Your wife
xx
Robin
Robin sits perfectly still, hiding in a cold, dark corner of the chapel, until the visitors are all back upstairs again. The man came down twice, and she almost got caught. She wonders if he would recognise her at all now. Regardless of his face blindness, she fears she must have changed beyond all recognition since they last met.
When Robin let herself inside over an hour ago, she thought they’d gone to bed for the night, and had to hide when she heard him coming down the old, wooden spiral staircase. He somehow managed to avoid all the creakiest steps. Luckily, the lounge – which she always thought was more of a library with sofas – had plenty of dark spaces, and the bookcases provided ample cover until she could see who it was. After that she let herself into the secret room. Secrets are only secrets for the people who don’t know them yet. They can morph into lies when shared, and like caterpillars turning into butterflies, beautiful lies can fly far, far away. There is nothing Robin doesn’t know about this old chapel: she used to live here.
She could still live here now if she wanted, but chooses not to.
Robin doesn’t like being inside the place any longer than necessary these days. She always has to summon a colossal amount of courage to step inside those old chapel doors, and on the rare occasions when doing so can’t be avoided, she does what she needs to do as quickly as possible before getting out again. The visitors would want to get out too if they knew the truth about where they were staying, but people see what they want to see.
The secret room is tucked behind the library and Robin hates this part of the chapel the most. It’s easy enough to find behind the bookcase – if you know where to look – but you have to use your eyes. Most people go through life with their eyes shut. And books are good at hiding all kinds of things, especially closed books, just like closed people.
Some memories are claustrophobic, and the variety this room invokes always smother her, making it hard to breathe. Robin stays as still as possible, studying the parquet floor in the secret room as if it were a puzzle she might be able to solve, trying not to look at anything that will remind her of a past she would rather forget. But memories don’t take orders; they come and go as they please.
The moon is full and bright tonight. It shines through the stained-glass windows casting a series of patterns that seem strange and unfamiliar. The sight of her own shadow on the wall catches her eye, and it makes her feel small. Even her shadow looks sad. Robin doesn’t mean to make a fist, but when she sees her silhouette do the same, she holds her hand higher, changing the shape of her fingers. First a rock. Then flat, like paper. Then she makes a cutting motion, like scissors, and smiles.
When she is sure it is safe to do so, Robin stands to leave. She freezes when she thinks she sees someone, but it is only her own reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. The sight shocks her: she almost didn’t recognise herself. There are no mirrors back in her little cottage. The woman in the mirror here, staring back at her in the secret room looks so old, and her pale skin is so white she could be mistaken for a ghost.
Robin reaches inside her pocket for the key to lock the secret room behind her, but her fingers find something else instead, providing her with a small wave of much needed comfort: her favourite red lipstick. It’s worn down to a flattened stump. She remembers the first time she used it: it rained that night and she got badly hurt. But it reinforced the importance of not trusting anyone except herself.
The best lessons are often the ones we don’t realise we’re being taught.
Robin applies a tiny bit of lipstick – wanting to save what is left for as long as possible – then admires her new reflection in the mirror. She smiles again but it doesn’t take, her mouth soon turning down at the edges. Still, it’s an improvement, and it gives her the courage to do what she came here to do.
The visitors didn’t look happy when they arrived, or when she watched them through the window. As she lurked downstairs, running her fingers along the spines of the books in the lounge, she noted that the visitors didn’t sound happy either. She listened to them as they talked in the bedroom upstairs. Their voices carried, and their words seemed to bounce from the double-height vaulted ceiling up above straight down into her ears.
It seems strange to her that the visitors really thought they could stay here for free. Only fools believe in something for nothing. She had to suppress a laugh when she heard them agreeing to leave in the morning. But her amusement soon turned into anger. That’s the biggest problem with people nowadays: they don’t appreciate what they have, they always want more. They don’t want to work for it. They don’t want to earn it. And they bitch and moan like spoilt brats when they don’t get their own way. Too many people think the world owes them something, and blame others for their own poor life choices. And everyone thinks they can just run away if things don’t go according to their plans.