HAPPILY MARRIED

If all we need is love, why do we always want more?
I dial her number. Again. Finally, she answers.
“I’m on my way, almost there,” my wife says without me having
to ask. I can hear that she is driving, so she is heading home, but
almost there sounds like a lie. She has a habit of stretching the truth
into something more agreeable these days.
“You said you would be here,” I reply, sounding like a petulant
child instead of a grown man. “This is important to me.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be there soon, promise. I’ve picked up
fish-and-chips.”
Fish-and-chips is how we have celebrated almost every major
milestone. It’s what we ate on our first date, when we got engaged,
the day I got an agent, and when we bought our dream house. I’m
a little in love with this old thatched cottage on the south coast, just
over an hour from London but a million miles from the city. Our only
neighbors these days are sheep. Tonight, fish-and-chips was how I
hoped we might celebrate my first New York Times bestseller,
washed down with a bottle of champagne I’ve been saving for five
years. My editor in America said she would call if it was good news,
but it’s nearly 9:00 P.M. (4:00 P.M. in New York) and she hasn’t been
in touch. Nobody has.
“Heard anything?” Abby asks. I hear her turn on the windscreen
wipers, and I picture the rain streaming down the glass like tears.
“Not yet.”
“Well, get off the phone or they won’t be able to get through,”
she says and hangs up.
Abby was supposed to be by my side when I got the call, but
she’s late home. Again. She loves what she does—working as an
investigative journalist and finding good stories about bad people.
Men, mostly. My wife’s whole life has been mapped out by her moral
compass and an insatiable desire to expose wrongdoing, but I worry
about her upsetting someone she shouldn’t. Abby has been receiving
anonymous threats sent to the newspaper where she works. She’s
become so paranoid that she’s started recording all of her incoming
calls, but she still won’t quit.
My wife tells stories that matter, trying to save the world from
itself.
I tell stories that matter to me.
My books have always been a place to hide myself inside myself
when the real world gets too loud.
Marriage is made of a million beautiful and ugly moments
stitched together into a shared tapestry of memories, all of which
are viewed and remembered slightly differently, like two people
staring at the same painting from opposite ends of a room. I didn’t
believe in love when I was younger. There wasn’t enough love to go
around in our house when I was growing up, so I spent my
childhood hiding inside books and dreaming of writing my own.
Based on my parents’ relationship happily married was an oxymoron,
so marriage was something else I didn’t believe in. Until I met Abby.
She changed the way I looked at the world and she changed my
mind about love. She made me feel things I didn’t know I was
capable of feeling, and I could never love anyone the way I love my
wife.
When we first got together, we couldn’t keep our hands off each
other. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still remember the
first time she let me touch her. Her perfect face, the softness of her
skin, the delicate floral scent of her shiny dark hair, the taste of her
mouth, the way she gasped when I pushed myself inside her. We
used to stay up all night, sometimes just to talk, to tell each other
our stories. Keeping the spark alive when you’ve been married as
long as we have isn’t easy. I try, but what’s important changes as we
grow older. At least, I think it does. It has for me. What we have
now is all I ever wanted.
I
Columbo wanders into the room, wagging his tail as though he
hasn’t seen me for days, even though it has been less than five
minutes since he fell asleep in the kitchen. He sits by my side and
stares at the phone in my hand as though he is waiting for it to ring
too. I prefer dogs to humans. Dogs are loyal. My wife bought
Columbo for me as a surprise when he was a puppy. She said she
thought I needed companionship, and we’ve been inseparable since.
Abby worries about how much time I spend on my own and doesn’t
seem to understand that I prefer solitude. I need quiet to write, and
if
can’t write it feels like I can’t breathe. Besides, I have my
characters for company and I prefer them to real people too. My
characters don’t lie—at least, not to me—but before Abby, there
wasn’t anyone I could trust. People rarely do what they say they will
or what they should. The only thing I don’t like about being alone is
the amount of time it forces me to spend with myself.
My path to becoming a bestselling author has been bumpy to say
the least. I am the overnight success story that was ten years in the
making, and for a long time I felt like the understudy in my own life.
There were years of obscurity, shitty reviews, disappointing sales,
and being dropped by multiple publishers. I was on the verge of
giving up, but then I met my wife and she introduced me to my
dream agent. Everything changed after that, so you could say I owe
her everything. Writing books is the only thing that makes me truly
happy. I know Abby’s job is important, and that I just make things
up for a living, but I so badly wanted her to be by my side tonight. If
my latest book really is a New York Times bestseller she might be
proud of me again. Look at me the way she used to.
My mobile buzzes, and my editor’s name lights up on the screen.
My fingers are trembling as I answer the call.
“Grady, it’s me,” Elizabeth says. I can’t tell from her neutral tone
whether the news is good. “We’re all here, the entire publishing
team. Kitty is on the line too.”
“Hi, Grady!” The glee in my agent’s voice ends the suspense, and
I surprise myself when I start to cry. Big, fat tears roll down my
cheeks, and I’m relieved nobody—except a large black Labrador—
can see me. The dog looks up as though concerned.
My editor continues, no longer able to disguise her excitement.
“So, as you know, there’s been a lot of buzz around this book and
we’re all so happy to have worked on it. We love you, and we love
your books, which makes it even more wonderful to be able to tell
you that … you are a New York Times bestseller.”
There is cheering and screaming on the other end of the line. My
legs seem to give way, and I find myself folding down toward the
floor until I sit cross-legged, like the child who dreamed of being an
author all those years ago. Columbo wags his tail and licks my face,
and though I appreciate his unlimited affection, I wish my wife was
here. My success still seems unreal to me and I don’t recognize my
own life in this moment. It feels too good to be true. Which makes
me worry that maybe it isn’t.
“Is this real?” I whisper.
“Yes!” my agent yells.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, unable to hide the wobble in my voice.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. This means so much to me, I…”
I
can’t seem to speak. I am filled with gratitude and
astonishment.
“Are you still there, Grady?” my agent asks.
“Yes. I’m just so…” It takes me a while to find the right word.
“Happy,” I say eventually, trying on this unfamiliar emotion to see if
it still fits. I think I might have to grow into it. “Thank you. All of
you. I’m completely overwhelmed and so grateful.”
I think this might be the best day of my life, and I wanted to
share it with her.
Instead, it’s just me and the dog, and he’s already gone back to
sleep.
I do my best to properly thank all the people who made this
dream come true: my amazing agent, my wonderful editor, brilliant
publicist, the fantastic sales and marketing teams. Then the call I’ve
waited forever for ends, and suddenly everything is quiet. Too quiet.
I am alone again. I pour myself a little glass of whiskey from one of
the good bottles, then sit in silence, letting the news sink in. I want
to treasure this special moment and hold on to it for as long as I
can. When I have composed myself, I call my wife. I want to
surprise her. I can picture Abby’s mobile attached to the dashboard
of her car, displaying her journey on a moving map just like always.
The phone barely rings before she answers.
“Well?” she asks, her voice oozing expectation. I wish I could see
her face.
“You are speaking to the author of a New York Times bestseller.”
She screams. “Oh my god! I knew it. I’m so proud of you!” I can
hear genuine emotion in her voice and think my wife, who never
cries, might be crying. “I love you,” she says. I can’t remember when
we last said that we loved each other. We used to say it every day. I
like the sound of her words and how they make me feel. Like when
you hear an old song you haven’t heard for years on the radio, one
you used to love.
“I’m almost home,” she says, interrupting my mess of nostalgic
thoughts. “Take the champagne out and—”
I hear the sound of screeching brakes, then silence.
“What’s happened?” I ask. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
The silence continues, but then I hear her voice again. “I’m fine,
but … there’s a woman lying in the road.”
“What? Did you hit her?”
“No! Of course not. She was already there, that’s why I stopped,”
Abby says.
“Where are you now?”
“I’m on the cliff road. I’m going to get out and see if—”
“No!” I shout.
“What do you mean, no? I can’t leave her lying in the lane, she
might be hurt.”
“Then call the police. You’re almost home. Do not get out of the
car.”
“If you’re worried about the fish-and-chips getting cold—”
“I’m worried about you.”
She sighs and I hear the faint click as she releases her seat belt.
“I think you’ve read too many Stephen King books—”
I think doing the right thing isn’t always the right thing to do.
“Please don’t get out of the car,” I say.
“What if it were me in the road? Wouldn’t you want someone to
stop and help?”
“Wait, don’t hang up!”
“Fine, if it makes you feel better.” It has never been possible to
change my wife’s mind about anything. The more you urge her not
to do something, the more determined she is to do it. Abby opens
the car door. “I love you,” she says again. By the time I think to say
it back it’s too late. She must have left her phone attached to the
dashboard because all I can hear is the sound of her footsteps as
she walks away.
One minute goes by, then another.
I can still hear the indicator and the windscreen wipers.
Five minutes later the call is still connected, but I can’t hear
Abby.
Have you ever known something terrible was about to happen
before it did?
Or felt an overwhelming, inexplicable fear that someone you
loved was in danger?
I am holding the phone pressed to my ear and have started
pacing.
“Can you hear me?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer.
Then I hear footsteps again.
It sounds as though Abby