Leather

LEATHER

Word of the year:

bibliokleptnoun. A person who steals stories. A book thief.

28th February 2011—our third anniversary

Dear Adam,

I suspect most couples celebrate anniversaries alone—a table for two at a special restaurant perhaps—but not you and me. Not this year. Tonight, we spent our anniversary with several hundred strangers, and it felt like all eyes were on us.

I have never known anyone who hates parties as much as you do, and yet you seem to go to so many lately. I’m not suggesting that you’re antisocial, and I do understand why you dread them so much. Gatherings of more than a handful of people are problematic when you can’t recognize a single face. So a fancy film industry party at Tower Bridge, with hundreds of pretentious people who all think you should know who they are, must be like walking blindfolded into an ego-filled minefield.

“Please go straight in, Mr. Wright,” purred the woman on the door, with a wide smile and busy-looking clipboard.

I’d watched while she carefully checked other people’s names off her color-coded list, but there was no need with you. Everyone knows who you are now—the new kid on the block who got to stay. Screenwriting is a last laugh business. None of these people gave you a sideways glance when you were down on your luck, but with a blockbuster film under your belt—thanks to Henry Winter’s novel—they all want to be your best friend again. For now.

The reason you started inviting me to the big parties, events, and award ceremonies, was so that I could whisper who people are when they approach us, to save you the embarrassment of not recognizing someone that you should. Not that I mind. I quite enjoy it—unlike you—and it’s fun dressing up once in a while, getting my hair done, and wearing high heels again. There isn’t much call for that sort of thing when you’re working with dogs all day.

We have a pretty good routine now. After a few years of listening to you talk about producers, executives, directors, actors, and authors, I had already imagined a cast of their faces. But now I know what they all look like in real life, and we spend evenings like these chatting to people from your world. I rarely have much in common with them, but find it easy enough to talk about books and films and TV dramas—everyone loves a good story.

I was looking forward to seeing inside Tower Bridge for the first time, and the promise of free champagne and posh finger food created by a Michelin-starred chef is still such a treat. But as soon as I spotted Henry Winter’s name on the guest list, I dreaded going inside. From that moment, it was obvious that the real reason we were spending our anniversary with strangers, was because you were hoping to bump into Henry and persuade him to give you another book. You’ve already asked twice. I told you not to beg, but you always think you know best wouldn’t listen. Writing is a hard way to make an easy living.

Tower Bridge was illuminated against the London night sky when we arrived. The party was already in full swing, the dull beat of music and laughter up above us, competing with the gentle lapping of the murky Thames down below. As soon as the lift spat us out onto the top floor, I could tell that it was going to be an interesting evening. The space was smaller than I had imagined, little more than a long corridor crammed full of film types. A waiter squeezed past with a tray of champagne and I was happy to relieve him of two glasses. Having taken a pregnancy test that morning, just in case, I knew there was no reason not to drink. I’ve stopped telling you the monthly bad news, and you’ve stopped asking.

“Happy anniversary,” you whispered, and we clinked glasses before you took a sip.

I took several myself, so that my champagne flute was already half empty. I find alcohol helps drown my social anxiety, which I still experience every time I attend an event like this. Everyone here knows who you are. The only expectations you still struggle to live up to are your own. But I have never felt as if I fit in with these people, perhaps because I don’t. I prefer dogs. I took another sip, then I did what I was there to do and subtly scanned the room, my eyes searching for what yours could not see.

We exchanged anniversary gifts this morning. I gave you a leather satchel with your initials embossed on it in gold lettering. I’ve watched you carrying your precious manuscripts around in ugly bags for years, so it seemed like an appropriate present. Your gift to me was a pair of knee-high leather boots I’d had my eye on. I thought I might be too old to wear them—at thirty-two—but you clearly disagreed. I wore them for the first time tonight and I noticed you staring at my legs in the taxi en route to the party. It felt nice to feel wanted.

“Incoming,” I whispered into your ear as we made our way down the packed corridor of partygoers.

“Good, bad, or ugly?” you asked.

“Bad. The producer who wanted you to work on that crime novel adaptation last month … the one who got snooty when you turned her down. Lisa? Linda? Liz?”

“Lizzy Parks?”

“Yes.”

“Shit. Every party has a pooper. Does she look pissed yet?” you asked.

“Very much so.”

“Has she seen us?”

“Affirmative.”

“Damn. That woman treats writers like factories and their work like tins of baked beans. It wasn’t even her book to adapt. She’s a walking, talking, biblioklept—”

“Code red.”

“Lizzy, darling, how are you? You look wonderful,” you said, in that voice you only use when speaking to small children or pretentious people. I hope you never talk to me like that, I’ll be upset if you do.

You kissed the air beside each other’s cheeks, and I marveled at how you do what you do. It’s as though you have a switch, one which I am clearly missing. You become a different version of yourself at parties, the one everyone loves: charming, complimentary, clever, popular, the center of their attention. Nothing like the shy, quiet man I know who disappears into his new, rather lovely, writing shed every day. It was like watching a performance. I love all the different versions of you, but I prefer my Adam, the real one who only I get to see.

“Incoming,” I whispered again, after enjoying a perfectly cooked scallop, topped with a smidgen of pea puree, served on a miniature seashell, and eaten with a tiny silver spoon.

“Who now?” you asked.

I knew this one. “Nathan.”

I watched while you shook his hand and listened while you talked shop. The boss of the studio hosting the party is one of those men who is always working the room. Constantly looking over his or your shoulder, to see who else he could or should be chatting up. He was a man who liked to tax joy, always siphoning off a little of someone else’s in order to increase his own. You introduced me, and I felt myself shrink a little under his gaze.

“And what do you do?” he asked.

It was a question I hated. Not because of the answer, but because of other people’s responses to it.

“I work for Battersea Dogs Home,” I said, and made my face smile.

“Oh, gosh. Good for you.”

I decided not to explain how or why it wasn’t good for me that so many people were cruel or irresponsible when it comes to animals. I also thought it best to ignore his condescending tone. I was taught to always be polite: you can’t cross a bridge if you burn it. Luckily the conversation and the company moved on as both always do at these things, and we found ourselves alone at last.

“Any sign of him?” you whispered.

I didn’t need to ask who. “Afraid not. We could try the other side?”

We headed down the second corridor, an indoor tunnel linking one tower to the other above the famous bridge. The view of the Thames and London lit up down below was spectacular.

“Can you see Henry now?” you asked again, and looked so sad when I said that I couldn’t. Like a little boy who had been stood up by the girl of his dreams.

There was an invisible queue of people preparing to pounce on you all evening, waiting for their chance to say hello: producers who wanted to work with you, executives who wished they hadn’t been unkind to you in the past, and other writers who wished that they were you. My feet were starting to hurt, so I was delighted—as well as surprised—when you suggested leaving early.

You hailed a black cab, and as soon as we were on the backseat, you kissed me. Your hand found the top of my new leather boots, then slid up between my legs and under my dress. As soon as we got home, you started pulling my clothes off in the hallway, until the boots were all I was wearing. Sex on the recently renovated staircase was a new experience. I could still smell the varnish.

Later, we drank whiskey in bed, talked about the party and all the people we met tonight: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

“Do you still love me as much as you did when we got married?” I asked.

“Almost always,” you replied with a cheeky grin. It’s one of your favorite things to say. You looked so handsome that all I could do was laugh.

I almost always love you too. But I didn’t mention that I’d seen Henry Winter several times during the evening, wearing his trademark tweed jacket, bow tie, and a strange expression on his heavily lined face. He looked older than he does in his author photos. With his thick white hair, blue eyes, and extremely pale skin, it was a bit like seeing a ghost. I didn’t tell you that your favorite author had been staring in our direction, constantly following us around the party, desperately trying to get your attention.

Three years and so many secrets.

Are there things that you keep from me too?

All my love,

Your wife

xx