Page 57 of Rock Paper Scissors
I’m an eggs-in-one-basket girl when it comes to relationships, and it’s a dangerous way to be. One bad fall, or an unfortunate slipup, and everything I care about could get broken and smashed. I found my person when I found you, and I’ve never really needed or wanted anyone else since. Rightly or wrongly, I poured every emotional part of myself into us. I adopted your hopes and dreams and loved them as though they were my own. I cared about you so much, I had nothing left to give anyone else, even myself. I was content with a social circle big enough for two. You were always enough for me, but I never felt as though I was quite enough for you. Maybe that can change. Maybe if I try to love you a little less, the scales might tip in my favor, and you might love me a little more?
I care about my friend at work very much, but I don’t want to end up like her. Seeing her here in our home—so lonely, and sad, and broken—was a bit of a wake-up call. Funny how another person’s misfortune can make you realize what you have. We need to stop taking each other forgranted. That’s another thing nobody tells you about marriage; sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, doesn’t mean it’s over. Perhaps this is as good or as bad as it gets? So, although our house stopped feeling like a home, I’m going to try to fix that, and I’m going to try and fix us. Even if that means counseling, or compromises, or perhaps some time away, just you and me… and Bob. Maybe all marriages have secrets, and maybe the only way to stay married is to keep them.
Your wife
xx
ADAM
“What does this mean?” I ask, holding the tiny drawer full of pennies in one hand and a brokenGO AWAY I’M WRITINGmug in the other. I may suffer from face blindness and the odd neurological glitch, but there is nothing wrong with my memory (most of the time). The desk is full of anniversary gifts my wife gave me over the years. “Are you in on all this?”
“What? No!” Amelia says.
I stare at her, searching for the truth, but I can’t even see her face. Her features are swirling like a van Gogh painting and I feel dizzy just looking in her direction. Sometimes I can recognize people by the shape or color of their hair, or a distinctive pair of glasses. Sometimes I don’t know if I know them at all.
“Then how do you explain this?” I say, turning back to the desk. “Youarranged this little trip to Scotland;youdrove us here—”
“I can’t explain anything that has happened this weekend.”
“Can’t or won’t? Did you already know that Henry Winter was dead?”
“I think you need to calm down. I didn’t know anything. I still don’t. Except that…”
“What?” I ask her.
“You said Henry delivered a new book in September, but now we know he died the year before.”
“So?”
“So, what if someone else wrote it?” She shouts the question and I realize that I have been shouting too.
It’s a ridiculous suggestion. The book has since been published all around the world. Does she seriously think that nobody—including his agent, his publishers, and army of fans—would have noticed if someone else had written a Henry Winter novel? But then I do the math and she’s right, it doesn’t add up.
“That isn’t possible,” I reply. The answer in my head is less decisive but I don’t share that one with my wife.
Writers are a strange and unpredictable species. To be one requires patience, determination, sufficient self-motivation to work alone in the dark, and the self-belief to keep going when the shadows try to consume them. And they do try—I should know. The other thing all writers have in common is that they’re kooky at best, crazy at worst. Would Henry fake his own death for some reason?
“We both saw someone let themselves into the chapel earlier. Remember? That’s who we need to blame for all this. Not each other,” Amelia says.
“What about the woman in the cottage?”
“The witch with the candles and the white rabbit? You said she was old…”
“I said she had gray hair. It isn’t as though we’ve seen anyone else since we arrived.”
“So, let’s go back. Knock on her door again. Worst-case scenario, she casts a spell and turns us into white rabbits too,” Amelia replies, sounding calmer than she should.
Maybe because she already knows what is going on here and this is all an act.
I’ll always feel guilty about cheating on my wife, but Saint Amelia slept with someone she shouldn’t have too. It’s as if sheconveniently forgets that part of the story. But I can’t. “Call me Pamela,” the counselor, said we needed to move on, learn to put it behind us, but I’m still shocked by how easily my wife lies.
I wish I could see her face now, the way other people can. I wonder if she looks scared? Or does she look as composed as she sounds? And if so—given that we appear to be trapped and quite possibly in danger—why isn’t she as afraid as I am? She seems to have forgotten all about her beloved dog. She’s lying aboutsomething, and not knowing what scares me. A haunted marriage is just as terrifying as a haunted house.
“Come with me,” I say, taking her hand—she’s always complaining I don’t hold it often enough.
Her face and voice might not give her away, but Amelia can’t control her breathing. If she’s genuinely stressed or scared, it’s always the first thing to go.
We reach the old wooden spiral staircase leading to the first floor, and I point up at the gallery of black-and-white photos on the wall. It’s been bothering me since we got here.
