Page 29 of Rock Paper Scissors
I want to reach for Adam but I am frozen with fear.
When I hear the sound of the door handle start to turn, I practically fall out of the bed in my hurry to get away from whoever is out there, and wish that I was wearing more than just a flimsynightdress. I grip the unfamiliar furniture, feeling my way in the shadows, walking as quickly and quietly as I can toward the bathroom. I’m fairly sure its door had a lock. As soon as I find what I’m looking for, I close the door behind me and barricade myself inside. The light switch doesn’t work in here either, but maybe that’s a good thing.
I hear the bedroom door slowly open and more creeping footsteps. I blink into the darkness, willing my eyes to adjust to the low light, then hold my breath and step back as far as I can while the sound of creaking floorboards gets closer. I realize I’ve been twisting my engagement ring around my finger—something I only do when I’m most anxious. The ring—which once belonged to Adam’s mother—doesn’t come off anymore, and has started to feel too tight. My chest feels the same way, and my heart is thumping so loudly, I’m scared that whoever is out there can hear it when they stop right outside the bathroom door.
The handle turns very slowly. When they discover that the door is locked, they try again. More aggressively this time. I feel like I’m inThe Shining, but the only window in this bathroom is made of stained glass—even if itdidopen, I’d never fit through it, and the fall from this height down onto the ground below would probably kill me. I search for a weapon, anything to defend myself with, but find little comfort in my Gillette Venus razor. I hold it out in front of me regardless, then press myself up against the wall, unable to get any farther away. The tiles on my bare back are icy cold.
Everything is quiet for a few seconds. Then the silence is smashed by the sound of a fist banging on the door. I’m so scared I start to cry, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Amelia, are you in there? Is everything all right?”
My husband’s voice confuses and calms me at the same time.
“Adam? Is that you?”
“Who else would it be?”
I open the door and see him standing there in his pajamabottoms, stifling a yawn, with his bed hair sticking out in all directions. The light from the old-fashioned candlestick holder he is carrying casts ghostly shadows around the bedroom, so that now I feel like I’m in a Charles Dickens novel.
“Why are you crying? Are you okay?” he asks.
My words trip over themselves in my hurry to say them. “No, I’m not. Something woke me, I heard a noise downstairs, the lights wouldn’t work, then I heard someone coming up the stairs and—”
“It was just me, silly. I was thirsty and I went to get a glass of water. But I guessallof the pipes must be frozen because none of the taps work.”
“There’s no water?”
“Or power. The storm must have out taken out the generator. I tried to find a fuse box while I was down there—just in case I could fix something—but no joy. Good job we have these creepy candlesticks!”
He holds the flickering flame below his chin and pulls a series of silly faces, like children do with torches at Halloween. I start to feel better. A little bit. At least there is a rational explanation. Then I feel foolish…
“I thought I heard a noise downstairs. The sound of someone creeping around. I was so scared—”
“Me too, that’s what woke me,” Adam interrupts.
After a brief absence, my terror returns. “What?”
“That was the other reason I went downstairs, to check everything was okay. But the main doors are still locked, there is no other way in or out, this place is like Fort Knox. I had a good look around, no burglars—or sheep—have managed to break in and everything is fine. Just as we left it. Besides, Bob would have barked if a stranger had let themselves in.”
That is true: Bob does growl if a stranger comes to the front door at home, but only until we open it. Then he wags his tail at double speed and rolls over to show the visitors his tummy—Labradors are too friendly to be good guard dogs.
We climb back into bed and I ask a question he never wants to answer.
“Do you ever wish that we’d had children?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I expect Adam to change the subject—that’s what normally happens next—but he doesn’t. “Sometimes I’m glad we don’t have kids, because I’m scared that we might have fucked them up somehow, the way our parents fucked us up. I think maybe our line came to an end for a reason.”
I think I preferred it when he didn’t answer. I don’t like him describing us like that, but part of me does wonder whether he might be right. I’ve always felt abandoned by people I was foolish enough to care about, including my parents. Yes, they died in a car crash before I was born, but the result—me growing up alone—is the same as if they deserted me deliberately. If you don’t have anyone to love or be loved by as a child, then how do you learn?
But then, isn’t love like breathing? Isn’t it instinct? Something we’re born knowing how to do? Or is love like speaking French? If nobody teaches you, you’ll never be fluent, and if you don’t practice you forget how…
I wonder if my husband really still loves me.
“I don’t like it here,” I confess.
