‘Bob is the world’s worst guard dog, he’s afraid of feathers!’ she says.
‘Yes, but they don’t know that. If there is someone out there, I’ll scare them off and we can open another bottle of wine.’
The snow blows inside as soon as I open the doors, and the blast of cold knocks the air from my lungs. Bob goes berserk, growling and barking and straining on the lead, so much so I struggle to hold on to him. It’s pitch-black, and hard to see anything at all at first, but as we blink into the darkness, it soon becomes terrifyingly clear why the dog is so upset. Just outside, no more than a few feet away, there are several pairs of eyes staring at us.
Leather
Word of the year:
biblioklept noun a person who steals stories. A book thief.
28th February 2011 – our third anniversary
Dear Adam,
I suspect most couples celebrate anniversaries alone – a table for two at a special restaurant perhaps – but not you and me. Not this year. Tonight, we spent our anniversary with several hundred strangers, and it felt like all eyes were on us.
I have never known anyone who hates parties as much as you do, and yet you seem to go to so many lately. I’m not suggesting that you’re antisocial, and I do understand why you dread them so much. Gatherings of more than a handful of people are problematic when you can’t recognise a single face. So a fancy film industry party at Tower Bridge, with hundreds of pretentious people who all think you should know who they are, must be like walking blindfolded into an ego-filled minefield.
‘Please go straight in, Mr Wright,’ purred the woman on the door, with a wide smile and busy-looking clipboard.
I’d watched while she carefully checked other people’s names off her colour-coded list, but there was no need with you. Everyone knows who you are now – the new kid on the block who got to stay. Screenwriting is a last-laugh business. None of these people gave you a sideways glance when you were down on your luck, but with a blockbuster film under your belt – thanks to Henry Winter’s novel – they all want to be your best friend again. For now.
The reason you started inviting me to the big parties, events, and award ceremonies, was so that I could whisper who people are when they approach us, to save you the embarrassment of not recognising someone that you should. Not that I mind. I quite enjoy it – unlike you – and it’s fun dressing up once in a while, getting my hair done, and wearing high heels again. There isn’t much call for that sort of thing when you’re working with dogs all day.
We have a pretty good routine now. After a few years of listening to you talk about producers, executives, directors, actors, and authors, I had already imagined a cast of their faces. But now I know what they all look like in real life, and we spend evenings like these chatting to people from your world. I rarely have much in common with them, but find it easy enough to talk about books and films and TV dramas – everyone loves a good story.
I was looking forward to seeing inside Tower Bridge for the first time, and the promise of free champagne and posh finger food created by a Michelin-starred chef is still such a treat. But as soon as I spotted Henry Winter’s name on the guest list, I dreaded going inside. From that moment, it was obvious that the real reason we were spending our anniversary with strangers was because you were hoping to bump into Henry and persuade him to give you another book. You’ve already asked twice. I told you not to beg, but you always think you know best wouldn’t listen. Writing is a hard way to make an easy living.
Tower Bridge was illuminated against the London night sky when we arrived. The party was already in full swing, the dull beat of music and laughter up above us, competing with the gentle lapping of the murky Thames down below. As soon as the lift spat us out onto the top floor, I could tell that it was going to be an interesting evening. The space was smaller than I had imagined, little more than a long corridor crammed full of film types. A waiter squeezed past with a tray of champagne and I was happy to relieve him of two glasses. Having taken a pregnancy test that morning, just in case, I knew there was no reason not to drink. I’ve stopped telling you the monthly bad news, and you’ve stopped asking.
‘Happy anniversary,’ you whispered, and we clinked glasses before you took a sip.
I took several myself, so that my champagne flute was already half empty. I find alcohol helps drown my social anxiety, which I still experience every time I attend an event like this. Everyone here knows who you are. The only expectations you still struggle to live up to are your own. But I have never felt as if I fit in with these people, perhaps because I don’t. I prefer dogs. I took another sip, then I did what I was there to do and subtly scanned the room, my eyes searching for what yours could not see.