Page 44 of Rock Paper Scissors
I follow the sound of his voice, staring at the shelves lined with books from floor to ceiling. I don’t understand until I see the sliver of light revealing a secret door, covered in the spines of old books. I hesitate before pushing it open, once again feeling as though I might have fallen down the rabbit hole, or become trapped in one of the dark and disturbing novels my husband loves to adapt.
The thin door squeaks open to reveal another room. It’s a study, but unlike any I have seen before. The long, narrow, dark space only has one stained-glass window for light. There is an antique desk at one end, and my husband is sitting at it.
“Whoever was here has gone,” Adam says without looking up. “I searched the whole place. The only thing that I noticed was different was that the door to this room was open.”
“I don’t understand—”
“I think I’m starting to. I recognize this room.”
He doesn’t seem to notice that I can barely breathe. There are no supplements for people who suffer from a sympathy deficit, and my husband has always been easily distracted by his own thoughts and feelings. “You do?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it before. I couldn’t think where at first and then I noticed this,” he says, tapping the shiny wooden desktop. “I’ve seen a picture of this study in a magazine, albeit a few years ago. And I remember who the article was about. You say that you won a weekend away by chance, in a raffle, but that can’t be true. It’s all too much of a coincidence. I know who this property belongs to now.”
COPPER
Word of the year:
discombobulatedadjective.Feeling confused and disconcerted.
28th February 2015—our seventh anniversary
Dear Adam,
It’s been a difficult year.
October O’Brien was found dead in a London hotel a few months ago, and you were one of the last people to see her alive. Suspected suicide according to the newspapers. There was no note, but empty bottles of alcohol and pills were found by her bed. It was obviously devastating. And surprising; the woman always seemed so happy and positive, at least on the outside. Barely thirty years old and everything to live for. The two of you had become quite close—I was rather fond of her myself—but it also means that the filming ofRock Paper Scissorshas been canceled. You can’t make a TV series without the star of the show.
The funeral was awful. You could tell that so many people there were merely acting out what they thought grief should be.Two-faced shysters. It seems that genuine friends are even harder to come by when you’re famous. I was surprised to discover that October’s real name was Rainbow O’Brien. Her parents were hippies, and nobody at the service wore black.
“Thank goodness she used a stage name,” you whispered.
I nodded, but wasn’t sure whether I agreed. She was a bit like a rainbow: beautiful, captivating, colorful, and gone from our lives almost as soon as she appeared in them. I used to think a name was just a name. Now I’m not so sure. I had become quite friendly with October myself—occasional drinks, dog walks, and visits to art galleries—and I miss her too. It does feel like something, not just someone, is missing from both of our lives now that she is no longer in them.
A trip to New York sounded like a great way to spend our seventh anniversary and take our minds off it all, until I realized that it coincided with the premiere of Henry Winter’s latest film,The Black House. You wereso eager to pleaseflattered when he told his agent and the studio that he would only attend if you did. You thought it was because he was pleased with the adaptation, and wanted you to get the credit you deserved for writing the screenplay. But that wasn’t why he wanted you there. Or why he suggested you invite your wife.
You’ve beenmoody as hella little distant recently, and I didn’t want to start another fight, but playing gooseberry to a pair of writers while they basked in the temporary warmth of Hollywood’s fickle sun didn’t appeal much. Neither did walking down the red carpet at the old movie theater in Manhattan where the premiere was held. The Ziegfeld wasmy kind of place—an old-school cinema decorated in red and gold, with a sea of plush red velvet seats. But being photographed on the way in made me feel like a fraud. I hate having my picture taken at the best of times, and compared with all the beautiful creatures in attendance—with their tiny waists and big hair—I worried that I must be a disappointment to you. It’s hard to shine when surrounded by stars. The idea of just being normal seems to make you so unhappy, but it’s all I ever wanted us to be.
The deal was that we would spend time alone together after the premiere, but then Henry wanted you to accompany him to a few more events the next day. I understand why you couldn’t say no; I just wish that you hadn’t wanted to say yes. I get that you’ve always been a huge fan of his, and I understand how grateful you are that he let you adapt his work. I know what it’s meant for your career, but haven’t I already paid the price for that? Wandering around a city on my own while you hold an author’s hand instead of mine, is not my idea of a happy anniversary.
You haven’t been yourself for a while. I know that you are grieving for October, I understand that she was more than just a colleague, and the dream of seeing your own work on screen stalling, again, must also be upsetting. But it still feels as if there is something else going on. Something you’re not telling me. There are residents in our lives, the ones who stay for years, and then there are the tourists just passing through. Sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference. We can’t, and don’t, and shouldn’t try to hold on to everyone that we meet, and I’ve met a lot of tourists in my life, people I should have kept at a safe distance. If you don’t let anyone get too close, they can’t hurt you.
I spent today alone, visiting the parts of New York I’d never seen before, while you followed Henry Winter around the city. The elderly author might seem charming to you, onthe rare occasions when you have been in his company, but in real life the man lives like a hermit, drinks like a fish, and is impossible to please. I can’t tell you that, because I shouldn’t know. I’ve read all of his novels, too, just like you. His most recent was mediocre at best, but you still act as though the man is Shakespeare reincarnated.
I tried not to think about it when I visited the Statue of Liberty. The ferry to the island was jam-packed, but I still felt alone. Inside the monument, I joined a group of strangers for a tour. There were families, couples, friends, and as we climbed the staircase, I realized that everyone seemed to have someone to share the experience with. Except me. A friend from work texted to ask how the trip was going. I haven’t known them very long, and it seemed a little overfamiliar, so I didn’t reply.
There are three hundred and fifty-four steps to the Statue of Liberty’s crown. I silently counted the reasons why we were still together as I climbed them. There are still plenty of good things about our marriage, but a growing number of bad ones make me feel like we are starting to unravel. This distance between us, the empty spaces in our hearts and words; it scares me. A lot of married couples we know are muddling along, but most of those have the glue of a young family to keep them stuck together. We only have us. I did something I never do at the top… I took a selfie.
I headed to Coney Island after that. I guess it must be busier in summer, but I quite liked wandering around the closed arcades. I even found a last-minute gift for you—the copper theme this year posed a bit of a challenge. We’ve had so many highs and lows over the course of our relationship, but I suppose year seven is supposed to be difficult. I’ve heard about the seven-year itch and I’m sure you must have too. Whatever happens, I know I won’t be the first to scratch it.
When my feet ached from all the walking, I headed back tothe aptly named Library Hotel. It’s a small but perfectly formed boutique hideaway, full of books and personality. Every room has a subject and ours was math. Horror might have been more appropriate; given the way this evening has turned out.
I’d booked us a table for dinner—I knew you would forget to remember—at a nearby steak house called Benjamin that the concierge recommended. The decor and atmosphere made me think ofThe ShiningmeetsThe Godfather—which again seems rather fitting in hindsight—but the service and steaks were perfection. As was the wine. We drank two bottles of red while I listened to you tell me about your day with Henry. You didn’t ask about mine, or notice the new dress I’d bought in Bloomingdale’s. Paying me a compliment is something you only do by accident these days.
I forgot to wave tonight when you walked in to the restaurant, but somehow you still knew it was me. Given that all faces look the same to you, and I was wearing something you had never seen, your confidence as you sat down at our table was out of character and surprising. I was equally baffled by how much attention you paid the waitress, wondering how you recognized the beauty of her twentysomething features if you couldn’t see her face.
I think I knew we were going to argue even before you said what you said. Sometimes fights are like storms, and you can see them coming.
“I’m sorry to do this, but Henry wants me to go with him to LA. Given all the buzz around this film, the studio wants to adapt another of his books, and he says he’ll only entertain the idea if I go along to meet them and agree to write the screenplay.”
