Page 63 of Rock Paper Scissors
Robin froze, still unable to speak. Patty’s eyes narrowed.
“Are you the new housekeeper? Heard he fired the last one…”
“Yes,” said Robin, without thinking it through.
Patty tapped the side of her nose with her index finger. “I see, pet. Probably told you not to tell anyone anything, didn’t he? As if anyone around here cares whether he’s written a new book. The only author I’ll ever love is Marian Keyes, now there’s a woman who knows how to write. Do Ilooklike I have time to read the words of a madman? That’s what Henry Winter is if you ask me—all the disturbing books he’s written. You’ve my deepest sympathies working for an old miser like that. Don’t you worry about a thing, Patty will post and keep all your secrets.”
If only Patty had known how big Robin’s secrets really were.
After that, the waiting was the hardest part.
Robin finally understood how nerve-racking it is for writers to send their work out into the world. In the days after she posted the manuscript, she kept the curtains drawn, ate frozen meals when she was hungry, slept when she was too tired—or drunk—to stay awake, and completely lost track of what day it was. When thephone rang, she knew that she couldn’t answer it. Anyone calling would be expecting to hear Henry’s voice, including his agent, so she waited a while longer.
When a letter arrived from Henry’s agent the following day, it took Robin a few hours and another bottle of wine to feel brave enough to open it.
When she finally did, she cried.
Finished the novel in the early hours. It’s your best yet!
Will send to publishers today.
They were tears of joy, relief, and sorrow.
She wanted to tell someone, but Oscar the rabbit wasn’t the best at conversation. She’d renamed him the first day they met, because Oscar was a boy rabbit not a girl, unknown to Henry. And Robin washername. It was the only good thing her father ever gave her. She was so proud of that novel, but the truth, whether spoken or not, was still impossible to ignore. Henry’s best book yet was really hers, but it would still be his name on the cover.
Robin tried to put the letter from Henry’s agent into one of the desk drawers—she didn’t want to look at it anymore—but the drawers were all too full. She pulled out the first few pages of what looked like an old manuscript, and was surprised to find her ex-husband’s name printed on the front:
ROCK PAPER SCISSORS
By Adam Wright
Attached to it was a letter from Adam, dated several years ago:
I know how very busy you are, but I always wondered whether this screenplay might work as a novel? I think that might be my best chance of getting it made. I’d be very grateful for your opinion. I do hope you enjoyed the latestadaptation, your agent said that you did, and said he would pass on this letter for me. It was an honor to help bring your characters to life on screen. Any advice you can give me about my own would be gratefully received. It’s always been my dream and I like to think some dreams do come true.
It made her so sad that Adam had trusted her father with his most beloved work. She knew that Henry probably hadn’t even bothered to read it.
One of the few things that Robin took before she fled her home in London, was the box of anniversary letters she had secretly been writing to Adam every year. She still missed him—and Bob—every single day. She reread those letters that night, along with Adam’s screenplay, and a new idea formed in her head. The idea seemed too crazy at first, but she realized that there was a way to rewrite her own life story, and give herself a happier ending than life had so far chosen to.
STEEL
Word of the year:
insouciantadjective.Free from worry, concern or anxiety; carefree.
28th February 2019—what would have been our eleventh anniversary
Dear Adam,
It isn’t our eleventh anniversary of course, because we didn’t last that long. I now live in a thatched cottage in Scotland, and you’re in our London home. With her. But I still wanted to write you a letter. I’ll be keeping this one to myself, along with all the other secret anniversary letters I wrote over the years. I know it might sound crazy—especially now that we’re divorced—but I sat out by the loch and read them recently. All of them. My goodness, we had our up and downs, but there were more good times than bad. More fond memories than sad ones. And I miss you.
Firstly, I wanted to say sorry for the lies. All of them. I grew up surrounded by books and fiction—it’s hard not to when your father is a world-famous author. My mother was a writer too, but I never told you about her either. I don’t expect you to understand, but I couldn’t talk about them with you.
When we first met, I believed in you and your writing, but I was impatient, and I wanted your dreams to come true too quickly so that we could concentrate on ours. Having not spoken to Henry for years, I called him and asked him to let you adapt one of his novels. It was only ever meant to be one adaptation. I thought it would lead to success with your own screenplays, but by trying to help your career, I sometimes worry that I killed your dreams. Henry used you as a way to try and get close to me. He wasn’t interested in me at all when I was a child. But I think his own mortality made him realize I could be useful as an adult—someone to look after his precious books when he was gone. My father cared about each of his novels far more than he ever cared about me.
These last two years have taught me a lot about myself. Now that I’ve left it “all” behind, I’ve realized how little I had. It’s too easy to get blinded by man-made city lights, even though they could never shine as brightly as the stars in a cloudless sky, or white snow on a mountain, or sunbeams dancing on a loch. People confuse what they want with what they need, but I’ve realized now how different those things are. And how sometimes the things and people we think we need, are the ones we should stay away from. My hair is more gray than blond these days—I haven’t visited a hairdresser since I left London, and it’s grown very long. I wear it in plaits to avoid too many tangles and knots. I do miss our home, and us, and Bob, but I think the Scottish Highlands suit me. And I’ve realized I have more in common with my father than I used to admit, even to myself.
Henry liked his privacy so very much that he boughteverything in this valley, along with the old church and cottage, before I was born. The Scottish laird Henry purchased the land from had a few too many gambling debts, and just happened to be a fan of Henry’s books, so sold it for a ridiculously small sum. Henry even bought the nearest pub a few years later, so that he could close it down. He just wanted peace and quiet and to be left alone. Completely alone.
