatelifeprivate,”yousaid.“Goodthingtoothewaythepresssometimesgoesafterher.Thatbusinessaboutthespeedingticketandalltheheadlinesitgenerated,you’dhavethoughtshekilledsomeone.”Thenyouimmediatelychangedthesubject,andIwasglad,becauseIwantedthistimeawaytobeallaboutus.Onlyus.IgaveyouthatironkeybecauseIwanttotellyouthetruthabouteverything.Allofit.We’resohappyatthemoment,andIdon’twanttheretobesecretsbetweenusanymore.Butwhenyouunwrappedit,andheldthekeytoeverythinginyourhand,somethingfeltwrong.Whyruinourpresentorjeopardizeourfuturewithmypast?Bettertoletuslivethishappyversionofusalittlewhilelonger.Allmylove,YourwifexxADAM
Itakebettercareofmyselfthanmywife,shespendstoolongtakingcareofothers.Bythetimewereachthetopofthehill,sheisredinthefaceandmorethanalittleoutofbreath.Icouldhavemadeiteasier,gonealittleslowerperhaps,butIwantedtogetusbothasfarawayfromthatcottageassoonaspossible.
“Ican’tseeanything,”shesays.
“That’sbecausethereisnothingtosee.”
Strictlyspeaking,neitherofthesethingsaretrue.
Thereisafullthree-sixty-degreeviewofthevalleyfromuphere—justasIpredictedtherewouldbe—withonlysnowymountainsandwildernessasfarastheeyecansee.It’sstunning,butaviewofanotherhouse,orapetrolstation,oraphonebox,mighthavebeenpreferable,giventhecircumstances.AbeautifulbutbarrenlandscapeisexactlywhatIfeared:nowheretorun.Orhide.Wearecompletelycutoff.
Ididseesomethingthough.
Backatthecottage.
It’sbeenbotheringmeeversince.
Ididn’trecognizethewoman—Ineverrecognizeanyone—butIdidgetastrangesenseofdéjàvu.Itrytotuckitawayinoneofthedarkercornersofmymind—outofsight—andlookatmywifeinstead.Shehasherbacktome,busytakingintheviewofthevalley.Icantellsheistryingtocatchherbreathandgatherherthoughts,bothseemtohaveescapedher.IwishIcouldseemywifethewayotherpeopledo.IrecognizetheshapeofAmelia’sbody,thelengthandstyleofherhair.Iknowthesmellofhershampoo,hermoisturizingcream,andtheperfumeIgiveherforbirthdaysorChristmas.Iknowhervoice,herquirks,andmannerisms.
ButwhenIstareatherface,Icouldbelookingatanyone.
Ireadathrilleraboutawomanwithprosopagnosialastyear.Iwasgenuinelyexcitedatfirst—notmuchhasbeenwrittenaboutfaceblindness.IthoughtitmightbeagoodpremiseandmakeagoodTVdrama,aswellashelpraiseawarenessofthecondition,butsadlynot.Thewritingwasasdisappointingandmediocreastheplot,andIturnedthejobdown.Ispendsomuchtimerewritingotherpeople’sstories,IwishIwasbetteratrewritingmyown.
SometimesIthinkthatIshouldhavebeenanauthor.Anauthor’swordsaretreatedlikegold,they’reuntouchableandgettolivehappilyeverafterinsidetheirbooks—eventhebadones.Ascreenwriter’swordsarejellybeansincomparison;ifanexecutivedoesn’tlikethem,theychewthemupandspitthemout.Alongwithwhoeverwrotethem.Myownreal-lifeexperiencewouldhavemadeabetterthrillerthanthatnovel.Imaginenotbeingabletorecognizeyourwife,oryourbestfriend,orthepersonresponsibleforkillingyourmotherrightinfrontofyouasakid.
Mymotherwasthepersonwhotaughtmetoreadandfallinlovewithstories.WewoulddevournovelsfromthelibrarytogetherinthecouncilflatIgrewupin,andshesaidthatbookswouldtakemeanywhereifIletthem.Kindliesarethecousinsofwhiteones.ShealsosaidthatmyeyeswouldturnsquarefromalltheTVIinsistedonwatching,butwhenourbatteredoldsetbroke,mymothersoldallofherjewelry—exceptforherbelovedsapphirering—atthepawnshoptogetmeanotherone.SheknewthatthecharactersIlovedinbooks,films,andTVshows,filledthegapsleftbyabsentfamilyandnonexistentfriendswhenIwasachild.
Watchingherdiewillalwaysbetheworstthingthateverhappenedtome.
“Whatshallwedonow?”Ameliaasks,interruptingmythoughts.
Itwasalongandsteepclimbtothetopofthishill,bothofusareunsuitablydressedforthehikeandtheweather,anditseemsitwasallfornothing.Neitherofushasasignalonourphones,evenuphere.There’snosignofBoboranywayofcallingforhelp.Icanseethechapelinthedistancedownbelow,anditlookssomuchsmallerthanbefore.Lessthreatening.Thesky,ontheotherhand,hasdarkenedsinceweleft.Thecloudsseemdeterminedtoblockoutthesun,andAmeliaisshivering.Itwasokaywhenwewereonthemove,butIfeelthecoldtoosincewestopped,andIknowweshouldn’tstandstillforlong.
Whenyoureachthetopofahill,youcanoftenlookbackandseethewholepathyoutooktomakethejourney.Butwhileyou’reonthepath,it’ssometimesimpossibletoseewhereyouaregoingorwhereyouhavebeen.Itfeelslikeametaphorforlife,andI’dbetemptedtowritethethoughtdownifIwasn’tsodamncold.Itakeonefinallookaround,butotherthanthechapelandthecottage,therereallyisnothingtoseeexceptasnow-coveredlandscapeformilesinalldirections.
“Iguesswereallyareinthemiddleofnowhere,”Isay.
“I’mfreezing,”sherepliesthroughchatteringteeth.“PoorBob.”
Itakeoffmyjacketandwrapitaroundher.“Comeon,let’sgo.We’lllightthefirewhenwegetback,getwarm,andcomeupwithanotherplan.Itwillbeeasiergoingdown.”
I’mwrongaboutthat.
Thegroundseemsevenmoreslipperynowthanitdidonthewayup,andacombinationofsnowandicemakesourprogressslow.Themuddyskyturnsadarkershadeofgray,andalthoughwebothdoagoodjobofpretendingnottonoticethefirstfewdropsofsleet,secondslateritisimpossibletoignore.Ourclothesarenotdesignedtowithstandextremewinterweather,andneitherarewe.Thewindblowsthesleetatusfromalldirections,andwithinminuteswearebothsoakedtotheskin.EvenI’mshiveringnow.
JustwhenIthinkthingscan’tgetanyworse—weatherwise—thesleetturnstohail,rainingdownfromtheskylikebullets.Ipredictwewillbothbecoveredinbruiseswhenwegetback.Ifwegetback.WheneverIdaretolookup,riskingafacefulloftinyicepellets,Inoticethatwedon’tseemtobegettinganyfartherdownthehill.Thechapelstilllookstinyandveryfaraway.
Thepeltingfromaboveeasesoff,andthehailturnsintosnow.
“Let’stryandmakeabitmoreprogresswhilewecan,”Isay,reachingouttohelpAmeliadownfromonepartoftherockypathtoanother.Butshedoesn’ttakemyhand.
“Icanseesomeone,”shesays,staringintothedistance.
Ishieldmyeyes,scanthevalleybelow,butseenothing.“Where?”
“Goingintothechapel,”Ameliawhispers,asthoughtheymighthearherfromwhatmuststillbeoveramileaway.
Sureenough,Ispottheshapeofapersonwalkingupthechapelsteps.
IfeelforthegiantkeyIlockedtheoldwoodendoorswithbeforeweleft,andstarttorelaxwhenIfinditinmypocket.ButmybriefsenseofcomfortevaporatesasIwatchtheshadowyfigureopenthedoorsanddisappearinside.I’msureImusthaveimaginedit—thoughit’shardtobecertainofanythingfromthisdistance—butitlookedliketheymighthavebeenwearingaredkimono.Justliketheonemymotherusedtowearwhensheinvited…friendstostay.ItrytoControl-Alt-Deletethethought,asalways,butthekeysinmymindgetstuck.Imighthaveimaginedwhattheywerewearing,butsomeonedidjustgointothechapel.EvenifIrandownthehill,andmanagednottoslipontheiceorfallinthesnow,Iguessitwouldtakeatleasttwentyminutestogetbackdownthereandconfrontwhoeverjustletthemselvesin.
“Tellmehowweendedupstayingatthisplaceagain,”Isay,inashakyvoicethatsoundslikeapoorimitationofmyown.
“Ialreadytoldyou.IwontheweekendawayinthestaffChristmasraffle.”
“Andyoufoundoutwhenyoureceivedanemail?”
“Yes.”
“Andtheemailwasfrom…?”
“Thehousekeeper.Itoldyoualready.”
“Didanyoneelseyouknowatworkwinsomethingsimilar?”
“NinagotaboxofQualityStreetchocolates,butsheboughttwentyraffleticketssowasboundtowinsomething.”
“Howmanyraffleticketsdidyoubuy?”Iask,alreadydreadingtheanswer.
“Onlyone.”
ROBIN
Itdoesn’ttakeRobinlongtowalkfromthecottagetothechapel.
Oscarlookedverysorryforhimselfwhenshelefthimbehind,hisbigwhitefloppyearsseemedtodroopevenmorethannormal.RobinwasindesperateneedofsomecomfortandcompanywhenshefirstarrivedinBlackwater,andOscarseemedlikeagoodnameforthecompanionshefound.Robinhadalwaysbeenratherfondofthosesolidbronzestatuesthefilmindustrygaveoutonceayear.HeronlyOscarmightbearabbit,butsheloveshim.
Shespottedthevisitorsattheviewpointontopofthehillinthedistance,andknewshehadatleasthalfanhourtodoeverythingsheneededtodo.Theycouldn’tgetbackintimetostophereveniftheytried.Unlikethem,shehasproperwinterweathergear.Evenifherborrowedbootsaretoobig,they’restillbetterthantrendytrainersfortrekkingacrosssnow-coveredhillsandfields.
Shestopsoutsidethechapelbrieflybeforegoingin,takingamomenttostareupatthestained-glasswindowsandthesmall,whitebelltowerperchedontopofthebuilding.Withthelochandmountainsinthebackground,it’slikelookingatapainting.Sherealizesthatshehasbeenheretoolonginmorewaysthanone;apersoncanbecomeimmunetobeautywhenexposedtoittoooften.AsRobinletsherselfinside,sodoesthewind,blowingacloudofdustmotesmasqueradingassnowintotheair.Itamusesherthatthevisitorsthinksheisthehousekeeper.Thatisn’twhyshehasakey.
Robinremovesherbootsinthebootroom—theplacemightbefilthy,butthereisnoneedtomakethingsworse—thenshewalksthroughtothekitchen.Hersockshavemoreholesthanapairoffishnets,butwastenot,wantnot.Thechapelisevencolderthanusual,andalreadysmellsdifferentfromhowitdidbeforetheyarrived.Tracesofthedog,alongwiththewoman’soverpoweringperfumenowpermeatethestaleair.
Shehurriestotheloungethatlooksmorelikealibrary,thenpullsthegloveoffherrighthand,andrunsherfingersalongthespinesofthenovelsthatlinetheshelves.Shedoesthiseverytimeshecomeshere,thesamewaysomepeoplecan’tresisttouchingtipsofwheatinafield.Shenoticesthefaintsmellofsmoke,andseesthatthevisitorsburnedallthelogssheleftforthemlastnight.Notthatitmattersnow.Atleast,nottoher.Itmightmattertothemlater
Whenshegripsthebanisterofthespiralstaircase,amillionunwantedmemoriesfloodhermind,drowninghercourageandcloudingherconcentration.
Yourfocusdeterminesyourfuture
Robinisratherfondofinspirationalmottoslikethese.Sherepeatsthewordstoherselfuntilherthoughtsfeelsteadyagain,thenmakesherwayupthecreakystairs,ignoringthemissingfacesamongtheframedphotosonthewall.
Thebedwherethevisitorssleptlastnighthasnotbeenmade.Itstillfeelsstrangetohaveletthemsleephere.Butitdoesn’ttakelongforRobintotuckinthesheets,straightentheduvet,andpuffupthepillows.It’stheleastshecando:ifthevisitorsarestillheretonight—andtheywillbe—theywillneedtheirrest.Thenshelooksinsidetheirbags,andstudiestheirthings,becauseshecanandbecauseshewantsto.
Shestartsinthebathroom.Robinfindsthewoman’sshampoo,thensmellsitbeforetippingthecontentsdownthesink.Seeingtheirpinkandbluetoothbrushessidebysideprovokesanotherwaveofirritation,soshegrabsthembothandusesthemtocleanthetoiletbowl.Shescrubssohardthatthebristleslookflattened.Thensheputseverythingbackhowshefoundit.
Thepotsoffacecreamleftonthewindowsilllookexpensive,soRobinappliessometoherowncheeks.Ithasbeenawhilesinceherskincareroutineconsistedofanythingmorethanawetflannelonceaday,andthemoisturizerfeelssogoodshedecidestokeepit,slippingthejarintoherpocket.Shereturnstothebedroomthen,andtakesonelastlookaround,noticingthatthedrawertooneofthebedsidetablesisslightlyopen.Shetakesacloserlook,hopingsomethingmighthavebeenleftinside.
ThewaysomepeopleblindlytrustothershasalwaysbaffledRobin.Atleastoneofthevisitorsbelievedtheywerecominghereforaweekendaway,andthatBlackwaterChapelwassomekindofholidayrental.It’snotandneverwillbe.Atleastnotwhileshe’salive.
WhenRobinthinksaboutthepropertiespeoplepayvastamountsofmoneytostayin:hotels,Airbnbs,overpricedcottagesbythesea,shecan’thelpthinkingaboutalltheotherhundredsofstrangerswhohavesleptinthesamebedsheets,drunkfromthesamecups,orshatinthesametoiletbefore.Allthosepeople,usingthesameaccesscodeseverychangeoverday—differenthandsslippingthesamekeysintodifferentpocketsonceaweek.Locksarerarelychanged,evenwhenthekeystorentalpropertiesgetlost,sowhoknowshowmanypeoplemightreallyhaveacopy.Anyonewhohaseverstayedtherecouldcomebackatanytimeandletthemselvesin.
Shefindsawalletinthedrawer.Itseemsoddthatthemanwouldhaveleftitbehind,butanimalownersdoactstrangelywhenworriedabouttheirpets.Robincanunderstandthat.Sheslidesthecreditcardsoutofhiswalletonebyone,rubbingherthumbacrosstheembossedname.Thenshefindsacrumpledpapershapebetweentheleatherfolds.Sheholdsituptothelightandseesthatitisanorigamicrane.It’salittleburnedaroundtheedges,butRobinknowsthatcranesaresupposedtobringgoodluck,andthefactthathecarriesitaroundinhiswalletmakesherhatehimalittleless.Sheputseverythingelsebackasshefoundit.
Thereisaninhalerinthedrawerontheothersideofthebed.Robinputsitinhermouthandtakesapuff,butitisn’tnearlyassatisfyingasherpipe.Sheexpelstherestofitscontentsintotheair,thentakestheemptyinhalerwithher,alongwiththeprescriptionsleepingpillsshehasfound.Afteraquicktriptothetowertoringthechapelbell,Robinheadsbackinsidetofinishwhattheystarted.
AMELIA
Adamstartstorundownthehilltowardthechapel,butIcan’tkeepup.
He’sbeensomewhatpreoccupiedwithhisownhealthandfitnessrecently,andstartedtakingvitaminsandsupplements,whichisnew.Hisobsessionwithjoggingatleasttwiceaweekisfinallypayingoff,andItellhimnottowait;thesooneroneofusgetsbackthebetter.Ikeephavingtostoptocatchmybreath.Iforgottobringmyinhaler—foolishlyleavingitnexttothebedinmypanictofindBob—butIknowI’llbeokay,solongasItakemytimeandtrytostaycalm.
Itsoundseasierinmyheadthanitisinreality.
Ifwehadn’tbothseensomeonelettingthemselvesintothechapel,ImighthavethoughtIimaginedit.Butitwasreal.Maybeitisthemysterioushousekeeper?Cometocheckweareokayafterthestorm?Itellmyselfthatwhoeveritiswillbeabletohelpus.Andwantto.Becausenoneoftheotherpossibilitiesauditioninginsidemymindaregood.WhenIreachthesnow-coveredtrackatthebottomofthehill,I’mrelievedtobeonaflatsurfaceagain.Adam’sleadhasincreased.Heisn’tfarfromthechapelnow,soIhurryonasfastasIcan,tryingtocatchup.
Istopwhenthebellinthetowerstartstoring.
Thesnowpummelsmyface.Ididn’tseeAdamgoinsidebuthemusthave,becausewhenIlookup—shieldingmyeyesfromtherelentlessblizzard—he’svanished.Didheringthebell?Irememberearlier,whenAdamsaidthatthemaindoorsweretheonlywayin,andout,ofthechapel.Ihaven’tseenanyoneleave,whichmeanswhoeverwesawgoinsideisstillthere.Anythingcouldbehappening.Thelatestsnowstormseemstohaveturnedtheworldblackandwhite.IcanbarelyseemyownhandwhenIholditinfrontofmyface.ItrytorunfasterbutIkeepslippingandmycheststartstohurt.Myheartisbeatingtooquickly,andmybreathsaretooshallow.Myanxietyismadeworseknowingthateveninamedicalemergency,wehavenowayofcallingforhelp.
WhenIfinallyreachthehugechapeldoors,Idon’tneedtoworryaboutknocking—theyarewideopenandthefloorofthebootroomiscoveredinsnow.Ispotapairoflarge,unfamiliarWellingtonbootsnexttotheoldchurchbench,andnoticethatsomeonehasdrawnseveralsmileyfacesinthedustonitswoodensurfacenow.Iwonderifitmeanssomethingandliftthelid,butit’sempty.WhenIlookup,Icatchsightofmyreflectioninthewalloftinymirrors.Ilookwrecked.
“Adam?”Icall,butammetwithaneeriesilence.
Thekitchenisempty,asistheloungefullofbooks.Ihurryupthewoodenspiralstaircasetothefirstfloor,wheezing,andgrippingthebanisterlikeacane.IignoretheDANGERKEEPOUTsignonthefarthestdoor,andclimbthestepstothebelltower.Butthere’snobodythere,andthebedroomisemptytoo.Itdoesn’tmakesense.Thepaininmychestisn’tgettinganybetter,soIpullopenthedrawerbesidethebed.Myinhalerhasgone.I’msurethat’swhereIleftit,andnowpanicstartstoripplethroughme.
IneedtofindAdam.BackoutonthelandingItrytheotherdoors,butthey’reallstilllocked.Heisn’there,I’vealreadysearchedeveryroom.ThenIrememberthecrypt.
“Adam!”Iyellagain.
Silence.
IrunsofastthatIalmostfalldownthecreakingstairs.
“I’minhere!”hecallswhenIreachthelounge,butIcan’tseehim.
“Whereareyou?”Ishoutback.
“Behindthebookcaseonthebackwall.”
Ihearhiswordsbutfailtomakesenseofthem.
Ifollowthesoundofhisvoice,staringattheshelveslinedwithbooksfromfloortoceiling.Idon’tunderstanduntilIseethesliveroflightrevealingasecretdoor,coveredinthespinesofoldbooks.Ihesitatebeforepushingitopen,onceagainfeelingasthoughImighthavefallendowntherabbithole,orbecometrappedinoneofthedarkanddisturbingnovelsmyhusbandlovestoadapt.
Thethindoorsqueaksopentorevealanotherroom.It’sastudy,butunlikeanyIhaveseenbefore.Thelong,narrow,darkspaceonlyhasonestained-glasswindowforlight.Thereisanantiquedeskatoneend,andmyhusbandissittingatit.
“Whoeverwasherehasgone,”Adamsayswithoutlookingup.“Isearchedthewholeplace.TheonlythingthatInoticedwasdifferentwasthatthedoortothisroomwasopen.”
“Idon’tunderstand—”
“IthinkI’mstartingto.Irecognizethisroom.”
Hedoesn’tseemtonoticethatIcanbarelybreathe.Therearenosupplementsforpeoplewhosufferfromasympathydeficit,andmyhusbandhasalwaysbeeneasilydistractedbyhisownthoughtsandfeelings.“Youdo?”
“Yes,I’veseenitbefore.Icouldn’tthinkwhereatfirstandthenInoticedthis,”hesays,tappingtheshinywoodendesktop.“I’veseenapictureofthisstudyinamagazine,albeitafewyearsago.AndIrememberwhothearticlewasabout.Yousaythatyouwonaweekendawaybychance,inaraffle,butthatcan’tbetrue.It’salltoomuchofacoincidence.Iknowwhothispropertybelongstonow.”
COPPER
Wordoftheyear:discombobulatedadjective.Feelingconfusedanddisconcerted.28thFebruary2015—ourseventhanniversaryDearAdam,It’sbeenadifficultyear.OctoberO’BrienwasfounddeadinaLondonhotelafewmonthsago,andyouwereoneofthelastpeopletoseeheralive.Suspectedsuicideaccordingtothenewspapers.Therewasnonote,butemptybottlesofalcoholandpillswerefoundbyherbed.Itwasobviouslydevastating.Andsurprising;thewomanalwaysseemedsohappyandpositive,atleastontheoutside.Barelythirtyyearsoldandeverythingtolivefor.Thetwoofyouhadbecomequiteclose—Iwasratherfondofhermyself—butitalsomeansthatthefilmingofRockPaperScissorshasbeencanceled.Youcan’tmakeaTVserieswithoutthestaroftheshow.Thefuneralwasawful.Youcouldtellthatsomanypeoplethereweremerelyactingoutwhattheythoughtgriefshouldbe.Two-facedshysters.Itseemsthatgenuinefriendsareevenhardertocomebywhenyou’refamous.IwassurprisedtodiscoverthatOctober’srealnamewasRainbowO’Brien.Herparentswerehippies,andnobodyattheserviceworeblack.“Thankgoodnesssheusedastagename,”youwhispered.Inodded,butwasn’tsurewhetherIagreed.Shewasabitlikearainbow:beautiful,captivating,colorful,andgonefromourlivesalmostassoonassheappearedinthem.Iusedtothinkanamewasjustaname.NowI’mnotsosure.IhadbecomequitefriendlywithOctobermyself—occasionaldrinks,dogwalks,andvisitstoartgalleries—andImisshertoo.Itdoesfeellikesomething,notjustsomeone,ismissingfrombothofourlivesnowthatsheisnolongerinthem.AtriptoNewYorksoundedlikeagreatwaytospendourseventhanniversaryandtakeourmindsoffitall,untilIrealizedthatitcoincidedwiththepremiereofHenryWinter’slatestfilm,TheBlackHouse.Youweresoeagertopleaseflatteredwhenhetoldhisagentandthestudiothathewouldonlyattendifyoudid.Youthoughtitwasbecausehewaspleasedwiththeadaptation,andwantedyoutogetthecredityoudeservedforwritingthescreenplay.Butthatwasn’twhyhewantedyouthere.Orwhyhesuggestedyouinviteyourwife.You’vebeenmoodyashellalittledistantrecently,andIdidn’twanttostartanotherfight,butplayinggooseberrytoapairofwriterswhiletheybaskedinthetemporarywarmthofHollywood’sficklesundidn’tappealmuch.NeitherdidwalkingdowntheredcarpetattheoldmovietheaterinManhattanwherethepremierewasheld.TheZiegfeldwasmykindofplace—anold-schoolcinemadecoratedinredandgold,withaseaofplushredvelvetseats.Butbeingphotographedonthewayinmademefeellikeafraud.Ihatehavingmypicturetakenatthebestoftimes,andcomparedwithallthebeautifulcreaturesinattendance—withtheirtinywaistsandbighair—IworriedthatImustbeadisappointmenttoyou.It’shardtoshinewhensurroundedbystars.Theideaofjustbeingnormalseemstomakeyousounhappy,butit’sallIeverwantedustobe.Thedealwasthatwewouldspendtimealonetogetherafterthepremiere,butthenHenrywantedyoutoaccompanyhimtoafewmoreeventsthenextday.Iunderstandwhyyoucouldn’tsayno;Ijustwishthatyouhadn’twantedtosayyes.Igetthatyou’vealwaysbeenahugefanofhis,andIunderstandhowgratefulyouarethatheletyouadapthiswork.Iknowwhatit’smeantforyourcareer,buthaven’tIalreadypaidthepriceforthat?Wanderingaroundacityonmyownwhileyouholdanauthor’shandinsteadofmine,isnotmyideaofahappyanniversary.Youhaven’tbeenyourselfforawhile.IknowthatyouaregrievingforOctober,Iunderstandthatshewasmorethanjustacolleague,andthedreamofseeingyourownworkonscreenstalling,again,mustalsobeupsetting.Butitstillfeelsasifthereissomethingelsegoingon.Somethingyou’renottellingme.Thereareresidentsinourlives,theoneswhostayforyears,andthentherearethetouristsjustpassingthrough.Sometimesitcanbehardtotellthedifference.Wecan’t,anddon’t,andshouldn’ttrytoholdontoeveryonethatwemeet,andI’vemetalotoftouristsinmylife,peopleIshouldhavekeptatasafedistance.Ifyoudon’tletanyonegettooclose,theycan’thurtyou.Ispenttodayalone,visitingthepartsofNewYorkI’dneverseenbefore,whileyoufollowedHenryWinteraroundthecity.Theelderlyauthormightseemcharmingtoyou,ontherareoccasionswhenyouhavebeeninhiscompany,butinreallifethemanliveslikeahermit,drinkslikeafish,andisimpossibletoplease.Ican’ttellyouthat,becauseIshouldn’tknow.I’vereadallofhisnovels,too,justlikeyou.Hismostrecentwasmediocreatbest,butyoustillactasthoughthemanisShakespearereincarnated.ItriednottothinkaboutitwhenIvisitedtheStatueofLiberty.Theferrytotheislandwasjam-packed,butIstillfeltalone.Insidethemonument,Ijoinedagroupofstrangersforatour.Therewerefamilies,couples,friends,andasweclimbedthestaircase,Irealizedthateveryoneseemedtohavesomeonetosharetheexperiencewith.Exceptme.Afriendfromworktextedtoaskhowthetripwasgoing.Ihaven’tknownthemverylong,anditseemedalittleoverfamiliar,soIdidn’treply.Therearethreehundredandfifty-fourstepstotheStatueofLiberty’scrown.IsilentlycountedthereasonswhywewerestilltogetherasIclimbedthem.Therearestillplentyofgoodthingsaboutourmarriage,butagrowingnumberofbadonesmakemefeellikewearestartingtounravel.Thisdistancebetweenus,theemptyspacesinourheartsandwords;itscaresme.Alotofmarriedcouplesweknowaremuddlingalong,butmostofthosehavetheglueofayoungfamilytokeepthemstucktogether.Weonlyhaveus.IdidsomethingIneverdoatthetop…Itookaselfie.IheadedtoConeyIslandafterthat.Iguessitmustbebusierinsummer,butIquitelikedwanderingaroundtheclosedarcades.Ievenfoundalast-minutegiftforyou—thecopperthemethisyearposedabitofachallenge.We’vehadsomanyhighsandlowsoverthecourseofourrelationship,butIsupposeyearsevenissupposedtobedifficult.I’veheardabouttheseven-yearitchandI’msureyoumusthavetoo.Whateverhappens,IknowIwon’tbethefirsttoscratchit.Whenmyfeetachedfromallthewalking,IheadedbacktotheaptlynamedLibraryHotel.It’sasmallbutperfectlyformedboutiquehideaway,fullofbooksandpersonality.Everyroomhasasubjectandourswasmath.Horrormighthavebeenmoreappropriate;giventhewaythiseveninghasturnedout.I’dbookedusatablefordinner—Iknewyouwouldforgettoremember—atanearbysteakhousecalledBenjaminthattheconciergerecommended.ThedecorandatmospheremademethinkofTheShiningmeetsTheGodfather—whichagainseemsratherfittinginhindsight—buttheserviceandsteakswereperfection.Aswasthewine.WedranktwobottlesofredwhileIlistenedtoyoutellmeaboutyourdaywithHenry.Youdidn’taskaboutmine,ornoticethenewdressI’dboughtinBloomingdale’s.Payingmeacomplimentissomethingyouonlydobyaccidentthesedays.Iforgottowavetonightwhenyouwalkedintotherestaurant,butsomehowyoustillknewitwasme.Giventhatallfaceslookthesametoyou,andIwaswearingsomethingyouhadneverseen,yourconfidenceasyousatdownatourtablewasoutofcharacterandsurprising.Iwasequallybaffledbyhowmuchattentionyoupaidthewaitress,wonderinghowyourecognizedthebeautyofhertwentysomethingfeaturesifyoucouldn’tseeherface.IthinkIknewweweregoingtoargueevenbeforeyousaidwhatyousaid.Sometimesfightsarelikestorms,andyoucanseethemcoming.“I’msorrytodothis,butHenrywantsmetogowithhimtoLA.Givenallthebuzzaroundthisfilm,thestudiowantstoadaptanotherofhisbooks,andhesayshe’llonlyentertaintheideaifIgoalongtomeetthemandagreetowritethescreenplay.”“WhataboutRockPaperScissors?You’renotgoingtogiveuponthat,areyou?It’sterribleaboutOctober,butthereareotheractresses.WorkingonHenry’snovelswasonlysupposedtobeastepping-stoneto—”“Ihardlythinkwritingablockbusterfilmscriptofabest-sellingnovel,writtenbyoneofthemostsuccessfulauthorsofalltime,isastepping-stone.”“ButthewholepointofthiswastohelpyoutomakeTVshowsandfilmsofyourown—nothis—todowhatyoureallywanted.”“ThisiswhatIwant.I’msorryifmycareerchoicesaren’tgoodenoughforyou.”Webothknewthatwasn’twhatImeant,andIcouldseeyouweren’treallysorryatall.“WhataboutwhatIwant?ItwasyourideatospendafewdaysinNewYorktogetherandsofarI’vebarelyseenyou—”“BecauseIcouldn’tleaveyoubehind.Ineverwouldhaveheardtheendofit.”Foronce,itfeelslikeI’mtheonewhocan’trecognizemyspouse.“What?”“Youdon’tseemtohaveanyfriendsorevenalifeofyourownthesedays.”“Ihavefriends,”Isay,strugglingtothinkofthenamesofanytohelpbackupmyclaim.It’shardwheneveryonemyagethatIusedtoknowseemstohavechildrennow.Theyalldisappearedinsidetheirshinynewhappyfamilies,andtheinvitesdriedup.Itremindedmeofschoolalittle…beingshunnedbythecoolkidsbecauseIdidn’townthelatestmust-haveaccessory.Ichangedschoolsmorethanoncegrowingup.Iwasalwaysthenewgirlandeveryoneelsehadalreadyknowneachotherforyears.Ididn’tfit—Ineverdo—butteenagegirlscanbecruel.Itriedtomakefriends,andIsucceededforawhile,butIwasalwaysontheoutersolarsystemofthosechildhoodrelationships.Likeasmaller,quieterplanet,distantlyorbitingthebrighter,morebeautiful,andpopularones.Istilltriedtostayintouch—attendingtheoccasionalbirthdayparty,orobligatorybachelorettepartyorweddingforsomeoneIhadn’tspokentoforyears—butasweallgrewup,andgrewapart,IguessIgrewmoredistant.MychildhoodrelationshipssetthetonefortheonesIformedasanadult.Itwasself-preservationmorethananythingelseonmypart.I’llneverforgetthewomanwhopretendedtobreast-feedherchildrenuntiltheywerefouryearsold.Alwaysmakingexcusestoavoidseeingme—asifmyinfertilitymightbecatching.Icaremoreaboutlikingmyselfthanbeinglikedbyothersthesedays,andIdon’twastemytimeonfakefriendsanymore.Youreachedformyhand,butIpulleditaway,soyoureachedforyourwineinstead.“I’msorry,”yousaid,butIknewthatyouweren’t,notreally.“Ididn’tmeanthat,”youadded,butitwasjustanotherlie.Youdid.“Henryisasensitivewriter.Hereallycaresabouthisworkandwhohewilltrustwithit.He’shadadifficultyear—”“I’vehadseveral.Whataboutme?You’reactinglikehe’syourbestfriendallofasudden.Youhardlyknowtheman.”“Iknowhimverywell;wetalkallthetime.”It’sbeenawhilesinceIfeltsodiscombobulated.Ialmostchokedonmysteak.“What?”“HenryandItalkquiteregularly.Onthephone.”“Sincewhen?You’venevermentionedit.”“Ididn’tknowIhadtotellyouabouteveryoneIspeakto,orgetyourpermission.”Westaredateachotherforamoment.“Happyanniversary,”Isaid,puttingatinypaperparcelonthetable.Youpulledafacethatmademethinkyouhadforgottentogetmeagift,butthensurprisedmebytakingsomethingoutofyourpocket.YouinsistedIopenyoursfirst,soIdid.Itwasasmallcopperandglasshangingframe.Insideweresevenonepennycoppercoins.Theyallhaddifferentdatesonthem,onefromeachofthesevenyearswehavebeenmarried.Itmusthavetakenalotofthoughtandtimetofindthemall.Youclearedyourthroat,lookedalittlesheepish.“Happyanniversary.”Isaidthankyou,andwantedtobegrateful,butsomethingstillseemedbrokenbetweenus.ItfeltlikeIhadspenttheeveningwithsomeonewholookedandsoundedlikemyhusband,butwasn’t.Youopenedmyhastilyboughtgift,andIblushedwithembarrassmentafteralltheeffortyouhadmade.“Wheredidyougetthis?”youasked,holdingtheAmericanpennyuptothecandlelight.Ithadasmileyfacecarvedintoit,nexttotheword“liberty.”“ConeyIslandthisafternoon,”Ireplied.“IstumbledacrossthisarcademachinethatsaidLuckyPennies.ThepapercraneIgaveyouislookingalittlewornout,soIthoughtI’dgiveyousomethingnewforgoodlucktokeepinyourwallet.”“I’lltreasurethemboth,”youreplied,tuckingthepennyawaywithyourcrane.YouweresoonbacktotalkingaboutHenryWinteragain.Yourfavoritesubject.AsIhalflistened,Icouldn’tstopthinkingaboutOctoberO’Brien’suntimelydeath,orhowyouseemtocaremoreaboutHenry’swritingthesedaysthanyoudoaboutyourown.ThereareplentyofhorrorstoriesinHollywood,andIdon’tmeantheonesthatgetmadeintofilms.I’veheardthemall.MaybeIshouldjustbegratefulthatyou’reascreenwriterwhoisstillgettingwork;it’snotalwaysthecase,andthecompetitionisfierce.Somewritersarelikeapples,andsoonturnrotteniftheydon’tgetpicked.Youpouredtherestofthewineintoyourglassanddrankit.“Youwouldn’tworryaboutmycareersomuchifyoucaredmoreaboutyourown,”yousaidwithslurredwords,andnotforthefirsttime.Iwantedtosmashthebottleoveryourhead.IlovemyjobatBatterseaDogsHome.Itmakesmefeelbetteraboutmyself.Maybebecause—liketheanimalsIspendmytimecaringfor—Itoohaveoftenfeltabandonedbytheworld.It’srarelytheirfaultthattheyareunlovedandunwanted,justlikeitwasnevermine.“I’msureIcouldwritesomethingjustasgoodasyou,orHenryWinterforthatmatter—”“Yes,everyonethinkstheycanwriteuntiltheysitdownandtrytodoit,”youinterruptedwithyourmostpatronizingsmile.“Icaremoreabouttherealworldthanindulgingfantasies,”Isaid.“Indulgingmyfantasiespaidforourhouse.”Youreachedforyourglassagainbeforerealizingitwasempty.“Tellmeaboutyourdad,”Isaid,withoutreallythinkingitthrough.Youputtheglassdownwithalittletoomuchforce,I’msurpriseditdidn’tbreak.“Whyareyoubringingthatup?”youaskedwithoutmakingeyecontact.“YouknowheleftwhenIwasatoddler.Idon’tthinkHenryWinterissecretlymylong-lostfatherifthat’swhereyouweregoing—”“Don’tyou?”Yourcheeksturnedred.Youleanedforwardbeforereplyingandloweredyourvoice,asifyouwereworriedwhomighthear.“Theguyismyhero.He’sanincrediblewriterandI’mverygratefulforeverythinghehasdoneforme,andthereforeus.That’snotthesamethingasimagininghimassomekindofsurrogatefather.”“Isn’tit?”“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retryingtosay—”“I’mnottryingtosayanything,I’mtellingyouthatIthinkyou’vedevelopedsomekindofemotionalattachmenttotheman…it’slikeanobsession.You’veabandonedallyourownprojectstoworknightanddayonhis.HenryWinterkick-startedyourcareerwhenyouweredownonyourluck,soyesyouowehimsomegratitude,butthewayyounowconstantlyseekhisapprovalwheneveryouwritesomethingnewis…atbestneedy,atworstnarcissistic.”“Wow,”yousaid,leaningbackasifIhadtriedtophysicallyhityou.“Youshouldbelieveinyourselfenoughbynowtoknowyourworkisgoodwithoutneedinghimtosayso.”“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.Henryhasneversaidhelikesmywork—”“Exactly!Butit’ssoobvious—tohimandeveryoneelse—howdesperateyouareforhimtoendorseyouinsomeway.Youneedtostopsecretlyhopingthathewill.Herarelysaysanythingkindaboutanotherwriter’swork—herarelyhasakindwordtosayaboutanythingoranyoneatall—justaccepttherelationshipforwhatitis.He’sanauthor,you’reascreenwriterwhoadaptedacoupleofhisnovels.Theend.”“IthinkI’moldenoughtomakemyownchoicesandchoosemyownfriends,thankyou.”“HenryWinterisnotyourfriend.”Whenweleft,Ididn’tbreaktheuncomfortablesilencetoletyouknowthatI’dspottedHenrysittingafewtablesawayfromusintherestaurant.Hewashardtomiss,wearingoneofhistrademarktweedjacketsandasilkbowtie.Hiswhitehairwasthinning,andhelookedlikeaharmlesslittleoldman,butthepiercingblueeyeswerestillthesameasalways.He’dbeenwatchingustheentiretimewewerethere.YoucontinuedtotalkabouthimallthewaytotheLibraryHotel,mywordsonthematterforgottenalmostassoonasI’dsaidthem.Fromthegleefullookonyourface,anyonewouldhavethoughtyouhadspentthedaywithFatherChristmas,ratherthanabook-shapedEbenezerScrooge.Whenwegotbacktoourmath-themedroom,thingsweren’taddingupforme.Iateboththechocolatesonourpillowswhileyouwereintheshower—eventhoughIhatedarkchocolate—IguessIwantedtohurtyoubacksomehow,childishasthatsounds.MyphonebuzzedandforamomentIthoughtitmightbeyou,textingmefromthehotelbathroom—nobodyelsesendsmemessageslateatnight.Orintheday.Butitwasn’tyou,itwasmynewfriendatworksayingthattheymissedme.Theideaofanyonemissingmemademyeyesfillwithtears.IsentthemtheselfieofmeatthetopoftheStatueofLibertyandtheyrepliedstraightawaywithathumbs-up.Andakiss.You’reasleepnow,butI’mawakeasusual,writingyoualetterI’llneverletyouread.Thistimeonhotelletterhead.Aseven-yearrashofresentmentmightbemoreaccuratethananitch.Ican’tbehonestwithyou,butIneedtobehonestwithmyself.Ihatedon’tlikeyourightnow,butIstillloveyou.YourwifexxROBIN
Robinstayswheresheisuntilbothvisitorsareinthesecretstudy.Thensheunlocksthedooroftheroomshe’sbeenhidingin,creepsdownthestaircase—avoidingthestepssheknowswillcreak—andleavesthechapel.Shemeetshersilentcompanionexactlywhereshelefthim.Hedoesnotlookimpressedaboutbeingabandonedoutinthecold.Robindoeswhatsheneedstodooutsideasquicklyandquietlyasshecan,thenwaits.
She’sgoodatwaiting.Practicecanmakeapersongoodatanything,andatleastsheisn’talonethistime.Thesnowhasstoppedfallingbutitisstillcold.Robinwouldrathergetbacktothecottage,butthereisnopointrushingsomethingthisimportant.Shehasbeencarefultostepinthevisitors’earlierfootprints,buttryingtogounnoticedisn’talwayseasy.That’stheproblemwithfollowinginsomeoneelse’sfootsteps;ifyouleaveabiggermarkthantheydidtheytendtogetupset.Robinlearnedthehardwaythatit’salwaysbesttotakehertime,andlateisbetterthannever.Sometimestheearlybirdeatstoomanywormsanddies.
Stained-glasswindowsarebeautiful,buttheyletthecoldinandthesoundout,whichiswhysheislisteningoutsidetheoneinthestudy.Sheunlockedthesecretdoorandleftitopendeliberately,sothatthevisitorscouldfinditforthemselves.Oncethepennydropsthingsshouldn’ttaketoomuchlonger.
Listeningtothemintheplacewheresheusedtolive,andlaugh,anddream,issuchastrangeandsurrealexperience.Abitlikefoodpoisoning.Shefeelssickandfeverish,butalreadyknowsshe’llfeelbetteragainonceshegetswhateverwasrottenoutofhersystem.Shewantsthevisitorsoutofthechapel,butnotyet.Thereisstilltoomuchtosayanddobeforethisunpleasantchapterinherlifecancometoanend.
“Everythingwillbeokay,you’llsee,”shesaystohercompanion,buthedoesn’treply.Hejuststaresbackather,lookingassadandcoldassheisstartingtofeel.
Wheneverherlifehastakenawrongturninthepast,Robinhastriedtopinpointtheexactmomentshegotlost.Therealwaysisone.Ifyouarepreparedtoopenyoureyes,andlookfarenoughback,youcannormallyseetheinstantyoumadeapoorchoice,saidsomethingyoushouldn’t,ordidsomethingyoulivedtoregret.Onebaddecisionoftenleadstoanotherandthen,beforeyouknowit,thereisnowaybacktowhereyouwere.
Buteveryonemakesmistakes.
Sometimes,themostinnocent-seemingpeopleturnouttobeguiltyofhorrificthings.Sometimes,thepeoplewhodobadthings,arejustbadpeople.Butthereisalwaysareasonwhyapersonbehavesthewaythattheydo.Thewomanatthelocalstorewasagoodexampleofsomeonewithamuchdarkerpastthanyou’dexpect.Patty,theunfriendlyshopkeeper,withherredface,beadyeyes,badbreath,andahabitofshortchangingstrangers,hadalistofconvictionslongerthantheBibleshekeptbehindthecounter.Fromaggravatedassaulttodrivingwhenoverthelimit.Everyoneintownknew,buttheyhadtogettheirsuppliesfromsomewhere.Fewpeoplearegenuinelycapableofforgiveness,andnobodyeverreallyforgets.Sometimesyoujustknowapersonisbadnewsassoonasyoumeetthem,becausethey’rerotten,insideandout,andinstincttellsyoutostayaway.
Livescarryonregardlessofwhetherthepeopletheybelongtodo.Robinwantedtomoveon,shetriedsohardtoputherownmistakesbehindher,andnotbeconsumedbyregrets.Butoursecretshaveahabitoffindingus,andeverythingshetriedtorunawayfromcaughtupwithhereventually.Coveringherpresentwiththedustofherpast.
Hercompanionstartstofidget.
“Shh,”shewhispers.“Justwaitalittlelonger.”
Hestilllooksunimpressedbutdoeswhatshesays,justlikealways.
AMELIA
TimefreezeswhenAdamsaysheknowswhothechapelbelongsto.
Ilookaroundthesecretstudy,thinkingitmightrevealtheanswerbeforehedoes,butallIcanseearemoredustybooks,anolddesk,andmyhusband.Hishandsomefeatureshavetwistedintoadisappointedfrownanduglyscowl.Helooksmoreangrythanafraid.Asifthisisallsomehowmyfault.
Ithinkwhenyoufeelabandonedbyyourownparents,it’simpossiblenottospendtherestofyourlifesuspectingpeopleofplottingtoleaveyou.It’ssomethingIalwaysfeelanxiousaboutwitheveryone,evenAdam,despitehowlongwe’vebeentogether.WheneverIgetclosetosomeone—partners,friends,colleagues—thereinevitablycomesapointwhenIhavetobackaway.Irebuildbarriers,higherthanbefore,tomakemyselffeelsafe.Aconstantfearofabandonmentmakesitimpossibletotrustanyone,evenmyhusband.
I’dmanagedtocalmmybreathingwhenIfoundhiminhere,butthisnewanxietyispressingonmychest.
“Writersareapeculiarbreedofhumanbeing,”Adamsays,stillstaringattheantiquedeskasthoughheistalkingtoit,notme.It’ssocoldinthisroomthatIcanseehisbreath.“TherearepeopleI’veworkedwithovertheyears—peopleItrusted—whoturnedouttobenothingmorethan…”
Thelightfromthestained-glasswindowscastsshatteredfragmentsofcolorontheparquetfloor,andheseemstoodistractedbythemtofinishhisthought.ItrytothinkofanyonehehasfallenoutwithsinceI’veknownhim,buttherearen’tmany.He’shadthesameagentsincethebeginning.EveryonelovesAdam,eventhepeoplewhodon’t.
“DoyourememberthefilmGremlins?”heasks.I’mgladhedoesn’twaitforareplybecauseIdon’tknowwhattosayorseehowthisisrelevant.“Therewerethreerules:don’tgetthemwet,don’texposethemtobrightlights,anddon’tfeedthemaftermidnight.Otherwisebadshithappens.AuthorsarelikeGremlins.TheyallstartofflikeGizmo—theseindividualandinterestingcreaturesthatarefuntohavearound—butifyoubreaktherules:iftheydon’tliketheadaptationoftheirbook,ortheythinkyouchangedtoomuchoftheoriginalstory,authorsturnintobiggermonstersthantheonestheywriteabout.”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout,Adam?Whoownsthisproperty?”
“HenryWinter.”
Ifreeze.I’vealwaysbeenafraidofHenry,andnotjustbecauseofthedarkandtwistedbookshewrites.ThethingthatscaredmethemostthefirsttimeIsawhim,werehiseyes.They’retooblue,andtoopiercing,almostasthoughhecouldlookinsideaperson,notjustatthem.Seethingsheshouldn’tbeabletosee.Knowthingsheshouldn’tknow.Mybreathingstartstogetalittleoutofcontrolagain.
“Areyouallright?Where’syourinhaler?”Adamasks.
“I’mfine,”Iinsist,grabbingthebackofthechair.
“TheDailyMailwantedtodoafeatureonwhereHenrywrotehisnovelswhenthelastfilmcameout.Hewouldn’tletthemsendajournalistor,heavenforbid,aphotographer—healwayshatedthose.I’dknownhimforyearsbythen,buthewouldn’teventellmewherehelivedwhennotinLondon—alwaysobsessivelyworriedaboutprivacyforreasonsIcouldneverfullyunderstand.Ionlyeversawonepictureofhiminhisstudy—whichthenewspapersaidwas‘suppliedbytheauthor.’Thisisit.Theroomwherehewrites.Irememberthepictureofhimsittingatthisdesk,”Adamsays,touchingthedarkwoodentable.It’sapeculiaroldthingonwheels,withlotsoflittledrawers.“ItoncebelongedtoAgathaChristie,andHenrypaidasmallfortuneforitatsomecharityauctionyearsago.Hebecamequitesuperstitiousaboutit;oncetoldmethathedidn’tthinkhecouldwriteanothernovelanywhereelse.”
“Areyousure?”
“Yes.Lookattheshelvesinthisroom.”
Iturnanddoashesays,butthebookcasesthatlinethebackwallofthestudylookexactlythesameastheonesinthelounge.ThenInoticethespinesofthebooks,andIseethattheyareallwrittenbyHenryWinter.Theremustbehundredsofthem,includingtranslationsandspecialeditions.It’sagiantvanitywallandexactlywhatIwouldexpectfromamanlikehim.
“So,whatisthis?Aprank?Abadjoke?”Iask.“WhywouldHenrysendanemailfromafakeaccount,tellingmethatI’vewonaweekendathissecretScottishhideaway?Whyiseverythingcoveredindust?Whereishe?AndwhereisBob?”
“Areyousureyou’reallright?”Adamasks.“Yourbreathingsounds—”
“I’mfine.”
Helooksunconvincedbutcarriesonanyway.“Ithinkhemightbeupsetwithme.EversinceIsaidIdidn’twanttoadapthisbooksanymore—”
Istareathim,takenaback.“Youdidwhat?Idon’tunderstand.”
“Ijustdecidedthatmaybeitwastimetofocusonmyownwork.”
“Youdidn’ttellme—”
“Icouldn’tbeartheinevitableItoldyouso’s.Hedidn’ttakethenewswellatall.Itwaslikeaspoiledchildthrowingatantrum.I’dhadHenryWinterontoohighapedestalmywholelife.Ilookeduptohimevenwhenhelookeddownonme.ButthenIsawhimforwhohewasforthefirsttime:aselfish,spiteful,andlonelyoldman.”
Itakeinhiswords,processingwhattheymeanforhim,andforus.
“Whenwasthis?”
“Awhileback.Itriedtokeepthingsfriendly,butthenheignoredmycalls,andIhaven’tspokentohimfor…alongtime.Hisbookswereallhehad.Butifthere’sonethingIhavelearnedfromlifeaswellasfiction,it’sthatnobodyiseverjustaheroorjustavillain.Weallhaveitinustobeboth.”
Adamglaresatmewhenhesaysthatlastsentence.I’mabouttoaskwhywhenIspotmyinhaleronthedeskbehindhim.
“Whydoyouhavethat?”Iask.
“Yourinhaler?”hesays.“Ididn’tevennoticeitwasthere.”
Istareathimforalongtime.Icannormallytellwhenhe’slyingandIdon’tthinkheis.
Igrabtheinhalerandslipitinmypocket.“Ithinkwe’rebothexhausted,andnowthatweknowwhothisplacebelongsto,IjustwanttofindBobandgetoutofhere.”
AssoonasIsayhisname,Ihearadogbarkingoutside.
ADAM
Werunoutintothesnow.
Idon’tknowwhattoexpect.HenryWinterstandingoutsidethechapel?HoldingBob’slead,andlaughingmanicallylikeacomedyvillain?Maybehehasfinallylosthisremainingmarbles?Themanwritesdarkandtwistedfiction,butIstillstruggletobelievehewouldbecapableofsomethinglikethisinreallife.
Thesoundofadogbarkingstopsassoonaswestepoutside.
“Bob!”Ameliacalls.
It’spointless—thepooroldthingispracticallydeafatthebestoftimes—butIstartshoutinghisnametoo.
Thevalleyisnoweerilysilent.
“Maybeitwasn’tBob?”Isay.
“Itwashim,Iknowit,”sheinsists.“Therewereapairofmen’sWellingtonbootsbythedoorwhenIgotback,nowthey’regone.Whoeverwasherebeforeleftandthey’vegotBobwiththem.”
SherunsfartheroutintothesnowandIhavenochoicebuttofollowher.
Thesheepareback.Theystareinourdirection,butaren’tasscaryastheywereinthedarklastnight.Webothstopinourtrackswhenweseethebackofapersonwearingatweedjacket,darktrousers,andwhatlookslikeapanamahat…inthemiddleofwinter…infreezingcoldsnowuptotheirknees.Amelialooksinmydirection.Ican’treadtheexpressiononherface,butifit’sanythinglikewhatI’mfeeling,Iexpectitisoneofterror.
IremindmyselfthatIusedtoknowthisman—aswellasyoucanknowsomeoneyouworkwithandhaveonlymetahandfuloftimes.Iclearmythroatandtakeastepcloser.
“Henry?”Isaygently.
Forsomereason,Iremembertheantlersonthewallofthebootroom.Itoccurstomethatauthorsofmurdermysteriesandthrillersprobablyknowalotofwaystokillapersonwithoutgettingcaught,andIdon’tespeciallywanttohavemyremainsmountedonawall.Hedoesn’tmove.Itellmyselfhe’sprobablyjustabitdeaf,likethedog,andcarryonuntilweareface-to-face.
Excepthedoesn’thaveaface.
WhatIappeartobelookingatissomekindofscarecrow,butwiththeheadofasnowman.Hehaswinecorksforeyes,acarrotforanose,apipestickingoutofthespacewherehismouthshouldbe,andoneofHenryWinter’ssilkbluebowtiestiedaroundhisneck.It’sashadedarkerthanitshouldbe,saturatedwithmeltingsnow.Henry’swalkingstick,theonewiththesilverrabbit’sheadhandleisleaningagainstit,asthoughforsupport.
Ameliacomestostandbymyside.“Whatthe—”
“Idon’tknowanymore.”
“Thiswasn’therebefore,wasit?”
“No.Ithinkwewouldhavenoticed.Ireallydon’tunderstandwhatishappening.”
Westandsidebysideinsilence,staringatthescarecrowsnowmanashisheadslowlymelts.Oneofhiscorkeyeshasalreadyslippedhalfwaydownhisface.Apartfromtheodddead-lookingtreeandcreepy-lookingwoodensculptures,weareinthemiddleofavastopenarea.Whoeverdidthismustbecloseby.AndifBobisnearenoughtobeheardbarking,weshouldbeabletospothim,butallIcanseeisemptywhitespace.Thankstothesheep,thesnowhasbeendisturbedalmosteverywhereoutsidethechapel.Iftherewereanyfootprintstofollow,therearen’tnow.
“WehavetofindBob.He’southeresomewhere,webothheardhim,andwejusthavetokeeplooking,”Ameliasays,andIfollowher.
Thereisasmallcemeteryatthebackofthechapel.Theoldgravestonesarebarelyvisiblethankstothesnow,butonestandsoutasIgetnearer.Thereasonitcatchesmyeyeisbecausesomeonehaswipeditclean,sothatthedarkgraygranitestandsoutagainsteverythingelsecoveredinwhite.And,unlikealltheotherheadstones,thisonelooksrelativelynew.
Thatisn’tall.
Thereisaredleathercollarsittingontopofit.
AmeliapicksitupandIseeBob’snameonthetag,asthoughtherehadbeenanydoubtinmymindthatitbelongedtohim.
“Idon’tunderstand.Whyremovethedog’scollarandleaveithere?”shesays.
ButIdon’treply.I’mtoobusystaringattheheadstone.
HENRYWINTER
FATHEROFONE,AUTHOROFMANY.
1937–2018
AMELIA
“Idon’tunderstand.IfHenrydiedtwoyearsago,wouldn’twehaveknownaboutit?”Iask.
Adamdoesn’tanswer.Westandsidebysideinsilence,staringatthegraniteheadstone,asifdoingsomightmakethewordsengravedonitdisappear.NomatterhowmanytimesIrearrangethepiecesofthispuzzleinsidemyhead,theyjustdon’tfit.Icanseetheconfusionandfearandgriefonmyhusband’sface.IknowhethoughteverythingwehavewasaresultofHenryWintergivinghimhisbigbreak,andtrustinghimwithhisnovels.Asillyfalling-outdidn’tchangethat.Themandyingwhentheyweren’tevenonspeakingtermsisgoingtohithimhard.ButAdammustrealizewehavebiggerproblemsrightnow:ifHenrydidn’ttrickusintocominghere,thenwhodid?
“Weshouldgetbackinside,”Adamsays.
He’sstilllookingattheheadstone,likehecan’tbelievewhathe’sseeing.
“WhataboutBob?”Iask.
“Bobdidn’ttakeoffhisowncollarandleaveithereforustofind.Someoneelsedidthat.Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingon,butwe’renotsafe.”
Hiswordssoundsomelodramatic,butIagree.
Assoonaswearebackinsidethechapel,Adamlocksthedoors,andpushesthelargewoodenchurchbenchinfrontofthem.
“Whoeverwesawlettingthemselvesinearliermusthavehadakey.Thiswillstopthemgettingbackinwithoutushearing,”hesays,headingtowardthekitchen.“Canyoushowmetheemailyouweresentaboutwinningaweekendinthisplaceagain?”
Ifeelformyphoneinsidemypocket,butfindmyinhalerinstead.Nowthatmybreathinghasreturnedtonormal,Idon’tneedit,butIfeelbetterknowingit’scloseathand.
IfindtheemailonmymobileandhandittoAdam.
“info@blackwaterchapel.com,that’stheemailaddresstheyused?”heasks.
“Yes.Itsoundedlikeagenuineholidayrental.”
“Henryhadathingaboutthenumberthreeandthecolorblack.AlotofhisnovelsweresetinBlackdownorBlacksand…IthinktheremayhavebeenaBlackwatertoo…”
“Younevermentionedthatbefore.”
“Ididn’trealizetherewasaconnectionuntilnow.ButHenrycan’thavesentthisemail—hedoesn’tdoemails,ortheinternet,doesn’tevenhaveamobilephone.Hethinkstheycausecancer.Thought.”
Foramoment,IthinkAdammightcry.
Iputmyhandonhisshoulder,“I’msorry,Iknowhowmuchyou—”
“I’mfine.Hehadn’tevenbeenintouchsince…”
Adamtrailsoffandstaresintospace.
“Whatisit?”Iask.
“Ihadn’theardanythingfromorabouthimsincelastSeptember,whenhislatestagentsentmeacopyofhislatestbook.Luckily,thisagentapprovesofscreenadaptations,notlikeHenry’sfirstone.He’saniceguy,weevenjokedabouthowHenrywasn’tspeakingtohimeither,buttheauthorhadstillsenthismanuscript,threedaysbeforehisdeadline,wrappedinbrownpaperandtiedwithstringjustlikeusual.”
“So?”
“Theheadstoneoutsidesayshediedtwoyearsago.Deadpeoplecan’twritenovelsorsendthemtotheiragents.”
Ittakesmeafewsecondstoprocessthislatestpieceofinformation.“Areyousayingthatyouthinkheisn’treallydead?”
“Idon’tknowwhattothinkanymore.”
“Didhehaveanyfamily?Surelysomeonewouldhaveknownifhepassedaway.Oneofmyoldfosterparentsdiedlastyear,doyouremember?Charlie,theguywhoworkedatthesupermarketallhislife,andalwaysbroughthomefreefoodthatwasabouttogooff.Ihadn’tspokentohimforoveradecade,butIstillknewwhenhedied.HenryWinterisaworld-famousauthor;wewouldhavereadabouthisdeathinthenewspapersor—”
Adamshakeshishead.“Therewasnobody.Hewasaself-confessedhermit,andlikedlivinghislifethatway…mostofthetime.Wheneverhedranktoomuchwhiskey,Henrywouldgetallteary-eyedaboutnothavinganychildren—nobodytolookafterhisbookswhenhewasgone.That’sallhereallycaredabout:thebooks.Themanwasstoicasatreeatallothertimes.”
“Well,someonemusthavebeenhelpinghim.Henrywasnospringchickenifhewasbornin1937,”Isay.
Adam’seyesnarrow.“That’sanodddetailtoremember.”
“Notreally.ItwaswrittenontheheadstoneandAmeliaEarhartwentmissingin1937.Iwasnamedafterher.Don’tyourememberwhyyouwerecalledwhatyouwere?Ithinknamesareimportant.”
AdamstaresatmeasthoughmyIQhasdroppedtoadangerouslylowlevel.“HenryWinterdidn’thaveanychildren;hedidn’thaveanyfamilyatall.Ithinktheonlypersonhehadleftinhislifeotherthanhisagentwasme,andweweren’tevenonspeakingtermswhenhedied…”
Hisvoicewobblesandhelooksaway.
“Theheadstoneoutsidesaid‘Fatherofone.’Someonehadthatmade,andsomeoneburiedhim.Hecouldn’thavedonethatbyhimself.”
ThewayAdamlooksatmescaresmealittle.It’shardnottosaythewrongthingwhennothingfeelsright.Isometimesthinkthathisinabilitytorecognizeotherpeople’sfacesmightmakeitharderforhimtocontroltheexpressionsonhisown.Thewell-wornfrownhasgone,andit’salmostlikeheis…smiling.Itvanishesasquicklyasitappeared.
“Weshouldgetoutofherewhileit’sstilllight,”hesays,adoptingaseriousfaceoncemoretomatchhistone.
“WhataboutBob?”
“We’llfindapolicestation,explainthesituation,andaskthemtohelp.”
“Thecarissnowedin.Theroadslookdangerous—”
“I’msurewecandigitout.I’dfeelsaferouttherethanIwoulddostayinghereforanothernight,wouldn’tyou?”
Heopensthedoortothewalk-inlarderwherewesawthewalloftoolswhenwearrived.Theindustrial-sizedchestfreezerhumsaneeriesoundtrack,andIavoidlookingatthetrapdoortothecrypt.I’dratherforgetwhathappeneddownthere.
“Areyougoingtochopourwayout?”IaskwhenAdamtakesanaxeoffthewall
“No,Ijustthinkhavingsomethingforself-defensemightnotbeabadidea,”hereplies,takingashoveldownoffarustyhookwithhisotherhand.
TheMorrisMinoriscoveredinsomuchsnow,itblendsinwiththescenery.IfeellikeasparepartasAdambeginstodigitawayfromthecar’swheels.It’sfreezingcold,buthe’sstillsweatingfromtheeffort.Untilhestopsandstaresatthefrontwheelasthoughithasoffendedhim.Hedropstheshovelandbendsdownbehindthefrontleft-handsideofthecar,sothatIcannolongerseewhatheisdoing.
“Idon’tbelieveit,”hesays,soundingbreathless.
“What?”
“Weappeartohaveaflattire.”
Ihurryover.“It’sokay,ontheseroadsinthiscarit’stobeexpected.Ihavearepairkitintheboot,solongaswecanfindtheholeandit’ssmallenoughIcan—”
IstoptalkingwhenIseeitformyself.Itwon’tbeaproblemtofindtheholebecauseit’sthesizeofafist.Thereisasmile-shapedgashintherubber:thetirehasclearlybeenslashed.IwasalreadysocoldthatIcouldbarelyfeelmyhandsorfeet,butthechillIfeelnowspreadsthroughmyentirebody.
“Maybewedroveoversomeglass?”hesays.
Idon’tanswer.Adam’sknowledgeofcarsisverylimitedasaresultofneverowningone.Iusedtofinditendearing,nownotsomuch.Hestartsdiggingoutthebackwheel,thenabruptlystops.Again.
“Haveyoueverhadtwoflattiresatthesametime?”heasks.
Itlookslikethebackwheelhasbeenslashedaswell.It’sthesamewiththeothertwo.
Someonereallydoesn’twantustoleave.
ROBIN
Robinletsherselfbackinsidethecottageandlocksthedoor.Shetakesasmallredtowelfromahookonthewall,thenwipesthesnowfromthedog’sfeet,legs,andbelly,beforetakingcareofherself.Hewagshistailwhileshedrieshim,thenlicksherface.Robinsmiles,shelikesallanimals,especiallydogslikethisone.EvenOscartherabbithaswarmedtotheirnewhouseguest.
Bynow,thevisitorswillknowthatthechapelbelongedtoHenryandthatheisdead.Robinwishesthatshecouldhaveseentheirfaceswhentheyfoundtheheadstone,butsheandBobwerelonggonebythen.He’saveryfriendlyandaffectionatedog—evenifhedoesbarkatthewindoccasionally—thekindwhotrustseveryone.
It’scold,eveninsidethecottage.Robinlightsthefireandsitsdownontherugnexttoit,tryingtowarmherbones.Shemissesherpipebutthat’sgonenow,sosheopensapacketofJammieDodgers.Thedogliesdownbyhersiderestinghischinonherlegs,staringupatherwhilesheeats,hopingshemightdropsomething.Robinlikestonibbleeachbiscuit,bitingofftinypiecesoftheouteredgesuntilonlythejamcenterisleft—makingthepleasureitbringsherlastaslongaspossible.
Despitesittingsoclosetotheopenflames,shecanstillhardlyfeelherhands.HerfingerswerearainbowofredandthenblueafterusingthemtowipeallthatsnowoffHenry’sheadstone.Butthevisitorsneverwouldhavefounditifshehadn’t,andsheneedsthingstostayontrack.Thereisareasonwhysheinvitedthemherethisweekend,andnotanyother.
RobinrememberswhenHenrydied.
“Ineedyoutocome.”
That’swhathesaidwhenhecalled.Not“hello”or“howareyou?”Justfivelittlewords.Ineedyoutocome.Hedidn’tneedtosaywhere,eventhoughtheyhadn’tspokenforsuchalongtime.Hedidn’tneedtosaywhyeither,buthedid.
“I’mill,”werethetwoextralittlewordsofferedwhenshedidn’treply.Thatturnedouttoberatheranunderstatement.
SheknewHenryhadsoldhisLondonflatbythenandwaslivinginhisScottishhideawayfull-time.He’dalwaysbeenahermitwhopreferredhisowncompany.Whatshedidn’texpect,wasthatshewouldbetheonehewouldcallinhishourofneed.Butthenhavingnobodyelsewasoneofthefewthingstheyhadincommon.Writersarecapableofcreatingthemostelaborateandpopularworlds,sometimesleavingrathersmallonesforthemselves.Somehorsesneedblinderstodowhattheydobestandwintherace.Theyneedtofeelaloneandwithnodistractions.Someauthorsarethesame;it’sasolitaryprofession.
Silencecannotbemisquoted.ItwasoneofRobin’smottos.Butwhenshestilldidn’tspeak,thephonelinecrackled,andHenryspokeoncemorebeforehangingup.
“I’mdying.Comeordon’tcome.Justdon’ttellanyone.”
Shecanstillhearthedialtonenowifshecloseshereyes.
Heexplainedlaterthathehadrunoutofchangeforthehospitalpayphone.Insistedthathehadnotbeendeliberatelydramaticorrude.Robindidn’tbelievehim.Sheneverdid.Butshegotinthecaranyway,becauselifecanbeasunpredictableasdeath.
Shedidn’trecognizethemanperchedontheedgeofthehospitalbed.Hislastofficialauthorphotohadbeentakenatleasttenyearsearlier,andHenryhadnotagedwell.Thetrademarktweedjacketlookedtoobig,likeitbelongedtosomeoneelse,therewasnosilkbowtie,andallthatwasleftoftheshockofwhitehairwereafewthinstrands,combedoverhispinkbaldinghead.Itseemedoddthathisfacewasnotmorefamiliartoher,butthenpeoplelosetouchallthetime.Distancewasn’tadecidingfactorinsuchmatters.Evenneighborslivingsidebysidedon’talwaysknoweachother’snames.
Therewasnogreeting.Nohug.Nothanks.
“Iwanttogohome,”wasallhesaid.
RobinwatchedasHenrysignedthereleaseformsusingafountainpenfromhisinsidejacketpocket.Hisshakyfingersgrippedthebarrelsohardthatthebonesinhishandlookedliketheymightburstthroughhispaper-thinskin.Shewaitedwithoutawordwhileheinitialedvariousstatementstoacknowledgethathewasleavingthehospitalagainstmedicaladvice.
ThehospitalwasmorethananhourawayfromBlackwater,andtheysatinsilencefortheentirejourneyalongwindingHighlandroads.Oncebackinsidethechapelhehadturnedintoahome,Henryhobbledthroughtotheloungethathehadturnedintoalibrary,beckoningforhertofollow.Thenheopenedthesecretdoorinthebackwallofbooks.Robinwasn’timpressed—shehadseenitbefore—butitwasthefirsttimehehadeverinvitedherinsidehisstudy.
Shestaredatthewhiterabbitsthatseemedtocovereverysurface.Thewallpaperwascoveredinashimmerypatternofthem,theromanblindswerestitchedwithaleapingvariety,therewerematchingbigearsandbobtailssewnontothewindowseatcushions,therewasevenarabbitinoneofthestained-glasswindows.
Thenshenoticedthecageinthecorneroftheroom.Bigenoughtoholdasmallchild.Thatwassomethingshe’dneverseenbefore,anditwasn’tempty.
“Youhavearabbitforapet?”Robinasked,staringatthecreature.
“Moreofacompanionreally.I’mratherfondofwhiterabbits.”
“Inoticed,”shereplied,takingintheroomagain.“Doesithaveaname?”
Hesmiled.“Shedoes.IcalledherRobin.”
Robindidn’tknowwhattomakeofthat.“Why?”
Hissmilefaded.“Sheremindedmeofyou.”
Henryshuffledovertothechairathisdeskandsatdown.
“Idon’tknowhowmuchtimewehave,sobestnottowasteit.I’dliketoshowyouwheremywilliskept.Everythingisarranged,Ijustneedsomeonetopushthebuttonsotospeak,whenthetimecomes.ThereareplanswrittendownforwhatIwouldliketohappentome.Iwanttobecremated,buteverythingyouneedtoknowisinthefolder.I’mhalfwaythroughmylatestnovel,Iwon’tbeabletofinishitnow.Myagentwilllookafteralmosteverythingbook-shapedwhenthetimecomes.ButtheremightbesomedecisionsaboutmyliteraryestatethatIwouldprefer…”Helookedather,hisbigblueeyespleadingasthoughwaitingforRobintosaysomething.Whenshedidn’t,heseemedtogivein,gentlypickinguphiswearythoughtsalmostfromwherehehadleftthem.“Youmustdowhateveryouthinkisright.That’sallanyofuscandointheend.IpromiseItriedto.Thereareacoupleofotheremailaddressesyoushouldprobablyhave—peoplewhoneedtoknowthatI’mdeadbeforetheyreaditinthenewspapers—whydon’tIscribblethemdownnowwhileIremember.”
Robinwatchedashetookalaptopfromthedeskdrawer.Henry’sfacestretchedintosomethingresemblingasmilewhenhesawtheexpressiononhers,theplentifullinesandcreasesonhisskindoublinginnumber.
“Iknow,Iknow.EveryonethinksIdon’tunderstandhowtousemoderntechnology,butI’mold,notsenile.IquitelikethattheythinkI’msoancientthatIwritethenovelswithafeatherquillandapotofink,butthislittlelaptopsavesmealotoftime.It’smucheasiertoeditforstarters.Iusethetypewriterforthefinalversiontosendtomyagent—tomaintaintheillusionofthepersontheythinkthatIam—butIuseacomputerforallotherdrafts.Idrawthelineatmobilephonesthough—thosethingscausecancer,youmarkmywords.”
Hetypedthepasswordintothelaptopusingjusthisindexfinger,andveryslowly,soshesawwhatitwaswithoutreallymeaningto:Robin.Theknowledgethatheusedhernameforhispasswordsaswellashispetmadeherfeelanoverwhelmingsenseofbewildermentandguilt.Shedidn’tknowwhattosayso—onceagain—saidnothing.Heopeneduphisemailaccountusingthesamepassword,anditmadeherwanttocry.Sheknewhimwellenoughtoknowthathewantedtolive—andwrite—forever.Butallthemoneyintheworldcannotbuymoretime.
“Probablystuffandnonsense,itnormallyis,”Henrysaid,turninghisattentiontosomeunopenedpostonthedesk.Hetookasilverletteropener,whichlookedheavyinhisfrailhand,andslicedbetweenthefoldsofthetopenvelope.Hisfingersshookalittleasheremovedwhatwasinside:aletterfromhisagent.Robinreaditoverhisshoulder,andsawhowtheoldmanbeamedwhenhelearnedthathislatestnovelwasaNewYorkTimesbestseller.
“Isn’tthatsomething?”hesaid,lookingmuchmorelikehisoldself,theonesheremembered.“Ididn’tknowwhenIwaswritingit,butthatwasthelastbookI’lleverpublish.Itmeanstheworldtomethatmyreaderslikedit.”
“Well,theiropinionsalwaysmatteredmost,”Robinsaid,andhisfacecrumpled.“Imean,congratulations,”sheadded,becausewhatelsecouldshesaytoadyingman?Shelookedatthelaptopagain.“Youragentstillwritesyoulettersandsendstheminthepost?”
“Yes.”
“Hedoesn’tknowthatyouhaveemail?”
Henrysmiled.“Therearealotofthingsmyagentdoesn’tknowaboutme.”
Anunspokenconversationtookplacebetweenthem,araremomentofunderstanding.Thentheyresetthemselvesanditwasgone.
“Thereissomechampagneinthecrypt,”hesaid.“Goandgetusabottle,willyou?Haveonedrinkwithmetocelebratemylastbestseller?ThenIpromiseI’lltellyoueverythingelseyouneedtoknow.Ilockedthetrapdoor—evenIgettheheebie-jeebiessometimes.”
“Butallthosestoriesaboutbodiesbeingfoundinthecrypt,andwitches,andghosts…youmadeallthatuptokeeppeopleawayfromhere.”
Hegrinned.“Yes,alljustafigmentofmydarkandtwistedimagination.Butitworked,didn’tit!Theonlythingthebuildersfounddowninthecryptwhenwerestoredtheplace,wasdamp.Ilikepeaceandquietandprivacy.Idon’twantpeoplebotheringme,butsometimesIscaremyself.Ispentsomanyyearsinsidethosestories,thattheworldImadeupfeltmorerealtomethantheoneIlivedin.”Hisblueeyeswatered,andRobincouldtellthathismindhadwanderedsomewherefaraway.Butthenheblinkedandwasback.“Thekeyforthepadlockonthetrapdoorisinoneofthekitchendrawers…Iforgetwhich.”
Robinhesitated,butthendidasheasked.Thefirstthingshesawwhenshewalkedintothelarderwasthegiantfreezer,thenshenoticedallthetoolslineduponthewall,includingallthewoodworkchiselsandstonemasonrytoolsneatlyarrangedaccordingtosize.Theaxefrightenedherjustasmuchthenasitalwayshad.Foryears,Henryhadenjoyedcarvingthingsoutofwoodandstone,hesaiditwasabitlikecarvingfictionfromreallife.Itjustrequiredpatience,imagination,andasteadyhand.Everysummer,hewouldchopdownanoldtreethatwasblockinghisviewofthelochwiththataxe,thencarefullycarveananimalsculptureintotheremainingstump.Owlsandrabbitswerehisfavorites.Allwithspooky,oversizedeyes,abitlikehisown.
Thetrapdoorreallywaslocked,andittookherforevertofindthekey.Thesmellofdampasshewalkeddownthestonestepsremindedherofsomanythingsthatshewouldratherhaveforgotten.Buttherewerenoghostsinthecrypt—atleastnotthatvarietyandnotthatday—onlyalcohol.Bythetimeshereturnedtothestudyholdingadustychampagnebottle,shewassurprisedtofindHenrystillstaringatthefragileclippingoftheNewYorkTimesbestsellerlist.Hisagenthadcircledhisbookinred.Itwasnumberone.
Robinpouredtwoglassesandheldoneoutfortheoldmantotake,buthedidn’t.Whenshelookedabitcloser,shecouldseethathewasn’tmovingandhisblueeyeshadn’tblinkedforsometime.Shefeltforapulsebuttherewasn’tone.Onthedesk,shenoticedsomeitemsthathadn’tbeentherebefore:anemptybottleofpills,alistofinstructions,andawill.Shedranktheglassofchampagnethatwasinherhand.Notincelebration,butbecausesherequiredalcohol.Atleasthediedhappy.
RobinburiedHenrythatnight,scaredthatsomeonemightseeifshewaitedforthesuntocomeup.Shewrappedhisbodyinanoldbedsheetalongwithsomeofhisfavoritebooks,thendraggedhimoutofthechapel.Inhiswill,hehadaskedtobecremated,buthavingacemeteryrightoutside,andashovel,hadprovedtobeveryconvenient.Albeithardwork.TherewereotherinstructionsRobinchosetoignore,too.LiketellinganyoneatallthatHenryhaddied.Thefollowingmorning,sheorderedaverynice-lookingheadstoneonlineusingHenry’sbankaccountdetails,andwhenitarrived,sheengraveditherselfusingHenry’stools.Hehadastaggeringamountofmoney—morethanshe’dimagined—butRobinneverspentapennyofitonherself.Despiteitbeingclearinhiswillthattheauthorhadleftheraconsiderablesum.Theonlytimesheeverusedhisbankcardagain,wastobuypropsforthevisitors,becausethatwasforthem,nother.TwodaysafterHenrydied,shesackedhiscleaner,knowingthatnobodyelseevercametovisittherecluse.EventheBlackwaterInnhadcloseddownyearsearlier,thankstoHenry.Hewouldbeasaloneindeathashechosetobeinlife.
WhenRobinfoundHenry’sworkinprogressonhislaptop,shereaditoutofcuriositymorethananythingelse.ItwasanothertypicallydarkandtwistyHenryWinternovel.Shehadn’trealizedthatshewasholdingherbreathduringaparticularlyfrighteningscene,untiltherabbitmadeanunexpectedsoundinitscageandmadeherjump.Robindidn’tlikehernamesakebeinglockedup.Shecarriedtheenormouswhiterabbitoutsidethechapel,andwhenitdidn’trunaway,sheclosedthedoorsbehindit,hopingthatshewouldneverseeitagain.Butitdidn’tbudge.Whenshecarrieditfartheraway,closertothelonggrassandtheloch,itjustcameback,sittingoutsidethosehugegothicdoorsasthoughwaitingtobeletin.Shedidn’tunderstandbackthen,butnoteveryonewantstobesetfree.
BRONZE
Wordoftheyear:atelophobianoun.Thefearofnotdoingsomethingrightorthefearofnotbeinggoodenough.Anextremeanxietyoffailuretoachieveperfection.29thFebruary2016—oureighthanniversaryDearAdam,Wedidn’tcelebrateouranniversarythisyear.I’vebeenspendingalotoftimewithafriendfromworkandyou’vebeen,well,spendingtimewithyourwork.YoustruggledwiththelatestadaptationofHenryWinter’sbooks.Personally,Ithinkbecauseyouweretryingtoohardtopleasetheauthorinsteadofbeingtruetoyourself.ButasyousaidwhenIofferedtotryandhelpacoupleofweeksago,whatdoIknow?Idoknowthatthelieswetellourselvesarealwaysthemostdangerous.AndIknowthatsometimesthethoughtswehideinthemarginsofourmindsarethemosthonest,becausetheyareoursalone,andwethinknobodyelsewillseethem.Whileyou’vebeenthinkingaboutHenryWinterandhisbooks,Ihavebeenthinkingaboutleavingyou.Myfriendatworkiskind,andcaring,andgenuinelyinterestedinme.Theynevermakemefeelstupid,orinsignificant,ortakenforgranted.Faceblindnessisn’ttheonlywaythatyoumakemefeelinvisible.YoumakemefeelasthoughI’mnotgoodenougheverysingleday.It’saterriblethingtoconfess,butsometimesIwonderiftheonlyreasonIstayisforBob.Andthishouse.IlovethisbigoldbeautifulVictorianrelic,hiddenawayinacornerofLondonthattimeforgot.Myblood,sweat,andtearsliterallywentintoeveryinchoftheplacewhileIrestoredit.Withlittleandmostlynohelpfromyou.Whenwewereyounger,Ididn’tdaretoimaginewemightshareahomelikethisoneday.Youprobablydid;yourdreamshavealwaysbeenbiggerthanmine.Butthensoareyournightmares.YouandIhadthekindofchildhoodsthatarebetterforgotten,butseedsofambitiongrowbestinshallowsoil.Howdareyouinvitehimherewithoutevenaskingmefirst.I’dhadsuchadifficultdayatwork—and,nooffense,butmyjobisarealone,Idon’tjustsitaroundmakingshitupwritingallday—allIwantedwastocomehome,shower,andopenabottleofwine.IcouldhearvoicesinsidethehousebeforeIhadevenputmykeyinthedoor.Yoursandoneother.Anditsmelledlikesomethingwasburning.Ifoundyouinthelounge,drinkingwhiskeywithHenryWinter,whilehesmokedapipeinournon-smokinghome.IthoughtIwasimaginingitatfirst,butthetweedjacketandsilkbowtielookedauthenticenoughtobereal.“Hello,darling.Wehaveavisitor,”yousaid,asifIcouldn’tseethatformyself.Anyoneelsewouldhaverecognizedthelookofhorroronmyface,hedid,butyoudidn’tbecauseyoucan’t.Still,Iwouldhavethoughtyoucouldhavepickeduponmyextremediscomfortinanotherway.Sometimesyoudisplaytheemotionalintelligenceofabrain-damagedfrog.Bothofyoustaredatme,waitingformetospeak,butwhatcouldIsay?Oneofyouwascompletelycluelessaboutthesituation,whiletheotherseemedonlytoohappyaboutit.“Look,thisisHenry’snewbook,”yousaid,holdingupabrightredhardbackandlookingpleasedaspunch,asthoughyouhadwrittenityourselfandwantedagoldstar.Henrygaveashrugoffalsemodesty.“It’sprobablynotyourcupoftea.”“Notreally,no.Iseeenoughhorrorintherealworld,”Ireplied.Youmightnotbeabletoreadtheexpressionsonmyface,butI’mfluentinyours,andiflookscouldkillIwouldhavebeeninthemorgue.Wecouldhavecutthetensionwithateaspoon,soitwasn’tsurprisingthatHenrypickeduponit.“I’msosorrytointrude.IsoldmyLondonflatlastyearandretreatedtomyScottishhideawayfull-time—youandAdammustcometovisit—I’vegotameetingwithmypublisherintowntomorrow,buttherewassomelast-minuteproblemwithmyhotelreservation,andyourhusbandinsistedIstayhere”—Ididn’tsayaword—“butIdon’twanttointrude.Icouldalways—”“You’remorethanwelcomehere.Isn’the,darling?”youinterrupted,lookingatme.“Ofcourse,”Isaid.“I’mactuallyjustgettingchangedandpoppingouttoseeafriend.Ihopeyouhavealovelyevening.”Ifeltlikeanunwantedguestinmyownhome.Ipracticallyranupthestairsandpackedabag.Ispenttheentireweekendwithmyfriendfromwork.Wewenttoanartgalleryoneday,andthetheaterthenext.Ifeltalive,andhappy,andfree.Ienjoyhercompanymorethanyoursthesedays.Shetendstolikeanimalsmorethanpeopletoo,that’swhyshestartedvolunteeringatBatterseaDogsHome.Shelistenstome,laughsatmyjokes,anddoesn’tmakemefeelsecond-bestallthetime.She’sabittoofondofmicrowavemealsandtinnedfoodforlunch—I’veneverseenhereatasaladoranythinggreen—butnobodyisperfectandthereareplentyofworsethingsinlifetobeaddictedto.WhenIcamehomeattheendoftheweekend,IwasrelievedthatHenrywasgone.Itmademesadthatyoudidn’tseemtoreallycarewhereIhadbeenorwhoIwaswith.Youknewitwasafriendfromwork,butyoudidn’tevenaskwhattheirnamewas.Instead,youjuststaredatmewithapeculiarlookonyourface.“What’swrong?”Iasked,fussingoverBobwhoclearlymissedmemorethanyoudid.“Nothingiswrong,”yousaidinthatsulkyman-boytonethatmeantsomethingwas.“You’vechangedyourhair.”“Justatrim.”Yourecognizemyhairmorethanyourecognizemyface,anditalwaysseemstobotheryoualittlewhenIchangeit.It’shonestlyonlyaninchshorter,andwithafewmorehighlightsthanbefore,butit’snicetofeelnoticed.Ifeltlikepamperingmyselfalittle,asthoughIdeservedatreat,butIcouldtellfromyourfacethatsomethingelsewasonyourmind.“Doyouwanttotellmewhat’sbotheringyounoworafterdinner?”Iasked.“Nothingisbotheringme.”Youpoutedlikeaspoiledchild.“Ifinishedmyscreenplaytoday…andIwonderedifyoumightlikeadrinkatthepubtocelebrate?”IwasabouttopolitelyprotestthatIwastired,butyoupreemptedmyrefusalwithmorewordsofyourown.“Also,Iwonderedifyoumightreadit,beforeIsendittomyagent?”Andthereitwas,notjustinyourvoice,butinyoureyes.Youstillneededme.Despiteallthewriter-shapedcolleaguesandfriendsinyourlife,inLondonandLA,youstillcaredwhatIthoughtofyourwork.Justlikewhenwefirstmet.“Ididn’tthinkIwasstillyourfirstreader?”Isaid,myturntosoundpetulant.“Ofcourse.Youropinionhasalwaysmatteredmost.WhodoyouthinkI’msecretlywritingallthesestoriesfor?”Itriedveryhardnottocry.“Me?”“Almostalways.”Thatmademesmile.“I’llthinkaboutit.”“Maybeagameofrockpaperscissorswouldhelpmakethedecision?”“Maybeweshouldplayforsomethingelse?”Isaid,forcingmyselftolookyouintheeye.“Likewhat?”“Like…whetherornotweshouldstillbetogether?”Thatgotyourattention—evenmorethanthehair—andneitherofuswassmilingthen.Idon’tknowwhatIexpectedyoutosay,butitwasn’t…“Okay.Let’sdoit.Agameofrockpaperscissorsshalldecidethefutureofourmarriage.IfIlose,it’sover.”Iwasnolongersurewhowascallingwhoseblufforifthatwaswhatitwas.Youhavealwaysletmewinwheneverweplayedthegame.Myscissorswouldcutyourpaper.Every.Single.Time.Idon’tknowwhatmademewantthingstobedifferent,butmyhandformedanewshape.Tomysurprise,yoursdidtoo.Onthefirstgo,webothformedarock,anditwasatie.ButifIhadn’tchangedmychoice…youwouldhavewon.Onthesecondgo,webothchosepaper.Withthestakesconsiderablyhigherthannormal,thethirdroundofthischild’sgamefeltridiculouslytense.Weplayedagain.Ichosetotwist,butyoudecidedtostick.Yourpaper-shapedfingerswrappedaroundmyrock-shapedfist,andyouwon.“Iguessthatmeanswestaytogether,”Isaid.Youheldontobothofmyhandsthen,andpulledmecloser.“Itmeanssometimeslifechangespeople,evenus.Wearebothdifferentversionsofourselvescomparedwithwhowewerewhenwefirstmet.Almostunrecognizableinsomeways.ButIlovealltheversionsofyou.Andnomatterhowmuchwechange,howIfeelaboutyouneverwill,”yousaid,andIwantedtobelieveyou.We’vecomesofar,youandI,andwedidittogether.That’swhyIcan’tletusfallapart.Wedidn’tgotothepub,andwedidn’tdoverymuchtocelebrateouranniversarythisyear,Istayeduplatetoreadyourworkinstead.Itwasgood.Maybeyourbest.Feelingneededisn’tthesameasfeelingloved,butit’scloseenoughtoremindmeofwhoweusedtobe.Iwanttofindthatversionofusagain,andwarnthemnottoletlifechangewhotheyaretoomuch.Ileftmynotesaboutthemanuscript,alongwithmyanniversarygifttoyouonthekitchentable,beforeleavingforworkearlythenextday.Itwasasmallbronzestatueofarabbitleapingintotheair.YouthoughtitwassomethingtodowithAlice’sAdventuresinWonderland—knowingthatwasoneofmyfavoritebooksasachild—butyouwerewrong.IboughtitbecauseitremindedmeofaRussianproverbthatanoldmanoncetaughtme.I’mstillratherfondofit:Ifyouchasetworabbits,youwillnotcatcheitherone.Yougavemeabronzecompassafewdayslater,withthefollowinginscription:SOYOUCANALWAYSFINDYOURWAYBACKTOME.Ihadn’trealizedthatyouthoughtIwaslost.YourwifexxAMELIA
Adamabandonsthecarwithitsflattires,andstormsbackinsidethechapel.Ifollowhimthroughthebootroom,thekitchen,thenthelounge,untilwearebothstandinginthemiddleofHenryWinter’ssecretstudy.Adamstaresaroundtheroom.I’mnotsurewhathe’slookingfororhopingtofind.IpreferreditwhenIthoughtwewereleaving.
Whiterabbitsaredefinitelyathemeinhere…theyleapalloverthewallpaper,theblinds,thecushions.Theinteriordesignchoicesareunexpectedforamaninhiseightieswholikedwritingdarkanddisturbingbooks.ButthenasAdamalwayssays,thebestwriterstendtohavenothingandeverythingincommonwiththeircharacters.
Adamstaresatmewithastrangelookonhisface.
“Ifyouknowanythingaboutwhatisreallygoingonhere,thennowwouldbeagoodtimetotellme,”hesays,inatoneheusuallyreservesforcoldcallers.
“Don’tstarttryingtoblameme.Thisplacebelongstotheauthorwhosenovelsyou’vespentthelasttenyearsofyourlifeadapting.Ineverlikedhim.Orhisbooks.AndeverythingI’veseenthisweekendsuggeststhatyou’rethereasonwe’retrappedhere.”
Adamlooksattheantiquedeskagain,theonethatusedtobelongtoAgathaChristie.It’smadeofadarkwood,andquitesmall,buttherearetentinylittledrawersbuiltintoit,whichIonlyreallynoticewhenhestartspullingthemout.Eachlookslikeaminiaturewoodenbox,andwhenhetipsthefirstontothepalmofhishand,asmallbronzestatueofarabbitfallsout.
“I’veseenthisbefore,”hemutters,alreadymovingtothenextdrawer.
Insidethat,hefindsanorigamipaperbird,justliketheonehealwayscarriesaroundinhiswallet.Iwatchinsilenceasthecolorseemstodrainfromhisface.
Idonotenjoyseeingmyhusbandlikethis.OtherpeopleallseeadifferentversiontothemanIknow.Theyhavenoknowledgeofhismoods,orhisinsecurities,orhisregularnightmaresaboutawomaninaredkimonobeinghitbyacar.Hedoesn’tjustwakeupbreathlessandcoveredinsweatwhenhedreamsabouther,sometimeshescreams.Adamhasspentalifetimerunningawayfromthethingsthatscaredhimthemost,andalthoughtheboynowlookslikeaman,hehasn’tchangedsomuch.
Notinmyeyes.
Heopensanotherdrawerandholdsupanantique-lookingironkey.
Thenextisfilledwithcopperpennies.Theremustbeoverahundredofthem,eachonewithholesforeyesandacarvedsmileyface.
POTTERY
Wordoftheyear:monachopsisnoun.Thesubtlebutpersistentfeelingofbeingoutofplace.Unabletorecognizeyourintendedhabitat,neverfeelingasthoughyouareathome.28thFebruary2017—ourninthanniversaryDearAdam,Ourhousedoesn’tfeellikeourhomeanymore,butatleastyoudidn’tforgetouranniversarythisyear.That’ssomething,Isuppose.You’vebeenbusywritingagain,andIhavemademyselfbusydoingotherthingswithotherpeople.Weoptedforaquieteveningin—justlikewedomostnights—butwithabottleofchampagneandatakeawaytocelebratemarkournineyearsofmarriage.Webothagreedthateatingintheloungewhilewatchingamoviewasthebestwaytogo—sittinginsilenceonlyhighlightsourstruggletohaveaconversationthesedays.Yougavemeaprintedvoucherpurchasedfromalast-minutewebsiteforapotteryclass.IgaveyouamugthatsaidGOAWAYI’MWRITING.I’veconsideredsuggestingthatweseeamarriagecounselor,butsofar,thetimehasneverfeltquiteright.We’rebothtreadingsocarefullywe’vecometoastandstill.Ifeltamixofreliefandexcitementwhenthedoorbellrangandsavedusfromourselves.Youjumpeduptoanswerit,andspentsolongoutinthehallwayIpresumeditwassomeoneyouknew.Butitwasmyfriendfromwork.Shewascrying.IhadaslightwobblewhenIsawthetwoofyoutogether.Itrynottotalkaboutuswithher,butshealwaysasks,soit’shardnottowithoutsoundingrude.IguessIjustwantedtokeephertomyself,afriendofmyownwhohadnothingtodowithyou,sillyasthatmightsound.“What’swrong?”Iasked,takinginthesightofyoubothstandingthereinthedoorway,youinyourslippers,herinhighheelswithtearsstreamingdownherface.ShestartedasavolunteeratBatterseaDogsHomelastyear.Ifweactuallyhadtopayeveryonewhoworksforthecharity,we’dsoonbebankrupt.Volunteershelpstaffwithjustabouteverything:caringfortheanimals,washingthem,walkingthem,feedingthem.Theycleanoutkennels,theyhelpraiseawarenessandfundsatevents,andsomeevenhelpmeintheoffice.That’showwemet.Inreturn,Ihelpedhergetafull-time,paidjobearlierthisyear,sonowweseeeachotheralmosteveryday.Mycolleaguesdidn’twarmtoherthewayIdid.Theymadejokesthatwecouldbetwinswereitnotformyhairbeingblondandstraight,andhersamopofmousybrowncurls.ButIthinkmostofthebitchycommentsweregreen-eyed.Gossipisalmostalwaysjealousy’slovechild.She’sshyandsociallyawkward,inthatwaythatmakespeoplesuspicious.She’salsoatadtooquiet,andalwaysspeaksasthoughdoubtingeverythingthatcomesoutofherownmouth,tryingthewordsonforsizeasifworriedtheymightnotfit.Butnottonight.“I’msosorrytoturnuplikethis,uninvited,”shesaid,wipinghertearstainedfacewiththebackofherhand.Shewaswearinganenormouspuffycoatwithahood,whichdidn’tmatchtheheelsatall.“What’shappened?Areyouallright?”Iaskedandshestartedtosob.“Comein—”“No,Ireallycan’t.Adamsaysit’syouranniversary…”Yournameonherlipssoundedforeigntomyears.“Oh,don’tworryaboutthat.We’vebeenmarriedforalmostadecade;wedon’tevenhavesexanymore.”Thelookyougavemethenwaspriceless.Iwonderwhatmyownfacedidwhensheacceptedtheinvitation,steppedinside,andloweredherhoodtorevealaheadofblondhair.Themousycurlsweregone,insteaditwasstyledstraightjustlikemine,anddyedexactlythesameshade.“Oh…”shesaid,clockingmyreactionassheremovedhercoat.“Igotmyhairdone.”“SoIsee,”Isaid,takingintherestofthemakeover.HerworkuniformofaBatterseasweatshirt,oldjeans,andtrainers—whichwasprettymuchallIhadeverseenherwear—hadbeenreplacedwithatight-fittingreddress.Shelookeddifferentyetfamiliar:shelookedlikeme.Sheevensoundedabitlikeme.TheEastEndtwangI’dgottenusedtowasgone,butthenalotofpeoplesounddifferentwhentheyarenervous.Andsheseemedsuper-nervousaroundyou.“IwantedtolooknicebecauseIhadadate…butitwasabadone.HesaidhewantedtopickmeupandIthoughthewasbeingold-fashionedandkind,butnowheknowswhereIlive.HethreatenedmeandgotveryaggressivewhenIdidn’tinvitehiminand…I’msosorry,Idon’tknowanyoneelseinLondonexceptyouand—”“It’sokay,you’resafenow.Wouldaglassofchampagnehelp?”yousuggested,andshesmiledwithteeththatseemedwhiterthanbefore.You’realwaysabetterhusbandwhenwehaveanaudience.Ifeltsosorryforherasthethreeofussatinthelounge,drinkingouranniversarychampagne,andlisteningtoherseeminglyendlesshorrorstoriesaboutsinglelife.Icouldn’timaginebeingonmyownatourage.Theworldhaschangedsomuch—onlinedating,speeddating,datingapps—itallsoundsawful.Ihadneverseenitbefore—perhapsbecauseshedidsuchagoodjobofhidingitbeneaththebaggyT-shirtsandoldjeansshenormallywore—butmyfriendisquitebeautifulwhenshemakesaneffort.Ifsinglelifeissohardforher,imaginewhatitwouldbelikeforusmeremortals.Ifeltfartoooldforthatsortofmalarkey.Iwatchedyou,watchingherandbeingsokindandconsiderate.Shebeamedconstantlyasyoumadepoliteconversation,asthoughtherewereasmilequotashehadtofulfillbeforetheendofthenight.Iwasgladthatthetwoofyouseemedtogeton.Asweopenedanotherbottle,andsatandlistenedtohertalkaboutdreadfuldateswithterriblemen,IrealizedjusthowluckyIwastohaveoneofthegoodones.“Well,itwasnicetofinallymeetyourworkwife,”youwhispered,asweclimbedintobed.Shewasasleepinourspareroom,andgiventheamountofalcoholsheconsumedtherewasprobablynoneedtoloweryourvoice.“Idon’tknowwhyI’veneverinvitedheroverbefore.NowIthinkofit,I’mnotsurehowsheknewwheretofindme—Idon’tthinkI’veevergivenherouraddress—butI’mgladthatshedid.”“Sheisn’tquitewhatIpicturedfromthewayyoudescribedher.Sheseems…nice.”“Yousaidthatlikeitwasaninsult.Didyoufindherattractive?”Youlaughed.“No.”“Really?Evenwiththehairandheelsandmakeup—”“Really,no.BesidesIcan’tseeallthat,remember?Ionlyseewhat’sinside.”“Andwhatdidyousee?Inside?”“Anactress.I’vemetenoughofthemtoknow.”Ilaughed.“That’sbonkers…she’saquietlittlemousemostofthetime.”“Notallactressesareonthestage.Somewalkamongus,masqueradingasnormalpeople.”Webothlaughedandyouheldmecloser.Thereissomethingquitemagicalaboutbeinginawarmbedwhenit’scoldoutside.Sharingbodyheatwithsomeoneyoulove.Orusedto.Butjustbecausewestillshareabed,itdoesn’tmeanthatwestillsharethesameopinions.“Whatdoyouseeinsideme?”Iasked.“Sameasalways,mybeautifulwife.”YoustaredatmethenandIfeltseen.“Whathappenedtous?”Iasked,expectingyoutolookaway,orchangethesubject,butyoudidn’t.“I’mnotwhoIwastenyearsago,andneitherareyou,andthat’sokay.Theonlyquestionweneedtoaskourselves,isdowelovewhowearenow?Listeningtoyourfriendtonightmademefeellonelyandluckyatthesametime.Thesuccessofarelationshipcan’tbemeasuredbylongevityalone.Ilovethatwecelebratethesemilestoneseveryanniversary,andevenIsmileatthosenewsitemsaboutcoupleswhohavebeentogetherforseventyyears,butIalsothinkit’spossibletohaveaone-nightstandthatmightbemoreprofoundthansomemarriages.It’snotabouthowlongarelationshiplasts,it’saboutwhatitteachesyouabouteachotherandyourself.”“Whatareyousaying?”Yousmiled.“Rockpaperscissors.”“What?”“Youheardme,rockpaperscissors.Ifyouwin,westaytogetherforever.”Itmustbeayearsincewelastplayedthatgame.Butyouletmewinjustlikeyoualwaysusedto,myscissorscuttingyourpaper.Itsoundssilly,butIfeltasifitwasasignthatmaybeweweremorelikewhoweusedtobetoo.“WhatwouldhavehappenedifI’dlost?”Iasked.“Wewouldstaytogetherforeveranyway,becauseIloveyou,Mrs.Wright,”youreplied,slippingyourarmaroundmywaist.Ifitwasthealcoholtalking,Ididn’tcare.Youspendalldayworkingwithwords,butthoseweretheonlythreeIneededtohear.“Iloveyoumore,”Isaid,andwemadeloveforthefirsttimeinalongtime.I’maneggs-in-one-basketgirlwhenitcomestorelationships,andit’sadangerouswaytobe.Onebadfall,oranunfortunateslipup,andeverythingIcareaboutcouldgetbrokenandsmashed.IfoundmypersonwhenIfoundyou,andI’veneverreallyneededorwantedanyoneelsesince.Rightlyorwrongly,Ipouredeveryemotionalpartofmyselfintous.Iadoptedyourhopesanddreamsandlovedthemasthoughtheyweremyown.Icaredaboutyousomuch,Ihadnothinglefttogiveanyoneelse,evenmyself.Iwascontentwithasocialcirclebigenoughfortwo.Youwerealwaysenoughforme,butIneverfeltasthoughIwasquiteenoughforyou.Maybethatcanchange.MaybeifItrytoloveyoualittleless,thescalesmighttipinmyfavor,andyoumightlovemealittlemore?Icareaboutmyfriendatworkverymuch,butIdon’twanttoenduplikeher.Seeingherhereinourhome—solonely,andsad,andbroken—wasabitofawake-upcall.Funnyhowanotherperson’smisfortunecanmakeyourealizewhatyouhave.Weneedtostoptakingeachotherforgranted.That’sanotherthingnobodytellsyouaboutmarriage;sometimesit’sgood,sometimesit’sbad,doesn’tmeanit’sover.Perhapsthisisasgoodorasbadasitgets?So,althoughourhousestoppedfeelinglikeahome,I’mgoingtotrytofixthat,andI’mgoingtotryandfixus.Evenifthatmeanscounseling,orcompromises,orperhapssometimeaway,justyouandme…andBob.Maybeallmarriageshavesecrets,andmaybetheonlywaytostaymarriedistokeepthem.YourwifexxADAM
“Whatdoesthismean?”Iask,holdingthetinydrawerfullofpenniesinonehandandabrokenGOAWAYI’MWRITINGmugintheother.Imaysufferfromfaceblindnessandtheoddneurologicalglitch,butthereisnothingwrongwithmymemory(mostofthetime).Thedeskisfullofanniversarygiftsmywifegavemeovertheyears.“Areyouinonallthis?”
“What?No!”Ameliasays.
Istareather,searchingforthetruth,butIcan’tevenseeherface.HerfeaturesareswirlinglikeavanGoghpaintingandIfeeldizzyjustlookinginherdirection.SometimesIcanrecognizepeoplebytheshapeorcoloroftheirhair,oradistinctivepairofglasses.SometimesIdon’tknowifIknowthematall.
“Thenhowdoyouexplainthis?”Isay,turningbacktothedesk.“YouarrangedthislittletriptoScotland;youdroveushere—”
“Ican’texplainanythingthathashappenedthisweekend.”
“Can’torwon’t?DidyoualreadyknowthatHenryWinterwasdead?”
“Ithinkyouneedtocalmdown.Ididn’tknowanything.Istilldon’t.Exceptthat…”
“What?”Iaskher.
“YousaidHenrydeliveredanewbookinSeptember,butnowweknowhediedtheyearbefore.”
“So?”
“So,whatifsomeoneelsewroteit?”SheshoutsthequestionandIrealizethatIhavebeenshoutingtoo.
It’saridiculoussuggestion.Thebookhassincebeenpublishedallaroundtheworld.Doessheseriouslythinkthatnobody—includinghisagent,hispublishers,andarmyoffans—wouldhavenoticedifsomeoneelsehadwrittenaHenryWinternovel?ButthenIdothemathandshe’sright,itdoesn’taddup.
“Thatisn’tpossible,”Ireply.TheanswerinmyheadislessdecisivebutIdon’tsharethatonewithmywife.
Writersareastrangeandunpredictablespecies.Tobeonerequirespatience,determination,sufficientself-motivationtoworkaloneinthedark,andtheself-belieftokeepgoingwhentheshadowstrytoconsumethem.Andtheydotry—Ishouldknow.Theotherthingallwritershaveincommonisthatthey’rekookyatbest,crazyatworst.WouldHenryfakehisowndeathforsomereason?
“Webothsawsomeoneletthemselvesintothechapelearlier.Remember?That’swhoweneedtoblameforallthis.Noteachother,”Ameliasays.
“Whataboutthewomaninthecottage?”
“Thewitchwiththecandlesandthewhiterabbit?Yousaidshewasold…”
“Isaidshehadgrayhair.Itisn’tasthoughwe’veseenanyoneelsesincewearrived.”
“So,let’sgoback.Knockonherdooragain.Worst-casescenario,shecastsaspellandturnsusintowhiterabbitstoo,”Ameliareplies,soundingcalmerthansheshould.
Maybebecauseshealreadyknowswhatisgoingonhereandthisisallanact.
I’llalwaysfeelguiltyaboutcheatingonmywife,butSaintAmeliasleptwithsomeonesheshouldn’thavetoo.It’sasifsheconvenientlyforgetsthatpartofthestory.ButIcan’t.“CallmePamela,”thecounselor,saidweneededtomoveon,learntoputitbehindus,butI’mstillshockedbyhoweasilymywifelies.
IwishIcouldseeherfacenow,thewayotherpeoplecan.Iwonderifshelooksscared?Ordoesshelookascomposedasshesounds?Andifso—giventhatweappeartobetrappedandquitepossiblyindanger—whyisn’tsheasafraidasIam?Sheseemstohaveforgottenallaboutherbeloveddog.She’slyingaboutsomething,andnotknowingwhatscaresme.Ahauntedmarriageisjustasterrifyingasahauntedhouse.
“Comewithme,”Isay,takingherhand—she’salwayscomplainingIdon’tholditoftenenough.
Herfaceandvoicemightnotgiveheraway,butAmeliacan’tcontrolherbreathing.Ifshe’sgenuinelystressedorscared,it’salwaysthefirstthingtogo.
Wereachtheoldwoodenspiralstaircaseleadingtothefirstfloor,andIpointupatthegalleryofblack-and-whitephotosonthewall.It’sbeenbotheringmesincewegothere.
“Whoarethepeopleinthesepictures,doyourecognizeanyoftheirfaces?”Iask.
IcantellthattheportraitsatthebottomofthestairsareofpeopledressedinVictorianclothes.Theonesnearerthetoplookmorerecent.Icanseethatsomeofthesubjectsareadults,othersarechildren,but—asusual—Ican’tseeanyoftheirfaces.
Ameliashakesherhead,soIstarttopullherupthestairs.
“Howaboutnow?Anyoneherelookfamiliar?”
“You’rescaringme,Adam,”shesays,andIcanhearfromherbreathingthatshe’stellingthetruth.I’mabouttoapologizewhenshespeaksagain.
“Hangon,IthinkthisphotoisofHenryasateenager…andtheonebelowlooksabitlikehimtoo,butyounger,withamanandwoman.Parents,perhaps.”
“Somekindoffamilytreemaybe?Keepgoing,”Isay,notlettinghergo.
“I’mfairlysuremostofthesepicturesareofHenry.Ididn’tnoticeuntilnow,butthenIdidn’tknowwhattolookfor.He’salotyoungerthanthefaceIseeonbookjacketsandinthenewspapers—allofwhicharesooutofdate.”
NowIdropherhand.
Istareatthephotosmyself,tryingtoseewhatshesees,butit’spointless.
“Anyoneelselookfamiliar?”Iask,whenAmeliastopsabruptlyatthetopofthestairs.Inoticehertwistingthesapphireengagementringroundandroundherfinger.
“Therearesomepicturesofalittlegirltoo…holdon.”
“What?”
“Thesepicturesweren’therebefore.Doyouremember?Therewerejustthreefadedrectangularshapeswithrustynailsstickingoutofthewall.Someonehasputthemback.”I’mabouttoaskifitwasher,butbitemytongue.“Ithinkthispictureisof—”
Ispotsomethingoverhershoulderbeforeshefinisheshersentence.
“Oneoftheotherdoorsisopen,”Iinterrupt,rushingtowardit.
Allofthedoorsonthelandingwerelockedlastnight,exceptfortheoneleadingtothebedroomthatwesleptin,andtheonetothebelltower.Butnowanotherdooriswideopen,andIfindmyselfstandinginsideachild’sbedroom.
Everythingiscoveredindustliketherestofthechapel,butthisroomisalsofullofcobwebs.Itsmellsmusty,likeithasn’tbeenairedformonths.Maybelonger.Thecreepiestthingtocatchmyeyeisthelargedoll’shouseinthemiddleoftheroom.Itlooksantique.ItalsolooksremarkablylikeourLondonhome—adouble-frontedVictorianhouse.I’munabletostopmyselffromopeningthedustydoors,andwhenIseethattheroomsinsidearedecoratedinasimilarwaytoourhouse,Istarttofeelsick.Thesametwocarvedwoodendollsareineveryroom,buttheyarenotminiaturereplicasofAmeliaandme.Oneisadoll-sizedoldman,wearingatweedjacketandbowtie,theotherisalittlegirldoll,dressedinred.Ineverymake-believescenetheyareholdinghands,andtheoldmanisalwayssmokingapipe.WhenItakeacloserlook,Iseethatthepipesarereallyacorncupsandstalks.
“Haveyouseenthis?”Ameliaasks.
Sheisholdinganoldjack-in-the-box.Ihadoneexactlylikeitmyselfasachild,anditterrifiedme.Idon’tunderstandthesignificanceatfirst,untilIseethatthenameJackhasbeencrossedout,sothatnowitsaysAdam-in-the-boxinstead.
MymothertaughtmetheFrenchnameforthesethingswhenIwasalittleboy:diableenbo?te,literally“boxeddevil.”Somanyunexpectedthingsremindmeofher.Andwhenevertheydo,Irelivethenightshedied:therain,theterriblesoundofscreechingcarbrakes,herredkimonoflyingintheair.Thedogwasmine.Ibeggedhertoletmehaveone,butthenIdidn’tlookafterit.Ifthirteen-year-oldmehadwalkedthedogmyself,likeIpromisedto,shewouldn’thavebeenkilledwalkingalongthepavementthatnight.
Myfingers,seeminglyindependentofmymind,findthecrankontheAdam-in-the-boxandturnit.Slowly.Thenostalgictuneplaysandmymother’svoicesingsalonginsidemyhead.
Mymothertaughtmehowtosew,Andhowtothreadtheneedle,Everytimemyfingerslips,Pop!goestheweasel.
JackburstsoutoftheboxandIjump,eventhoughIknewwhatwascoming.Withitswildredhair,paintedface,andspottyblueoutfit,itlooksterrifying,evenmoresothantheoneIrememberasachild,becauseitseyesaremissing.
IthinkIunderstandthenot-so-subtlemessage,butwhatelseamInotseeing?
AsIturntotakeintherestofthebedroom,Inoticethatthewallpaper,curtains,pillows,andduvetareallcoveredinfadedimagesofthesamething:robins.ThenIseethedusty,freestanding,child’sblackboardinthecorneroftheroom.Thechalkwordsonithavefaded,andwereclearlywrittenyearsago,butIcanstillmakethemout:
Imustnottelltales.Imustnottelltales.Imustnottelltales.TIN
Wordoftheyear:metanoianoun.Atransformativechangeofheart.Thejourneyofchangingone’smind,self,orwayoflife.28thFebruary2018—ourtenthanniversaryDearAdam,Itisn’treallyourtenthanniversary.I’mwritingthisletteralittlelatebecauseofwhathappened.Ithoughtthingswereprettygoodwithusthisyear.Ithoughtwewerehappy.Iwas,andIthoughtyouweretoo.Fromtheoutsidelookingin,ourmarriagewasdefinitelyprettysolid.ButIwasblindstupidagulliblefoolwrong.NothingseemsrealnowthatIknowthetruth.IfeellikeI’mtrappedinsideasnowglobe;onemoreshakeandI’lldisappearcompletely.Foralongtime,ithasfeltasthoughsomeonewaswatchingus.Ican’tquiteexplainthefeeling,orputitintowords,butIthinkweallknowwhenwe’rebeingwatched.Whetheratwork,orwalkingthedog,orjustonthetube.Youcanfeelitwhensomeoneelse’seyesarestaringinyourdirectionforlongerthantheyshould.Youalwaysknow.It’sinstinct.Normally,whenIgethomefromwork,you’restillinyourwritingshed.Butthenightbeforeourtenthanniversary,Ifoundyousittinginthelounge,inthedark,watchinganoldepisodeofTheGrahamNortonShowontheBBCiPlayer.HenryWinterisknownfornevergivinginterviews,buttocelebratethepublicationofhisfiftiethnovelinfiftyyears,heagreedtodoonelastyear.Wewatchedittogetheratthetime.GrahamNortonwasasfunnyandcharmingasever,butIrememberfeelingsickwhenheintroducedHenry.AnoldmanIbarelyrecognizedhobbledoutontothestagebeforetakingaseatontheredsofa.Thewalkingstick,withasilverrabbit’sheadhandle,wasanewadditiontohistweedjacketandbowtieuniform.Aswasthesmileonhisface.Itlookedlikeithurt.Iwishwe’dneverseentheinterview,butwedid,andlastnightIwatchedyouwatchingitoverandoverandoveragain.ThebitwhereHenryWintermentionedyou.Istoodquietlyinthehallwayofourhome,andwatchedwhileyourewoundandplayeditseventimes.Grahamleanedforward.“Now,tellme,justbetweenus”—theaudiencelaughed—“whatdoyoureallythinkabouttheTVandfilmadaptationsofyourbooks?”ThefalsesmilevanishedfromHenry’sheavilylinedface.“Idon’townatelevisionset,I’vealwayspreferredreading.”“Butyoumusthaveseenthem?”Grahampersisted,takingasipofhiswhitewine.“I’veseenthem.Ican’tsayIlikethemmuch.ButIwaspersuadedtoletthescreenwriterhaveago—hiscareerwasgoingnowherebeforeIsaidyes—andevenifIdon’tlikewhathedidtothebooks,alotofotherpeopledo.So…”Grahamlaughed.“Yikes,let’shopeheisn’twatching!”Butyouwerewatching.SowasI.Idon’tthinkyou’vespokentoHenryorwrittenanythingnewsince.YoublamedyouragentforwhatHenryhadsaid,andIfeltawful—Ilikeyouragent,he’soneofthegoodguysinwhatcansometimesbeabadbusiness—butIstillcouldn’ttellyouthetruth.Ithoughtthingswithuswerefinallybackontrack,tellingyouthatIwasthereasonHenryletyouadapthisbooksinthefirstplacedidn’tseemtoobrightanidea.Idon’tknowwhatmadeyousitinthedark,andwatchanoldclipofHenryputtingyoudown.Idon’tknowwhyyoustillcarewhathethinks.Inoticedthehalfemptybottleofwhiskeythen—Henry’sfavoritebrand—sittingnexttoyourBaftaaward.It’shardwhenthehighlightofsomeone’scareercomesrightatthebeginningofit.Sometimesit’sbesttostartsmall—giveyourselfroomtogrow.Icreptbackouttothehall,slammedthefrontdoor,thenranstraightupthestairs.“Justgoingtohaveaquickshower,”Icalled,sothatyouwouldthinkIhadn’tseenyou.WhenIcamedown,theTVwasoff,thewhiskeywasgone,andtheBaftawasbackontheshelf.Iwonderedhowlongyouhadbeenpretendingtobeokaywhenreallyyouwerefeelingbroken.PuttingonanacteverynightwhenIgothome.Yourjobmeansthatyouspendalotoftimeonyourown.Alittletoomuchsometimes,maybe.Iwantedtofixyou,butwasn’tsurehow.Thenextday—ouranniversary—Idecidedtoleaveworkearly.Iwasdeterminedtocheeryouupandsurpriseyou.SomethingfeltwrongevenasIwalkedupthegardenpath.Themagnoliatreeyouplantedinthemiddleofthelawnforourfifthanniversary,lookedlikeitmightbedying.IchosetoignorewhatcouldhavebeenasignandletmyselfandBobinsidethehouse.Everythingwasstillandsilent,justlikeitalwaysiswhenyou’reoutinthewritingshed,whichyoualmostalwaysare.Therewasatinofbakedbeansonthekitchentable—Ithoughtitmustbesomekindofjoke,knowingthattinwasthetraditionalgiftfortenyearsofmarriage.Ismiledandheadedstraightupstairstoourbedroom.Iplannedtospendabitoftimegroomingmyselfinsteadofabandoneddogsforachange,beforesurprisingyou.Butyousurprisedmeinstead.Youwerestillinbed.Withmyfriendfromwork.She’dcalledinsickthatmorning.NowIknewwhy.EverythingstoppedwhenIwalkedintotheroom.Idon’tjustmeanyou,orher,orwhatyouweredoing.AndIdon’tjustmeanthatIstoppedbreathing—eventhoughitfeltlikeIdid—itwasasthoughtimeitselfstoodperfectlystill,waitingforthepiecesofmybrokenlifetofallandseewheretheywouldland.Ijuststoodthere,staring,unabletoprocesswhatIwasseeing.Shesmiled.I’llalwaysrememberthat.ThenIrememberyoulookingbetweenthetwoofus.Yourwifeinthedoorwayandyourwhoreinourbed.“Ithoughtitwasyou,”yousaid,wrappingthesheetaroundyourself.WhenIdidn’trespond,yousaiditagain.Asifthewordsmightsoundlesslikeliesifyousaidthemasecondtime.“Ithoughtitwasyou.”Justthethoughtoflyingcanmakeyoublush,andyourcheeksturnedbrightred.I’mnotproudofwhatIdidnext.IwishIhadsaidsomethingclever,butI’veneverbeengoodatknowingwhattosayuntillongafteranevent,andevennowIcan’tfindtherightwordsforwhatIsawthatafternoon.SoIdidn’tsayanything,butIdidgotothegardenshed,grabashovel,thendigthatbloodymagnoliatreeupandoutofmyonceperfectfrontlawn.Sheleftandyoujustwatchedinhorror.Thetreehadgrownbiggerthanmebythen,butIdraggeditthroughthefrontdoorandupthestairs,scratchingthewallsandleavingatrailofdirtandbrokenbranchesbehindme.ThenIthrewitonthebedwhereyouhadsleptwithher,beforetuckingitinbeneaththesheets,likeababy.“I’lldowhateveryouwanttofixthis.Counseling?Aholiday?WecouldgotoScotland,likewedidforourhoneymoon?Anything?”yousaid,asIpackedabag.ButIdon’tthinkanythingcanfixusnow.Doyou?YourwifeAMELIA
Adamstillhasn’tputthepiecesofthepuzzletogether.
Hestaresatthelittlegirl’sbedroomwhereeverythingiscoveredinrobins,lookinglikealostchild.UntilItakehishandandleadhimbackoutontothelanding.Westopatthetopofthespiralstairs,andIpointatthefinalframedphotoonthewall.
“Whoisit?”heasks,althoughI’mfairlysurehemustknowbynow.Havingfaceblindnesscan’tstopsomeonefromseeingthetruth.
Thegrandfatherclockinthebedroomstartschimingandwebothjump…Ithoughtithadstopped.
“It’syou,”Isay.Westudytheimagethen:theexpensive-lookingsuitheworeforthewedding,theconfettionhisshoulders,theweddingdress,therings,thehappysmiles…andsomeoneelseintheshot.“Henryisinthebackground.Webothknowhewasn’tinvited,butthefactthathewasthere—standingonthestreetoutsidetheregistryofficebythelooksofit—alongwithseeingthispictureonhiswalloffamilyportraits,suggeststhathethoughtofyouasmuchmorethanjustascreenwriterwhoadaptedhisbooks.”
Adamstilldoesn’tunderstand.
Thisisn’tgoingtobeeasy.Butmyhusbandneedstoknowthetruthnow,andIneedtobetheonetotellhim.
“Thewomanintheweddingphotoisn’tme.”
ADAM
“Whatdoyoumean?”Iask,staringatapictureofabrideandgroomwhosefacesIcan’tsee.
“It’saphotoofyourfirstwedding.WhenyoumarriedRobin.”
Westandinsilenceatthetopofthestaircase.Itfeelsasifwestaylikethatforalongtime,whileItrytoprocesswhatAmeliahassaid.
“Idon’tunderstand—”
“Ithinkyoudo,”shesays.“IthinkthateventhoughyouweremarriedtoRobinfortenyears,shenevertoldyouthatshewasHenryWinter’sdaughter.Ithinkshegrewuphereandthatlittlegirl’sbedroomwashers.”
Istareatmysecondwifeforalongtime,tryingtoseefromherfacewhetherthisissomekindofprank.ButthevanGoghswirlsareback,andIgripthebanisterforbalance.
“Thisisinsane.Thatcan’tbetrue!”
Ameliashakesherhead.“Iknowyoucan’tseeit,butthesethreephotosonthewall—theonesthatweremissingyesterday—areallofyourex-wife.ThisisyouandRobingettingmarried,withaphotobombfromHenry.”Shepointsatthenextpicture.“ThisisRobinwhenshewasyounger,teenagedI’dguess,inarowboatfishingonBlackwaterLoch.Andthis”—shenodstowardthefinalframe—“isalittlegirl,wholookslikeRobin,sittingonHenry’slapandreadingabook,whilehesmokesapipe.”
Mymindisracingbackandforththroughtime,andIspeakmythoughtsoutloud.
“Thiscan’tbereal.Henrydidn’thavechildren—”
“Theheadstoneinthegraveyardsaysdifferent.”
“Robinneverwantedtotalkaboutherfamily,especiallyherfather.Shesaidtheywereestranged—”
“Idon’tdoubtit,butI’mguessingthere’sareasonwhyshenevertoldyouwhohewas.”
Istudythefacesinthephotosagain,butevennowthatIknowwhattolookfor,theyalllookthesame.
“Iknowyoucan’tseeitforyourself,soyou’regoingtohavetotrustme,”Ameliasays.Afterseducingme,herbestfriend’shusband,trustingherissomethingI’veneverbeengreatat.“I’mtellingyouthatthesepicturesareallofyourex-wife.TheonesofherasalittlegirllookthespittingimageoftheonesofHenryasalittleboy.Thelikenessisuncanny.Theycouldbetwinsseparatedbyfortyyears,oritmightbetimetoacceptthatRobinisHenry’sdaughter.”
Herwordsfeellikeaseriesofslaps,pinches,andpunches.Ican’tgetmyheadaroundit,butI’mstartingtobelievewhatAmeliaissaying.
“Idon’tunderstandwhyeitherofthemwouldn’thavetoldmesomethingasbigasthis,”Isay,hatingthepatheticsoundofmyownvoice.Imightnotbeabletoseebeautyontheoutside,butRobinwasthemostbeautifulpersonontheinside.Icouldfeelit,whenevershewasinthesameroom.Everyoneelseknewitassoonastheymethertoo—shewasjustsogood,andgenuine,andhonest.Ican’timagineherlyingtomeaboutanything,letalonesomethingashugeasthis.
“Maybetherewasagoodreasonwhyneitherofthemwantedyoutoknow?Whodidyoumeetfirst?HowdidtheideaofyouadaptingHenryWinter’sbookscomeabout?”Ameliaasks.
Ithinkbacktothathappyday,whenRobinandIsharedacrappybasementflatinNottingHill.Wehadsolittlethen,butfarmorethanIhavenow.Wewerekindredspiritswhosurviveddifficultchildhoodsandwerealoneintheworlduntilwefoundeachother.Robinalwaysbelievedinmeandmywork,nomatterwhat.Shebelievedinmewhennobodyelsedid,andwasalwaystherewheneverIneededher.Always.Withouteverwantinganythinginreturn.IfeelAmeliastaringatme,waitingforananswer.
“MyagentrandomlycalledwhenIwasoutofwork,sayingthatHenryWinterhadinvitedmetomeethimathisLondonflat,”Isay,oneofmyhappiestmemoriesobliteratedassoonasIdo.
“Isthatnormal?”
Idon’tansweratfirst.Webothknowitisn’t.“Well,hisagentdiedrathersuddenly—”
“Ofwhat?”
“Idon’tremember…onlythatitwasashock.Hisagentwasquiteyoung.”
“FunnyhowpeoplewhocamebetweenyouandRobinseemtodieordisappear.”
“Whatdoesthatmean?”
“Shedidn’texactlyhavemanyfriends.”
Shedidn’tneedthem.Shehadme,andrightlyorwrongly,Iwasallshewanted.ButItookitforgranted.
“Shedidn’thaveaproblemmakingfriends,”Isay,awarethatIamnowdefendingmyex-wife.“EveryonelikedRobin.Shejustrarelylikedthemback.ShebecamequitefriendlywithOctoberO’Brienwhenwewereworkingtogether.”
“Octoberdied.Thereisadrawerfullofnewspapercuttingsaboutherinthekitchen.”
“Youcan’tseriouslythinkthat…itwassuicide.Robinwasfriendswithyou,too.ShegotyouajobatBatterseawhenyouwereavolunteer,shewaskindtoyou,trustedyou—”
“Thisisn’taboutme.Mightthatunexpectedmeetingwithaninternationalbest-sellingauthorhavetakenplacebecauseyouwerelivingwithhisdaughter?”Ameliasays,asthoughspeakingmyprivatefearsoutloud.“IguessforthosetenyearsyouweremarriedtoRobin,youwereHenryWinter’sson-inlaw.Youjustdidn’tknowit.”
“Bob,”Iwhisper.
“Whatabouthim?”
“HewasRobin’sdog.SheadoptedhimfromBattersea,lovedhimlikehewasachild.Ifshehashimthenatleastweknowthathe’ssafe.”
“Doyoureallythinkshe’sbehindallofthis?”Ameliaasks.
“Whoelsecanitbe?Themostimportantquestionrightnow,iswhyarewehere,andwhynow?Ifshewantedrevenge,it’salongtimetowait.Sowhatdoesshewant?WhytrickusintocomingtoScotland?”
“Idon’tknow,she’syourex-wife.”
“She’syourex-friend.Youtoldmethatwhenyouwonaweekendhere,theemailsaidwecouldonlycomethisweekend.Isthatright?”Iask.
Sheshrugs.“Yes.Butwhy?What’ssospecialaboutthisweekend?”
“Idon’tknow.What’sthedate?”
Ameliachecksherphone.“Saturdaythe…twenty-ninthofFebruary.It’saleapyear,Ihadn’tevennoticed.Doesthatmeansomething?”
“Yes,”Isay.“It’sourweddinganniversary.”
Shelooksconfused.“WegotmarriedinSeptember—”
“Notours.It’sthedateImarriedRobin.”
ROBIN
RobinrememberswalkingawayfromthehouseinLondon,thedayshefoundAdamandAmeliainbedtogether.Sheremembersthemagnoliatree,andsherememberstakingoffthesapphireengagementringthathadoncebelongedtoAdam’smother,alongwithherweddingring,andleavingthembehindonthekitchentable.Therestisabluratbest.Shegrabbedherbag,afewofherfavoritethings,thengotinhercarandjustdrove.Shedidn’tknowwhatshewasgoingtodo,orwhereshewasgoingtogo,shejusthadtogetfar,farawayfromthem,asfastaspossible.HerbiggestmistakewasleavingBobbehind.Theonlypeoplewithnoregretsareliars.
ThatwaswhenHenrycalled.Totellherhewasdyingandtoaskhertocomehome
Robinhadn’tspokentoherfatherforyears,butaseriesoffallenstarsseemedtoalignthemselvesthatafternoon,toguideherbacktothehomesheranawayfromasachild.Truthbetold,shehadnowhereelsetogo.
RobinstillrememberswhenAmeliafirststartedvolunteeringatBatterseaDogsHome,andhowshetookpityonthemousy,lonelycreature,inthesamewayshetookpityonalltheabandonedanimalsthatarrivedthere.ShehelpedAmeliatogetajob,andalife,becameherfriend,andinreturnthewomanstoleherhusband.Shelookssodifferentnow,withherblondhair,fancyclothes,andRobin’sex-husbandonherarm.But,asawfulasbeingbetrayedbyafriendis,itwasAdamwhoRobinblamedatfirst.Foreverything.
Notanymore.
Nowsheblamesthemboth,whichiswhatthisweekendisreallyaboutandwhyshetrickedthemintocominghere.
Robinhasexperiencedgriefonlythreetimesinherlife:
Whenshestoppedtryingtohaveachildofherown.
Whenherhusbandcheatedonher.
Andwhenhermotherdrownedinaclaw-footbath.
Thewholeworldthoughtitwasanaccident,butitwasn’t.RobinhasalwaysbelievedthatHenrywasresponsibleforhermother’sdeath.ThatwaswhyhereallysentRobinawaytoboardingschool,andwhysheranawayassoonasshewasoldenoughtoleaveforgood.HeremovedalmosteverytraceofhermotherfromtheScottishchapelshehadlovinglyconvertedintoahome.Thebathtubswerethefirsttogo.Hermotherlovedtocook,soHenryemptiedalmosteverykitchencupboardanddraweruntiltherewereonlytwoofeverythingleft;twoplates,twosetsofcutlery,twocups.Nosaucepans,nopotsorpans,wereleftbehind.Thesmellofcookingremindedhimofhisdeadwife,sotheoldhousekeeperwouldmakebigbatchesofmealsathomeinstead,thenfillthechapelfreezerwiththemsotheybothdidn’tstarve.Robinkeptwhatshecouldofhermother’spossessions,includingtwopairsofstork-shapedgoldandsilverembroideryscissors—hermotherlovedtosew,aswellascook—andhidthembeneathherbed.Sheneverbelievedthathermother’sdeathwasaccidental.Peoplewhoreadandwritecrimenovelsandthrillersknowthereareaninfinitenumberofwaystogetawaywithmurder.Robinsuspectsthatithappensallthetime.
Italwaysfeltasthoughherparentswereperformingapartinaplaytheywouldrathernothavebeencastin.Isdisinterestaformofneglect?Robinthinksso.Butthingsweremuchworseafterhermotherdied.Herworldbecameverysmallandverylonelyveryfast.Henrythoughtthrowingmoneyattheproblemwouldfixit,justlikehealwaysdid,anditwaswhysheneverwantedapennyfromhimasanadult.Shewouldrathersleepinafreezingcoldcottage,withanoutsidetoilet,thanspendanothernightunderhisroof.Hismoneywasbloodmoneyinmorewaysthanone.
Henryboughtthefanciestdoll’shouseRobinhadeverseenwhenhermotherdied.Eachroomhadthesametwolittlefiguresinsideit.OnelookedlikeHenry,theotherwasaminiatureRobin.Ahappytoyfamilytoreplacetheirbrokenrealone.Hecarvedthedollshimselfwithhiswoodchisels,justlikethestatuesoutsidethechapel,andalltheRobin-shapedbirdshehadwhittledovertheyears,whilepuffingonhispipe,orsippingaglassofscotch.
NobodyelseknewwhatreallyhappenedtoRobin’smother.Nobodysuspectedathing.HenryevenwroteaboutamanwhokilledhiswifeinthebathtubafewyearslaterinhisnovelcalledDrowningYourSorrows.ItmadeRobinquestionwhetherallofhisstoriesmightbebasedonfactsratherthanfiction,andthethoughtterrifiedher.Thebookwasahugebestseller,everyoneatherboardingschoolwastalkingaboutit,eventheteachers.
ItinspiredRobintowriteastoryofherown.HerEnglishtutorwassoimpressed,that—unknowntoRobin—shesentacopytoHenryattheendofterm,sayingthatagiftforstorytellingclearlyraninthefamily.Itwasaboutanovelistwhocommittedcrimesinreallife,thenwroteabouttheminhisbooks,alwaysgettingawaywithmurder.
WhenRobincamehomethatChristmas,Henrybarelyspoketoheratall.Hestayedlockedinsidehissecretstudywithhisbelovedbooks.Justlikealways.Oneafternoonshefoundherdollsfloatinginthebathroomsink.Theylookedliketheyweredrowning,justlikehermotherhadintheclaw-footbath.WhenshewokeuponChristmasmorning,therewerenogiftsinthestockingthathungattheendofherbed.TheonlythingthathadchangedinthenightwasthatRobin’shairhadbeencut.Thereweretwolongblondplaitslyingonthepillowwhereshehadslept,andhermother’sprettystorkscissorswereonthebedsidetable.
HenryWinterdidn’tjustwriteaboutmonsters.Hewasone.
Hemadeherwritelinesaspunishmentforwritingthatstoryatschool:
ImustnottelltalesImustnottelltales.Imustnottelltales.
SoRobinneverwroteawordoffictionagain.
UntilHenrywasdead.
Aftersheburiedhiminthegraveyardbehindthechapel,Robinreturnedtothesecretstudythatshehadneverbeenallowedtosetfootinsideasachild,andsatdownatthatantiquedesk.Shetookoutherdeadfather’slaptop.Rememberingthepasswordwaseasy:itwashername.ShefoundHenry’suncompletedworkinprogress,andstartedreading.Theideasoundedcrazyinsideherheadatfirst.Whatotherwordwastheretodescribeawomanwhoworkedwithdogstryingtofinishanovelbyaninternationalbest-sellingauthor?
Butthat’swhatshedid.
RobindeletedmostofwhatHenryhadwritten—shedidn’tthinkitwasverygood—andthenreplaceditwithherownwords.Shewrotethreedraftsinthreemonths,andwhenthebookwasfinished,andshehadeditedittothebestofherability,shefeltasthoughthetransitionfromherfather’sstorytohersfeltseamless.Thenshetypedthewholebookoutagain—onHenry’stypewriter,justthewayhewouldhavedone.Therealtestwouldbesendingittohisagent:ifanyonecouldspotthedifference,itwouldbehim.
RobinalreadyknewthatHenryalwayswrappedhismanuscriptsinbrownpaperandtiedthemwithstring—she’dseenhimdoitoftenenoughasachild—soshedidthesame,thendrovetheparceltothepostoffice.
RobinhadbarelyleftBlackwatersinceshearrivedthreemonthsearlier.Itseemedstrangetoherthattheworldoutsidethechapel’sbigwoodendoorswasthesameastheoneshehadlivedinbefore,whenRobin’slifehadchangedbeyondrecognition.Therehadbeennoreasontoleaveuntilthen,anditwasherfirsttriptoHollowgrove—thetownclosesttoBlackwaterLoch—formorethantwentyyears.ButasRobindroveheroldLandRover,withthemanuscriptbesideheronthepassengerseat,shewasstillscaredthatsomeonemightrecognizeher.Theydidn’t.ButPattyinthecornershop,recognizedthebrownpaperparcelinstead.
“IsthatanewbookbyMr.Winter?”sheasked,chewingbubblegumbetweenwords,likeshewasateenager,notawomaninherlatefifties.Robinfelthercheeksturnredandcouldn’tanswer.“It’sokayifit’smeanttobeasecret,Icankeepit,”Pattylied.“It’sjustthat’showhealwayspoststhem—tiedupinstringandwhatnot.”
Robinfroze,stillunabletospeak.Patty’seyesnarrowed.
“Areyouthenewhousekeeper?Heardhefiredthelastone…”
“Yes,”saidRobin,withoutthinkingitthrough.
Pattytappedthesideofhernosewithherindexfinger.“Isee,pet.Probablytoldyounottotellanyoneanything,didn’the?Asifanyonearoundherecareswhetherhe’swrittenanewbook.TheonlyauthorI’lleverloveisMarianKeyes,nowthere’sawomanwhoknowshowtowrite.DoIlooklikeIhavetimetoreadthewordsofamadman?That’swhatHenryWinterisifyouaskme—allthedisturbingbookshe’swritten.You’vemydeepestsympathiesworkingforanoldmiserlikethat.Don’tyouworryaboutathing,Pattywillpostandkeepallyoursecrets.”
IfonlyPattyhadknownhowbigRobin’ssecretsreallywere.
Afterthat,thewaitingwasthehardestpart.
Robinfinallyunderstoodhownerve-rackingitisforwriterstosendtheirworkoutintotheworld.Inthedaysaftershepostedthemanuscript,shekeptthecurtainsdrawn,atefrozenmealswhenshewashungry,sleptwhenshewastootired—ordrunk—tostayawake,andcompletelylosttrackofwhatdayitwas.Whenthephonerang,sheknewthatshecouldn’tanswerit.AnyonecallingwouldbeexpectingtohearHenry’svoice,includinghisagent,soshewaitedawhilelonger.
WhenaletterarrivedfromHenry’sagentthefollowingday,ittookRobinafewhoursandanotherbottleofwinetofeelbraveenoughtoopenit.
Whenshefinallydid,shecried.
Finishedthenovelintheearlyhours.It’syourbestyet!Willsendtopublisherstoday.
Theyweretearsofjoy,relief,andsorrow.
Shewantedtotellsomeone,butOscartherabbitwasn’tthebestatconversation.She’drenamedhimthefirstdaytheymet,becauseOscarwasaboyrabbitnotagirl,unknowntoHenry.AndRobinwashername.Itwastheonlygoodthingherfatherevergaveher.Shewassoproudofthatnovel,butthetruth,whetherspokenornot,wasstillimpossibletoignore.Henry’sbestbookyetwasreallyhers,butitwouldstillbehisnameonthecover.
RobintriedtoputtheletterfromHenry’sagentintooneofthedeskdrawers—shedidn’twanttolookatitanymore—butthedrawerswerealltoofull.Shepulledoutthefirstfewpagesofwhatlookedlikeanoldmanuscript,andwassurprisedtofindherex-husband’snameprintedonthefront:
ROCKPAPERSCISSORSByAdamWright
AttachedtoitwasaletterfromAdam,datedseveralyearsago:
Iknowhowverybusyyouare,butIalwayswonderedwhetherthisscreenplaymightworkasanovel?Ithinkthatmightbemybestchanceofgettingitmade.I’dbeverygratefulforyouropinion.Idohopeyouenjoyedthelatestadaptation,youragentsaidthatyoudid,andsaidhewouldpassonthisletterforme.Itwasanhonortohelpbringyourcharacterstolifeonscreen.Anyadviceyoucangivemeaboutmyownwouldbegratefullyreceived.It’salwaysbeenmydreamandIliketothinksomedreamsdocometrue.
ItmadehersosadthatAdamhadtrustedherfatherwithhismostbelovedwork.SheknewthatHenryprobablyhadn’tevenbotheredtoreadit.
OneofthefewthingsthatRobintookbeforeshefledherhomeinLondon,wastheboxofanniversarylettersshehadsecretlybeenwritingtoAdameveryyear.Shestillmissedhim—andBob—everysingleday.Sherereadthoselettersthatnight,alongwithAdam’sscreenplay,andanewideaformedinherhead.Theideaseemedtoocrazyatfirst,butsherealizedthattherewasawaytorewriteherownlifestory,andgiveherselfahappierendingthanlifehadsofarchosento
STEEL
Wordoftheyear:insouciantadjective.Freefromworry,concernoranxiety;carefree.28thFebruary2019—whatwouldhavebeenoureleventhanniversaryDearAdam,Itisn’toureleventhanniversaryofcourse,becausewedidn’tlastthatlong.InowliveinathatchedcottageinScotland,andyou’reinourLondonhome.Withher.ButIstillwantedtowriteyoualetter.I’llbekeepingthisonetomyself,alongwithalltheothersecretanniversarylettersIwroteovertheyears.Iknowitmightsoundcrazy—especiallynowthatwe’redivorced—butIsatoutbythelochandreadthemrecently.Allofthem.Mygoodness,wehadourupanddowns,butthereweremoregoodtimesthanbad.Morefondmemoriesthansadones.AndImissyou.Firstly,Iwantedtosaysorryforthelies.Allofthem.Igrewupsurroundedbybooksandfiction—it’shardnottowhenyourfatherisaworld-famousauthor.Mymotherwasawritertoo,butInevertoldyouabouthereither.Idon’texpectyoutounderstand,butIcouldn’ttalkaboutthemwithyouWhenwefirstmet,Ibelievedinyouandyourwriting,butIwasimpatient,andIwantedyourdreamstocometruetooquicklysothatwecouldconcentrateonours.HavingnotspokentoHenryforyears,Icalledhimandaskedhimtoletyouadaptoneofhisnovels.Itwasonlyevermeanttobeoneadaptation.Ithoughtitwouldleadtosuccesswithyourownscreenplays,butbytryingtohelpyourcareer,IsometimesworrythatIkilledyourdreams.Henryusedyouasawaytotryandgetclosetome.Hewasn’tinterestedinmeatallwhenIwasachild.ButIthinkhisownmortalitymadehimrealizeIcouldbeusefulasanadult—someonetolookafterhispreciousbookswhenhewasgone.Myfathercaredabouteachofhisnovelsfarmorethanheevercaredaboutme.Theselasttwoyearshavetaughtmealotaboutmyself.NowthatI’veleftit“all”behind,I’verealizedhowlittleIhad.It’stooeasytogetblindedbyman-madecitylights,eventhoughtheycouldnevershineasbrightlyasthestarsinacloudlesssky,orwhitesnowonamountain,orsunbeamsdancingonaloch.Peopleconfusewhattheywantwithwhattheyneed,butI’verealizednowhowdifferentthosethingsare.Andhowsometimesthethingsandpeoplewethinkweneed,aretheonesweshouldstayawayfrom.Myhairismoregraythanblondthesedays—Ihaven’tvisitedahairdressersinceIleftLondon,andit’sgrownverylong.Iwearitinplaitstoavoidtoomanytanglesandknots.Idomissourhome,andus,andBob,butIthinktheScottishHighlandssuitme.AndI’verealizedIhavemoreincommonwithmyfatherthanIusedtoadmit,eventomyself.Henrylikedhisprivacysoverymuchthatheboughteverythinginthisvalley,alongwiththeoldchurchandcottage,beforeIwasborn.TheScottishlairdHenrypurchasedthelandfromhadafewtoomanygamblingdebts,andjusthappenedtobeafanofHenry’sbooks,sosolditforaridiculouslysmallsum.Henryevenboughtthenearestpubafewyearslater,sothathecouldcloseitdown.Hejustwantedpeaceandquietandtobeleftalone.Completelyalone.Thelocalshadbeenunimpressedbyanoutsiderowningsomuchofthevalley.TherewerepetitionstostopHenryconvertingthechurch—eventhoughnobodyhaduseditforhalfacentury—buthediditanyway.Hewasamanwhoalwaysdidwhathewantedandgothisownway.Whenlocalinterferencecontinued,hemadeupghoststoriesaboutBlackwaterChapel,sothatanyonewhodidn’talreadyknowtostayaway,would.Whyhewantedtolivesuchalonelylife,hiddenawayfromtheworldinself-isolation,usedtobaffleme.Therearenoshops,orlibraries,ortheaters,orpeopleformiles,thereisnothinghereexceptthemountainsandtheskyandalochfullofsalmon.Themandidn’teveneatfish.Butnow,IthinkIfinallyunderstand.IhavealmostnothingbutalmosteverythingIneed.Myfather’sloveofgoodwinemeantthatthecryptwascrammedfullofit,andhisoldhousekeeperleftaseeminglyendlesssupplyofhomemadeandhand-labeledmealsinthefreezer.Henry’spersonallibraryisstockedwithallofmyfavoritebooks,andtheever-changingviewsheretakemybreathawayeverysingleday.Butitcanbehardtoenjoythegoodthingsinlifewhenyoudon’thavesomeonetosharethemwith.Imissourwordsofthedayandwordsoftheyear.Idon’teatespeciallywell—I’malittletoofondoftinnedfoodthesedays—butIfeelbetterthanIeverdidinLondon.Maybeit’sthetasteoffreshairinmylungs,orthelongwalksItakeexploringthevalley.Ormaybeit’sjustfeelingfreetobeme.Itcanbehardtostepoutfromaparent’sshadowwhenyouinherittheirdreams.Ioftenwrotestoriesasachild,butHenry’sshoeswerealwaystoobigtofill.Plus,heletmeknowfromanearlyagethathedidn’tthinkIcouldwrite.IneverthoughtImightbeabletowriteanentirenovel,butdreamscanonlycometrueifwedaretodreamtheminthefirstplace.Myself-confidencedivorcedmelongbeforeyoudid,butlifetaughtmetobebraveandtoalwaystryagain.Ifyounevergiveuponsomethingyoucan’teverfail.WheneverIweighedmyfather’swordsagainstmyown,hisseemedheavier,stronger,morepermanentthanthethoughtsinsidemyhead,whichalwaysseemedtocomeandgolikethetide.Washingawaymyconfidence.Butcastlesmadeofsandneverstandtallforever.Iamfreeofhisjudgmentnow,andhaverealizedtheonlypersonwhoforcedmetoliveinhisshadow,wasme.IcouldhavesteppedoutanytimeIwantedifIhadn’tbeensoafraidofbeingseenSometimesIsitinfrontofthelochwhenthesunisstartingtosetandpretendthatyouandBobareheresittingnexttome.IliketosmokeHenry’spipeintheevening,andwatchthesalmonjumpingacrossthewater,beforethemoonrisesintheskytoreplacethesun.ThenIlistentothesoundoffrogssinging,andwatchthebatsswoopandsoarinthesky,untilitgetssocoldanddark,Ihavetoheadbacktothecottage.Idon’tliketosleepinthechapel—toomanyunhappymemorieshaunttherooms—butIhavefalleninlovewithBlackwaterLoch.ThisplaceneverfeltlikehomeuntilIleftit.IwishIcouldshareitwithyou,alongwithallthesecretsIwasforcedtokeep.Youpromisedtolovemeforever,butIwonderifyoustillthinkofmeormissmeatall?It’shardtopictureAmeliainouroldhouseinLondon,sleepinginmybedwithmyhusband,walkingmydog,cookinginmykitchen,workinginmyofficeatBatterseainthejobIhelpedhertoget.Istillcan’tbelieveyougavehermyengagementring.Orthatshe’dwanttowearsomethingthatwasonceyourmother’s,andthenmine.Butstealingthingsthatbelongtootherpeopleseemstobeahabitofhers.She’sthekindofwomanwhoexpectssomethingfornothing,andthinkstheworldowesheradebt.Shewasalwaysreadingmagazinesonherlunchbreaks—neverbooks—andlikedtoenterallthecompetitionsinsidethem,orontheradio,orondaytimeTV,hopingtowinsomethingforfree.That’showIknewshe’dneverturndownafreeweekendaway.Itwasalmosttooeasytogetyoutocomehere.I’msureI’mnotthefirstex-wifetowantrevenge.Isometimesimaginedkillingyoubothtrynottothinkaboutit.Mypersonalvarietyoffuryhasalwaysbeensurprisinglycalm.Ireadandwriteinstead.It’salonelinesscopingmechanismthatIdevelopedasalittlegirl,whenmyfatherwasalwaystoobusyworkingtonoticeme.Itsoundsdaftnow,butIneverrealizedbeforehowalikethetwoofyouare.Iseemtohavespentalifetimehidinginsidestories:readingotherpeople’swhenIwasachild,andnowwritingmyown.ThereisonesecretIwanttoshare.IwroteanovelandnowIamwritinganother.Dreamsarelikedressesinashopwindow;theylookpretty,butsometimesdon’tfitwhenyoutrythemon.Somearetoosmall,othersaretoobig.Luckily,mymothertaughtmehowtosew,anddreamscanbeadjustedtofit,justlikedresses.Ithinkmynewbookisagoodoneandyou’reinit.RockPaperScissorsisallaboutchoices.I’vemademine,thetimewillcomewhenyou’llneedtomakeyours.Theonlygoodthingaboutlosingeverything,isthefreedomthatcomesfromhavingnothinglefttolose.Your(ex)wifeAMELIA
Peopletendtothinkthatthesecondwifeisabitchandthefirstisavictim,butthatisn’talwaystrue.
Iknowhowitlooks.Buttenyearsisalongtimetobemarried,andtheirshadrunitscourse.Ididn’tusedtothinkitwaspossibletobetookind—kindnessismeanttobeagoodthing—butRobinwasthevarietyofkindthatinvitedpeopletowalkalloverher:hercolleagues,herhusband,me.Inhermind,shebefriendedmeoutofpitywhenIstartedvolunteeringatBatterseaDogsHome.ButthetruthissheneededafriendmorethanIdid;I’venevermetalonelierwoman
OfcourseIwasgratefulwhenshehelpedmetogetafull-timejob,andofcourseIfeltguiltyaboutsleepingwithherhusband.Butitwasn’tsomesordidaffair.TheirrelationshipwasoverlongbeforeIarrivedonthescene,andAdamandIaremarriednow.Insteadofallofusbeingmiserable.Andshewasunhappy—constantlycomplainingaboutherhusbandthebigHollywoodscreenwriter,whilesomeofuswerestuckdatinglife’srejects.
FromthefirsttimeImetmyhusband,hewaslikeanitchIcouldn’tresistscratching.Istayedonthesidelinesforalongtime,watching,waiting,tryingtodotherightthing.Ichangedmyhair,myclothes,eventhewayIspeak,allforhim.Itriedtobewhoheneededmetobe.Notformyself,butbecauseIthoughtIcouldfixhim,andIknewIcouldmakehimhappierthanhewaswithher.Shedidn’tknowhowluckyshewas,andtwooutofthreehappyendingsarebetterthannone.
Robindidn’texactlyputupafight.Ifanything,thedivorcewassurprisinglyamicablegiventhatthey’dbeenmarriedforadecade.
Sheleft.Hestayed.Imovedin.
Itwasbestforeveryoneandwewerehappy—AdamandI.Westillare.Perhapsnotashappyaswewere,butIcanfixthat.Thisweekendwassupposedtohelp,butIrealizenowthatitwasabigmistake.Itdoesn’tmatter.I’msuredealingwithhiscrazyexwillonlybringAdamandIclosertogetheragain.Andsheiscrazy.IfIwasinanydoubtbefore,nowIknowforcertain.
Itellmyselfthataswestandatthetopofthestaircase,lookingatthephotooftheirweddingdayonthewall.Theyarebothsmilingforthecamera.Asusual,Iwonderwhatmyhusbandsees.Doesheseethefaceofsomeonehemisses?Orisitjustablurhecan’trecognize?Doeshethinksheisbeautiful?Doeshelookatthepictureandthinktheylookgoodtogether?Doeshewishtheystillwere?
Theymusthavebeenhappy,too,inthebeginning,justlikeus.
Changingloveintohateisamucheasiertrickthanturningwaterintowine.
Itdidn’tseemtomatterthatAdamandIhadverylittleincommonwhenIfirstmovedintothehousetheyusedtoshare.Hedidn’tseemtomindthatIdidn’tlovebooksandfilmsasmuchashedid,andthesexwasgreatforthefirstfewmonths.ItookbettercareofmyselfandmybodythanRobineverdid—IwenttothegymandImademoreofaneffortwithmyappearanceonceIhadsomeonetolookprettyfor.Wediditineveryroomofthehousethathisex-wifehadsolovinglyrenovated—alwaysmyidea—anexorcismoftheghostsoftheirmarriage.And,unlikesomanycouples,AdamandIneverseemedtorunoutofconversation.Hisworldfascinatedme—thetripstoLAandthecelebritieshegottomeetatreadings,itallsoundedso…exciting.AdamlikedtalkingabouthimselfandhisworkjustasmuchasIlikedtolisten,soitwasagoodmatch.Wegotmarriedassoonasthedivorcewasfinalized.Itwasasmallaffair,andveryprivate.Ididn’tmindthatitwasjustthetwoofusattheregistryofficethatday,Ididn’tthinkweneededanyoneelse.Istilldon’t.
IfRobinreallyisbehindallofthis,andhasbeenplottingsomekindofrevenge,thenI’mconsiderablylessscaredthanIwasbefore.I’msmarterthanher.Alotstrongertoo,mentallyaswellasphysically.Ifthisisherwayoftryingtowinherhusbandback,itwon’twork.Nobodywantstobewithacrazywoman,andIthinkit’ssafetopresumethat’swhatshehasbecome.
“Weshouldjustleave,”Isay.
“Sheslashedthetires.”
“Thenwe’llwalktothenexttown,orhitcharideifweseeacar.”
“Okay,”Adamreplies,withoutmuchconviction.It’sasthoughhe’sgoneintoshock.
“Comeon,helpmegrabourstuff.”
Istepbackontothelanding,butopenthewrongdoorbymistake—theywerealllockedwhenwearrivedlastnight;thebelltower,thechild’sroom—andnowIseewhatmustbethemasterbedroom—Henry’sroom.Thereisalargebedinthemiddle,asyoumightexpect,butwhatIwouldn’thavepredictedandhaven’tseeninabedroombefore,arealltheglassdisplaycabinetscoveringeachofthewallsfromfloortoceiling.Unlikeinotherpartsofthehouse,theseshelvesaren’tfilledwithbooks.Insteadtheyarecrammedfulloflittlecarvedwoodenbirds.WhenItakeastepcloser,Irealizetheyareallrobins.Theremustbeliterallyhundredsofthem,allthesamebutdifferent.
“Thisplacejustgetsstrangerandstranger.Let’sgo,”Isayagain.
Adamfollowsmebackoutontothelanding,thenintothebedroomwherewesleptlastnight.Iwishthathehadn’t.Robin’spresenceisclearlyvisibleinheretoo.Thereisaredsilkkimononeatlyarrangedontopofthewhitesheetsonthebed.
“Whatisthissupposedtomean?”Isay,butitisastupidquestion,onewhichwebothalreadyknowtheanswerto.ThewomanintheredkimonoiswhatAdamhasrecurringnightmaresabout,causedbythememoryofwhathappenedtohismother.That’swhatshewaswearingwhenshewalkedhisdoglateonenightandwaskilledbyahit-and-rundriver.
“WhywouldRobindothis?”hewhispers.
“Idon’tknowandIdon’tcare.Weneedtoleave,now.”
“How?”heasksagain.
“Itoldyoualready,wecanwalkifwehaveto…”
HelooksawayandIfollowhisstare.Threewordshavebeenwrittenonthemirrorabovethedressingtable,usingredlipstick:
ROCKPAPERSCISSORS.
SILK
Wordoftheyear:redamancynoun.Theactoflovingtheonewholovesyou;alovereturnedinfull.29thFebruary2020—whatwouldhavebeenourtwelfthanniversaryDearAdam,I’vebeenwritingyoulettersonouranniversarysincewegotmarried,butthisisthefirstoneI’mgoingtoletyouread,andIstronglysuggestthatyoureaditalonebeforesharinganyofitscontents.Thethoughtoffinallybeingcompletelyhonestfeelsgood.ThefirstthingIwantyoutoknowisthatIneverstoppedlovingyou,evenwhenIdidn’tlikeyou,evenwhenIhatedyousomuchIwishedyouweredead.AndIconfessthatIdidforawhile.Youhurtmeverybadly.Itisexactlytwelveyearssincewegotmarried,onaleapyearbackin2008.YoumustknowbynowthatHenryWinterwasmyfather.Therearesomanyreasons,goodones,whyInevertoldyou.Hewastheresoofteninourmarriage,alwayslurkinginthebackground,evenonourweddingday.Youjustneverrecognizedhisface,thesamewayyoudidn’talwaysrecognizemine.ButIliedtoyouonlytoprotectyou.Myfatherdidn’tjustwritedarkanddisturbingbooks,hewasadarkanddangerousmaninreallife.Ihadacomplicatedrelationshipwithmydad,especiallyaftermymotherdiedandhesentmeawaytoboardingschool.Iknewyouwereahugefanofhisnovels,butIneverwantedwhatyouandIhadtogethertobecontaminatedbyhim:Iwantedyoutolovemeforme.Ineverwantedhimtohaveanyholdoverme,oryou,orus.ButIdidaskhimtoletyouwriteascreenplayofoneofhisnovelsallthoseyearsago.Havingaskedforhishelp,evenjusttheonce,itmademefeelindebtedtothatmonsterinawaythatInever,everwantedtobe.Idon’texpectyoutounderstand,butpleaseknowhowmuchIlovedyoutodothat.Hindsighttendstobecruelratherthankind.Lookingbacknow,perhapsifyouhadknownwhoIreallywas,wewouldstillbemarriedandcelebratingourtwelfthanniversary.ButtherearesomanythingsIcouldnevertellyou.Inpublic,HenryWinterwasabrilliantwriterofnovels,butinreallifehewasacollectionofunfinishedsentences.Hebulliedmymotheruntilshecouldn’tstanditanymore.Whenshedied,hebulliedme.Asachild,heoftenmademefeelasifIwasn’treallythere.AsthoughIwereinvisible.Thecharactersinhisheadwerealwaystooloudforhimtohearanyoneelse.Hislackofbeliefinmeasachildledtoalifelonglackofbeliefinmyself.HislackofinterestmademefeelasthoughIwereofnonetoanyone.HislackoflovemeantthatIwasneverfluentinaffection,exceptwithyou.Isometimesthinkhewouldhavekeptmeinacageifhecould,likehisrabbit.Andlikemymother.BlackwaterChapelwashercageandIneverwantedittobemine.Henry’sbookswerehischildren,andIwasnothingmorethananunwanteddistraction.Hecalledme“theunhappyaccident”onmorethanoneoccasion—normallywhenhe’dhadtoomuchwine—evenwroteitinabirthdaycardonceTotheunhappyaccident,Happy10thBirthday!HenryThecardarrivedtwoweeksaftermybirthday,andIwasonlyninethatyear.HenevercalledhimselfDad,soneitherdidI.NothingIdidasachildwasevergoodenough.Weareourparents’echoesandsometimestheydon’tlikewhattheyhear.Irealizedthattheonlywayformetohavealifeofmyownwastoremovemyfatherfromit.ButHenrywasn’tjustexceptionallyprivate,andalittlepeculiar,hewasalsoverypossessive.Ofme.IfeltlikeIwasbeingwatchedmywholelife,becauseIwas.IlefthomewhenIwaseighteen,changedmysurnametowhathadbeenmymother’smaidenname,anddidn’tcomebackuntilthedayhecalledtosayhewasdying.EverythingI’vedonesinceIdidforyou,andforus.I’vewrittenanovel,twonowactually,bothinHenry’sname.Nobodyelseknowsthatheisdead,orneedsto.Here’sthepitchforthelatestbook:RockPaperScissorsisastoryaboutacouplewhohavebeenmarriedfortenyears.Everyanniversarytheyexchangetraditionalgifts—paper,copper,tin—andeachyearthewifewritesherhusbandaletterthatsheneverletshimread.Asecretrecordoftheirmarriage,wartsandall.Bytheirtenthanniversary,theirrelationshipisintrouble.Sometimesaweekendawaycanbejustwhatacoupleneedstogetthembackontrack,butthingsaren’twhatorwhotheyseem.Soundfamiliar?It’sacombinationofyourscreenplayandthesecretlettersIhavebeenwritingtoyoueveryyearsincewegottogether.I’vechangedafewnames,ofcourse,andblendedfictionwithfacts,butIthinkyou’llliketheresult.Ido.WhenHenrysendsittohisagent,he’llincludealettertosaythathewantsyoutostartworkonthescreenplaystraightaway.You’llfinallygetyourownstoryonscreen,justlikewealwaysdreamed.ButonlyifyouendthingswithAmelia.Myplanisn’tascrazyisitmightsound.Itcouldbegoodforyou,andus.Imissuseverydayandwonderifyoumight,too?Doyourememberthattinybasementstudioweusedtolivein?Backwhenwewerestilllearningwhetherwecouldlivewithorwithouteachother.Somecouplescan’ttellthedifference.That’stheversionofyouImissmost.AndtheversionofusIwishwecouldfindourwaybackto.Wethoughtwehadsolittlethen,butwehaditall,wewerejusttooyounganddumbtoknowit.Sometimesweoutgrowthedreamswehadwhenwewereyounger,happywhentheyturnouttobetoosmall,sadwhentheyprovetobetoobig.Sometimeswefindthemagain,realizethattheywereaperfectfitallalong,andregretpackingthemaway.Ithinkthisisourchancetostartagainandlivethelifewealwaysdreamedof.Thereareotherthingsthatyoudidn’tknowaboutHenry,asidefromhimbeingmyfather.Hehiredaprivateinvestigatorforyearstokeepaneyeonme,andyou,andus.AprivateinvestigatorwhoknewthatyouwerehavinganaffairbeforeIdid.WhoknewthingsthatIdidn’tknowandthatyoustilldon’t.TheprivateinvestigatorisamancalledSamuelSmith.Hestillthinksmyfatherisalive—alongwiththerestoftheworld—butasidefromthathugemiss,heseemsprettygoodathisjob.Thorough.Hesentweeklyreportsaboutustomyfatherforyears—unknowntome—andtheywerebothfascinatingandsadtoread.Hedidn’tjustfollowus,hefollowedanyonewegotcloseto.IncludingOctoberO’Brien.AndAmelia.Heevensentmyfatherpicturesofourhome,beforeandafterIleftit(Idon’tlikewhatyou’vedonewiththeplace).SamuelSmiththeprivateinvestigatorknewmoreaboutusthanweknewabouteachother.Ithoughtforalongtimeaboutwhetherornottosharethisinformationwithyou.Itbringsmenohappinesstocauseyoupain,butlikeIsaidinthebeginning,Iloveyou.Alwayshave,alwayswill.Alwaysalways,notalmostalways,likeweusedtosay.ThatiswhyIhavetotellyouthetruth.Allofit.ItwasnocoincidencethatAmeliastartedworkingatBattersea,befriendedme,andwasalwaysaskingquestionsaboutyou.Youwerealwayspartofherplan.Yourpathshadcrossedalmostthirtyyearsearlier,butyoucouldn’trecognizeherface.SamuelSmithfoundoutmorethanhebargainedforwhenyoucheatedonme.It’saquestionnobodyeverwantstoask,oranswer,buthowwelldoyoureallyknowyourwife?AmeliaJones—asshewascalledbeforeyoumarried—hasbeenlyingtoyousincethemomentyoumet.Sheliedtometoo.Ameliahasacriminalrecordandhasbeeninandoutofjailsinceshewasateenager.Shelivedinaseriesoffosterhomesgrowingupandwasalmostalwaysintrouble.Atonepoint,shewaslivingonthesamecouncilestateasyou.Sheevenattendedthesameschoolforafewmonths,whenyouwereboththirteen.That’swhensheprogressedfromshopliftingtojoyriding.Ameliawassuspectedofstealingsevencars,beforeshewasarrestedonsuspicionofcausingdeathbydangerousdriving.Thepolicequestionedheraboutahit-and-run,butshewasunderageandherfostermothercameforwardasanalibi—somethingthewomanlaterconfessedwasalie—andthecopscouldn’tmakeitstick.Thecartheycaughtherinwasthecarthatkilledyourmother.Theonlywitness—you—couldn’tpickheroutinapolicelineup,becauseyoucouldn’trecognizethefaceofwhowasdriving.Butsheknewyou.AmeliaJonesmovedtoanewfosterhome,faraway.Sheturnedanewleafandstartedagain.Maybeshefeltgenuineremorseforwhatshehaddone?Maybeshefeltguiltyforgettingawaywithit?Maybethat’swhyshefollowedyouforyears,andcameupwithaplantogetclosetoyou,throughme?Perhapsinsometwistedwayshewastryingtomakeupforwhatshedid.You’llhavetoaskher.IknowIliedtoyouaboutmyfather,butatleastmyliesweretoprotectyou,andus.NothingyouthinkyouknowaboutAmeliaistrue.Yourwifewastoblameforyourmother’sdeathwhenyouwereachild,andIthinkit’sonlyrightthatyouknowthat,beforemakingadecision.Don’tbelieveme?MaybetrytellingAmeliathatyouknowthetruth,butbecareful,sheisnotthewomanyouthinksheis.Iknowthiswillbehardtotakein,letalonebelieve,butdeepdown,didn’tyoualwaysfeelasthoughsomethingwasn’tquiterightaboutAmelia?Thefirsttimeyoumether,whenshearriveduninvitedatourhomeclaimingtohavehadabaddate,youdescribedherasanactress.Itturnsoutyourfirstimpressionswereright.Ifoundthenotebookbythebedwhereshewritesdowneverydetailofyournightmares.Didyoueverwonderwhyshedoesthat?I’msureshesaiditwastotryandhelpyourememberthefaceofwhokilledyourmother,butmaybeitwastomakesureyouneverdid?It’snowondersheneedspillstohelphersleepatnight,theguiltshemustfeelwouldkeepanyoneawake.Knowingwhatyounowknow—andIhavealltheprivateinvestigatoremailsanddocumentstoproveit—doyoustillloveher?Canyoueverreallytrustheragain?Whathappensnextisuptoyou.It’sasimplechoice,likewhenweusedtoplayrockpaperscissors.Optionone—ROCK:Youtrytoleavewiththewomanwhokilledyourmother.Optiontwo—PAPER:YouwalkoutoftherealoneandcomefindmeandBobinthecottage.We’rewaitingforyou,andIwantnothingmorethanforusalltobetogetheragain.IwillmovebacktoLondon,wecanpublishRockPaperScissorsasanovelusingHenry’sname—nobodyelseeverneedstoknow—andthenIpromiseyouwillfinallygetyourownscreenplaymade.Youwon’tneedtoadaptanyoneelse’sworkeveragainandcanspendtherestofyourlifewritingyourownstories.Optionthree—SCISSORS:Youdon’twanttoknowoptionthree.Thechoiceisyours.IknowwhatI’maskingyoutodecidesoundsdifficult.Butitreallyisaseasyasrockpaperscissorsifyoucanrememberhowtoplay.YourRobinxxAMELIA
We’restandinginthebedroomthathasbeenmadetolookjustliketheoneweshareathome,theoneIredecoratedwhenRobinmovedout.Exceptthatnow,thingsareevenstrangerthantheywerebefore.ThisisnotatallhowIhopedthisweekendwouldgo.I’dalreadydecidedtoendthemarriageifthistripdidnotgowell—I’dspokenwithasolicitorandafinancialadvisor,whosuggestedalifeinsurancepolicymighthelpmegetwhatIdeservedinadivorcesettlement.Iwantedtogivethingsonelastshot,butI’mstartingtowishI’djustleft.I’vealreadyfoundaflattomoveinto—it’snice,withaviewoftheThames—butIhopeditwouldn’tcometothat.Ihopedthisweekendmightfixus.Theestateagentisholdingtheflatformeuntilnextweek,saysIcanmoveinstraightawayifIwant,soIalwaysknewthatonlyoneofusmightbegoingbacktothehousethatwasonlyevertheirhome.
Mywholemiserablelifekeepsplayingonaloopinsidemymindrecently,andIcan’tseemtofindtheoffswitch.Ilieawakeatnight—despitethepills—longingtodeleteallthememoriesIwishI’dnevermade.Allthemistakes.Allthewrongturns.Allthedeadends.I’mnotmakingexcuses,butIdidn’thaveaneasychildhood.IknowI’mnottheonlyone,butthoselonelyyearsshapedwhoIamtoday.Tinyviolinsalwayssoundloudesttothoseplayingthem.Beingpassedfromonefosterfamilytoanother,likeunwantedgoods,taughtmenevertogettoocomfortable,andnevertotrustanyone.Includingmyself.Everynewhomemeantanewfamily,newschool,newfriends,soI’dtrybeinganewversionofme.Butnoneofthemwereaperfectfit.
I’vealwaysbeenhauntedbythedeathofmyparentsbecauseitwasmyfault.Ifmymotherwasn’tpregnantwithme,shewouldn’thavebeeninthecarandmyfatherwouldn’thavebeendrivinghertothehospitalwhenatrucksmashedintothem.IfAdamhadn’tmetmehislifewouldhaveturnedoutverydifferentlytoo.Wehavesomuchincommon,butwefeelfurtherapartthaneverbefore.IwatchedAdamforyears.Hissuccess—andtheinternet—madethateasy.I’vetriedtobeagoodwifetohim,buthestillseemstoseemeasthebadpennyandherastheluckyone.I’vetriedtomakehimhappy.I’vebeentryingtomakeamendsforthingsthathappenedinthepastfortoolong.I’vebecomesomanydifferentversionsofmyselftryingtopleaseotherpeople,thatInolongerknowwhoIam.Ineedtofocusonthefuturenow.Mine.Atonementislikethatpotofgoldattheendoftherainbowthatnobodyeverreallyfinds.
“WhywouldRobinwrite‘rockpaperscissors’inredlipstickonthemirror?”Iask,wonderingifAdam’sexhasahistoryofmentalhealthissuesthatIamunawareof.Iwatchashestartspacingtheroom,lookingalittlederangedhimself.“WhywouldshetrickusintocomingtoScotland?Whywouldshekeepherfather’sidentityasecretfortenyearsandthennottellanyonewhenhedied?Andwhywouldshestealourdog—”
Adaminterruptsmyquestions.“Technically,Bobwasherdog—”
“Exactly:washerdog,butthenshejustleft.Disappearedwithoutaword.Youneverevenheardfromheragainafterthemagnoliatreeincident,exceptthroughthesolicitor—”
“Well,Iimaginecominghomeearlyonouranniversaryandfindingherhusbandinbedwithherbestfriendwasprobablyquiteupsetting.”
“YourmarriagewasoverlongbeforeIcamealong.”
“Ineverwantedtohurther—”
“Fromthelooksofthings,Ithinkthatshiphassailed.Youmightwanttohangaroundherereminiscingaboutyourlovelyfirstwife,butwhoeverRobinusedtobe,itseemsprettycleartomethatsheisnowafull-timepsycho.IthinkwecansafelypresumeitwasherfaceIsawlookinginthroughthewindowlastnight.Shemusthavebeenbehindallthestrangethingsthathappenedsincewearrived,tryingtoscareus.Sheprobablydeliberatelyturnedoffthegeneratortoo,tryingtofreezeustodeath—”
“Iswitchedthegeneratoroff,”Adamsays.
Hiswordsmakenosenseatfirst,likeheisspeakingintongues.
“What?”
Heshrugs.“IjustwantedtogetbacktoLondonassoonaspossible.Ithoughtifthepowerwentcompletely,you’dagreetogohome.”
Therevelationwindsmeabit,butIremindmyselfthatRobinistheenemy,notAdam.Iwon’tletherwin.WhateverhappenswhenwegobacktoLondon,it’smoreimportantthaneverthatAdamandIstayonthesameteamfornow.It’susagainsther.
“YourealizethatRobinisprobablywhoyousawinthethatchedcottagedownthelane?Ibetshe’sstilltherenow,andIthinkit’stimewewentandhaditoutwithher.Youmightbescaredofyourex-wife,butI’mnot.”
“Iamscared,”hesays,andthisistheleastattractedIhaveeverbeentomyhusband.AsmallpartofmethinksIshouldleavethemtoit—theydeserveeachother.
“It’sRobin,remember?Yoursweetlittlefirstwifewhocouldn’tkillaspider?”
“Butifshe’sbeenlivinghereallaloneforthelastcoupleofyears…peoplecanchange.”
“People.Never.Change.”
Webothexperienceafreeze-framewhenwehearthreeboomingbangsdownstairs,solouditfeelslikethewholechapel,andus,trembles.
“Whatwasthat?”Iwhisper.
Beforehecananswer,ithappensagain;thesoundofknockingsoloud,it’sasthoughtheremustbeagianttryingtogetinthosebiggothicchurchdoors.ThelookoffearonAdam’sfacetransformsmineintoanger.Iamnotafraidofher
Ileavethebedroom,rundownthestairsandthroughthelibrarylounge,knockingsomebooksoverinmyhurry.Adrenalineispumpingthroughme,anddespiteallthestrangegoings-onofthelasttwenty-fourhours,whenIrememberwhoIamdealingwith,I’mnowsuretheremustbearationalexplanationforallofit.Noghosts,nowitches,justacrazyex-wife.I’mgoingtomakeherregretdoingthistous.
Ireachthebootroomandseethatthechurchbenchisstillblockingthedoor.Itrytomoveitoutofthewaybutitwon’tbudge.Adamappearsbehindme,lookinglesslikethemanImarriedandmorelikethemanIplannedtoleave.
“Helpme,”Isay.
“Areyousurethisisagoodidea?”
“Doyouhaveabetterone?”
Aswelifttheheavyfurnitureoutoftheway,Irememberhowchildlikemyhusbandcanbe.Thewayherevertstotheboyhoodversionofhimselfwheneverlifegetstooloudusedtobeendearing.Itmademewanttoprotecthim.Myfingerprintsarealloverhisheartbreak,andIwantedtowipeitcleanandstartagain.Now,Ijustwishhe’dmanup.
Thechapeldoorsrattleassomeoneontheothersideslowlyknocksthreetimes,again.Thesoundechoesallaroundus,andwebothtakeastepback.Thewalloftinymirrorscatchesmyeye,andIseemultipleminiatureversionsofmyhusband’sfacereflectedinthem.Italmostlooksasthoughheis…smiling.WhenIchecktherealversion,standingrightnexttome,thesmilehasbeenreplacedwithalookofpureterror.
I’mlosingmymind.
Ihesitatebeforetryingthedoorhandle,andfeelasmallsenseofreliefwhenitislocked.
“Whereisthekey?”Iask,holdingoutmyhand.I’msurewebothnoticethatit’sshaking.
Adamtakestheantique-lookingironkeyfromhispocketandgivesittome,tooscaredtoopenthedoorhimself.Itrytoslotitinthelock,butitwon’tgoin.Somethingisblockingitfromtheotherside.Itryagainbutitwon’tbudge,andIbangmyfistonthewoodendoorinfrustration.Noneofthestained-glasswindowsinthepropertyopen,andthisistheonlywayinorout.
ThenIseeashadowmovebeneaththedoor.
“She’soutthere.Thatcrazybitchhasbloodylockedusin.”
Ipoundonthedoorwhenshedoesn’treply,thenproperlylosemytemperandcallherallthenamesshedeservestobecalled.
Robindoesn’tsayaword,butIknowshe’sstillthere.Hershadowdoesn’tmove.
ThenanenvelopewithAdam’snameonitslidesbeneaththedoor.
ADAM
Ipickuptheenvelope,andAmeliatriestosnatchitfrommyhands.
“It’saddressedtome,”Isay,holdingitoutofreach.ThenIwalkintothekitchen,slideintooneoftheoldchurchpewsbesidethewoodentable,andopentheletter.ThereareseveralpagesallpennedbyRobin.Imightnotbeabletorecognizefaces,butI’dknowherhandwritinganywhere.Ameliasitsdownopposite.ItrytokeepmyfaceneutralasIread,butthewordsdon’tmakethateasy.
Howwelldoyoureallyknowyourwife?
Ilifttheletterhigher,sothatshecan’tseeit.
ItwasnocoincidencethatAmeliastartedworkingatBattersea…
WhenIreachthesecondpage,myfingersstarttotremble.
Yourpathshadcrossedalmostthirtyyearsearlier,butyoucouldn’trecognizeherface.
“Whatdoesitsay?”Ameliaasks,reachingformyhandacrossthetable.
Ipullback.Don’tanswer.
Thepolicequestionedheraboutahit-and-run…
Ifeelsick.
Thecartheycaughtherinwasthecarthatkilledyourmother.
It’shardnottoreactwhenyoureadsomethinglikethataboutthewomanyouaremarriedto.Ameliaseemstosensethatsomethingisverywrong.
“Whatisit?Whathasshewritten?”sheasks,leaningcloser.
“Someofitisdifficulttoread,”Ireply.Itisn’talie.
WhenIgettotheend,Ifoldtheletterandputitinmypocket.ThenIgetupandwalkovertooneofthestained-glasswindows.Ican’tlookatAmelia’sfacenow.I’mscaredofwhatImightsee.
Iknewthisaffairwasamistakefromthestart,butsometimessmallmistakesleadtobiggerones.Robinwasn’tjustmywife,shewastheloveofmylifeandmybestfriend.Ididn’tjustbreakherheartwhenIcheatedonher,Ibrokemyown.Theerrorsofjudgmentlineduplikedominoesafterthat,eachknockingthenextonedown.Whenpeopletalkaboutfallinginlove,Ithinktheyareright,itislikefallingandsometimeswhenwefallwecangetverybadlyhurt.ItwasneverreallylovewithAmelia.Itwasasimplecaseoflustinlove’sclothing.UntilImademattersevenworsethantheyalreadywere,bymarryingawomanIhadnothingincommonwith.
Maybeitwasamidlifecrisis?Irememberfeelingsodownaboutmywork.Mycareerhadstalled,Icouldn’twriteandIfelt…empty.MywifeseemedjustasdisappointedwithmeasIwaswithmyself.Butthisbeautifulnewstrangeractedlikethesunshoneoutofmymiddle-agedarse,andIfellforit.Shecameontome,andIwastooflatteredandpathetictosayno.Myegohadanaffairandmymindwastoomuddledtoknowitshouldneverhavebeenanythingmorethanthat.Itshouldneverhavehappenedatall.
ItwasAmeliawhowantedtomoveinassoonasRobinmovedout.
ShefoundtheengagementringthatRobinhadleftbehind,anddroppedendlesshintsabouthowmuchshewantedtowearit,eventhoughitwasneveraperfectfitforherfinger.Alwaystootight.Shebulliedmeintosigningthedivorcepapersassoonastheyarrived,andshebookedtheregistryoffice—thesameonewhereRobinandIgotmarriedofallplaces—foraquickieweddingwithouteventellingmefirst.Thewomandeliveredemotionalblackmaillikeaconscientiouspostman.AsecondmarriagewastheransomIshouldneverhavepaid.
Somethingfeltwrong,rightfromthestart,butIthoughtIwasdoingwhatwasbestforeveryoneinvolved:cuttingofftheoldloosethreadsthatcancauseanewrelationshiptounravel.Iwastoostupidorvaintopayattentiontothealarmbellssoundinginsidemyhead.Theonesweallhearwhenwe’reabouttomakeamistake,butsometimespretendnotto.
IneverstoppedlovingRobinandI’veneverstoppedmissingher.I’dactuallyalreadyspokentomysolicitoraboutmyoptionsifIwantedtoleaveAmelia.Butthisletter.Theideathatshewasinthecarthatkilledmymother,thenspentalltheseyearsspyingonus,tryingtogetclosetome…thatcan’tbereal.SurelyAmeliaisn’tcapableofthat?
“Haveyoueverbeenintroublewiththepolice?”Iask,stillstaringoutthewindow.
“Whatwasinthatletter,Adam?”
“Didyouusedtoliveonthesamecouncilestateasmeasateenager?Gotothesameschool?”
Shedoesn’tanswerandIfeelsick.
Thememoryofthatnightcomesbacktohauntme,asithassomanytimesbefore.Iremembertherain,almostasifitwereacharacterinthestory.Asifitplayedapart,whichIsupposeitdid.Thesoundofwaterybulletshittingthetarmacisingrainedinmymindasaresult.Theroadmymotherwaswalkingalongwaslikeasnakingblackriver,reflectingthenightskyandtheeerieglowofstreetlights,likeurbanman-madestars.Itallhappenedtoofastandwasoversosoon.Thehorrifyingscreechoftires,mymother’sscream,theawfulthudofherbodyhittingthewindscreen,andthesoundofthecardrivingoverthedog.ThenoiseofthecrashwastheloudestthingI’deverheard.Itonlylastedafewseconds,butseemedtoplayonrepeat.Thentherewasonlyaterriblesilence.ItwasasthoughthehorrorIhadseenturnedthevolumeofmylifedowntozero.
Istillcan’tlookatAmelia.Mymindistoobusyfillingintheblanksherwordswon’t.
“Didyouusedtostealcars?”Iaskher,inavoicethatdoesn’tsoundlikemyown.
Ameliadoesn’treply,butherbreathingisgettinglouderbehindme.Ihearherlittlesharpintakesofbreath,asshestandsandstartscomingcloser.Iwishshewouldn’t,butIturntofaceher.
“Didyougetarrestedfordeathbydangerousdrivingwhenwewereboththirteen?”
“Ithinkyouneedtocalmdown,”shewheezes,twistingmymother’sringroundandroundherfinger.Anervoustic.Atell.Istareatthesapphire,twinklinginthedimlightasiftotauntme.Asmallbutbeautifulbluerock.ThatringshouldneverhavebeenonAmelia’shand.
“Didyougoforajoyrideintherainonenight?”Iask.
“Webothneedtostaycalmand…talk.”
Shestartstosobandgaspatthesametime,butIstillcan’tlookherintheeye.Ijustkeepstaringattheringonherfinger.
“Didthecarmountthepavement?”
“Adam…please—”
“Diditcrashintoawomanwearingaredkimonowhilewalkingherdog?Didyouleaveherfordeadanddriveaway?”
“Adam,I—”
“Didyouthinkyou’dgetawaywithitforever?”
IlookupandstareatAmelia’sface.Forthefirsttime,itlooksfamiliartome.Shetakestheinhalerfromherpocket,andstartstopanicwhensherealizesthatitisempty.
“Helpme,”shewhispers.
“Wereyouthepersoninthecarthenightmymotherwaskilled?”Iask,fightingbackthetearsinmyeyes.
“Ilove…you.”
“Wasityou?”Amelianodsandstartscryingtoo.“Howcouldyoukeepsomethinglikethisfromme?Whydidn’tyoutellmewhoyouwere?Thisis…sick.You’resick.There’snootherwordforit.Everythingaboutyou,us,it’sa…lie.”
Shecan’tbreathe.Istareather,nolongerknowingwhattodo,orsay,orhowtoreact.Thisfeelslikeoneofmynightmares:itcan’tbereal.Despiteeverything,myinstinctistohelpher.Butthenshespeaksagain,andIonlywanttodoonething:Shut.Her.Up.
“I’m…nottheonlyonewho…lied.”Idon’tknowwhatmyfacedoeswhenAmeliasaysthis,butshetakesastepback.“I’msorry.Ionlyever…wantedtomakeyou…happy,”shewhispers,gaspingforair.
“Well,youdidn’t.Iwasneverreallyhappywithyou.”
ThenIseeAmelia’sfaceclearlyforthefirsttime.AndassoonasIdo,itchanges,darkensintosomethinguglyandunfamiliar.Hereyesaresuddenlywideandwildastheydartaroundthekitchen.Itallhappenssofast.Toofast.Herhanddropstheinhaler,andreachesfortheknifeblockinstead.She’scomingatmewithashinyblade.Butthenanotherfaceappearsbehindmywife,andIseeanotherflashofmetal,andthistimeit’sapairofextremelysharp-lookingscissors.
SCISSORS
Wordoftheyear:schadenfreudenoun.Pleasure,joy,orself-satisfactionderivedbysomeonefromanotherperson’smisfortune.16thSeptember2020DearAdam,Itisn’tourweddinganniversary,butithasbeensixmonthssinceIcamehome,andIcouldn’tresistwritingyoualetter.We’vemanagedtoputthepastbehindus,andwe’reafamilyagain:you,me,Bob,andOscar,thehouserabbit.Sometimeswhenyousetsomethingfreeitcomesback.NobodyknowswhathappenedinScotlandandnobodyeverneedstoItwashardatfirst,forbothofus,returningtoLondontofindsomanytracesofherinourhome.Butitwasnothingthatsomebinbags,thelocalrubbishtip,andalickofpaintcouldn’tsolve.We’vebeenreturnedtoourfactorysettings,andeverythingisbackhowitusedtobe.Almost.WorkingatBatterseaDogsHomeseemedoutofthequestion—toomanyremindersofallthethingsIwouldratherforget—butthat’sokay,Ihaveanewjobnow:I’mafull-timewriter.Notthatanyoneknows,exceptyou.It’sbeenabusysixmonths.RockPaperScissorsisgoingtobepublishednextyear.Itmightnotbemynameonthecover,butit’smybook,andit’shardnottofeelanxiousaboutpeoplereadingit.Somuchofourrealliveshavegoneintothisnovel.Thescreenrightshavealreadybeensold—toacompanyyouhavealwaysdreamedofworkingwith—andthereisawatertightclauseinthecontractstatingthatyouwillbetheonlyscreenwriteronthisproject.Henrysignedthedealhimself,oratleastIdid.SometimesIthinkit’sthefearoffallingdownthatmakespeopletripup.We’renotbornafraid.Whenwe’reyoung,wedon’thesitatetorun,orclimb,orjump,andwedon’tworryaboutgettinghurtorfretaboutfailure.Rejectionandreallifeteachustofear,butifyouwantsomethingbadlyenough,youhavetotaketheleap.Whentheboxofadvanceauthorcopiesarrivedtoday,Icried.Tearsofjoy,mostly.IopeneditusingthevintagestorkscissorsIbroughthomefromScotland.I’dhadthemsinceIwasachild,mymotherboughttwopairs—oneformeandoneforher.TheywerealmostallIhadlefttorememberherby,andtheylookedgoodasnewoncethey’dbeeninthedishwashermadetheexperienceextraspecialforme.IkeptonepairanddeliberatelylefttheothersetbehindatBlackwaterChapel,becauseit’stimetomoveon,andsomethingsarebestleftinthepast.Thosescissorsmarkedtheendofanunpleasantwomanchapterinourlives,andtodaytheyhelpedtorevealournewfuture,byopeningaboxofbooks.Thenovelhasalreadybeensoldallovertheworld—twentytranslationssofar.Idon’tcarewhosenameisonthecover,weknowit’sourstoryandthat’sallthatmatterstome.NobodyneedstoknowthatHenryWinterwasmyfather.Orthatheisdead.Orwhathappenedtoyoursecondwife.Itstillupsetsmethatshewaseveryourwifeatall.ItmademesohappywhenyoutookoffyourweddingringwhilewewerestillinScotlandandthrewitintheloch,asthoughyouwantedtoleavethepastbehindustoo.Itriedtoremoveyourmother’ssapphireengagementringfromAmelia’slifelesshandbeforeweleft.NotbecauseIwanteditback,butbecausesheneverdeservedtowearitinthefirstplace.Itwouldn’tcomeoffherfinger,nomatterhowhardItriedtotwistorpullthedamnthing,anditbotheredmemorethanitshouldhave.Somepeopleareasstubbornindeathastheyareinlife.I’mnotsayingeverythingisperfect,there’snosuchthing.Marriageishardworksometimes.Itcanalsobeheartbreaking,andsad,butanyrelationshipworthhavingisworthfightingfor.Peoplehaveforgottenhowtoseethebeautyinimperfection.Icherishwhatwehavenow,despiteitbeingbloodiedandalittletornaroundtheedges.Atleastwhatwehaveisreal.Westillhavesecrets,butnotfromeachotheranymore.Ialwaysthinkitisbesttolookforward,neverback.Butifwehadn’tgotdivorced,thennextyearwouldhavebeenourthirteenthanniversary.Thetraditionalgiftismeanttobelace,andIalreadyknowwhatI’mgoingtogiveyou.AlthoughI’llbetheonewearinganewweddingdress,itwillbeforyou.EverythingIdoalwayshasbeen.YourRobinxxADAM
Bookscanbemirrorsforwhoeverholdsthemandpeopledon’talwayslikewhattheysee.
Thelastsixmonthshavebeengood,andIfeelasifmylifeisbackontrack.Robinishomeagain,andhasredecoratedeveryinchofourhouse;it’salmostasthoughAmeliawasneverhere.I’msohappythatRobinisback,soisBob,IthinkwebothneededherfarmorethanIeverrealized.Imightnotbeabletoseewhatshelookslikeontheoutside,butmywifeisabeautifulpersoninside.Whereitmatters.NothingshecouldeverdowillchangethepersonIseewhenIlookather.RockPaperScissorsisfinallygettingmade,andeventhoughtheopeningtitleswillsay“basedonthenovelbyHenryWinter”Icanlivewiththat.Dealingwithdifficultauthorsissomucheasierwhentheyaredead.Itturnsoutmywifeisjustasgoodatwritingthrillinghorrorstoriesasherfatherwas.Perhapsitisn’tsurprising.Thescariesthauntedhousesarealwaystheonesinwhichyouaretheghost.
Ithinktherecomesapointineveryone’slifewhenyoujusthavetodowhatyouwanttodo.Chasingthedreambecomesinvoluntary,youhaveto,becauseweallknowtimeisnotinfinite.AndI’vebeenchasingthisforsolong,didn’tIdeservetocatchupwithmydreamseventually?Iliketothinkso.Ihavethebestjobintheworld,butwritingisahardwaytomakeaneasyliving.IfIthoughtIcouldbehappydoinganythingelse,Iwouldabsolutelydothatinstead.
Despiteeverything,I’msleepingbetterthaneverbefore.MynightmareshavestoppedcompletelysincewereturnedfromScotland,almostlikeIleftthepainofmypastbehind.PerhapsbecauseIfinallyhavesomesenseofclosureaboutwhathappenedwhenIwasaboy.
Istillthinkaboutmymotherandthewayshediedeveryday.Andalthoughthenightmareshavestopped,theguilthasnevergoneaway.Itwasmyfaultandnothingwilleverchangethat.IfI’dwalkedthedogmyself—likemymotheraskedmeto—shewouldn’thavebeenoutonthestreetthatnight,andthecarwouldn’thavehither.Butthirteen-year-oldmewasangrybecausehewatchedmymotherdoherhair,sprayherperfume,paintherface,andwrapherselfupintheredkimonolikeafreegift.Sheonlyworeitwhenamanwascomingtostaythenightatours.Shesaidtheywerefriends,buttheflathadpaper-thinwalls,andnoneofmyfriendsmadenoiseslikethat.
Differentmenstayedoveralot.I.Didn’t.Likeit.Sowhenthatevening’sfriendknockedonthedoor—anotherfaceIdidn’trecognizebutwassureI’dneverseenbefore—Istormedout.Thirteen-year-oldmemetagirlintheparkthatnight,behindthetowerblockwhereIlived.Wesatonthebrokenswingsandsharedalargebottleofwarmcider.ItwasthefirsttimeIdrankalcohol,thefirsttimeIsmokedacigarette,andthefirsttimeIkissedagirl.Iwasinnorushtogohome.Itmademewonderhowmanyfirstsapersoncanhavebeforelifeonlyoffersthemseconds.
Thegirltastedlikesmokeandbubblegum,andshesaidthatIcoulddomorethanjustkissherifwecouldfindsomewheretodoit.Shetaughtmehowtostealacar—she’dclearlydoneitbefore—thenshetaughtmehowtodriveitbehindadisusedwarehouse.Shetaughtmehowtodootherthingsforthefirsttimetoointhebackseat,wemadenoisesofourown,andteenagemethoughthewasinlove.
That’swhyIdidwhatshesaidwhenshetoldmetodrivearoundtheestate.Irememberthesoundofherlaughter,andtherainbouncingoffthewindscreenmakingitalmostimpossibletosee.“Faster,”shesaid,turningupthecarradio.“Faster!”SheputherhandonmycrotchandIlookeddown.Itookthecornertoofastandwestartedtospin.WhenIlookedup,Isawmymother.
Andshesawme.
Itallhappenedsofast:thesoundofscreechingbrakes,thecarmountingthepavement,mymother’sredkimonoflyingintheair,thesmashwhenherbodyhitthewindscreen,andthethudofthewheelsrollingoverthedog.Thenthesilence
Icouldn’tmoveatfirst.
Butthenthegirlwasscreamingatme.
WhenIdidn’trespond,shepushedmeoutofthecar,climbedintothedriver’sseat,anddroveaway.Someoftheneighborscameoutnotlongafterthat,theyfoundmeleaningovermymother,crying,andcoveredinherblood.EveryonepresumedI’dbeenwalkingthedogwithherwhenithappened.
Ididn’tevenknowthegirl’sname.AndI’dneverbeenabletorecognizefaces.WhenthepoliceaskedmetoIDsomepicturesofateenagegirltheysuspectedofdrivingthestolencar,Igenuinelycouldn’thelp.
IthoughtI’dneverseeheragainsoitwasashocktodiscoverweweremarried
DoIfeelbadaboutwhathappenedtoAmelia?
No.
Sadly,peopledieeveryday,eventhegoodones.Andshewasn’toneofthem.Noneofusknowwhenwe’recheckingout,lifeisn’tthatkindofhotel.I’mhappynow.HappierthanIthoughtIcouldbeagain.Ijustwanttoputeverythingbehindme,andnowIfinallycan.Sometimesalieisthekindesttruthyoucantellaperson,includingyourself.
SAM
SamuelSmithisnotahappyman.
Asayoungboy,hewasobsessedwithhorrorandcrimenovels.HedevouredbooksbyStephenKingandAgathaChristie,anddreamedofbeingadetectiveoneday.Becomingaprivateinvestigatorwasascloseashegot.WhenSamcelebratedhisfortiethbirthdayalone,drinkingwarmbeerandeatingcoldpizzainhisLondonflat,hemadeaconfessiontohimself:thiswasnotlivingthedream.
Butthenextday—whenSamwasfeelingratherworseforwear—anelderlymancalled.HeaskedforSam’sprofessionalhelptokeepaneyeonhisestrangeddaughter.Theoldmanwasreluctanttotellhimhisnameatfirst,butbeingaPIwasajobthatrequiredfacts,soSamhadtoinsist.Eventually,thecallerconfessedhewasHenryWinter,andSam’sdisappointingcareersuddenlybecamealotmoreinteresting.
Hethoughtitmustbejoke,abelatedbirthdaywindupbyafriendperhaps,butthenrememberedthathedidn’thaveany.ReadingbookswashowSamspentmostevenings.Hisfavoriteswerethecreepiestones,andHenryWinterwasthekingofhorrorinSam’seyes.Hehadbeenreadingtheauthor’sstoriessincehewasateenager.Oncehehadcheckedafewfacts,andmadesureitwastherealHenryWinterwhowasaskingforhishelp,Samwouldhavebeenhappytodotheworkforfree.
Butamanhasgottoeat.
Itwasn’tasthoughtheelderlyauthorwasshortofabobortwo:quitetheopposite.ButSamstillstartedtofeelbadabouthowmuchhewascharginghim.FollowingHenry’sdaughterandkeepingtabsonherhusbandwaseasymoney.
SamlikestothinkthatheandHenrybecamefriendsovertheyearsthatfollowed,andinsomewaystheydid.Samevenmanagedtopersuadetheoldmantogetalaptop,sothattheycouldemailfromtimetotime.HewouldfollowRobinorherhusbandtwiceaweekorso—whentheywalkedthedog,orontheirwaytowork,orsometimeshejustsatoutsidetheirhouseinHampsteadVillage—justtokeeptrackofthings.ThenhesentamonthlyreportHenry’sway.Buttheirexchangesweren’tallworkrelated.Theyoftenchattedaboutbooks,orpolitics,insteadofRobinandAdam.SamtookgreatprideinthefactthatHenrytrustedandconfidedinhim,eventhoughtheyhadnevermet.
Theyspokeatleastonceamonth,sowhenhedidn’thearfromHenryforawhile,Samstartedtogetalittleconcerned.First,thephonecallsstoppedandwereneveransweredorreturned,butbackthenHenrystillrepliedtoemailsoccasionally.Hewassurprisinglykeentoseepicturesofthedogallofasudden,andwantedtoknoweverydetailwhenhisdaughter’shomewasredecoratedaftershemovedout.Sam’slonglenscameracameinveryhandyonthoseoccasions.Buttheauthorneverusedthesamefriendlytonehehadbefore,andthenallcommunicationcametoanabruptend,alongwithhisregularpayments.
SamhadbeenkeepinganeyeonHenry’sdaughterformorethantenyears,anditmadehimsadwhenhisrelationshipwiththeauthorendedsuddenlyandwithnoexplanation.Hedrankmorebeer,atemorepizza,anddidn’tbuythelatestHenryWinternoveluntilthedayafteritcameout,inprotest.SamhadbeenasilentpartofthefamilysinceRobinmarriedAdam.Hewastherewhenherhusbandstartedhavinganaffair,andhefeltabitdownhimselfwhentheygotdivorced.Diggingaroundinthedirtoftheirmarriagewaseasywork,butthatwasn’ttheonlyreasonwhyhediditforaslongashehad.Theywereaninterestingcoupletokeeptabson:himwithhiswriting,andherwithafamousfather,andasecretpast.Samhadevengrownratherattachedtotheirdog,havingwatchedBobsincehewasapuppy.SohewasgenuinelysadwhenthingswentwrongforMr.andMrs.Wright.
Whenthedaughtermovedbackinwithherex-husbandafewmonthsago,afterdisappearingfromthefaceoftheplanetforacoupleofyears,SamdecidedtodrivetoScotlandandtellHenryaboutitinperson.Theauthorhadalwaysbeenpainstakinglyprivateandhadrefusedtoeversharehishomeaddress,butofcourseSamknewwherehelived.Hemightnothavemadeitasadetective,buthestillknewhowtofindoutmostthingsaboutmostpeople.
NewspaperinterviewswithHenryWinterwererare,butSamhadkeptonefromafewyearsback.Itwasaboutwheretheauthorlikedtowrite,andshowedapictureofHenryinhisstudy,sittingatanantiquedeskthatoncebelongedtoAgathaChristie.Itdidn’ttakelongforSamtofindoutwhichauctionhousethedeskhadcomefrom.Ortobribeadeliverydrivertogivehimtheaddresswhereithadbeensent.
Henry’sScottishhideawaywasstillhardertofindthanSamcouldhaveimagined.ThedriveupfromLondonwaspainfullylongandslow,andwithoutdirectionsthepostcodehe’dbeengivenprovedclosetouseless.Afterdrivingaroundincircleslookingforthemysterious—possiblynonexistent—BlackwaterChapel,andpassingendlessmountainsandlochsthathadallstartedtolookthesame,SamwentbackonhimselftoHollowgrove,theonlytownhehadseenformiles.
Therewasonlyoneshop,itwasgettingdark,andSamspottedthewomanputtingupaCLOSEDsigninthewindowassoonasshesawhimclimbingoutofhiscar.Heknockedanyway,andshepulledafacethatwasevenmoreunpleasantthantheoneshehadbeenwearingbefore.
ThewomanopenedthedoorandSamnoticedhernamebadge:PATTY
Shehadafacelikeacarpanditwasasredasherapron.Herbeadyeyesglaredandshebarkedtheword“what”athimwithvenomlikespit.Shewasclearlyawomanwhowasgoodatmakingpeoplefeelbad.SamresistedtheurgetoofferhiscondolencesforPatty’ssister,whohewassurehadbeenmurderedbyagirlcalledDorothynearayellowbrickroad.ButPatty’sdistinctlackofkindnessturnedouttobeveryhelpful.
“NobodyhasseenHenryWinterforacoupleofyears,andgoodriddanceIsay.Hefiredhisoldhousekeeperwithnonotice—shewasafriendofmine.Thenewhousekeeperusedtopopinnowandthentogetsupplies—oddwomanwithasweettoothforbakedbeansandbabyfood—butevenshestoppedcomingtotownafewmonthsago.Idon’tknowifIshouldtellyouhowtogettoBlackwaterChapel.Idon’twantyoucomingbackhereandblamingmeifsomethingbadhappens.Thatplaceisn’tjusthaunted,it’scursed.Askanyone.”
Samboughtabottleofoverpricedwhiskey—hedidn’twanttomeethisfriendempty-handed—andtheoldcrowgavehimdirectionsanyway.WhenSamgaveheraten-poundnotetosaythankyou,shedrewhimamap.
Samfeltlikeacharacterinoneofhisfavoritedetectivenovelsoncehewasbackontheroad.ThephonecallsfromHenryendedaroundtwoyearsearlier—thesametimethewomanintheshopsaidtheauthorstoppedgoingintotown.Samdidn’tknowanythingaboutahousekeeper,oldornew,Henrynevermentionedthem.TheonlypersonHenryeverreallywantedtotalkaboutwashisdaughter,Robin.TheirestrangementstillbotheredSam,becauseitclearlymadetheoldauthorverysadindeed.
Robinwasadifficultchild.Hermother—aromancenovelistwhoHenrymetataliteraryfestivalbackintheday—diedwhenthegirlwasonlyeightyearsold.Shedrownedinthebath.Robinhadtwoauthorsforparents,soitprobablyshouldn’thavebeenasurprisethatshestruggledtoseparatefactfromfiction.Henrysaidshewasalwaysmakingupstories,anditgotherintroubleatboardingschoolaswellasathome.Shegotsuspendedonce,fortellinggirlsinherdormitorytalesaboutwitcheswhowhisperedtheirvictim’snamesthreetimesbeforekillingthem.Itwasalljusttheresultofanoveractiveimagination—whichtobefair,she’dinherited—butwhenHenrytriedtodisciplineher,Robincutoffherownhairwithapairofscissorsonenight,leavingtwolongblondplaitsforhimtofindonherpillow.
Henryblamedgrief,andhimself,butnothinghedidtotrytohelpthechildworked.SheranawayfromBlackwaterChapeltoomanytimesforhimtocount,andwhenshewaseighteen,sheranawayforgood.Henrydidn’tknowwhereshewasforyears,untilRobingotintouchaskinghimtohelpherhusband.HenrywasfondofAdamfromthestart.HealwayssoundedlikehewassmilingwhenhetalkedaboutthemanRobinmarried.Hedidn’tlikethescreenadaptationsofhisnovels,butthefacthecontinuedtoagreetothemwastestamenttohowmuchhelikedAdam.Itwasobviousthathegrewtothinkofhissecretson-in-lawasthesonheneverhad.HethoughtAdamhadbeenagoodinfluenceonhisdaughter’slife,andsolongasshewashappy,hewashappytostayoutofit.That’sallhewantedtoknowwhenheaskedSamtofollowthem.
Wasshehappy?
Robinwasalwaysfondofwritinglettersasachild,aswellasmakingthingsupthatgotherintotrouble.ShewroteHenryonelastletterbeforesheranawaytoLondon.Itwasathank-you,aswellasagoodbye.Shesaidtheonlythingthathehadevergivenherthatshetrulylovedwashername.HermotherhadinsistedtheychristenherAlexandra,butHenryneverlikedthat,soalwaysusedthechild’smiddlenameinstead,theonehehadchosen:Robin.Hesaidshelikeditsomuchbecauseitmadeherfeellikeabird,andbirdscanalwaysflyaway.WhenRobinflew,shenevercameback.
SamkeptoneeyeonthewindingHighlandroads—whichweredifficultenoughtonavigateevenbeforeitgotdark.Healsokeptglancingdownatthehand-drawnmapthewomanintheshophadgivenhim,tryingtomakesenseofit.HenoticedthatPattyhadalsoscribbleddownherphonenumber.Samshuddered.Despitebeinglostinthedesertforalongtimewhenitcametotheladies,he’dratherdieofthirstthandrinkatthatwell.Whenheturnedoffthemainroad,hesawthattherehadbeenasignforBlackwaterLochallalong.He’ddrivenpastitseveraltimesearlierbecause,bythelooksofit,thesignhadbeenchoppeddown.Possiblywithanaxe.Thiswasclearlyaplacesomeonedidn’twantpeopletofind
Hedrovealongalittletrack,narrowlyavoidedhittingsomesheep,andpassedasmallthatchedcottageontheright.Itlookedabandoned.Samwasabouttogiveup,haddecidedtomaybetryandfindahotelforthenight,butthenhisheadlightsilluminatedtheshapeofanoldwhitechapelinthedistance.
Sam’sfuelgaugewaslowbuthishopeswerehighasheparkedhisthirdhandBMWoutside.Hisoptimismdidn’tlastlong.Thechapelwasintotaldarkness.Hecouldalreadytellthatnobodywashome:thebigoldwoodendoorsweren’tjustclosed;theywerechainedtogetherwithapadlock.Henryclearlywasn’tthere,andfromthethickcobwebscoveringthedoors,itappearedhehadn’tbeenforsometime.
Upsetatthethoughtofawastedjourney,andnotquitereadytogiveup,Samgrabbedhistorchfromthebootofthecarandwentforawalkaroundthechapel.Hehopedhemightfindanotherwayin,butdespiteendlessstained-glasswindowstherewerenootherdoors.Hedidstumbleacrossseveralwoodenstatuesinthedarkthough.Theeerie-lookingrabbitsandowlscarvedfromancienttreestumps,weresowellhiddenbyshadows,thatSamwalkedrightintothefirstoneandautomaticallyapologizedbeforetakingastepback.Theirghoulish,gougedeyesmadehimshiver.Butthenhefeltastrangesurgeofrelief—Henryhadtalkedtohimabouthowmuchhelovedtocarvewood,hefounditcalmingafteralongdayplottingtokillpeople—andSamknewthathewasatleastintherightplace.
Thenhefoundthecemeteryatthebackofthechapel.
Thegraniteheadstonesblendedinwiththerestofthepitch-blacksceneryatfirst,butwhenSamgotcloser,historchlightrevealedthatmostwereseriouslyold.Somuchsotheywereeitherleaningatangles,fallingapart,orcoveredinmoss.Butnotallofthemwereancientorimpossibletoread.Thenewestone,whichstoodoutfromitscrumblingneighborsinthedistance,andcouldn’thavebeenmorethanayearortwoold,grabbedhisattention.Heheadedinthatdirection,buttrippedoveranunexpectedmoundofdirtanddroppedhistorch.Samwasprettyhardtoscare—he’dreadallofHenryWinter’snovelstwice—butevenhehadadoseoftheheebie-jeebiesashecrawledonhishandsandknees,inagraveyard,lateatnight,tryingtoretrievehistorch.Theheapofdirtsuggestedthatsomeonehadbeenrecentlyburiedthere,andthegrasshadn’tquitehadenoughtimetogrowovertheunevensoil.Therewasnomarker,noname,anditremindedhimofapauper’sgrave.Butthenhenoticedsomethingstickingoutoftheground…anoldinhaler.
Samfeltuneasyallofasudden,andtheshopkeeper’swarningaboutthechapelbeingcursedreturnedtohaunthisthoughts.Thenheheardsomeonewhisperhisnamethreetimesintheshadowsjustbehindhim.
Samuel.Samuel.Samuel.
Butwhenhespunaround,therewasnobodythere.
Itmusthavejustbeenthewind.Fearandimaginationcanleadthebrightestofpeopledowndarkpaths.Nowonderachildgrowinguphereimaginedsomanyawfulandtwistedtalesconfusingfactandfiction,hethought,rememberingallthestoriesthatHenrysaidRobinhadmadeup.Hewasgoingtoasktheoldmanaboutthatagainassoonashetrackedhimdown.HehadspottedasmallpolicestationinHollowgrove,andmadeamentalnotetostopthereonthewayback,hopingtheymightknowwherehisfriendwaslivingnow.Somebodymust.World-famousauthorsdon’tjustdisappear.Besides,HenryhadanewbookcalledRockPaperScissorscomingoutnextyear.Samknewbecausehehadalreadypreorderedit.
Hepickedhimselfandthetorchupoffthemuddyground,andwalkedovertothenewest-lookingheadstoneinthecemetery.Hehadtoreadwhatwasengravedonitseveraltimesbeforehisbraincouldbegintoprocessthewords.
HENRYWINTERFATHERKILLEROFONE,AUTHOROFMANY.
Hedidn’tbelieveatfirstthatHenrywasdead.
Therewasatinyglassboxonthegrave,thekindsomeonemightkeeptrinketsinside.Samshonehistorchonit,andhesitatedbeforebendingdowntotakeacloserlook.Whenhedid,hesawthattheboxcontainedthreeitems.Asapphirering,apapercrane,andasmallpairofvintagescissorsdesignedtolooklikeastork.Itwastheringthatcaughthiseye,notjustbecauseofthesparklingbluerock,butbecauseitwasstillattachedtowhatappearedtobeahumanfinger.Thewindpickedupthen,andSamthoughtheheardsomeonewhisperhisnameagain,threetimes.Hedidn’tbelieveinghosts,butherantohiscarasfastashecouldanddidn’tlookback.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
HugethanksasalwaystoJonnyGellerandKariStuart,notjustforbeingthebestagentsintheknownuniverse,butalsoforbeingtwoofthebest,wisest,andkindesthumanbeingsIamluckyenoughtoknow.HugethanksalsotoKateCooperandNadiaMokdadforsellingmystoriesaroundtheworld,andtoJosieFreedmanandLukeSpeedforthescreenadaptationsofmynovels.ThankyoutoallthelovelypeopleatCurtisBrownandICM,withspecialthankstoViolaHaydenandCiaraFinan.
ThankyoutothewonderfulteamatFlatironBooks,especiallymyeditor,ChristineKopprasch.Iamquitesuperstitiouswhenitcomestowriting,andIdon’ttellanyoneanythingaboutmybooksuntilIhavewrittenthem.Notevenmydog,andIlovehimthebest.Ihadwantedtowriteaboutfaceblindnessforalongtime,soimaginemysurprisewhenmyagentsentChristinethisbook,andsherevealedthatshehadthecondition.Thankyou,Christine,foryourgenuineloveofbooks,yourpersistentkindness,andformakingthisbooksomuchbetterthanitwas.Extra-specialthankstoDonnaNoetzel,LisaAmoroso,andRhysDaviesforthebeautifulcoverandillustrationsinthisnovel.ThankyoutoCicelyAspinallandtheteamatHarperCollinsintheUK,andtoallmyotherpublishersaroundtheworldfortakingsuchgoodcareofmybooks.
ThankyoutoScotlandforinspiringsomuchofthisstory.IfthereisamorebeautifulplaceonEarth,Ihaveyettofindit.Allofmybookshavebeenpartlywrittenand/oreditedintheScottishHighlands,andmyvisitsgrowlongereachyear.SpecialthankstothefaceinthewindowofthepropertyIrentedduringthe“BeastfromtheEast”snowstormsof2018,andtheconvertedchapelwhereIhadtheideaforthisnovel.Iremembereverysinglethingaboutthedaythisstoryhappenedinsidemyhead.
ThankyoutoDaniel,forbeingmyfirstreader,bestfriend,andthebestlockdownpartneragirlcouldwishfor.Forallofthosereasonsandsomanymore,thisbookisforyou.
Thankyoutothebooksellers,librarians,journalists,bookreviewers,bookbloggers,andbookstagramerswhohavebeensokindaboutmynovels,andtoeveryoneelsewhohashelpedputmybooksintothehandsofreaders.Myfinalandbiggestthanksistoallofyou.Yourbeautifulpicturesofthebooksandkindwordsalwaysmeantheworldtome,butevenmoresothisyear.WhenIlookbackat2020,Iknowitwasthekindnessofreadersthatkeptmewritingduringthedarkestoftimes.I’mforevergratefulforyoursupport,andIhopeyoucontinuetoenjoymystories.
ALSOBYALICEFEENEY
His&Hers
IKnowWhoYouAre
SometimesILie
ABOUTTHEAUTHOR
AliceFeeneyisaNewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorandjournalist.Herdebutnovel,SometimesILie,wasaninternationalbestseller,hasbeentranslatedintoovertwentylanguages,andisbeingmadeintoaTVseriesbyWarnerBros.starringSarahMichelleGellar.His&HersisalsobeingadaptedforscreenbyJessicaChastain’sFreckleFilms.AlicewasaBBCjournalistforfifteenyears,andnowlivesintheBritishcountrysidewithherfamily.RockPaperScissorsisherfourthnovel.Youcansignupforemailupdateshere
Thankyouforbuyingthis
FlatironBooksebook.
Toreceivespecialoffers,bonuscontent,
andinfoonnewreleasesandothergreatreads,
signupforournewsletters.
Orvisitusonlineat
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
Foremailupdatesontheauthor,clickhere
Thisisaworkoffiction.Allofthecharacters,organizations,andeventsportrayedinthisnovelareeitherproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.ROCKPAPERSCISSORS.Copyright?2021byDiggiBooksLtd.Allrightsreserved.Forinformation,addressSt.Martin’sPublishingGroup,120Broadway,NewYork,NY10271.www.flatironbooks.comCoverdesignbyLisaAmorosoCoverphotographs:wintertrees?FedericoTardito/Alamy;church?ArndWiegmann/ReutersIllustrationsbyRhysDaviesTheLibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataisavailableuponrequest.ISBN978-1-250-26610-1(hardcover)ISBN978-1-250-83892-6(international,soldoutsidetheU.S.,subjecttorightsavailability)ISBN978-1-250-26611-8(ebook)eISBN9781250266118Ourebooksmaybepurchasedinbulkforpromotional,educational,orbusinessuse.PleasecontacttheMacmillanCorporateandPremiumSalesDepartmentat1-800-221-7945,extension5442,orbyemailatMacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.comFirstU.S.Edition:2021FirstInternationalEdition:2021CONTENTS
TitlePage
CopyrightNotice
Dedication
Amelia
Adam
Rock
Adam
Amelia
Paper
Amelia
Adam
Cotton
Amelia
Adam
Leather
Amelia
Robin
Amelia
Robin
Amelia
Adam
Amelia
Adam
Amelia
Adam
Amelia
Robin
Linen
Amelia
Adam
Wood
Robin
Amelia
Adam
Amelia
Robin
Amelia
Robin
Iron
Adam
Robin
Amelia
Copper
Robin
Amelia
Adam
Amelia
Robin
Bronze
Amelia
Pottery
Adam
Tin
Amelia
Adam
Robin
Steel
Amelia
Silk
Amelia
Adam
Scissors
Adam
Sam
Acknowledgments
AlsobyAliceFeeney
AbouttheAuthor
Copyright
© Copyright Notice
The copyright of the article belongs to the author. Please do not reprint without permission.
THE END
No comments yet