‘You don’t need to draw in the dust to make a point,’ Amelia says. I stare at the small, childish, smiley face she is referring to on the church bench. I hadn’t noticed it before.
I didn’t draw it.
The large wooden outside doors slam closed behind us before I can defend myself.
We both spin around, but there is nobody here except us. The whole building seems to tremble, the tiny mirrors on the wall swing a little on their rusty nails, and the dog whimpers. Amelia looks at me, her eyes wide, and her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’。 My mind tries to offer a rational explanation, because that’s what it always does.
‘You thought the wind might have blown the doors open… maybe it blew them shut,’ I say, and Amelia nods.
The woman I married over ten years ago would never believe that. But these days, my wife only ever hears what she wants to hear, and sees what she wants to see.
Rock
Word of the year:
limerence noun an involuntary state of mind caused by a romantic attraction to another person combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one’s feelings reciprocated.
October 2007
Dear Adam,
It was something at first sight when we met.
I wasn’t sure what, but I know you felt it too.
The Electric Cinema was a first date with a difference. We’d both gone to see a film alone but I sat in your seat by mistake, we got talking, and left together after the movie. Everyone thought we were crazy and that the whirlwind romance wouldn’t last, but I’ve always got great satisfaction from proving people wrong. As have you. It’s one of the many things we have in common.
I confess that moving in together wasn’t exactly how I imagined. It’s harder to hide the darker side real you from someone you live with, and you did a better job of concealing all the clutter when I only came to visit. I have renamed the hallway Story Street, because it is lined with so many teetering piles of manuscripts and books; we have to sidestep to pass through it. I knew that reading and writing were a big part of your life, but we might need to find something bigger than a basement studio in an old Notting Hill townhouse now that I live here too. I am so happy though. I’ve got used to playing second fiddle in the orchestra of us, and I accept that there will always be three of us in this relationship: you, me, and your writing.
It was the cause of our first big argument, do you remember? I suppose I should have known better than to search through the drawers in your desk, but I was only looking for matches. That’s when I found the manuscript for Rock Paper Scissors, with your name neatly typed in Times New Roman on the front page. I had the flat to myself, and a decent bottle of wine, so I read the whole thing that night. From the look on your face when you came home, anyone would have thought I’d read your diary.
But I think I understand now. That manuscript wasn’t just an unsold story; it was like an abandoned child. Rock Paper Scissors was your first ever screenplay but it’s never made it to screen. You’ve collaborated with three producers, two directors, and one A-list actor. You spent so many years writing draft after draft, but it still never got beyond development. It must be upsetting that your favourite story has been forgotten about, left to die in a desk drawer, but I’m sure it won’t stay that way forever. I’ve become your official first reader since then – a role I am very proud of – and your writing just gets better and better.
I know you’d rather see your own tales turned into films, but for now it’s all about other people’s. I still haven’t quite gotten used to the amount of time you spend reading their novels, because someone somewhere thinks they might work on screen. But I’ve watched you disappear inside a book like a rabbit inside a magician’s hat, and I’ve learned to accept that sometimes you are a bit self-involved don’t resurface for days.
Luckily, books are something else we have in common, though I think it’s fair to say we have different tastes. You like horror stories, thrillers, and crime novels, which are not my cup of tea at all. I’ve always thought there must be something seriously wrong with people who write dark and twisted fiction. I prefer a good love story. But I’ve tried to be understanding about your work – even though it sometimes hurts when you choose to spend your time in a world of fantasy, instead of here in the real one, with me.
I think that’s why I got so upset when you said we couldn’t get a dog. I’ve been nothing but supportive of you and your career since we met, but sometimes I worried that our future was really only about yours. I know working for Battersea Dogs Home isn’t as glamorous as being a screenwriter, but I like my job, it makes me happy. Your reasons for not getting a dog were rational （you always are）。 The flat is ridiculously small, and we do both work long hours, but I’d always said I could take the dog to work with me. You bring your work home after all.