Page 66 of Rock Paper Scissors
My plan isn’t as crazy is it might sound. It could be good for you, and us. I miss us every day and wonder if you might, too? Do you remember that tiny basement studio we used to live in? Back when we were still learning whether we could live with or without each other. Some couples can’t tell the difference. That’s the version of you I miss most. And the version of us I wish we could find our way back to. We thought we had so little then, but we had it all, we were just too young and dumb to know it.
Sometimes we outgrow the dreams we had when we were younger, happy when they turn out to be too small, sad when they prove to be too big. Sometimes we find them again, realize that they were a perfect fit all along, and regret packing them away. I think this is our chance to start again and live the life we always dreamed of.
There are other things that you didn’t know about Henry, aside from him being my father. He hired a private investigator for years to keep an eye on me, and you, and us.
A private investigator who knew that you were having an affair before I did.
Who knew things that I didn’t know and that you still don’t.
The private investigator is a man called Samuel Smith. He still thinks my father is alive—along with the rest of theworld—but aside from that huge miss, he seems pretty good at his job. Thorough. He sent weekly reports about us to my father for years—unknown to me—and they were both fascinating and sad to read. He didn’t just follow us, he followed anyone we got close to. Including October O’Brien. And Amelia. He even sent my father pictures of our home, before and after I left it (I don’t like what you’ve done with the place). Samuel Smith the private investigator knew more about us than we knew about each other. I thought for a long time about whether or not to share this information with you. It brings me no happiness to cause you pain, but like I said in the beginning, I love you. Always have, always will. Always always, not almost always, like we used to say. That is why I have to tell you the truth. All of it.
It was no coincidence that Amelia started working at Battersea, befriended me, and was always asking questions about you. You were always part of her plan. Your paths had crossed almost thirty years earlier, but you couldn’t recognize her face. Samuel Smith found out more than he bargained for when you cheated on me. It’s a question nobody ever wants to ask, or answer, but how well do you really know your wife?
Amelia Jones—as she was called before you married—has been lying to you since the moment you met. She lied to me too. Amelia has a criminal record and has been in and out of jail since she was a teenager. She lived in a series of foster homes growing up and was almost always in trouble. At one point, she was living on the same council estate as you. She even attended the same school for a few months, when you were both thirteen. That’s when she progressed from shoplifting to joyriding. Amelia was suspected of stealing seven cars, before she was arrested on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving. The police questioned her about a hit-and-run, but she was underage and her foster mother cameforward as an alibi—something the woman later confessed was a lie—and the cops couldn’t make it stick.
The car they caught her in was the car that killed your mother.
The only witness—you—couldn’t pick her out in a police lineup, because you couldn’t recognize the face of who was driving. But she knew you.
Amelia Jones moved to a new foster home, far away. She turned a new leaf and started again. Maybe she felt genuine remorse for what she had done? Maybe she felt guilty for getting away with it? Maybe that’s why she followed you for years, and came up with a plan to get close to you, through me? Perhaps in some twisted way she was trying to make up for what she did. You’ll have to ask her.
I know I lied to you about my father, but at least my lies were to protect you, and us. Nothing you think you know about Amelia is true. Your wife was to blame for your mother’s death when you were a child, and I think it’s only right that you know that, before making a decision. Don’t believe me? Maybe try telling Amelia that you know the truth, but be careful, she is not the woman you think she is.
I know this will be hard to take in, let alone believe, but deep down, didn’t you always feel as though something wasn’t quite right about Amelia? The first time you met her, when she arrived uninvited at our home claiming to have had a bad date, you described her as an actress. It turns out your first impressions were right. I found the notebook by the bed where she writes down every detail of your nightmares. Did you ever wonder why she does that? I’m sure she said it was to try and help you remember the face of who killed your mother, but maybe it was to make sure you never did? It’s no wonder she needs pills to help her sleep at night, the guilt she must feel would keep anyone awake.
Knowing what you now know—and I have all the privateinvestigator emails and documents to prove it—do you still love her? Can you ever really trust her again? What happens next is up to you. It’s a simple choice, like when we used to play rock paper scissors.
Option one—ROCK: You try to leave with the woman who killed your mother.
Option two—PAPER: You walk out of there alone and come find me and Bob in the cottage. We’re waiting for you, and I want nothing more than for us all to be together again. I will move back to London, we can publishRock Paper Scissorsas a novel using Henry’s name—nobody else ever needs to know—and then I promise you will finally get your own screenplay made. You won’t need to adapt anyone else’s work ever again and can spend the rest of your life writing your own stories.
Option three—SCISSORS: You don’t want to know option three.
The choice is yours. I know what I’m asking you to decide sounds difficult. But it really is as easy as rock paper scissors if you can remember how to play.
Your Robin
xx
AMELIA
We’re standing in the bedroom that has been made to look just like the one we share at home, the one I redecorated when Robin moved out. Except that now, things are even stranger than they were before. This is not at all how I hoped this weekend would go. I’d already decided to end the marriage if this trip did not go well—I’d spoken with a solicitoranda financial advisor, who suggested a life insurance policy might help me get what I deserved in a divorce settlement. I wanted to give things one last shot, but I’m starting to wish I’d just left. I’ve already found a flat to move in to—it’s nice, with a view of the Thames—but I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Ihopedthis weekend might fix us. The estate agent is holding the flat for me until next week, says I can move in straightaway if I want, so I always knew that only one of us might be going back to the house that was only ever their home.
My whole miserable life keeps playing on a loop inside my mind recently, and I can’t seem to find the off switch. I lie awake at night—despite the pills—longing to delete all the memories I wish I’d never made. All the mistakes. All the wrong turns. All the dead ends. I’m not making excuses, but I didn’t have an easy childhood. Iknow I’m not the only one, but those lonely years shaped who I am today. Tiny violins always sound loudest to those playing them. Being passed from one foster family to another, like unwanted goods, taught me never to get too comfortable, and never to trust anyone. Including myself. Every new home meant a new family, new school, new friends, so I’d try being a new version of me. But none of them were a perfect fit.
I’ve always been haunted by the death of my parents because it was my fault. If my mother wasn’t pregnant with me, she wouldn’t have been in the car and my father wouldn’t have been driving her to the hospital when a truck smashed into them. If Adam hadn’t met me his life would have turned out very differently too. We have so much in common, but we feel further apart than ever before. I watched Adam for years. His success—and the internet—made that easy. I’ve tried to be a good wife to him, but he still seems to see me as the bad penny andheras the lucky one. I’ve tried to make him happy. I’ve been trying to make amends for things that happened in the past for too long. I’ve become so many different versions of myself trying to please other people, that I no longer know who I am. I need to focus on the future now. Mine. Atonement is like that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow that nobody ever really finds.
“Why would Robin write ‘rock paper scissors’ in red lipstick on the mirror?” I ask, wondering if Adam’s ex has a history of mental health issues that I am unaware of. I watch as he starts pacing the room, looking a little deranged himself. “Why would she trick us into coming to Scotland? Why would she keep her father’s identity a secret for ten years and then not tell anyone when he died? And why would she steal our dog—”
Adam interrupts my questions. “Technically, Bob was her dog—”
“Exactly:washer dog, but then she just left. Disappeared without a word. You never even heard from her again after the magnolia tree incident, except through the solicitor—”
“Well, I imagine coming home early on our anniversary andfinding her husband in bed with her best friend was probably quite upsetting.”
“Your marriage was over long before I came along.”
“I never wanted to hurt her—”
