Page 46 of Rock Paper Scissors
You poured the rest of the wine into your glass and drank it.
“You wouldn’t worry about my career so much if youcared more about your own,” you said with slurred words, and not for the first time. I wanted to smash the bottle over your head. I love my job at Battersea Dogs Home. It makes me feel better about myself. Maybe because—like the animals I spend my time caring for—I too have often felt abandoned by the world. It’s rarely their fault that they are unloved and unwanted, just like it was never mine.
“I’m sure I could write something just as good as you, or Henry Winter for that matter—”
“Yes, everyone thinks they can write until they sit down and try to do it,” you interrupted with your most patronizing smile.
“I care more about the real world than indulging fantasies,” I said.
“Indulging my fantasies paid for our house.”
You reached for your glass again before realizing it was empty.
“Tell me about your dad,” I said, without really thinking it through. You put the glass down with a little too much force, I’m surprised it didn’t break.
“Why are you bringing that up?” you asked without making eye contact. “You know he left when I was a toddler. I don’t think Henry Winter is secretly my long-lost father if that’s where you were going—”
“Don’t you?”
Your cheeks turned red. You leaned forward before replying and lowered your voice, as if you were worried who might hear.
“The guy is my hero. He’s an incredible writer and I’m very grateful for everything he has done for me, and therefore us. That’s not the same thing as imagining him as some kind of surrogate father.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say—”
“I’m not trying to say anything, I’m telling you that I think you’ve developed some kind of emotional attachment to the man… it’s like an obsession. You’ve abandoned all your own projects to work night and day on his. Henry Winter kick-started your career when you were down on your luck, so yes you owe him some gratitude, but the way you now constantly seek his approval whenever you write something new is… at best needy, at worst narcissistic.”
“Wow,” you said, leaning back as if I had tried to physically hit you.
“You should believe in yourself enough by now to know your work is good without needing him to say so.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Henry has never said he likes my work—”
“Exactly! But it’s so obvious—to him and everyone else—how desperate you are for him to endorse you in some way. You need to stop secretly hoping that he will. He rarely says anything kind about another writer’s work—he rarely has a kind word to say about anything or anyone at all—just accept the relationship for what it is. He’s an author, you’re a screenwriter who adapted a couple of his novels. The end.”
“I think I’m old enough to make my own choices and choose my own friends, thank you.”
“Henry Winter is not your friend.”
When we left, I didn’t break the uncomfortable silence to let you know that I’d spotted Henry sitting a few tables away from us in the restaurant. He was hard to miss, wearing one of his trademark tweed jackets and a silk bow tie. His white hair was thinning, and he looked like a harmless little old man, but the piercing blue eyes were still the same as always. He’d been watching us the entire time we were there.
You continued to talk about him all the way to the Library Hotel, my words on the matter forgotten almost as soonas I’d said them. From the gleeful look on your face, anyone would have thought you had spent the day with Father Christmas, rather than a book-shaped Ebenezer Scrooge.
When we got back to our math-themed room, things weren’t adding up for me. I ate both the chocolates on our pillows while you were in the shower—even though I hate dark chocolate—I guess I wanted to hurt you back somehow, childish as that sounds. My phone buzzed and for a moment I thought it might be you, texting me from the hotel bathroom—nobody else sends me messages late at night. Or in the day. But it wasn’t you, it was my new friend at work saying that they missed me. The idea of anyone missing me made my eyes fill with tears. I sent them the selfie of me at the top of the Statue of Liberty and they replied straightaway with a thumbs-up. And a kiss.
You’re asleep now, but I’m awake as usual, writing you a letter I’ll never let you read. This time on hotel letterhead. A seven-year rash of resentment might be more accurate than an itch. I can’t be honest with you, but I need to be honest with myself.
Ihatedon’t like you right now, but I still love you.
Your wife
xx
ROBIN
Robin stays where she is until both visitors are in the secret study. Then she unlocks the door of the room she’s been hiding in, creeps down the staircase—avoiding the steps she knows will creak—and leaves the chapel. She meets her silent companion exactly where she left him. He does not look impressed about being abandoned out in the cold. Robin does what she needs to do outside as quickly and quietly as she can, then waits.
