‘Maybe you could revisit one of your own screenplays, if you’re not working on anything else for a while,’ Amelia says, interrupting my thoughts as though she can hear them. I hate that she can always read my mind; how do women do that?
‘It isn’t the right time,’ I reply.
‘What about that one you spent years working on, might that be worth another look?’
She can’t even remember the name of my favourite screenplay. I don’t know why it bothers me, but it does. She used to be far more interested in my work, and seemed to really care about my writing. Her indifference these days hurts more than it should.
‘My agent said there was a new eight-part thriller I might be up for. Another novel adaption. But an old one…’ I look over my shoulder at all the bookcases. ‘… might even be a copy of it on one of these shelves.’
‘We agreed no work this weekend,’ she snaps, suffering a sense of humour bypass.
‘I was joking, and you brought it up!’
‘Only because I could hear you thinking about it. And you were pulling that vacant face you pull when you’re not really here, even when you’re sitting by my side.’
I can’t see what face she’s pulling, but I resent her tone. Amelia doesn’t understand. I always need to be working on a story or the real world gets too loud. I can’t seem to talk about anything lately without her getting upset. She sulks if I’m too quiet, but opening my mouth feels like navigating a minefield. I can’t win. I haven’t told her about what happened with Henry Winter because that’s something else she wouldn’t understand. Henry and his books weren’t just work for me, he became a surrogate father figure. I doubt he felt the same way, but feelings don’t have to be mutual to be real.
The wind rattles the stained-glass windows, and I’m grateful for anything that might drown out the loudest thoughts inside my head. I wouldn’t want her to hear those. My hands still need something to do – I no longer want to hold hers and my fingers feel redundant without my phone. I take my wallet from my pocket and find the crumpled paper crane between the leather folds. The silly old origami bird has always brought me luck, and comfort. I hold it for a while, and don’t care that Amelia sees me doing it.
‘I’ve been carrying this paper bird around with me for such a long time,’ I say.
She sighs. ‘I know.’
‘I showed it to Henry Winter the first time I met him at his fancy London house.’
‘I remember the story.’
She sounds bored and miserable and it makes me feel the same. I’ve heard all of her stories before too and none of them are particularly thrilling.
I wish people were more like books.
If you realise halfway through a novel that you aren’t enjoying it anymore, you can just stop and find something new to read. Same with films and TV dramas. There is no judgement, no guilt, nobody even needs to know unless you choose to tell them. But with people, you tend to have to see it through to the end, and sadly not everyone gets to live happily ever after.
The snow has turned to sleet. Large, angry droplets pelt the windows before crying down the glass like tears. Sometimes I want to cry but I can’t. Because that wouldn’t fit with who my wife thinks I am. We’re all responsible for casting the stars in the stories of our own lives, and she cast me in the role of her husband. Our marriage was an open audition, and I’m not sure either of us got the parts we deserved.
Her face is an unrecognisable blur, her features swirling like an angry sea. It feels like I am sitting next to a stranger, not my wife. We’ve been together all day and I feel claustrophobic. I’m someone who needs space, a little time on my own. I don’t know why she has to be so… suffocating.
Amelia snatches the paper crane from my fingertips.
‘You spend too long living in the past instead of focussing on the future,’ she says.
‘Wait, no!’ I cry, as she throws my lucky charm into the fire.
I’m up and off the tartan sofa in a flash, and almost burn my hand retrieving the bird. One edge is singed, but otherwise undamaged. That’s it. The final act. If I wasn’t sure before I am now, and I’m counting down the hours until this is over once and for all.
Cotton
Word of the year:
growlery noun a place of refuge or sanctuary for use while one is feeling out of sorts. A private room, or den, to growl in.
28th February 2010 – our second anniversary
Dear Adam,
Another year, another anniversary, and it was a great one! Since you sold the first Henry Winter adaptation, you have been busier with work than ever before. The Hollywood studio who bought it at auction paid more for those 120 pages than I could earn in ten years. It was amazing, and I’m so happy for you, but so sad for us because now we see even less of each other than we used to. You don’t seem to need me or my input into your work as much at all now. But I understand. I really do.