Screenwriters don’t tend to be household names, so some people might not know his, but I’d be willing to bet money they’ve seen at least one of the films he’s written. Despite our problems, I’m so proud of everything he has achieved. Adam Wright built a reputation in the business for turning undiscovered novels into blockbuster movies, and he’s still always on the lookout for the next. I’ll admit that I sometimes feel jealous, but I think that’s only natural given the number of nights when he would rather take a book to bed. My husband doesn’t cheat on me with other women, or men, he has love affairs with their words.
Human beings are a strange and unpredictable species. I prefer the company of animals, which is one of the many reasons why I work at Battersea Dogs Home. Four-legged creatures tend to make better companions than those with two, and dogs don’t hold grudges or know how to hate. I’d rather not think about the other reasons why I work there; sometimes the dust of our memories is best left unswept.
The view beyond the windscreen has offered an ever-changing dramatic landscape during our journey. There have been trees in every shade of green, giant glistening lochs, snow-capped mountains and an infinite amount of perfect, unspoilt space. I am in love with the Scottish Highlands. If there is a more beautiful place on Earth, I have yet to find it. The world seems so much bigger up here than in London. Or perhaps I am smaller. I find peace in the quiet stillness and the remoteness of it all. We haven’t seen another soul for over an hour, which makes this the perfect location for what I have planned.
We pass a stormy sea on our left and carry on north, the sound of crashing waves serenading us. As the winding road shrinks into a narrow lane, the sky – which has changed from blue, to pink, to purple, and now black – is reflected in each of the partially frozen lochs we pass. Further inland, a forest engulfs us. Ancient pine trees, dusted with snow, and taller than our house, are being bent out of shape by the storm as though they are matchsticks. The wind wails like a ghost outside the car, constantly trying to blow us off course, and when we slide a little on the icy road, I grip the steering wheel so tight that the bones in my fingers protrude through my skin. I notice my wedding ring. A solid reminder that we are still together, despite all the reasons we should perhaps be apart. Nostalgia is a dangerous drug, but I enjoy the sensation of happier memories flooding my mind. Maybe we’re not as lost as we feel. I steal a glance at the man sitting beside me, wondering whether we could still find our way back to us. Then I do something I haven’t done for a long time, and reach to hold his hand.
‘Stop!’ he yells.
It all happens so fast. The blurred, snowy image of a stag standing in the middle of the road ahead, my foot slamming on the brake, the car swerving and spinning before finally skidding to a halt just in front of the deer’s huge horns. It blinks twice in our direction before calmly walking away as if nothing happened, disappearing into the woods. Even the trees look cold.
My heart is thudding inside my chest as I reach for my handbag. My trembling fingers find my purse and keys and almost all other contents before locating my inhaler. I shake it and take a puff.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask, before taking another.
‘I told you this was a bad idea,’ Adam replies.
I have bitten my tongue so many times already on this trip, it must be full of holes.
‘I don’t remember you having a better one,’ I snap.
‘An eight-hour drive for a weekend away…’
‘We’ve been saying for ages that it might be nice to visit the Highlands.’
‘It might be nice to visit the moon, too, but I’d rather we talked about it before you booked us on a rocket. You know how busy things are for me right now.’
Busy has become a trigger word in our marriage. Adam wears his busyness like a badge. Like a boy scout. It is something he is proud of: a status symbol of his success. It makes him feel important, and makes me want to throw the novels he adapts at his head.
‘We are where we are because you’re always too busy,’ I say through gritted, chattering teeth. It’s so cold in the car now, I can see my own breath.
‘I’m sorry, are you suggesting it’s my fault that we’re in Scotland? In February? In the middle of a storm? This was your idea. At least I won’t have to listen to your incessant nagging once we’ve been crushed to death by a falling tree, or died from hypothermia in this shit-can car you insist on driving.’
We never bicker like this in public, only in private. We’re both pretty good at keeping up appearances and I find people see what they want to see. But behind closed doors, things have been wrong with Mr and Mrs Wright for a long time.