Page 3 of Rock Paper Scissors
“Did the owners mention anything about a key box?” Adam asks.
“No, they just said that the doors would be open,” I say.
I stare up at the imposing white building, shielding my eyes from the unrelenting snow, and take in the sight of the thick white stone walls, bell tower, and stained-glass windows. Bob starts to growl again, which is unlike him, but perhaps there are more sheep or other animals in the distance? Something that Adam and I just can’t see?
“Maybe there is another door around the back?” Adam suggests.
“I hope you’re right. The car already looks like it might need digging out of the snow.”
We traipse toward the side of the chapel, with Bob leading the way, straining on his lead as though tracking something. Although there are endless stained-glass windows, we don’t find any more doors. And despite the front of the building being illuminated by exterior lights—the ones we could see from a distance—inside, it’s completely dark. We carry on, heads bowed against the relentless weather until we have come full circle.
“What now?” I ask.
But Adam doesn’t answer.
I look up, shielding my eyes from the snow, and see that he is staring at the front of the chapel. The huge wooden doors are now wide open.
ADAM
If every story had a happy ending, then we’d have no reason to start again. Life is all about choices, and learning how to put ourselves back together when we fall apart. Which we all do. Even the people who pretend they don’t. Just because I can’t recognize my wife’s face, it doesn’t mean I don’t know who she is.
“The doors were closed before, right?” I ask, but Amelia doesn’t answer.
We stand side by side outside the chapel, both shivering, with snow blowing around us in all directions. Even Bob looks miserable, and he’s always happy. It’s been a long and tedious journey, made worse by the steady drumbeat of a headache at the base of my skull. I drank more than I should with someone I shouldn’t have last night. Again. In alcohol’s defense, I’ve done some equally stupid things while completely sober.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” my wife says eventually, but I think we’ve both already hurdled over several.
“The doors didn’t just open by themselves—”
“Maybe the housekeeper heard us knocking?” she interrupts.
“The housekeeper? Which website did you use to book this place again?”
“It wasn’t on a website. I won a weekend away in the staff Christmas raffle.”
I don’t reply for a few seconds, but silence can stretch time so it feels longer. Plus, my face feels so cold now, I’m not sure I can move my mouth. But it turns out that I can.
“Just so I’ve got this clear… you won a weekend away, to stay in an old Scottish church, in a staff raffle at Battersea Dogs Home?”
“It’s a chapel, but yes. What’s wrong with that? We have a raffle every year. People donate gifts, I won something good for a change.”
“Great,” I reply. “This has definitely been ‘good’ so far.”
She knows I detest long journeys. I hate cars and driving full stop—never even took a test—so eight hours trapped in her tin-can antique on four wheels, during a storm, isn’t my idea of fun. I look at the dog for moral support, but Bob is too busy trying to eat snowflakes as they fall from the sky. Amelia, sensing defeat, uses that passive-aggressive singsong tone that used to amuse me. These days it makes me wish I was deaf.
“Shall we go inside? Make the best of it? If it’s really bad we’ll just leave, find a hotel, or sleep in the car if we have to.”
I’d rather eat my own liver than get back in her car.
My wife says the same things lately, over and over, and her words always feel like a pinch or a slap. “I don’t understand you” irritates me the most, because what’s to understand? She likes animals more than she likes people; I prefer fiction. I suppose the real problems began when we started preferring those things to each other. It feels like the terms and conditions of our relationship have either been forgotten, or were never properly read in the first place. It isn’t as though I wasn’t a workaholic when we first met. Or “writeraholic” as she likes to call it. All people are addicts, and all addicts desire the same thing: an escape from reality. My job just happens to be my favorite drug.
Same but different, that’s what I tell myself when I start a new screenplay. That’s what I think people want, and why change the ingredients of a winning formula? I can tell within the first few pages of a book whether it will work for the screen or not—which is a good thing, because I get sent far too many to read them all. But just because I’m good at what I do, doesn’t mean I want to do it for the rest of my life. I’ve got my own stories to tell. But Hollywood isn’t interested in originality anymore, they just want to turn novels into films or TV shows, like wine into water. Different but same. But does that rule also apply to relationships? If we play the same characters for too long in a marriage, isn’t it inevitable that we’ll get bored of the story and give up, or switch off before we reach the end?
“Shall we?” Amelia says, interrupting my thoughts and staring up at the bell tower on top of the creepy chapel.
“Ladies first.” Can’t say I’m not a gentleman. “I’ll grab the bags from the car,” I add, keen to snatch my last few seconds of solitude before we go inside.
I spend a lot of time trying not to offend people: producers, executives, actors, agents, authors. Throw face blindness into that mix, and I think it’s fair to say I’m Olympian level when it comes to walking on eggshells. I once spoke to a couple at a wedding for ten minutes before realizing they were the bride and groom.Shedidn’t wear a traditional dress, andhelooked like a clone of his many groomsmen. But I got away with it because charming people is part of my job. Getting an author to trust me with the screenplay of their novel can be harder than persuading a mother to let a stranger look after their firstborn child. But I’m good at it. Sadly, charming my wife seems to be something I’ve forgotten how to do.
