I waited for you to react the way I hoped you would, but instead you just yawned.
‘Why are you waking me up with this news?’ you asked, closing your eyes and burrowing back down under the bed covers. Your thirties suit you. You are growing into your good looks.
‘You know why,’ I said.
You stopped pretending that you didn’t, but shook your head. ‘He has never said yes to any TV or film adaptations of his books. Ever. His agent dying isn’t going to change that, and even if it does, Henry Winter is never going to agree to me writing a screenplay of his work, when he has spent a lifetime saying no to everybody else.’
‘Well, I agree that you don’t stand a chance with that attitude. But with the gatekeeper removed from play, isn’t it worth a shot? Maybe his agent was the one who didn’t like the idea? Some authors do everything their agents tell them to do. Just imagine if he said yes.’
Your hair fell over your eyes – always too busy writing to visit the barber’s – so I couldn’t see what you were thinking. But I didn’t need to. We both knew that if you could get Henry Winter to let you adapt one of his novels, it would be a gamechanger for your career.
‘I think you should get your agent to set up a meeting,’ I said.
‘My agent is bored of me. I don’t make him enough money.’
‘That isn’t true. Writing is a fickle business, but you’re a Bafta award-winning screenwriter—’
‘The Bafta was years ago—’
‘With a star-studded CV—’
‘I haven’t been nominated for a single prize since—’
‘And a string of successful adaptations. What harm could it do?’
‘What good could it do? Besides, if Henry Winter’s agent just died, the poor man is probably grieving. It would be inappropriate.’
‘So is not paying this month’s rent.’
Your naivety about some of the authors you admire so much baffles me. You’re one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, but you are easily fooled see all authors through rose-tinted reading glasses. The ability to write a good book doesn’t make someone a good person.
I could tell this wasn’t a battle I was going to win without changing strategy, so opened the drawer in my bedside cabinet, and took out a small brown paper parcel.
‘What is this?’ you asked as I put it on the bed.
‘Open it and see.’
You untied the string with such care, as though you might want to keep the wrapping. We both didn’t have much to call our own as children, and I think a little of that ‘make do and mend’ mindset follows people like us into adulthood. Finding the money to pay for our wedding was another challenge this year. It wasn’t the venue – the rows of chairs in the register office were mostly empty with no family on either side, and only a handful of close friends living in London. I adore your mother’s sapphire engagement ring. It fits perfectly – as though it were always mine – and I never take it off, but there were still wedding rings to buy, and a suit, and a dress. Getting married costs a pretty penny, and pennies are prettiest when you don’t have many of them.
‘It’s a crane,’ I explained, saving you from having to ask what the gift was when you held it up to the light. ‘Paper is the traditional gift for a first wedding anniversary, so when an abandoned poodle called Origami was dumped on the doorstep of Battersea Dogs Home overnight last week, it gave me the idea. I taught myself to make it by watching a YouTube video, and chose the crane because it is a symbol of happiness and good fortune.’
‘It’s… lovely,’ you said.
‘It’s meant to bring good luck.’
I knew you would like it more once you knew that. You’re the most superstitious man I’ve ever met. I’m actually very fond of the way you salute magpies, avoid walking under ladders, and are appalled by people who open umbrellas indoors. I find it endearing. Luck, whether it is the good or bad variety, is something you take very seriously.
I smiled as you slipped the little paper crane inside your wallet. I wonder if you’ll keep it in there forever? I hope so, I like the idea of that. Unless something luckier comes along.
‘I didn’t forget,’ you said. ‘I just didn’t know we were doing this today. Technically it isn’t our anniversary until 2012.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Well, we got married on 29th February 2008. Today is the 28th. It won’t be a leap year again for another three years.’