Iron

IRON

Word of the year:

chuffedadjective. Feeling happy or very pleased.

28th February 2014—our sixth anniversary

Dear Adam,

This has been a good year for us both, hasn’t it? You were happy, which made me happy, as though it were contagious. Henry Winter asked you to adapt another of his novels for film—a murder mystery with a hint of horror this time, called The Black House—and things seem to be moving in the right direction with your own screenplays too, with Rock Paper Scissors now in preproduction!

We have October O’Brien to thank for that. Having an A-list actress on board didn’t just help open doors for your own projects in Hollywood, it attracted the attention of a great producer, someone you trust. The three of you have spent an insane amount lots of time together this year, with you disappearing to LA with them more than once, not that I mind. Besides, thanks to October, we’ve just had one of our best anniversaries ever.

I told her that we’ve never been away for our anniversary because you’re always too busy working—it’s true—and that’s when she suggested we celebrate our sixth in style at her French villa. It was very kind, especially when she’s had such a horrible time lately. The press found out about a speeding ticket, one of many as it turns out. October’s pretty face—and very expensive car—was in the newspapers for all the wrong reasons. October loves driving fast cars, but now she has to go to court and because of all the previous offenses, it sounds like she might lose her license.

The Eurotunnel crossing was much faster than I imagined it would be. We parked on the train, and just over thirty minutes later we were in Calais, as if by magic. Bob used his pet passport for the first time, and it was so easy to travel with a dog. I saw one woman crossing the channel with a rabbit in the passenger seat of her car. It wore a tiny red harness and walked on a lead, I’d never seen anything like it!

We drove through Paris—I wanted to see Notre Dame—and after lunch in a little café on the bank of the River Seine, we strolled through the “Bouquinistes of Paris,” and the booksellers of Paris did not disappoint. Each had their own display of secondhand books—hundreds of them—beneath a sea of green-roofed huts lining the path along the river. Just as their predecessors had been doing for hundreds of years.

You were in your element.

“Do you know these bookstalls were declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1991?” you said, stopping to literally smell the books. It’s something you always do, and although I once found it a little peculiar, I now find it endearing. I love the way you pick up a book in your hands, carefully turning the pages as if the paper were made of gold, then smell them, as if you might be able to breathe in the story.

“I did not know that,” I replied, having heard you tell this tale several times before.

That’s a funny thing about marriage that nobody ever mentions. People think that when a couple run out of stories to tell each other, their time is up. I could listen to your stories all day, even the ones I’ve already heard, because every time you tell a story it’s a little different. Nobody knows everything about another person, no matter how long they’ve been together, but if you ever feel like you know too much then something is wrong.

“It is said that the River Seine is the only river in the world that runs between two bookshelves,” you said, and you held my hand.

“I like that,” I replied, because I did. I still do.

“I like you,” you replied, then you kissed me.

We haven’t kissed in public like that for years. At first, I felt self-conscious—I wasn’t sure I could remember how—but then I gave in to the idea of us being us again. The people we used to be. We time traveled to the moment when I was the girl you wanted to marry, and you were the man I hoped might ask.

October has loaned us her French home in Champagne while she is filming another movie in America. She has four different homes dotted around the world. Maybe that’s why she’s so good at changing her accent and look. Her French house is a twenty-minute walk from Moët & Chandon on Avenue de Champagne—which I’m quite convinced is the best address I’ve ever heard—and I can see why she likes living here more than London or Dublin. I feel like we are in Disneyland for wine lovers. The main avenue is a cobblestoned wonderland for anyone who enjoys a glass of fizz. Elegant châteaus line the street on either side, each owned by the world’s oldest and best-known winemakers. The town itself is filled with award-winning restaurants and cute little bars, all serving champagne as if it were lemonade.

Your favorite actress’s French hideaway is in the perfect location: close enough to walk to the center of town, but far away enough to feel like we are in the countryside, with sweeping views of vineyards and the valley below. The building was once a small, derelict, former independent winery. Now it is a luxury house, all wooden beams and big glass windows. Modern, but with enough original features to make it feel like a home. Not too shabby at all for a woman under thirty. She seems to have caught the renovation bug, and already has her eye on another abandoned property she wants to transform, according to you. Somewhere a little more remote.

We arrived late, so after a supper of cooked Camembert, jam, and fresh French bread, washed down with a bottle of champagne—bien sûr—it was straight to bed.

“Happy anniversary,” you said the next morning, kissing me awake.

I wasn’t sure where I was at first, but then relaxed when I saw the stunning view from the guest bedroom: nothing but blue sky, sunshine, and vineyards. You smiled when you gave me my gift and looked rather pleased with yourself. I’m so sorry if I looked a little disappointed when I opened it; I was still half asleep and wasn’t expecting you to give me a bookmark. Don’t get me wrong, as bookmarks go it’s a very nice one: made of iron to represent our sixth year and engraved:

IRON SO GLAD I MARRIED YOU.

You seemed to think that was hilarious.

“I’m just chuffed that you love reading as much as I do these days,” you said. “It’s nice when we spend an evening with a couple of books and a bottle of something good in front of the fire, isn’t it?”

“Nobody under seventy uses the word ‘chuffed’ anymore,” I replied.

It is true—I do read as much as you these days. What choice do I have? It’s either read together or be alone.

I gave you your gift: a very elaborate-looking vintage iron key. You seemed as unimpressed as I probably did a few minutes earlier, and I decided we might need to work on our gift buying choices.

“What does it open?” you asked.

“A secret,” I said, and reached beneath the white sheets.

I think you’ll remember what we did then, twice, in October O’Brien’s bedroom. It was the best sex we’ve had in a long time. There were several photos of our lovely host hanging on the walls: October winning a Bafta, or posing with members of the royal family for the charity work she does, or smiling with other young, beautiful, Hollywood A-listers that I should probably know the names of, but don’t. I had to turn away at one point, worried she was watching us.

I hate myself for thinking it, but I hope it was me you were picturing in her bed.

I had a little nose about the place while you were taking a shower. Who wouldn’t? There were inspirational mottos dotted around, including a framed print that read: YOU GET WHAT YOU WORK FOR, NOT WHAT YOU WISH FOR and—my personal favorite—BE THE PERSON YOUR DOG THINKS YOU ARE. I didn’t know she had one. There was also some unopened mail on the doormat, and two of the envelopes I picked up were addressed to an R. O’Brien.

“I didn’t know October was married,” I said, putting the post on the dressing table, and having a quick peek inside her drawers.

“She isn’t,” you replied from the bathroom.

“Then who is R. O’Brien?”

“What?” you asked, shouting over the sound of the shower.

“These letters are all addressed to someone called R. O’Brien.”

“October is just her stage name. It helps keep her private life private,” you said. “Good thing too the way the press sometimes goes after her. That business about the speeding ticket and all the headlines it generated, you’d have thought she killed someone.” Then you immediately changed the subject, and I was glad, because I wanted this time away to be all about us. Only us.

I gave you that iron key because I want to tell you the truth about everything. All of it. We’re so happy at the moment, and I don’t want there to be secrets between us anymore. But when you unwrapped it, and held the key to everything in your hand, something felt wrong. Why ruin our present or jeopardize our future with my past? Better to let us live this happy version of us a little while longer.

All my love,

Your wife

xx