‘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.’