Page 11 of Rock Paper Scissors
AMELIA
Adam heaves the rickety trapdoor open. A set of stone steps lead down, and he doesn’t hesitate.
“Be careful,” I call after him, and he laughs.
“Don’t worry, I think a lot of old chapels have crypts. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? Unless it is a secret dungeon, containing the rotting corpses of the last people who stayed here. That would at least explain the smell.”
I stay where I am, but listen to the sound of his footsteps until he disappears from view. The torchlight flickers, then goes out.
Everything is silent.
I realize that I’m holding my breath.
But then Adam swears, and a light comes on down below.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes, just bumped my head on the low ceiling when the torch died. Probably needs new batteries. But I’ve found a light switch, and I’m pleased to report that there are no ghosts or gargoyles down here, just racks full of wine!”
Adam emerges like a triumphant explorer, with a smile anda dusty bottle of red. I manage to find a corkscrew and—even though neither of us are wine snobs—we take a sip and conclude that 2008 was an excellent year for Ribera del Duero. Some people say that marriage is like wine and gets better with age, but I guess it all depends on the grapes. There are definitely years that were more pleasurable than others, and I’d have bottled them if I could.
I start to relax once I’ve had a glass and we have eaten. The frozen chicken curry was surprisingly tasty after being blasted in the microwave, and I can feel myself begin to unwind as we drink our wine in front of the fire, in the lounge that is more like a library. The comforting hiss and crackle is hypnotic, and the flames seem to skip and sway, casting shadowy patterns all around the room full of books.
The storm outside has stepped up another gear. The snow is still falling and the wind is now wailing, but it’s warm enough on the sofa in front of the fire. Bob is gently snoring on the rug at our feet and, maybe it’s the tiredness from the journey, or the wine, but I feel strangely… content. My fingers walk toward Adam’s—I can’t remember the last time we touched each other—but my hand stops short, as if scared of getting burned. Affection is like playing the piano and you can forget how to do it without practice.
I can feel him staring but continue to look down at my hands. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me? Blurred features? A familiar but undefinable outline of a person? Do I just look the same as everyone else to him?
Ten years is a long time to be married to someone you forget.
I haven’t been completely honest with him about this weekend away. I haven’t been completely honest about a lot of things, and sometimes I thinkhe knows. But I tell myself that isn’t possible. We’ve tried date nights, and marriage counseling, but spending more time together isn’t always the same as spending less time apart. You can’t get this close to a cliff edge without seeing therocks at the bottom, and even if my husband doesn’t know the full story, he knows that this weekend is a last attempt to mend what got broken.
What he doesn’t know, is that if things don’t go according to plan, only one of us will be going home.
ADAM
We sit in silence after dinner. The frozen curry wasn’t as grim as I expected, and the wine was considerably better. I could do with another glass. I notice Amelia’s hand close to mine on the sofa. I have an overwhelming urge to hold it and don’t know what’s come over me—affection has been absent without leave for a long time in our marriage. Just as I am about to reach for her hand, she withdraws it to her lap. Probably for the best, given what this weekend is really about, and what I plan to do.
Staring at the flames dancing in the enormous fireplace, my mind wanders down other paths to other things. Work, mostly. I’ve adapted three of Henry Winter’s novels for film over the past decade and I’m proud of each one. Getting those screenplays green-lighted was a real turning point in my career, but I haven’t spoken to the man for a long time. I don’t know why I’m thinking of him now. This room probably, it’s more like a library than a lounge, he would have loved it.
I’m between projects at the moment. I can’t seem to get excited about anything my agent sends my way, and I wonder whether it is time to start working on something of my own again. I’ve beenmeaning to do that for a while, but I guess I had the confidence kicked out of me. Maybe thisisthe right time to—
“Maybe you could revisit one of your own screenplays, if you’re not working on anything else for a while,” Amelia says, interrupting my thoughts as though she can hear them. I hate that she can always read my mind; howdowomen do that?
“It isn’t the right time,” I reply.
“What about that one you spentyearsworking on, might that be worth another look?”
She can’t even remember the name of my favorite screenplay. I don’t know why it bothers me, but it does. She used to be far more interested in my work, and seemed to really care about my writing. Her indifference these days hurts more than it should.
“My agent said there was a new eight-part thriller I might be up for. Another novel adaptation. But an old one…” I look over my shoulder at all the bookcases “… there might even be a copy of it on one of these shelves.”
“We agreed no work this weekend,” she snaps, suffering a sense of humor bypass.
“I was joking, andyoubrought it up!”
“Only because I could hear you thinking about it. And you were pulling that vacant face you pull when you’re not really here, even when you’re sitting by my side.”
I can’t see what faceshe’spulling, but I resent her tone. Amelia doesn’t understand. I always need to be working on a story or the real world gets too loud. I can’t seem to talk aboutanythinglately without her getting upset. She sulks if I’mtoo quiet, but opening my mouth feels like navigating a minefield. I can’t win. I haven’t told her about what happened with Henry Winter because that’s something else she wouldn’t understand. Henry and his books weren’t just work for me, he became a surrogate father figure. I doubt he felt the same way, but feelings don’t have to be mutual to be real.
