Bronze
Word of the year:
atelophobia noun the fear of not doing something right or the fear of not being good enough. An extreme anxiety of failure to achieve perfection.
29th February 2016 – our eighth anniversary
Dear Adam,
We didn’t celebrate our anniversary this year.
I’ve been spending a lot of time with a friend from work and you’ve been, well, spending time with your work. You struggled with the latest adaptation of Henry Winter’s books. Personally, I think because you were trying too hard to please the author instead of being true to yourself. But as you said when I offered to try and help a couple of weeks ago, what do I know?
I do know that the lies we tell ourselves are always the most dangerous. And I know that sometimes the thoughts we hide in the margins of our minds are the most honest, because they are ours alone, and we think nobody else will see them. While you’ve been thinking about Henry Winter and his books, I have been thinking about leaving you.
My friend at work is kind, and caring, and genuinely interested in me. They never make me feel stupid, or insignificant, or taken for granted. Face blindness isn’t the only way that you make me feel invisible. You make me feel as though I’m not good enough every single day. It’s a terrible thing to confess, but sometimes I wonder if the only reason I stay is for Bob. And this house.
I love this big old beautiful Victorian relic, hidden away in a corner of London that time forgot. My blood, sweat and tears literally went into every inch of the place while I restored it. With little and mostly no help from you. When we were younger, I didn’t dare to imagine we might share a home like this one day. You probably did; your dreams have always been bigger than mine. But then so are your nightmares. You and I had the kind of childhoods that are better forgotten, but seeds of ambition grow best in shallow soil.
How dare you invite him here without even asking me first.
I’d had such a difficult day at work – and, no offence, but my job is a real one, I don’t just sit around making shit up writing all day – all I wanted was to come home, shower, and open a bottle of wine. I could hear voices inside the house before I had even put my key in the door. Yours and one other. And it smelled like something was burning. I found you in the lounge, drinking whisky with Henry Winter, while he smoked a pipe in our nonsmoking home. I thought I was imagining it at first, but the tweed jacket and silk bow tie looked authentic enough to be real.
‘Hello, darling. We have a visitor,’ you said, as if I couldn’t see that for myself.
Anyone else would have recognised the look of horror on my face – he did, but you didn’t because you can’t. Still, I would have thought you could have picked up on my extreme discomfort in another way. Sometimes you display the emotional intelligence of a brain-damaged frog.
Both of you stared at me, waiting for me to speak, but what could I say? One of you was completely clueless about the situation, while the other seemed only too happy about it.
‘Look, this is Henry’s new book,’ you said, holding up a bright red hardback and looking pleased as punch, as though you had written it yourself and wanted a gold star.
Henry gave a shrug of false modesty. ‘It’s probably not your cup of tea.’
‘Not really, no. I see enough horror in the real world,’ I replied. You might not be able to read the expressions on my face, but I’m fluent in yours, and if looks could kill I would have been in the morgue. We could have cut the tension with a teaspoon, so it wasn’t surprising that Henry picked up on it.
‘I’m so sorry to intrude. I sold my London flat last year and retreated to my Scottish hideaway full-time – you and Adam must come to visit – I’ve got a meeting with my publisher in town tomorrow, but there was some last-minute problem with my hotel reservation, and your husband insisted I stay here…’ I didn’t say a word. ‘… but I don’t want to intrude. I could always—’
‘You’re more than welcome here. Isn’t he, darling?’ you interrupted, looking at me.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’m actually just getting changed and popping out to see a friend. I hope you have a lovely evening.’
I felt like an unwanted guest in my own home.
I practically ran up the stairs and packed a bag. I spent the entire weekend with my friend from work. We went to an art gallery one day, and the theatre the next. I felt alive, and happy, and free. I enjoy her company more than yours these days. She tends to like animals more than people too, that’s why she started volunteering at Battersea Dogs Home. She listens to me, laughs at my jokes, and doesn’t make me feel second-best all the time. She’s a bit too fond of microwave meals and tinned food for lunch – I’ve never seen her eat a salad or anything green – but nobody is perfect and there are plenty of worse things in life to be addicted to.