The thin door squeaks open to reveal another room. It’s a study, but unlike any I have seen before. The long, narrow, dark space only has one stained-glass window for light. There is an antique desk at one end, and my husband is sitting at it.
‘Whoever was here has gone,’ Adam says without looking up. ‘I searched the whole place. The only thing that I noticed was different was that the door to this room was open.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘I think I’m starting to. I recognise this room.’
He doesn’t seem to notice that I can barely breathe. There are no supplements for people who suffer from a sympathy deficit, and my husband has always been easily distracted by his own thoughts and feelings. ‘You do?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it before. I couldn’t think where at first and then I noticed this,’ he says, tapping the shiny wooden desktop. ‘I’ve seen a picture of this study in a magazine, albeit a few years ago. And I remember who the article was about. You say that you won a weekend away by chance, in a raffle, but that can’t be true. It’s all too much of a coincidence. I know who this property belongs to now.’
Copper
Word of the year:
discombobulated adjective feeling confused and disconcerted.
28th February 2015 – our seventh anniversary
Dear Adam,
It’s been a difficult year.
October O’Brien was found dead in a London hotel a few months ago, and you were one of the last people to see her alive. Suspected suicide according to the newspapers. There was no note, but empty bottles of alcohol and pills were found by her bed. It was obviously devastating. And surprising; the woman always seemed so happy and positive, at least on the outside. Barely thirty years old and everything to live for. The two of you had become quite close – I was rather fond of her myself – but it also means that the filming of Rock Paper Scissors has been cancelled. You can’t make a TV series without the star of the show.
The funeral was awful. You could tell that so many people there were merely acting out what they thought grief should be. Two-faced shysters. It seems that genuine friends are even harder to come by when you’re famous. I was surprised to discover that October’s real name was Rainbow O’Brien. Her parents were hippies, and nobody at the service wore black.
‘Thank goodness she used a stage name,’ you whispered.
I nodded, but wasn’t sure whether I agreed. She was a bit like a rainbow: beautiful, captivating, colourful, and gone from our lives almost as soon as she appeared in them. I used to think a name was just a name. Now I’m not so sure. I had become quite friendly with October myself – occasional drinks, dog walks, and visits to art galleries – and I miss her too. It does feel like something, not just someone, is missing from both of our lives now that she is no longer in them.
A trip to New York sounded like a great way to spend our seventh anniversary and take our minds off it all, until I realised that it coincided with the premiere of Henry Winter’s latest film, The Black House. You were so eager to please flattered when he told his agent and the studio that he would only attend if you did. You thought it was because he was pleased with the adaptation, and wanted you to get the credit you deserved for writing the screenplay. But that wasn’t why he wanted you there. Or why he suggested you invite your wife.
You’ve been moody as hell a little distant recently, and I didn’t want to start another fight, but playing gooseberry to a pair of writers while they basked in the temporary warmth of Hollywood’s fickle sun didn’t appeal much. Neither did walking down the red carpet at the old movie theatre in Manhattan where the premiere was held. The Ziegfeld was my kind of place – an old-school cinema decorated in red and gold, with a sea of plush red velvet seats. But being photographed on the way in made me feel like a fraud. I hate having my picture taken at the best of times, and compared with all the beautiful creatures in attendance – with their tiny waists and big hair – I worried that I must be a disappointment to you. It’s hard to shine when surrounded by stars. The idea of just being normal seems to make you so unhappy, but it’s all I ever wanted us to be.
The deal was that we would spend time alone together after the premiere, but then Henry wanted you to accompany him to a few more events the next day. I understand why you couldn’t say no, I just wish that you hadn’t wanted to say yes. I get that you’ve always been a huge fan of his, and I understand how grateful you are that he let you adapt his work. I know what it’s meant for your career, but haven’t I already paid the price for that? Wandering around a city on my own while you hold an author’s hand instead of mine is not my idea of a happy anniversary.