‘Not all actresses are on the stage. Some walk among us, masquerading as normal people.’ We both laughed and you held me closer. There is something quite magical about being in a warm bed when it’s cold outside. Sharing body heat with someone you love. Or used to. But just because we still share a bed, it doesn’t mean that we still share the same opinions.
‘What do you see inside me?’ I asked.
‘Same as always, my beautiful wife.’
You stared at me then and I felt seen.
‘What happened to us?’ I asked, expecting you to look away, or change the subject, but you didn’t.
‘I’m not who I was ten years ago, and neither are you, and that’s OK. The only question we need to ask ourselves is, do we love who we are now? Listening to your friend tonight made me feel lonely and lucky at the same time. The success of a relationship can’t be measured by longevity alone. I love that we celebrate these milestones every anniversary, and even I smile at those news items about couples who have been together for seventy years, but I also think it’s possible to have a one-night stand that might be more profound than some marriages. It’s not about how long a relationship lasts, it’s about what it teaches you about each other and yourself.’
‘What are you saying?’
You smiled. ‘Rock paper scissors.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me, rock paper scissors. If you win, we stay together forever.’
It must be a year since we last played that game. But you let me win just like you always used to, my scissors cutting your paper. It sounds silly, but I felt as if it was a sign that maybe we were more like who we used to be too.
‘What would have happened if I’d lost?’ I asked.
‘We would stay together forever anyway, because I love you, Mrs Wright,’ you replied, slipping your arm around my waist. If it was the alcohol talking, I didn’t care. You spend all day working with words, but those were the only three I needed to hear.
‘I love you more,’ I said, and we made love for the first time in a long time.
I’m an eggs-in-one-basket girl when it comes to relationships, and it’s a dangerous way to be. One bad fall, or an unfortunate slip-up, and everything I care about could get broken and smashed. I found my person when I found you, and I’ve never really needed or wanted anyone else since. Rightly or wrongly, I poured every emotional part of myself into us. I adopted your hopes and dreams and loved them as though they were my own. I cared about you so much, I had nothing left to give anyone else, even myself. I was content with a social circle big enough for two. You were always enough for me, but I never felt as though I was quite enough for you. Maybe that can change. Maybe if I try to love you a little less, the scales might tip in my favour, and you might love me a little more?
I care about my friend at work very much, but I don’t want to end up like her. Seeing her here in our home – so lonely, and sad, and broken – was a bit of a wake-up call. Funny how another person’s misfortune can make you realise what you have. We need to stop taking each other for granted. That’s another thing nobody tells you about marriage; sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, doesn’t mean it’s over. Perhaps this is as good or as bad as it gets? So, although our house stopped feeling like a home, I’m going to try to fix that, and I’m going to try and fix us. Even if that means counselling, or compromises, or perhaps some time away, just you and me… and Bob. Maybe all marriages have secrets, and maybe the only way to stay married is to keep them.
Your wife
xx
Adam
‘What does this mean?’ I ask, holding the tiny drawer full of pennies in one hand and a broken GO AWAY I’M WRITING mug in the other. I may suffer from face blindness and the odd neurological glitch, but there is nothing wrong with my memory （most of the time）。 The desk is full of anniversary gifts my wife gave me over the years. ‘Are you in on all this?’
‘What? No!’ Amelia says.
I stare at her, searching for the truth, but I can’t even see her face. Her features are swirling like a Van Gogh painting and I feel dizzy just looking in her direction. Sometimes I can recognise people by the shape or colour of their hair, or a distinctive pair of glasses. Sometimes I don’t know if I know them at all.
‘Then how do you explain this?’ I say, turning back to the desk. ‘You arranged this little trip to Scotland; you drove us here—’
‘I can’t explain anything that has happened this weekend.’