Adam

ADAM

I pretend to be asleep, and wonder how long I’ll have to hold her before I can get back to what I was doing downstairs.

Amelia has always struggled to sleep, but the pills help, and her breathing changes when they work. So all I have to do is wait. And listen. The same way I did a little earlier. The second pill should do the trick—it normally does, even when I secretly crush them and put them in her tea. She’s a very anxious individual. It’s for her own good. As soon as she is asleep again, I slide out from beneath the sheets, take the candlestick from beside the bed, and leave the room as quietly as possible. I don’t really need it to light my way—I know where I’m going—but make a mental note to avoid the noisiest floorboards: I know which ones creak.

Bob follows me down the wooden spiral staircase, and I love that about having a dog: they are so loving and loyal. Dogs aren’t unforgiving or suspicious. They don’t get jealous and start fights all the time so that you dread being with them. Dogs don’t lie. He might be a bit deaf these days, but Bob is always happy to see me, whereas Amelia only sees things from her point of view.

I’m tired. Of all of it.

I used to believe in love, but then, I used to believe in Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy. I’ve heard people describe marriage as two missing pieces of a puzzle coming together, and discovering that they are a perfect fit. But that’s just wrong. People are different and that’s a good thing. Two pieces of different puzzles cannot and will not fit together, unless one has been forced to bend or break or change to fit around the other. I can see now that my wife has spent a lot of time trying to change me, to make me feel smaller, so that we would be a better fit.

Nobody should promise to love somebody else forever, the most any sane individual should do is promise to try. What if the person you married becomes unrecognizable ten years later? People change and promises—even the ones we try to keep—sometimes get broken.

I started running again a few months ago. Writing is a solitary profession and it’s also not terribly active. I spend a scary amount of time sitting on my arse in the shed, and the only part of my body that gets a decent workout are my fingers, tapping away on the keyboard. Bob takes me for walks once a day but—like me—he’s getting on in years. The running was just about getting fit and trying to take better care of myself. But of course, my wife presumed it meant I was planning to have an affair. A couple of weeks ago, she put my running shoes out with the trash the night before the bins got collected. I saw her do it. That is not normal behavior.

I just bought new running shoes, but they’re not the only thing in my life that needs replacing. I might not be good at recognizing faces, but I can tell I’m looking older. I certainly feel it. Perhaps because everyone else in my industry seems to be getting younger these days: the executives, the producers, the agents. Almost everyone in the last writer’s room I was involved in looked like they should have been in school instead. That used to be me. I was the new kid on the block once. It’s strange when you still feel young, but everyone starts to treat you as though you are old. I’m only in my forties, not ready for retirement quite yet.

Am I attracted to other people? Sure, I’m human, we are designed to be. Never because of a pretty face—I can’t see those anyway. People are a bit like books for me in that way, and I tend to be genuinely turned on by what’s on the inside rather than just a flashy cover. I admit I’ve been thinking about someone else a lot lately, imagining what it would be like if I was with them instead. But doesn’t everyone have little fantasies occasionally? That’s all they are and it doesn’t mean I’m actually going to do something about it. The last time I slept with someone I shouldn’t have it did not end well for me. I’ve learned that lesson. I think. Besides, I’m always working, I don’t have time to have an affair these days. I do my best to placate my wife’s constant jealousy, but no matter what I say she just doesn’t seem capable of trusting me.

In some ways, she’s right not to.

I have never been completely honest with my wife, but that’s for her own good.

There are so many things I can’t tell her; a bit like the sleeping pills I sometimes pop into her hot drinks before bedtime. Things she doesn’t need to know. It was me who turned the power off when she was down in the crypt earlier. She doesn’t understand fuse boxes—all I had to do was flick a switch and drop the trapdoor. I forgot about the generator outside, but I’ve turned that off now too, and we won’t be getting power back any time soon.