We exchanged anniversary gifts this morning. I gave you a leather satchel with your initials embossed on it in gold lettering. I’ve watched you carrying your precious manuscripts around in ugly bags for years, so it seemed like an appropriate present. Your gift to me was a pair of knee-high leather boots I’d had my eye on. I thought I might be too old to wear them – at thirty-two – but you clearly disagreed. I wore them for the first time tonight and I noticed you staring at my legs in the taxi en route to the party. It felt nice to feel wanted.
‘Incoming,’ I whispered into your ear as we made our way down the packed corridor of partygoers.
‘Good, bad, or ugly?’ you asked.
‘Bad. The producer who wanted you to work on that crime novel adaptation last month… the one who got snooty when you turned her down. Lisa? Linda? Liz?’
‘Lizzy Parks?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit. Every party has a pooper. Does she look pissed yet?’ you asked.
‘Very much so.’
‘Has she seen us?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Damn. That woman treats writers like factories and their work like tins of baked beans. It wasn’t even her book to adapt. She’s a walking, talking, biblioklept—’
‘Code red.’
‘Lizzy, darling, how are you? You look wonderful,’ you said, in that voice you only use when speaking to small children or pretentious people. I hope you never talk to me like that, I’ll be upset if you do.
You kissed the air beside each other’s cheeks, and I marvelled at how you do what you do. It’s as though you have a switch, one which I am clearly missing. You become a different version of yourself at parties, the one everyone loves: charming, complimentary, clever, popular, the centre of their attention. Nothing like the shy, quiet man I know who disappears into his new, rather lovely, writing shed every day. It was like watching a performance. I love all the different versions of you, but I prefer my Adam, the real one who only I get to see.
‘Incoming,’ I whispered again, after enjoying a perfectly cooked scallop, topped with a smidgen of pea puree, served on a miniature seashell, and eaten with a tiny silver spoon.
‘Who now?’ you asked.
I knew this one. ‘Nathan.’
I watched while you shook his hand and listened while you talked shop. The boss of the studio hosting the party is one of those men who is always working the room. Constantly looking over his or your shoulder, to see who else he could or should be chatting up. He was a man who liked to tax joy, always siphoning off a little of someone else’s in order to increase his own. You introduced me, and I felt myself shrink a little under his gaze.
‘And what do you do?’ he asked.
It was a question I hated. Not because of the answer, but because of other people’s responses to it.
‘I work for Battersea Dogs Home,’ I said, and made my face smile.
‘Oh, gosh. Good for you.’
I decided not to explain how or why it wasn’t good for me that so many people were cruel or irresponsible when it comes to animals. I also thought it best to ignore his condescending tone. I was taught to always be polite: you can’t cross a bridge if you burn it. Luckily the conversation and the company moved on as both always do at these things, and we found ourselves alone at last.
‘Any sign of him?’ you whispered.
I didn’t need to ask who. ‘Afraid not. We could try the other side?’
We headed down the second corridor, a tunnel linking one tower to the other above the famous bridge. The view of the Thames and London lit up down below was spectacular.
‘Can you see Henry now?’ you asked again, and looked so sad when I said that I couldn’t. Like a little boy who had been stood up by the girl of his dreams.
There was an invisible queue of people preparing to pounce on you all evening, waiting for their chance to say hello: producers who wanted to work with you, executives who wished they hadn’t been unkind to you in the past, and other writers who wished that they were you. My feet were starting to hurt, so I was delighted – as well as surprised – when you suggested leaving early.
You hailed a black cab, and as soon as we were on the back seat, you kissed me. Your hand found the top of my new leather boots, then slid up between my legs and under my dress. As soon as we got home, you started pulling my clothes off in the hallway, until the boots were all I was wearing. Sex on the recently renovated staircase was a new experience. I could still smell the varnish.