Rock Paper Scissors

by Alice Feeney

  But I think I understand now. That manuscript wasn’t just an unsold story; it was like an abandoned child. Rock Paper Scissors was your first ever screenplay but it’s never made it to screen. You’ve collaborated with three producers, two directors, and one A-list actor. You spent so many years writing draft after draft, but it still never got beyond development. It must be upsetting that your favourite story has been forgotten about, left to die in a desk drawer, but I’m sure it won’t stay that way forever. I’ve become your official first reader since then – a role I am very proud of – and your writing just gets better and better.

  I know you’d rather see your own tales turned into films, but for now it’s all about other people’s. I still haven’t quite gotten used to the amount of time you spend reading their novels, because someone somewhere thinks they might work on screen. But I’ve watched you disappear inside a book like a rabbit inside a magician’s hat, and I’ve learned to accept that sometimes you are a bit self-involved don’t resurface for days.

  Luckily, books are something else we have in common, though I think it’s fair to say we have different tastes. You like horror stories, thrillers, and crime novels, which are not my cup of tea at all. I’ve always thought there must be something seriously wrong with people who write dark and twisted fiction. I prefer a good love story. But I’ve tried to be understanding about your work – even though it sometimes hurts when you choose to spend your time in a world of fantasy, instead of here in the real one, with me.

  I think that’s why I got so upset when you said we couldn’t get a dog. I’ve been nothing but supportive of you and your career since we met, but sometimes I worried that our future was really only about yours. I know working for Battersea Dogs Home isn’t as glamorous as being a screenwriter, but I like my job, it makes me happy. Your reasons for not getting a dog were rational (you always are). The flat is ridiculously small, and we do both work long hours, but I’d always said I could take the dog to work with me. You bring your work home after all.

  I see abandoned puppies every day, but this one was different. As soon as I saw that beautiful ball of black fur, I knew he was the one. What kind of monster puts a tiny Labrador puppy in a shoe box, throws him in a skip, and leaves him there to die? The vet said he was no more than six weeks old, and the rage I felt was all-consuming. I know what it is like to be abandoned by someone who is supposed to love you. There is nothing worse.

  I wanted to bring the puppy home the next day, but you said no, and I was heartbroken for the first time since we met. I thought I still had time to persuade you, but the following afternoon, one of the receptionists at Battersea came into my office and said that someone had come to adopt the dog. It’s my job to assess all would-be pet owners, so as I walked down the corridor to meet them, I secretly hoped they would be unsuitable. Nobody goes to a home where they won’t really be loved on my watch.

  The first thing I saw when I stepped into the waiting room was the puppy. All alone, sitting in the middle of the cold stone floor. He was such a tiny smudge of a thing. Then I noticed the little red collar he was wearing, and the silver, bone-shaped name tag. It didn’t make sense. I hadn’t even met the prospective owners yet, so they had no business behaving as though the dog was theirs already. I scooped the puppy up off the floor to take a closer look at the inscription on the shiny metal:

  WILL YOU MARRY ME?

  I nearly dropped him.

  I don’t know what my face did when you stepped out from behind the door. I know I cried. I remember half my team seemed to be watching us through the observation window. They had tears in their eyes too, and big smiles on their faces. Everyone was in on it apart from me! Who knew you were so good at keeping secrets?

  I’m sorry I didn’t say yes straight away. I think I went into shock when you went down on one knee. When I saw the sapphire engagement ring – which I knew had been your mother’s – I was overcome with a wave of emotions that I couldn’t quite process. And with everyone staring at us, I felt completely overwhelmed.

  ‘I think it’s best to make all important life decisions with a game of rock paper scissors,’ I teased, because I believe in your writing just as much as I believe in us, and I don’t think we should ever give up on either.

  You smiled. ‘So, just to clarify, if I lose, it’s a yes?’

  I nodded and formed a fist.

  My scissors cut your paper, just like they always do when we play that game, so it wasn’t really that much of a gamble. Whenever I win at anything you always like to think you let me.

  For the first few months of our relationship, I mocked you for using too many long words, and you teased me back for not knowing what they meant.

  ‘I don’t know whether this is limerence or love,’ is what you said after kissing me for the first time. I had to look it up when I got home. The odd things you sometimes came out with, along with the disparity in our vocabulary, started our tradition of ‘word of the day’ before bedtime. Yours are often better than mine because I let you win too sometimes. Perhaps we could start having a ‘word of the year’? This year’s should be limerence, I still have a soft spot for that one.

  I know you think words are important – which makes sense given your chosen career – but I have realised recently that words are just words, a series of letters, arranged in a certain order, most likely in the language we were assigned at birth. People are careless with their words nowadays. They throw them away in a text or a tweet, they write them, pretend to read them, twist them, misquote them, lie with, without, and about them. They steal them, then they give them away. Worst of all, they forget them. Words are only of value if we remember how to feel what they mean. We won’t forget, will we? I like to think that what we have is more than just words.

  I’m glad I found your secret screenplay hidden away in your desk, and I understand why it means more to you than anything else you have written. Reading Rock Paper Scissors was like getting a little glimpse of your soul; a part of you that you weren’t quite ready to show me, but we shouldn’t hide secrets from each other or ourselves. Your dark and twisted love story about a man who writes a letter to his wife every year on their anniversary, even after she dies, has inspired me to start writing some letters of my own. To you. Once a year. I don’t know whether I’ll share them with you yet, but maybe one day our children can read how we wrote our own love story, and lived happily ever after.

  Your future wife

  xx

  Adam

  I slammed the chapel doors closed. I didn’t mean to do it that hard, or realise it was going to make such a loud bang. And I don’t know why I didn’t just confess to it rather than blaming the wind. Maybe because I’m tired of being told off by my wife every five minutes.

  There is another door in the boot room, right in the middle of the wall of miniature mirrors. Bob starts scratching at it, leaving marks on the wood. Along with the growling earlier, it’s something else he’s never done before.

  I hesitate before turning the handle, but when I do, the door opens revealing a long, dark hallway. The sound of our footsteps on the stone floor seems to echo off the white walls, as the three of us walk towards the next door in the distance. When we step through that, all I can see is darkness. But when my fingers find a light switch, I see that we are in a very normal-looking kitchen. It’s enormous, but still looks cosy and homely. If it weren’t for the vaulted ceiling, exposed beams, and stained-glass windows, you would never know that the room used to be part of a chapel.

  A large cream-coloured Aga takes centre stage, surrounded by expensive-looking cabinets. There is a solid-looking wooden table in the middle of the room, surrounded by restored church pews. It’s the kind of kitchen you see in magazines, except for the thick layer of dust covering every single surface.

  Something on the table catches my eye. I take a step closer and see that it is a typed note, addressed to us.

  Dear Amelia, Adam and Bob,

  Please make yourselv
es at home.

  The bedroom at the end of the landing has been made up for you. There is food in the freezer, wine in the crypt, and you’ll find extra firewood in the logstore out back should you need it. We hope you enjoy your stay.

  ‘Well, at least we know we’re in the right place,’ Amelia says, twisting her engagement ring around her finger. It’s something she always does when she’s nervous. One of those little quirks I used to find endearing.

  ‘Who is the “we” in the note?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We hope you enjoy your stay. You said you won this weekend away in a raffle, but who owns the place?’

  ‘I don’t know… I just got an email saying that I’d won.’

  ‘From who?’

  Amelia shrugs. ‘The housekeeper. She sent the directions and a picture of the chapel with Blackwater Loch in the background. It looked amazing. I can’t wait for you to see it in daylight—’

  ‘OK, but what was her name?’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. What makes you think it’s a woman? Men are also capable of cleaning, even if you never do.’

  I ignore the snipe, I’ve learned it’s best to, but even my wife can’t deny that there is something very strange about all of this.

  ‘We’re here now,’ she says, wrapping her arms around me. The hug feels awkward, like we’re out of practice. ‘Let’s try to make the most of it. It’s only for a couple of nights and it will be one of those funny stories we can tell our friends afterwards.’

  I can’t see expressions on faces, but she can, so I try to keep mine neutral and resist pointing out that we don’t really have any friends anymore. Not ones that we see together. Our social circle has become a bit square. She has her life and I have mine.

  We explore the rest of the ground floor, which has basically been divided into two huge rooms: the kitchen, and a large lounge, which looks more like a library. Bespoke wooden bookcases line the walls from floor to ceiling – except for the occasional stained-glass window – and all the shelves are crammed full with books. They’re neatly arranged and colour coordinated, possibly organised by someone with a bit too much time on their hands.

  An intricately designed wooden spiral staircase dominates the middle of the room on one side. On the other, there is an enormous stone fireplace, blackened with soot and age, and literally big enough to sit in. The grate has already been prepared with paper, kindling, and logs, and there is a box of matches beside it. I light it straight away – the place is freezing and so are we. Amelia takes the matchbox from my hand, and lights the church candles on the gothic-looking mantelpiece, as well as a few others she finds in hurricane lanterns dotted around the room. It looks and feels a lot cosier already.

  The uneven stone floor – which must have been the same when the chapel was still a chapel – is covered in ancient-looking rugs, and the two tartan sofas either side of the fireplace look well-loved and worn. There are indentations on the seat and cushions, as though someone might have been sitting there moments before we arrived.

  Just as I’m starting to relax, there is an eerie tapping and scraping sound at one of the windows. Bob barks, and my own heart starts to race a little when I see what looks like a skeletal hand banging on the glass. But it’s just a tree. Its bare, bone-like branches being blown against the building by the gale outside.

  ‘Why don’t you put some music on? Maybe we can drown out the sound of the storm?’ Amelia says, and I obediently find the bag where I packed the travel speakers. I have a much better selection of music on my phone than she does, but then I remember it not being in the car. I stare at my wife and wonder if this was a test.

  ‘I don’t have my mobile,’ I say, wishing I could see her expression.

  I don’t like to talk about face blindness, not even with her. The things that define us are rarely what we might choose. But sometimes, when I look at other people’s faces, the features on them start to swirl like a Van Gogh painting.

  ‘I think a surgeon would struggle to separate you from your phone most of the time. It’s probably a blessing in disguise that you left it at home by mistake. There are some albums you like on mine, and a break from staring at screens all day will do you good,’ she says.

  But it’s a bad and wrong answer.

  I saw her remove my mobile from the glovebox before we left home this morning. I always put it in there for long journeys – I feel nauseous if I look at screens in cars or taxis – and she knows that. I watched her take it out and put it back in the house. Then I listened to her lie about it all the way here.

  Having been married for so long, I know better than to think that my wife doesn’t have some secrets – I certainly do – but I have never known her to behave like this. I don’t have to see her face to know when she isn’t telling me the truth. You can feel it when someone you love is lying. What I don’t know, yet, is why.

  Amelia

  I watch Adam as he adds another log to the fire. He’s behaving even more strangely than normal and looks tired. Bob seems equally unimpressed, stretched out on the rug. They are both prone to grumpiness when hungry. We have plenty of dog food – Adam always says that I take better care of the dog than I do of him – but that doesn’t help solve the problem of what we can eat. I should have packed more than just biscuits and snacks for the journey. The shop I intended to stop at closed early due to the storm, and my back-up plan of dinner at the Blackwater Inn was an epic fail – the derelict pub looked like it had been abandoned for years.

  ‘The note in the kitchen said something about there being food in the freezer. Why don’t we see what we can find?’ I suggest, walking back towards the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

  The cupboards are empty and I can’t find a freezer.

  The fridge is also bare and not even plugged in. There is a coffee machine, but no coffee, or tea. There aren’t even any pots and pans. I do find two plates, two bowls, two wine glasses, and two knives and forks, but that’s it. The property is so big, it seems odd to only have two of everything.

  I can hear Adam in the other room. He’s put on one of the albums we loved listening to when we first met, and I feel myself soften a little. That version of us was a good one. Sometimes my husband reminds me of the stray dogs at work – someone who needs protecting from the real world. It’s probably why he spends so much of his life disappearing inside stories. Believing in someone is one of the greatest gifts you can give them, it’s free and the results can be priceless. I try to apply that rule to my personal life as well as my work.

  Last week, I interviewed three prospective owners at Battersea for a cockapoo called Bertie. The first was a blonde woman in her late forties. Stable home environment, good job, great on paper. Considerably less so in person. Donna was late for her appointment, but sat down in my little office without even the hint of an apology, dressed in bubblegum pink running gear, and stabbing her phone with a matching fake nail.

  ‘Is this going to take long? I have a lunch date,’ she said, barely looking up.

  ‘Well, we always like to meet potential new owners. I wonder if you could tell me what it was about Bertie that made you interested in adopting him?’

  Her face folded in on itself, as if I’d asked her to solve a complex equation.

  ‘Bertie?’ She pouted.

  ‘The dog…’

  She cackled. ‘Of course, sorry, I’m going to change his name to Lola once I get him home. Everyone has a cockapoo now, don’t they? I’ve seen them all over Insta.’

  ‘We don’t recommend changing a dog’s name when they’re a bit older, Donna. And Bertie is a boy. Changing his name to Lola would be like me calling you Fred. Once we’ve had a chat, I’ll take you to meet Bertie and see how the two of you get along. But you won’t be able to take him home today, I’m afraid. There are several steps to this process. So that we can be sure it’s the right fit.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  ‘The right fit for the
dog.’

  ‘But… I’ve bought the matching outfits already.’

  ‘Outfits?’

  ‘Yes, off eBay. Ghostbusters costumes. One for me, and a mini dog version for Lola. My Insta followers are gonna love it! Does it do tricks?’

  I rejected Donna’s application. I rejected the next two people who came to see Bertie too – even though one threatened to ‘speak to my manager’ and the other called me a ‘see you next Tuesday’. Nobody goes to a home where they won’t really be loved on my watch.

  There are as many varieties of heartbreak as there are love, but fear is always the same, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m afraid of so many things right now. I think perhaps the real reason I am so scared of losing – or leaving – my husband, is because I don’t have anyone else. I’ve never known what it is like to have a real family, and I’ve always been better at collecting acquaintances than making friends. On the rare occasions when I feel like I have met someone I can trust, I hold on. Tight. But my judgement can be faulty. There are some people in my life I shouldn’t have walked away from: I should have run.

  I never met my parents. I know that my dad liked old cars, perhaps that’s why I do too, and why I can’t let go of my ancient Morris Minor despite Adam’s constant complaints. I find it hard to trust new things, or places, or people. My dad swapped his vintage MG Midget for a brand-new family car just before I was born. New doesn’t always mean better. The brakes failed on the way to the hospital when my mum was in labour, a truck smashed into the driver’s side of their car and they both died instantly. The doctor – who had been driving in the other direction – somehow delivered me into the world on the side of the street. He called me a miracle baby, and named me Amelia because of his obsession with the aviator. Amelia Earhart liked to fly away too. I flew from one foster home to the other until I was eighteen.

  ‘I’m guessing people don’t stay here very often. It’s freezing cold and everything is covered in dust,’ Adam says, appearing behind me and making me jump. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’