As soon as you had my permission you were out the door, and I was alone on our anniversary. Again.
Looking back now – hindsight is such a bitch – I think everything would have been fine had a smoke alarm not gone off at the theatre that afternoon. Everyone in the audience was evacuated not long after the curtain went up, the fire brigade was called, and the matinee performance I was meant to see got cancelled.
That’s why I came back to the house earlier than planned.
I found myself staring at a couple on the Tube ride home. They were our age, but holding hands and grinning at each other like two smitten teenagers. I bet that they always spent anniversaries together, and I started to wonder where we sat on the scale of normal. The jury in my head was still out when I arrived back at Hampstead station. The heavens opened as I started walking and I was drenched by the time I reached our garden gate. I felt inexplicable rage at the sight of the ugly magnolia tree you had planted, and by the time I reached the front door my hands were shaking with crankiness and cold.
As I struggled to slot the key in the lock, I heard a woman laughing inside our home. When I opened the door and stepped into the hall, I felt like I must be dreaming. There was a Hollywood actress drinking wine in my kitchen. With you. On our anniversary.
‘What are you doing home so early?’ you asked, looking as upset as I felt.
‘The play was cancelled,’ I said, staring at her the whole time – I couldn’t help it. October O’Brien was even more beautiful in real life than she was in all the pictures I’d Googled online. Her extremely pale, porcelain-like skin was flawless, and her copper, pixie cut hair shone beneath our kitchen lights. If I had mine styled that way I would look like a boy, but she looked like a happy elf princess, with her big green eyes and wide white smile. Even in my twenties I never looked that good.
Then you introduced us, as though coming home to find your husband drinking wine in the afternoon with another woman – who you have only ever seen on TV and in films – was normal. I was about to make a complete tit of myself, but then October’s perfect red lips smiled and she explained what you should have.
‘It’s so lovely to meet you,’ she purred, holding out a perfectly manicured hand. For a moment I wasn’t sure whether to shake it, kiss it, or slap it away. I had an odd urge to curtsy. ‘Your husband confessed last night that he has never cooked you an anniversary meal. I said I didn’t want anything to do with his screenplay until that situation was rectified, and when he said he couldn’t cook, I offered to help. It was supposed to be a surprise… but maybe it was a bad one?’
I felt my face get hot for several reasons all at once.
Firstly, I wished I had cleaned our fridge more recently, then I panicked about the condition of our old pots and pans – worried what she must think about me and us and the state of our kitchen. Then I wished I’d worn a little more make-up, because next to this beautiful creature, I felt like a bedraggled old bat.
I needn’t have worried. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more kind or generous woman – no wonder you wanted to work with her. Bob fell in love with our house guest, too, but he loves everyone. I insisted that October stay and eat the meal she had prepared with us – you didn’t argue – and once I had changed into some dry clothes and opened another bottle, we had the most wonderful evening. All three courses were delicious – especially the chocolate pudding. I thought I’d be intimidated by someone like October O’Brien. She’s so stunning, successful, and smart… but she was utterly charming, modest, and sweet. It made me realise that regardless of who everyone thinks celebrities are, at the end of the day they’re just people. Like you and me. Even the disturbingly beautiful ones.
‘I knew you’d love her too if you met her,’ you said when October left.
‘You were right, but I love you more.’
‘Almost always?’ you asked and smiled. ‘So you don’t mind me working with her now? And you won’t get jealous?’
‘Who says I was jealous?’ I replied, and you raised an eyebrow.
‘You’ve no need to be. She’s lovely, but she’s still an actress.’
‘Do you think I’m lovely?’
‘You’re my MIP,’ you said.
‘MIP?’
‘Most Important Person.’
Thank you for a very memorable anniversary this year, one I certainly won’t forget. Five years. Where did it go? So many memories, mostly happy ones, and I’m looking forward to making more with you in the future. I suspect everyone has a Most Important Person. I am yours and you are mine. Now and forever.