by Alice Feeney
‘No! Are you crazy? We’re in the middle of nowhere, who knows who could be out there? Shit!’
She’s cut her finger on a sharp piece of bottle, and the sight of blood makes me queasy. I can write about all kinds of horrific things for the screen, but when it comes to real life, I’m a wuss.
‘Here,’ I say, handing her a clean hanky.
I wrap my arms around Amelia and hold her tight, close enough to smell her hair. The familiar scent of shampoo stirs memories of happier times. I can’t see a beautiful face, but I’ve always felt as though I have an instinct for inner beauty. When I think about the night we first met, I can still remember everything about her with such clarity, and how I wanted, needed, to know her better. I’ve always trusted my gut when it comes to people and I’m rarely wrong. I can tell whether someone is good or bad within a couple of minutes of meeting them, and time and life tend to prove me right. Almost always.
‘I’ll clean that up,’ I say, stepping away and finding a dustpan and brush in the first cupboard I open.
‘How did you know that was in there?’ she asks, and I hesitate before answering.
‘Lucky guess, I suppose. Are you OK? Do you need your inhaler?’
Amelia has asthma, and sometimes the strangest things can trigger an attack. She once had her eye on a pink coat in a shop window for months. Squirrelled away her money to save up for it. Bought it, wore it one time, and when it was reduced to half price the very next day, she literally had a fit. Amelia has always been someone to count pennies, even though she no longer needs to.
‘I really wanted this weekend to be perfect,’ she says, sounding like she might cry. ‘It already feels like nothing is going according to plan—’
‘Look, this place is a bit creepy, we’ve had some wine, and we’re both tired. Do you think maybe you imagined it?’
I used the tone I reserve for small children, or high-maintenance authors who don’t love the screenplays of their books, but I can tell it wasn’t the right thing to do even before she erupts.
‘No, I didn’t bloody imagine it. There. Was. A. Face. In the window outside, looking right at me.’
‘OK, I’m sorry!’ I say, tipping the broken glass in the bin. ‘What did they look like?’
‘It was a face!’
‘A man? A woman?’
‘I don’t know, it all happened too fast… I told you, as soon as I screamed, they ran.’
‘Maybe it was the mysterious housekeeper?’ Amelia stares at me but doesn’t answer. ‘What?’
‘Perhaps we should call the housekeeper and tell them that someone is outside?’
‘What do you think they’re going to do about it?’ I say, but she isn’t listening, and is already searching for her phone.
‘Great,’ she says, finding it.
‘No signal?’
‘Not even one bar.’
Bob, seemingly bored of our exchange, has wandered out of the kitchen and down the corridor towards the boot room where we came in. We only notice that he’s gone when he starts to growl at the old wooden chapel doors, teeth bared, hackles raised. It’s the third time our old dog has done something completely out of character since we arrived.
‘That’s it. I’m going outside to take a look,’ I say, pulling on my coat.
‘Please don’t go out there,’ Amelia whispers, as though someone might be able to hear us.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I tell her, attaching the dog’s lead to his collar. ‘I’ve got Bob for protection. Haven’t I, boy?’
Bob stops growling and wags his tail at the sound of his own name.
‘Bob is the world’s worst guard dog, he’s afraid of feathers!’ she says.
‘Yes, but they don’t know that. If there is someone out there, I’ll scare them off and we can open another bottle of wine.’
The snow blows inside as soon as I open the doors, and the blast of cold knocks the air from my lungs. Bob goes berserk, growling and barking and straining on the lead, so much so I struggle to hold on to him. It’s pitch-black, and hard to see anything at all at first, but as we blink into the darkness, it soon becomes terrifyingly clear why the dog is so upset. Just outside, no more than a few feet away, there are several pairs of eyes staring at us.
Leather
Word of the year:
biblioklept noun a person who steals stories. A book thief.
28th February 2011 – our third anniversary
Dear Adam,
I suspect most couples celebrate anniversaries alone – a table for two at a special restaurant perhaps – but not you and me. Not this year. Tonight, we spent our anniversary with several hundred strangers, and it felt like all eyes were on us.
I have never known anyone who hates parties as much as you do, and yet you seem to go to so many lately. I’m not suggesting that you’re antisocial, and I do understand why you dread them so much. Gatherings of more than a handful of people are problematic when you can’t recognise a single face. So a fancy film industry party at Tower Bridge, with hundreds of pretentious people who all think you should know who they are, must be like walking blindfolded into an ego-filled minefield.
‘Please go straight in, Mr Wright,’ purred the woman on the door, with a wide smile and busy-looking clipboard.
I’d watched while she carefully checked other people’s names off her colour-coded list, but there was no need with you. Everyone knows who you are now – the new kid on the block who got to stay. Screenwriting is a last-laugh business. None of these people gave you a sideways glance when you were down on your luck, but with a blockbuster film under your belt – thanks to Henry Winter’s novel – they all want to be your best friend again. For now.
The reason you started inviting me to the big parties, events, and award ceremonies, was so that I could whisper who people are when they approach us, to save you the embarrassment of not recognising someone that you should. Not that I mind. I quite enjoy it – unlike you – and it’s fun dressing up once in a while, getting my hair done, and wearing high heels again. There isn’t much call for that sort of thing when you’re working with dogs all day.
We have a pretty good routine now. After a few years of listening to you talk about producers, executives, directors, actors, and authors, I had already imagined a cast of their faces. But now I know what they all look like in real life, and we spend evenings like these chatting to people from your world. I rarely have much in common with them, but find it easy enough to talk about books and films and TV dramas – everyone loves a good story.
I was looking forward to seeing inside Tower Bridge for the first time, and the promise of free champagne and posh finger food created by a Michelin-starred chef is still such a treat. But as soon as I spotted Henry Winter’s name on the guest list, I dreaded going inside. From that moment, it was obvious that the real reason we were spending our anniversary with strangers was because you were hoping to bump into Henry and persuade him to give you another book. You’ve already asked twice. I told you not to beg, but you always think you know best wouldn’t listen. Writing is a hard way to make an easy living.
Tower Bridge was illuminated against the London night sky when we arrived. The party was already in full swing, the dull beat of music and laughter up above us, competing with the gentle lapping of the murky Thames down below. As soon as the lift spat us out onto the top floor, I could tell that it was going to be an interesting evening. The space was smaller than I had imagined, little more than a long corridor crammed full of film types. A waiter squeezed past with a tray of champagne and I was happy to relieve him of two glasses. Having taken a pregnancy test that morning, just in case, I knew there was no reason not to drink. I’ve stopped telling you the monthly bad news, and you’ve stopped asking.
‘Happy anniversary,’ you whispered, and we clinked glasses before you took a sip.
I took several myself, so that my champagne flute was already half empty. I find alcohol helps drown my social anxiety, which I still experien
ce every time I attend an event like this. Everyone here knows who you are. The only expectations you still struggle to live up to are your own. But I have never felt as if I fit in with these people, perhaps because I don’t. I prefer dogs. I took another sip, then I did what I was there to do and subtly scanned the room, my eyes searching for what yours could not see.
We exchanged anniversary gifts this morning. I gave you a leather satchel with your initials embossed on it in gold lettering. I’ve watched you carrying your precious manuscripts around in ugly bags for years, so it seemed like an appropriate present. Your gift to me was a pair of knee-high leather boots I’d had my eye on. I thought I might be too old to wear them – at thirty-two – but you clearly disagreed. I wore them for the first time tonight and I noticed you staring at my legs in the taxi en route to the party. It felt nice to feel wanted.
‘Incoming,’ I whispered into your ear as we made our way down the packed corridor of partygoers.
‘Good, bad, or ugly?’ you asked.
‘Bad. The producer who wanted you to work on that crime novel adaptation last month… the one who got snooty when you turned her down. Lisa? Linda? Liz?’
‘Lizzy Parks?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit. Every party has a pooper. Does she look pissed yet?’ you asked.
‘Very much so.’
‘Has she seen us?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Damn. That woman treats writers like factories and their work like tins of baked beans. It wasn’t even her book to adapt. She’s a walking, talking, biblioklept—’
‘Code red.’
‘Lizzy, darling, how are you? You look wonderful,’ you said, in that voice you only use when speaking to small children or pretentious people. I hope you never talk to me like that, I’ll be upset if you do.
You kissed the air beside each other’s cheeks, and I marvelled at how you do what you do. It’s as though you have a switch, one which I am clearly missing. You become a different version of yourself at parties, the one everyone loves: charming, complimentary, clever, popular, the centre of their attention. Nothing like the shy, quiet man I know who disappears into his new, rather lovely, writing shed every day. It was like watching a performance. I love all the different versions of you, but I prefer my Adam, the real one who only I get to see.
‘Incoming,’ I whispered again, after enjoying a perfectly cooked scallop, topped with a smidgen of pea puree, served on a miniature seashell, and eaten with a tiny silver spoon.
‘Who now?’ you asked.
I knew this one. ‘Nathan.’
I watched while you shook his hand and listened while you talked shop. The boss of the studio hosting the party is one of those men who is always working the room. Constantly looking over his or your shoulder, to see who else he could or should be chatting up. He was a man who liked to tax joy, always siphoning off a little of someone else’s in order to increase his own. You introduced me, and I felt myself shrink a little under his gaze.
‘And what do you do?’ he asked.
It was a question I hated. Not because of the answer, but because of other people’s responses to it.
‘I work for Battersea Dogs Home,’ I said, and made my face smile.
‘Oh, gosh. Good for you.’
I decided not to explain how or why it wasn’t good for me that so many people were cruel or irresponsible when it comes to animals. I also thought it best to ignore his condescending tone. I was taught to always be polite: you can’t cross a bridge if you burn it. Luckily the conversation and the company moved on as both always do at these things, and we found ourselves alone at last.
‘Any sign of him?’ you whispered.
I didn’t need to ask who. ‘Afraid not. We could try the other side?’
We headed down the second corridor, a tunnel linking one tower to the other above the famous bridge. The view of the Thames and London lit up down below was spectacular.
‘Can you see Henry now?’ you asked again, and looked so sad when I said that I couldn’t. Like a little boy who had been stood up by the girl of his dreams.
There was an invisible queue of people preparing to pounce on you all evening, waiting for their chance to say hello: producers who wanted to work with you, executives who wished they hadn’t been unkind to you in the past, and other writers who wished that they were you. My feet were starting to hurt, so I was delighted – as well as surprised – when you suggested leaving early.
You hailed a black cab, and as soon as we were on the back seat, you kissed me. Your hand found the top of my new leather boots, then slid up between my legs and under my dress. As soon as we got home, you started pulling my clothes off in the hallway, until the boots were all I was wearing. Sex on the recently renovated staircase was a new experience. I could still smell the varnish.
Later, we drank whisky in bed, talked about the party and all the people we’d met tonight: the good, the bad, and the ugly.
‘Do you still love me as much as you did when we got married?’ I asked.
‘Almost always,’ you replied with a cheeky grin; it’s one of your favourite things to say. You looked so handsome that all I could do was laugh.
I almost always love you too. But I didn’t mention that I’d seen Henry Winter several times during the evening, wearing his trademark tweed jacket, bow tie, and a strange expression on his heavily lined face. He looked older than he does in his author photos. With his thick white hair, blue eyes, and extremely pale skin, it was a bit like seeing a ghost. I didn’t tell you that your favourite author had been staring in our direction, constantly following us around the party, desperately trying to get your attention.
Three years and so many secrets.
Are there things that you keep from me too?
All my love,
Your wife
xx
Amelia
Adam laughs when the sheep outside the chapel door start bleating. Even I find it hard not to smile as he drags Bob – who is still barking like mad – back inside.
When we first saw the multiple sets of eyes staring in our direction, it felt like a scene from a scary movie, but Adam’s torch soon revealed that the only nosy neighbours lurking outside the chapel were the small flock of sheep we drove past on the track earlier. They probably followed us here hoping someone might feed them. In the dark, their bodies blended in with the thick blanket of white snow that has covered everything since we arrived, so that all we could see were their eyes.
‘We’ll laugh about this one day,’ Adam says, taking off his coat again.
I’m not so sure about that.
I keep my jacket on – I’m freezing – and watch as he locks the front doors with a giant old key. I’ve never seen it before, but I’m so tired, maybe it was there the whole time and I just didn’t notice. I’ve been planning this trip for so long, I couldn’t wait to get away and practically bullied him into coming here, but now I feel strangely homesick.
Adam is a self-confessed hermit. He is happiest in his writing shed with his characters, disappearing so far inside the imaginary world in his head, he sometimes struggles to find his way back. I swear we’d never go anywhere if it weren’t for me. He’s proud of our home, so am I, but that doesn’t mean we should never leave it. The detached, double-fronted, Victorian house in Hampstead Village is a long way from the council estate he grew up on, but Adam doesn’t tell people about that part of his past. He doesn’t just rewrite his own history, he deletes it.
I don’t always feel like I belong in such an affluent corner of London, but he fits right in, despite leaving school at sixteen to work in a cinema, with too much ambition and too few GCSEs. But everyone loves a trier, and Adam has never learned how to give up. There is a theatre director two doors down from our house, a newsreader on our right, and an Oscar-nominated actress lives next door on the left. It can be intimidating: worrying who I might bump into when I walk the dog. I have little in common with our self-made neighbou
rs, unlike my husband. Not that I have anything against social climbers – I’ve always found the higher you climb in life the better the view. But sometimes his success makes me feel like a failure. Adam is the real deal these days, whereas I’m still more of a first draft; a work in progress.
He kisses me on the forehead then. It’s so gentle, like a parent kissing a child goodnight before turning off the lights. There have been so many times recently when he has made me feel as though I’m not good enough. But maybe I’ve been projecting my own insecurities. Maybe he does still care.
‘There’s no need to feel embarrassed,’ he says, and I worry that I might have been thinking out loud.
‘About what?’
‘Imagining a face in the window and smashing that rather lovely bottle of wine.’ He smiles at me and I make my face smile back, until he says, ‘You just need to relax.’
Whenever my husband tells me to relax it tends to have the opposite effect. I don’t say anything – he wouldn’t take me seriously if I did – but I don’t think I imagined the face in the window. Unlike him, I live in reality, full-time. I’m sure of what I saw, almost certain, and I can’t seem to shake the feeling of being watched.
Robin
Robin stepped back from the chapel window as soon as the woman inside saw her, but it was too late. When she started to scream, Robin ran.
It has been a long time since anyone came to visit Blackwater. Over a year since she has seen anyone unexpected here at all, aside from the occasional hiker – lost despite all the gadgets and gizmos they seem to carry nowadays – and there are always plenty of deer and sheep in the valley. But no people. It’s too remote and too far off the beaten track for most tourists to visit, and even the locals know to stay away. Blackwater Loch and the chapel beside it have had a reputation for as long as she can remember, and it has never been good.
Luckily, Robin likes her own company and isn’t afraid of ghosts. The living have always been more of a concern for her, which is why she’s been watching the visitors and their dog ever since they arrived.
