My wife says the same things lately, over and over, and her words always feel like a pinch or a slap. I don’t understand you irritates me the most, because what’s to understand? She likes animals more than she likes people; I prefer fiction. I suppose the real problems began when we started preferring those things to each other. It feels like the terms and conditions of our relationship have either been forgotten, or were never properly read in the first place. It isn’t as though I wasn’t a workaholic when we first met. Or writeraholic as she likes to call it. All people are addicts, and all addicts desire the same thing: an escape from reality. My job just happens to be my favourite drug.
Same but different, that’s what I tell myself when I start a new screenplay. That’s what I think people want, and why change the ingredients of a winning formula? I can tell within the first few pages of a book whether it will work for screen or not – which is a good thing, because I get sent far too many to read them all. But just because I’m good at what I do, doesn’t mean I want to do it for the rest of my life. I’ve got my own stories to tell. But Hollywood isn’t interested in originality anymore, they just want to turn novels into films or TV shows, like wine into water. Different but same. But does that rule also apply to relationships? If we play the same characters for too long in a marriage, isn’t it inevitable that we’ll get bored of the story and give up, or switch off before we reach the end?
‘Shall we?’ Amelia says, interrupting my thoughts and staring up at the bell tower on top of the creepy chapel.
‘Ladies first.’ Can’t say I’m not a gentleman. ‘I’ll grab the bags from the car,’ I add, keen to snatch my last few seconds of solitude before we go inside.
I spend a lot of time trying not to offend people: producers, executives, actors, agents, authors. Throw face blindness into that mix, and I think it’s fair to say I’m Olympian level when it comes to walking on eggshells. I once spoke to a couple at a wedding for ten minutes before realising they were the bride and groom. She didn’t wear a traditional dress, and he looked like a clone of his many groomsmen. But I got away with it because charming people is part of my job. Getting an author to trust me with the screenplay of their novel, can be harder than persuading a mother to let a stranger look after their firstborn child. But I’m good at it. Sadly, charming my wife seems to be something I’ve forgotten how to do.
I never tell people about having prosopagnosia. Firstly, I don’t want that to define me, and honestly, once someone knows, it’s all they want to talk about. I don’t need or want pity from anyone, and I don’t like being made to feel like a freak. What people don’t ever seem to understand, is that for me, it’s normal not to be able to recognise faces. It’s just a glitch in my programming; one that can’t be fixed. I’m not saying I’m OK with it. Imagine not being able to recognise your own friends or family? Or not knowing what your wife’s face looks like? I hate meeting Amelia in restaurants in case I sit down at the wrong table, I’d choose takeout every time were it up to me. Sometimes I don’t even recognise my own face when I look in the mirror. But I’ve learned to live with it. Like we all do when life deals us a less than perfect hand.
I think I’ve learned to live with a less than perfect marriage, too. But doesn’t everyone? I’m not being defeatist, just honest. Isn’t that what successful relationships are really about? Compromise? Is any marriage really perfect?
I love my wife. I just don’t think we like each other as much as we used to.
‘That’s nearly all of it,’ I say, rejoining her on the chapel steps, saddled with more bags than we can possibly need for a few nights away. She glares at my shoulder as if it has offended her.
‘Is that your laptop satchel?’ she asks, knowing full well that it is.
I’m hardly a rookie so I can’t explain or excuse my mistake. I imagine Amelia pulling a Go-to-Jail-card face. This is not a good start. I will not be allowed to write this weekend or pass Go. If our marriage were a game of Monopoly, my wife would charge me double every time I accidentally landed on one of her hotels.
‘You promised no work,’ she says in that disappointed, whiney tone that has become so familiar. My work paid for our house and our holidays; she didn’t complain about that.
When I think about everything we have – a nice home in London, a good life, money in the bank – I think the same thing as always: we should be happy. But all the things we don’t have are harder to see. Most friends our age have elderly parents or young children to worry about, but we only have each other. No parents, no siblings, no children, just us. A lack of people to love is something we’ve always had in common. My father left when I was too young to remember anything about him, and my mother died when I was still in school. My wife’s childhood was no less Oliver Twist, she was an orphan before she was born.