Bob saves us from ourselves by growling at the chapel doors again. It’s strange, because he never does that, but I’m grateful for the distraction. It’s hard to believe he used to be a tiny puppy, abandoned in a shoe box and dumped in a skip. Since then he has grown into the biggest black Labrador I have ever seen. He has a collection of grey hairs on his chin these days, and walks more slowly than he used to, but the dog is the only one still capable of unconditional love in our family of three. I’m sure everyone thinks we treat him like a surrogate child, even if they are too polite to say so. I always said I didn’t mind not having a real one. People who don’t get to name their children get to name a different future. Besides, what’s the point in wanting something you know you can’t have? Too late for that now.
I don’t normally feel forty. I sometimes struggle to understand where the years went and when I transitioned from boy to man. Maybe doing a job that I love has something to do with that. My work makes me feel young, but my wife makes me feel old. The marriage counsellor was Amelia’s idea, and this trip was theirs. ‘Call me Pamela’， the so-called ‘expert’， thought a weekend away might fix us. I guess all the weekends and evenings spent together at home were null and void. Weekly visits to share the most private corners of our lives with a complete stranger cost more than just the extortionate fee. For that money, and several other reasons, I repeatedly called the woman Pammy or Pam every time we met. ‘Call me Pamela’ didn’t like that, but I didn’t like her much so it helped make things even. My wife didn’t want anyone else to know that we were having problems but I suspect some might have noticed. Most people can see the writing on the wall, even if they can’t always read what it says.
Can a weekend away really save a marriage? That’s what Amelia said when ‘Call me Pamela’ suggested it. I don’t think so. Which is why I came up with my own plan for us long before I agreed to hers. But now we’re here… climbing the chapel steps… and I don’t know if I can go through with it.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I say, stopping just before going inside.
‘Yes. Why?’ she asks, as though she can’t hear the dog growling and the wind howling.
‘I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right—’
‘This isn’t a horror story written by one of your favourite authors, Adam. This is real life. Maybe the wind blew the doors open?’
She can say what she likes, but the doors weren’t just closed before. They were locked and we both know it.
We find ourselves in what posh people call a boot room and I put the bags down. A puddle of melting snow forms around my feet. The flagstone floor looks ancient, and there is built-in storage along the back wall with rustic wooden cubbyholes designed for boots. There are also rows of hooks for coats, all of which are empty. We don’t remove our snow-covered shoes or jackets. Partly because it is just as cold in here as it was outside, but also perhaps because it still seems uncertain whether we are staying.
One wall is covered in mirrors, small ones, no bigger than my hand. They are all odd shapes and sizes with intricate metal frames, and have been hung haphazardly in place with rusty nails and rustic twine. There must be fifty sets of our faces reflected back at us. Almost as though all the versions of ourselves we became to try and make our marriage work have gathered together to look down on who we’ve become. Part of me is glad I can’t recognise them. I’m not sure I’d like what I saw if I could.
That isn’t the only interesting feature of interior design. The skulls and antlers of two stags have been mounted like trophies on the furthest whitewashed wall, with four white feathers protruding from the holes where their eyes must once have been. It’s a little strange, but my wife takes a closer look and stares in fascination, like she’s visiting an art gallery. There is an old church bench in the corner which attracts my attention. It looks antique and is covered in dust, as if nobody has been here for a very long time. As first impressions go, this isn’t a great one.
I remember the way Amelia and I used to be together, in the beginning. Back then, we just clicked – we loved the same food, the same books, and the sex was the best I’d ever had. Everything I could and couldn’t see about her was beautiful. We had so much in common and we wanted the same things in life. Or at least, I thought we did. These days she seems to want something else. Maybe someone else. Because I’m not the one who changed.