by Alice Feeney
I spent today alone, visiting the parts of New York I’d never seen before, while you followed Henry Winter around the city. The elderly author might seem charming to you, on the rare occasions when you have been in his company, but in real life the man lives like a hermit, drinks like a fish, and is impossible to please. I can’t tell you that, because I shouldn’t know. I’ve read all of his novels, too, just like you. His most recent was mediocre at best, but you still act as though the man is Shakespeare reincarnated.
I tried not to think about it when I visited the Statue of Liberty. The ferry to the island was ram-packed, but I still felt alone. Inside the monument, I joined a group of strangers for a tour. There were families, couples, friends, and as we climbed the staircase, I realised that everyone seemed to have someone to share the experience with. Except me. A friend from work texted to ask how the trip was going. I haven’t known them very long, and it seemed a little over-familiar, so I didn’t reply.
There are three hundred and fifty-four steps to the Statue of Liberty’s crown. I silently counted the reasons why we were still together as I climbed them. There are plenty of good things about our marriage, but a growing number of bad ones make me feel like we are starting to unravel. This distance between us, the empty spaces in our hearts and words; it scares me. A lot of married couples we know are muddling along, but most of those have the glue of a young family to keep them stuck together. We only have us. I did something I never do at the top… I took a selfie.
I headed to Coney Island after that. I guess it must be busier in summer, but I quite liked wandering around the closed arcades. I even found a last-minute gift for you – the copper theme this year posed a bit of a challenge. We’ve had so many highs and lows over the course of our relationship, but I suppose year seven is supposed to be difficult. I’ve heard about the seven-year itch and I’m sure you must have too. Whatever happens, I know I won’t be the first to scratch it.
When my feet ached from all the walking, I headed back to the aptly named Library Hotel. It’s a small but perfectly formed boutique hideaway, full of books and personality. Every room has a subject and ours was Maths. Horror might have been more appropriate, given the way this evening has turned out.
I’d booked us a table for dinner – I knew you would forget to remember – at a nearby steak house called Benjamin that the concierge recommended. The decor and atmosphere made me think of The Shining meets The Godfather – which again seems rather fitting in hindsight – but the service and steaks were perfection. As was the wine. We drank two bottles of red while I listened to you tell me about your day with Henry. You didn’t ask about mine, or notice the new dress I’d bought in Bloomingdales. Paying me a compliment is something you only do by accident these days.
I forgot to wave tonight when you walked into the restaurant, but somehow you still knew it was me. Given that all faces look the same to you, and I was wearing something you had never seen, your confidence as you sat down at our table was out of character and surprising. I was equally baffled by how much attention you paid the waitress, wondering how you recognised the beauty of her twenty-something features if you couldn’t see her face.
I think I knew we were going to argue even before you said what you said. Sometimes fights are like storms, and you can see them coming.
‘I’m sorry to do this, but Henry wants me to go with him to LA. Given all the buzz around this film, the studio want to adapt another of his books, and he says he’ll only entertain the idea if I go along to meet them and agree to write the screenplay.’
‘What about Rock Paper Scissors? You’re not going to give up on that, are you? It’s terrible about October, but there are other actresses. Working on Henry’s novels was only supposed to be a stepping stone to—’
‘I hardly think writing a blockbuster film script of a bestselling novel, written by one of the most successful authors of all time, is a stepping stone.’
‘But the whole point of this was to help you to make films and TV shows of your own – not his – to do what you really wanted.’
‘This is what I want. I’m sorry if my career choices aren’t good enough for you.’
We both knew that wasn’t what I meant, and I could see you weren’t really sorry at all.
‘What about what I want? It was your idea to spend a few days in New York together and so far I’ve barely seen you—’
‘Because I couldn’t leave you behind. I never would have heard the end of it.’
For once, it feels like I’m the one who can’t recognise my spouse. ‘What?’
‘You don’t seem to have any friends or even a life of your own these days.’
‘I have friends,’ I say, struggling to think of the names of any to help back up my claim.
It’s hard when everyone my age that I used to know seems to have children now. They all disappeared inside their shiny new happy families, and the invites dried up. It reminded me of school a little… being shunned by the cool kids because I didn’t own the latest must-have accessory. I changed schools more than once growing up. I was always the new girl and everyone else had already known each other for years. I didn’t fit – I never do – but teenage girls can be cruel. I tried to make friends, and I succeeded for a while, but I was always on the outer solar system of those childhood relationships. Like a smaller, quieter planet, distantly orbiting the brighter, more beautiful and popular ones.
I still tried to stay in touch – attending the occasional birthday party, or obligatory hen do, or wedding for someone I hadn’t spoken to for years – but as we all grew up, and grew apart, I guess I grew more distant. My childhood relationships set the tone for the ones I formed as an adult. It was self-preservation more than anything else on my part. I’ll never forget the woman who pretended to breastfeed her children until they were four years old. Always making excuses to avoid seeing me – as if my infertility might be catching. I care more about liking myself than being liked by others these days, and I don’t waste my time on fake friends anymore.
You reached for my hand but I pulled it away, so you reached for your wine instead.
‘I’m sorry,’ you said, but I knew that you weren’t, not really. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ you added, but it was just another lie. You did. ‘Henry is a sensitive writer. He really cares about his work and who he will trust with it. He’s had a difficult year—’
‘I’ve had several. What about me? You’re acting like he’s your best friend all of a sudden. You hardly know the man.’
‘I know him very well; we talk all the time.’
It’s been a while since I felt so discombobulated. I almost choked on my steak. ‘What?’
‘Henry and I talk quite regularly. On the phone.’
‘Since when? You’ve never mentioned it.’
‘I didn’t know I had to tell you about everyone I speak to, or get your permission.’
We stared at each other for a moment.
‘Happy anniversary,’ I said, putting a tiny paper parcel on the table.
You pulled a face which made me think you had forgotten to get me a gift, but then surprised me by taking something out of your pocket.
You insisted I open yours first, so I did. It was a small copper-and-glass hanging frame. Inside were seven one penny copper coins. They all had different dates on them, one from each of the seven years we have been married. It must have taken a lot of thought and time to find them all.
You cleared your throat, looked a little sheepish. ‘Happy anniversary.’
I said thank you, and wanted to be grateful, but something still seemed broken between us. It felt like I had spent the evening with someone who looked and sounded like my husband, but wasn’t. You opened my hastily bought gift, and I blushed with embarrassment after all the effort you had made.
‘Where did you get this?’ you asked, holding the American penny up to the candlelight. It had a smiley face carved into it, next to the word ‘liberty’.
‘Coney
Island this afternoon,’ I replied. ‘I stumbled across this arcade machine that said Lucky Pennies. The paper crane I gave you is looking a little worn out, so I thought I’d give you something new for good luck to keep in your wallet.’
‘I’ll treasure them both,’ you replied, tucking the penny away with your crane.
You were soon back to talking about Henry Winter again. Your favourite subject. As I half listened, I couldn’t stop thinking about October O’Brien’s untimely death, or how you seem to care more about Henry’s writing these days than you do about your own. There are plenty of horror stories in Hollywood, and I don’t mean the ones that get made into films. I’ve heard them all. Maybe I should just be grateful that you’re a screenwriter who is still getting work; it’s not always the case, and the competition is fierce. Some writers are like apples, and soon turn rotten if they don’t get picked.
You poured the rest of the wine into your glass and drank it.
‘You wouldn’t worry about my career so much if you cared 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 patronising 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 realising 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 kickstarted 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 other writers’ 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 soon as 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 Maths-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 straight away 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 letterheaded paper. 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.
I hate don’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.
She’s good at waiting. Practice can make a person good at anything, and at least she isn’t alone this time. The snow has stopped falling but it is still cold. Robin would rather get back to the cottage, but there is no point rushing something this important. She has been careful to step in the visitors’ earlier footprints, but trying to go unnoticed isn’t always easy. That’s the problem with following in someone else’s footsteps; if you leave a bigger mark than they did they tend to get upset. Robin learned the hard way that it’s always best to take her time, and late is better than never. Sometimes the early bird eats too many worms and dies.
Stained-glass windows are beautiful, but they let the cold in and the sound out, which is why she is listening outside the one in the study. She unlocked the secret door and left it open deliberately, so that the visitors could find it for themselves. Once the penny drops things shouldn’t take too much longer.
Listening to them in the place where she used to live, and laugh, and dream, is such a strange and surreal experience. A bit like food poisoning. She feels sick and feverish, but already knows she’ll feel better again once she gets whatever was rotten out of her system. She wants the visitors out of the chapel, but not yet. There is still too much to say and do before this unpleasant chapter in her life can come to an end.
‘Everything will be OK, you’ll see,’ she says to her companion, but he doesn’t reply. He just stares back at her, looking as sad and cold as she is starting to feel.
Whenever her life has taken a wrong turn in the past, Robin has tried to pinpoint the exact moment she got lost. There always is one. If you are prepared to open your eyes, and look far enough back, you can normally see the instant you made a poor choice, said something you shouldn’t, or did something you lived to regret. One bad decision often leads to another and then, before you know it, there is no way back to where you were.
But everyone makes mistakes.
Sometimes, the most innocent-seeming peop
le turn out to be guilty of horrific things. Sometimes, the people who do bad things are just bad people. But there is always a reason why a person behaves the way that they do. The woman at the local store was a good example of someone with a much darker past than you’d expect. Patty the unfriendly shopkeeper, with her red face, beady eyes, bad breath, and a habit of short-changing strangers, had a list of convictions longer than the Bible she kept behind the counter, from aggravated assault to driving when over the limit. Everyone in town knew, but they had to get their supplies from somewhere. Few people are genuinely capable of forgiveness, and nobody ever really forgets. Sometimes you just know a person is bad news as soon as you meet them, because they’re rotten, inside and out, and instinct tells you to stay away.
Lives carry on regardless of whether the people they belong to do. Robin wanted to move on, she tried so hard to put her own mistakes behind her, and not be consumed by regrets. But our secrets have a habit of finding us, and everything she tried to run away from caught up with her eventually. Covering her present with the dust of her past.
Her companion starts to fidget.
‘Shh,’ she whispers. ‘Just wait a little longer.’
He still looks unimpressed but does what she says, like always.
Amelia
Time freezes when Adam says he knows who the chapel belongs to.
I look around the secret study, thinking it might reveal the answer before he does, but all I can see are more dusty books, an old desk, and my husband. His handsome features have twisted into a disappointed frown and ugly scowl. He looks more angry than afraid. As if this is all somehow my fault.
