Wood

WOOD

Word of the year:

menschnoun. A good person. Someone who is kind and acts with integrity and honor.

28th February 2013—our fifth anniversary

Dear Adam,

I’m sorry I’ve been acting so jealous lately, I’m hoping we can put these past few months behind us. It would seem strange not to mention the baby stuff at all. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen, or that I didn’t want to be a mother. It was never about having your children (sorry), I just wanted my own. I’ve given up on giving up so many things in life, but I knew I couldn’t keep trying for a baby. Not after the last round of IVF didn’t work. The heartbreak was killing me, and my unhappiness was killing our marriage.

I still secretly hoped it might happen for a while. I’ve read all those stories about couples who get pregnant as soon as they stop trying, but that isn’t what life had planned for us. For the first few months I still cried every time my period arrived, not that you asked I told you that. But I think I’ve moved on now, or at least moved far enough away to breathe again. Life can start to feel full of holes when the love has nowhere to go.

Bob isn’t a baby—I know that—but I suppose I do treat him like a surrogate child. And I’ve thrown myself back into my work at the dogs home these last few months. The unexpected promotion I’ve been given doesn’t pay much more than before, but it’s nice to feel recognized. And I’ve realized I’m a good person. Not being able to get pregnant wasn’t a punishment, it just wasn’t the plan. When I was a child I was repeatedly told that I was bad, and sometimes I still believed it. But they were wrong about me. All of them.

We had a row last week, our first in ages, do you remember? I still feel guilty about that. To be fair, I think a lot of wives might have reacted the same way. You came home drunk, and considerably later than you said you would. It might not have bothered me so much if I hadn’t made the effort to cook. But instead of picking up on my silent anger when I made a scene of scraping your cold, uneaten dinner into the bin, you told me all about October O’Brien. The young, award-winning Irish actress had fallen in love with your screenplay: Rock Paper Scissors. She’d gotten in touch via your agent, and an afternoon meeting for three turned into drinks and a meal for two. Just you and her. I hadn’t been worried at all until I Googled the girl and saw how beautiful she was.

“You’ll have to meet her yourself,” you babbled with a ridiculous grin on your face. Your lips were a little stained with red wine, at least I hoped that’s what it was. “Her thoughts about how to improve the script are just … genius!” I helped you with that script years ago. I might not be a Hollywood actress, but I read. A lot. And I thought Team Us did a pretty good job. “You’re going to love her…” you gushed, but I very much doubted that. “She’s simply delightful … so utterly charming, and clever, and—”

“I didn’t realize she was old enough to drink,” I interrupted. I’d had some wine myself while I stayed up waiting.

“Don’t be like that,” you said, with a look that made me want to punch you.

“Like what? It isn’t as though we haven’t been here before. An actor or actress says they love your story, they won’t rest until it gets made in Hollywood—”

“This is different.”

“Is it? The girl is barely out of school—”

“She’s in her twenties and she’s already won a Bafta—”

“You won a Bafta in your twenties, but it still didn’t get you what you wanted. Surely it’s a producer you need to back the project … or a studio.”

“I’ve got a much better chance with an actress like October attached. If she knocks on doors in LA they will open for her. Whereas with me, unless I get another big book to adapt soon, all the doors seem to be closing.” I felt bad then. It’s been tough for you this year. You’re still getting work, but not the kind you really want. I was about to change the subject, try to be a little kinder, but then you lashed out in self-defense. “It’s a shame you aren’t still as passionate about your career, then maybe you would understand.”

“That’s not fair,” I said, even though it was.

“Isn’t it? You haven’t had a decent pay rise from Battersea for years, but you still stay.”

“Because I love working there.”

“No, because you’re too scared to even consider working somewhere else.”

“We don’t all want to rule the world, some of us just want to make it a better place.”

The thought of you not being proud of me was utterlydevastating hurt. A lot. I know you think I could be doing more with my life, but it isn’t all my fault. When the person you love has too many bright ideas, they can completely eclipse yours. And I still do. Love you. I spent my ambition on your dreams instead of my own.

You slept in the spare room that night, but we’ve made up since. Just in time for this year’s anniversary.

You were awake before me this morning, which is practically unheard of, and unexpected given how late you were up rewriting a ten-year-old screenplay again last night. When you carried a tray of breakfast into our bedroom, I thought I must be dreaming. In all the years we have been together, you’ve never done that before. So I should have known something was wrong.

We ate dippy eggs, as I like to call them—soft-boiled is your preferred grown-up term—with toast. I was looking forward to spending the day together, so I couldn’t understand why you were up so early, or why you seemed to be so keen to take the dirty cups and plates back downstairs.

“We don’t need to rush, do we?” I asked.

Your face confessed before you did. “I’m so sorry, I need to go and see my agent. It really won’t take long—”

“But we agreed to spend the whole day together this year. I took annual leave.”

“And we will, it’s just for a couple of hours. I really think Rock Paper Scissors might actually get made this time. I just want to talk to him, in person—you know it’s the only way I can tell what he really thinks about anything—while the project has momentum again. See if he agrees about the next steps and…”

I know you couldn’t see whatever face I pulled, but you must have read my body language.

“I know it’s our anniversary but I promise I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

“We’ll still have dinner?” I said.

“It will be drinks o’clock by five P.M. at the latest. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done, and I got you this.”

It was a ticket for a matinee performance of a show I have wanted to see for months. It’s been sold out since it opened. The ticket was for today, so at least I’d have something fun to do while you were working. But it also meant that you knew I would need something to do. Alone. There was only one ticket. I gave you your anniversary present then. Five years is meant to be a wooden gift so I got you a ruler with an inscription:

FIVE YEARS MARRIED, WHO WOOD BELIEVE IT?

You smiled, held up two ties and asked me to choose one. I loathe them both to be honest, but pointed at the one with the birds. It seemed strange even at the time, given that you never normally dress up to see your agent.

“It’s not for me, it’s for you,” you said, reading my mind.

You wrapped the silk tie around my face to cover my eyes. Then you took me by the hand and led me downstairs.

“I can’t go outside in my nightie!” I whispered, when I heard you open the front door.

“Sure you can, you still look just as beautiful as the day we got married, and besides, it’s the only way to show you your real anniversary present.”

“I thought it was the theater ticket,” I said.

“Give me some credit.”

“Can’t, sorry. You’re already in too much debt.”

“This year’s gift is meant to be made of wood, right?”

I took a few more uncertain steps, the cold path biting my bare feet, until they reached the grass. We stopped and you removed my makeshift blindfold.

There was a leafless and ugly little tree in the middle of what used to be my perfect lawn.

“It’s a tree,” you said.

“I can see that.”

“I know you’ve always wanted a magnolia so—”

“Is that what it is?” You looked hurt. “I’m sorry, it’s really sweet of you. I love it. I mean, not right now maybe, but when the flowers come out, I bet it will look amazing.” You looked happy again. “Thank you, it’s the perfect gift. Now go and get your screenplay made into a Hollywood blockbuster, so Bob and I can walk down a red carpet in Leicester Square.”

As soon as you had my permission you were out the door, and I was alone on our anniversary. Again.

Looking back now—hindsight is such a bitch—I think everything would have been fine had a smoke alarm not gone off at the theater that afternoon. Everyone in the audience was evacuated not long after the curtain went up, the fire brigade was called, and the matinee performance I was meant to see got canceled.

That’s why I came back to the house earlier than planned.

I found myself staring at a couple on the tube ride home. They were our age, but holding hands and grinning at each other like two smitten teenagers. I bet that they always spent anniversaries together, and I started to wonder where we sat on the scale of normal. The jury in my head was still out when I arrived back at Hampstead station. The heavens opened as I started walking and I was drenched by the time I reached our garden gate. I felt inexplicable rage at the sight of the ugly magnolia tree you had planted, and by the time I reached the front door my hands were shaking with crankiness and cold.

As I struggled to slot the key in the lock, I heard a woman laughing inside our home. When I opened the door and stepped into the hall, I felt like I must be dreaming. There was a Hollywood actress drinking wine in my kitchen. With you. On our anniversary.

“What are you doing home so early?” you asked, looking as upset as I felt.

“The play was canceled,” I said, staring at her the whole time—I couldn’t help it. October O’Brien was even more beautiful in real life than she was in all the pictures I’d Googled online. Her extremely pale, porcelain-like skin was flawless, and her copper, pixie-cut hair shone beneath our kitchen lights. If I had mine styled that way I would look like a boy, but she looked like a happy elf princess, with her big green eyes and wide white smile. Even in my twenties I never looked that good.

Then you introduced us, as though coming home to find your husband drinking wine in the afternoon with another woman—who you have only ever seen on TV and in films—was normal. I was about to make a complete tit of myself, but then October’s perfect red lips smiled and she explained what you should have.

“It’s so lovely to meet you,” she purred, holding out a perfectly manicured hand. For a moment I wasn’t sure whether to shake it, kiss it, or slap it away. I had an odd urge to curtsy. “Your husband confessed last night that he has never cooked you an anniversary meal. I said I didn’t want anything to do with his screenplay until that situation was rectified, and when he said he couldn’t cook, I offered to help. It was supposed to be a surprise … but maybe it was a bad one?”

I felt my face get hot for several reasons all at once.

Firstly, I wished I had cleaned our fridge more recently, then I panicked about the condition of our old pots and pans—worried what she must think about me and us and the state of our kitchen. Then I wished I’d worn a little more makeup, because next to this beautiful creature, I felt like a bedraggled old bat.

I needn’t have worried. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more kind or generous woman—no wonder you wanted to work with her. Even Bob fell in love with our houseguest, but he loves everyone. I insisted that October stay and eat the meal she had prepared with us—you didn’t argue—and once I had changed into some dry clothes and opened another bottle, we had the most wonderful evening. All three courses were delicious—especially the chocolate pudding. I thought I’d be intimidated by someone like October O’Brien. She’s so stunning, successful, and smart … but she was utterly charming, modest, and sweet. It made me realize that regardless of who everyone thinks celebrities are, at the end of the day they’re just people. Like you and me. Even the disturbingly beautiful ones.

“I knew you’d love her too if you met her,” you said when October left.

“You were right, but I love you more.”

“Almost always?” you asked and smiled. “So you don’t mind me working with her now? And you won’t get jealous?”

“Who says I was jealous?” I replied, and you raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve no need to be. She’s lovely, but she’s still an actress.”

“Do you think I’m lovely?”

“You’re my MIP,” you said.

“MIP?”

“Most Important Person.”

Thank you for a very memorable anniversary this year, one I certainly won’t forget. Five years. Where did it go? So many memories, mostly happy ones, and I’m looking forward to making more with you in the future. I suspect everyone has a Most Important Person. I am yours and you are mine. Now and forever.

Your wife

xx