Page 64 of Rock Paper Scissors
The locals had been unimpressed by an outsider owning so much of the valley. There were petitions to stop Henry converting the church—even though nobody had used it for half a century—but he did it anyway. He was a man who always did what he wanted and got his own way. When local interference continued, he made up ghost stories about Blackwater Chapel, so that anyone who didn’t already know to stay away, would. Why he wanted to live such a lonely life, hidden away from the world in self-isolation, used to baffle me. There are no shops, or libraries, or theaters, or people for miles, there is nothing here except the mountains and the sky and a loch full of salmon. The man didn’t even eat fish. But now, I think I finally understand.
I have almost nothing but almost everything I need. My father’s love of good wine meant that the crypt was crammed full of it, and his old housekeeper left a seemingly endless supply of homemade and hand-labeled meals in the freezer. Henry’s personal library is stocked with all of my favorite books, and the ever-changing views here take my breath away every single day. But it can be hard to enjoy the good things in life when you don’t have someone to share them with. I miss our words of the day and words of the year. I don’t eat especially well—I’m a little too fond of tinned food these days—but I feel better than I ever did in London. Maybe it’s the taste of fresh air in my lungs, or the long walks I take exploring the valley. Or maybe it’s just feeling free to be me.
It can be hard to step out from a parent’s shadow when you inherit their dreams. I often wrote stories as a child, but Henry’s shoes were always too big to fill. Plus, he let me know from an early age that he didn’t think I could write. I never thought I might be able to write an entire novel, but dreams can only come true if we dare to dream them in the first place. My self-confidence divorced me long before you did, but life taught me to be brave and to always try again. If you never give up on something you can’t ever fail.
Whenever I weighed my father’s words against my own, his seemed heavier, stronger, more permanent than the thoughts inside my head, which always seemed to come and go like the tide. Washing away my confidence. But castles made of sand never stand tall forever. I am free of his judgment now, and have realized the only person who forced me to live in his shadow, was me. I could have stepped out any time I wanted if I hadn’t been so afraid of being seen.
Sometimes I sit in front of the loch when the sun is starting to set and pretend that you and Bob are here sitting next to me. I like to smoke Henry’s pipe in the evening, and watch the salmon jumping across the water, before the moon rises in the sky to replace the sun. Then I listen to the sound of frogs singing, and watch the bats swoop and soar in the sky, until it gets so cold and dark, I have to head back to the cottage. I don’t like to sleep in the chapel—too many unhappy memories haunt the rooms—but I have fallen in love with Blackwater Loch. This place never felt like home until I left it. I wish I could share it with you, along with all the secrets I was forced to keep. You promised to love me forever, but I wonder if you still think of me or miss me at all?
It’s hard to picture Amelia in our old house in London, sleeping in my bed with my husband, walking my dog, cooking in my kitchen, working in my office at Battersea in the job I helped her to get. I still can’t believe you gave her myengagement ring. Or that she’d want to wear something that was once your mother’s, and then mine. But stealing things that belong to other people seems to be a habit of hers. She’s the kind of woman who expects something for nothing, and thinks the world owes her a debt. She was always reading magazines on her lunch breaks—never books—and liked to enter all the competitions inside them, or on the radio, or on daytime TV, hoping to win something for free. That’s how I knew she’d never turn down a free weekend away. It was almost too easy to get you to come here.
I’m sure I’m not the first ex-wife to want revenge. Isometimes imagined killing you bothtry not to think about it. My personal variety of fury has always been surprisingly calm. I read and write instead. It’s a loneliness coping mechanism that I developed as a little girl, when my father was always too busy working to notice me. It sounds daft now, but I never realized before how alike the two of you are. I seem to have spent a lifetime hiding inside stories: reading other people’s when I was a child, and now writing my own.
There is one secret I want to share. I wrote a novel and now I am writing another. Dreams are like dresses in a shop window; they look pretty, but sometimes don’t fit when you try them on. Some are too small, others are too big. Luckily, my mother taught me how to sew, and dreams can be adjusted to fit, just like dresses.
I think my new book is a good one and you’re in it.
Rock Paper Scissorsis all about choices. I’ve made mine, the time will come when you’ll need to make yours. The only good thing about losing everything, is the freedom that comes from having nothing left to lose.
Your (ex) wife
AMELIA
People tend to think that the second wife is a bitch and the first is a victim, but that isn’t always true.
I know how it looks. But ten years is a long time to be married, and theirs had run its course. I didn’t used to think it was possible to be too kind—kindness is meant to be a good thing—but Robin was the variety of kind that invited people to walk all over her: her colleagues, her husband, me. In her mind, she befriended me out of pity when I started volunteering at Battersea Dogs Home. But the truth is she needed a friend more than I did; I’ve never met a lonelier woman.
Of course I was grateful when she helped me to get a full-time job, and of course I felt guilty about sleeping with her husband. But it wasn’t some sordid affair. Their relationship was over long before I arrived on the scene, and Adam and I are married now. Instead of all of us being miserable. And shewasunhappy—constantly complaining about her husband the big Hollywood screenwriter, while some of us were stuck dating life’s rejects.
From the first time I met my husband, he was like an itch I couldn’t resist scratching. I stayed on the sidelines for a long time,watching, waiting, trying to do the right thing. I changed my hair, my clothes, even the way I speak, all for him. I tried to be who he needed me to be. Not for myself, but because I thought I could fix him, and I knew I could make him happier than he was with her. She didn’t know how lucky she was, and two out of three happy endings are better than none.
Robin didn’t exactly put up a fight. If anything, the divorce was surprisingly amicable given that they’d been married for a decade.
She left. He stayed. I moved in.
It was best for everyone and we were happy—Adam and I. We still are. Perhaps not as happy as we were, but I can fix that. This weekend was supposed to help, but I realize now that it was a big mistake. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure dealing with his crazy ex will only bring Adam and I closer together again. And sheiscrazy. If I was in any doubt before, now I know for certain.
I tell myself that as we stand at the top of the staircase, looking at the photo oftheirwedding day on the wall. They are both smiling for the camera. As usual, I wonder what my husband sees. Does he see the face of someone he misses? Or is it just a blur he can’t recognize? Does he think she is beautiful? Does he look at the picture and think they look good together? Does he wish they still were?
They must have been happy, too, in the beginning, just like us.
Changing love into hate is a much easier trick than turning water into wine.
It didn’t seem to matter that Adam and I had very little in common when I first moved in to the house they used to share. He didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t love books and films as much as he did, and the sex was great for the first few months. I took better care of myself and my body than Robin ever did—I went to the gym and I made more of an effort with my appearance once I had someone to look pretty for. We did it in every room of the house that his ex-wife had so lovingly renovated—always my idea—an exorcism of the ghosts of their marriage. And, unlike so many couples, Adam and I never seemed to run out of conversation. His world fascinatedme—the trips to LA and the celebrities he got to meet at readings, it all sounded so… exciting. Adam liked talking about himself and his work just as much as I liked to listen, so it was a good match. We got married as soon as the divorce was finalized. It was a small affair, and very private. I didn’t mind that it was just the two of us at the registry office that day, I didn’t think we needed anyone else. I still don’t.
If Robin really is behind all of this, and has been plotting some kind of revenge, then I’m considerably less scared than I was before. I’m smarter than her. A lot stronger too, mentally as well as physically. If this is her way of trying to win her husband back, it won’t work. Nobody wants to be with a crazy woman, and I think it’s safe to presume that’s what she has become.
“We should just leave,” I say.
“She slashed the tires.”
“Then we’ll walk to the next town, or hitch a ride if we see a car.”
“Okay,” Adam replies, without much conviction. It’s as though he’s gone into shock.
“Come on, help me grab our stuff.”
I step back onto the landing, but open the wrong door by mistake—they werealllocked when we arrived last night; the bell tower, the child’s room—and now I see what must be the master bedroom—Henry’s room. There is a large bed in the middle, as you might expect, but what I wouldn’t have predicted and haven’t seen in a bedroom before, are all the glass display cabinets covering each of the walls from floor to ceiling. Unlike in other parts of the house, these shelves aren’t filled with books. Instead they are crammed full of little carved wooden birds. When I take a step closer, I realize they are all robins. There must be literally hundreds of them, all the same but different.
