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“The chairs are different.”
Dr. Daniel Mercer looked up from the notebook resting against his knee.
“They are.”
Sam remained just inside the room, studying the two grey armchairs as though one of them might explain itself.
“What happened to the others?”
“One developed a structural problem.”
“You broke it?”
“A client did.”
“During therapy?”
“Over several years.”
“That’s less interesting.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you so early.”
Sam smiled and crossed the room. His hair was longer than Mercer remembered, curling slightly around his ears.
He lowered himself into the chair and shifted against the back.
“This one’s firmer.”
“That was deliberate.”
“I preferred the old one.”
“You complained about the old one.”
“I’d grown attached.”
“You stopped coming.”
Sam smiled at that.
Mercer closed the notebook.
“Last time I saw you, you were preparing to climb Everest.”
“Base camp.”
“Important distinction.”
“To the people who actually climb Everest, yeah.”
“How was it?”
Something in Sam’s face changed. Not dramatically, but enough that some of the effort left it.
“Incredible.”
“You enjoyed it.”
“Loved it.”
“The altitude?”
“Less.”
“The cold?”
“Much less.”
“But you would do it again.”
“Tomorrow.”
Mercer nodded. “What did you love about it?”
Sam thought about the question.
“The simplicity.”
“Walking uphill while unable to breathe.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not usually how simplicity is advertised.”
“You wake up, walk, eat, try to sleep. Then you do it again. No meetings. No one asking you to decide something every five minutes.”
“No phone.”
“Not much.”
“Space to think.”
Sam’s gaze moved briefly towards the window.
“Or not think.”
“Which was it?”
“Depended on the day.”
Mercer let the answer stand.
“The series had wrapped by then.”
“Yeah. A few weeks before.”
“How did that feel?”
“Strange.”
“In what way?”
Sam looked down at his hands.
“We’d been talking about the end for years. Every season there was some version of, this might be it. Then suddenly it actually was.”
“Did it feel final?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“I got on a plane and went to Nepal.”
Mercer’s mouth shifted slightly.
“Convenient.”
“It had been planned.”
“I didn’t suggest otherwise.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking that climbing through the Himalayas may have postponed the emotional consequences.”
Sam smiled.
“That sounds far less impressive.”
“I am not responsible for the marketing.”
Sam sat back.
“It helped.”
“What did?”
“Having one thing to do. You didn’t wake up and wonder what came next. Someone pointed at a mountain and you walked towards it.”
“And when you came home?”
“I moved.”
“From Glasgow?”
“Yeah.”
“That was the house outside the city, wasn’t it?”
“Very outside.”
“Where did you go?”
“Battersea.”
Mercer’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“That is a change.”
“It was time.”
“From a house surrounded by nothing to a flat in London.”
“A very nice flat.”
“I’m pleased for it.”
“Everything works.”
“Ambitious.”
“There’s a gym. Concierge. Restaurants. People.”
“You say people as though they were an amenity.”
“In that building, they probably are.”
Mercer smiled faintly.
“How are you finding it?”
“It’s good.”
Mercer waited.
Sam gave him a knowing look.
“You’ve started already.”
“I asked how you were finding your new home.”
“And I said good.”
“You described the plumbing.”
“I said everything works.”
“An emotional tribute.”
Sam laughed softly.
“It’s convenient. Work, meetings, airports. I was spending more time in London anyway.”
“Anything resembling rest?”
“I’d just climbed to Everest base camp.”
“That was your rest?”
“Different air.”
“Considerably less of it.”
Sam smiled again.
For several minutes he had sounded almost exactly as Mercer remembered him. Engaging, self-aware, amusing without seeming to reach for it.
The blinking was more frequent, though. So was the way he rubbed briefly beneath one eye whenever an answer required more than charm.
Mercer rested his pen against the notebook.
“What made you call?”
Sam drew in a breath and released it slowly.
“I’m not sleeping particularly well.”
“How long?”
“A few months.”
Mercer waited.
“Longer, probably.”
“Falling asleep or staying asleep?”
“Staying asleep. I wake up at three. Four if I’m lucky.”
“And then?”
“Lie there.”
“For how long?”
“Until it becomes obvious I’m not going back to sleep.”
“What do you do?”
“Check Instagram. Answer emails. Read things I shouldn’t read.”
“What sort of things?”
“Comments. News. Anything designed to make the day worse before it’s started.”
“What time do you usually get up?”
“Five.”
“After waking at three.”
“Not every night.”
“How often?”
Sam gave him a faint look.
“Often enough that I’m here.”
Mercer nodded.
“Are you tired?”
“Obviously.”
“During the day?”
“I function.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“Yeah. I’m tired.”
“Is your work affected?”
“No.”
“Training?”
“No.”
“Concentration?”
“Sometimes.”
“Mood?”
Sam looked away.
“I’m delightful.”
“I remember.”
“That sounded sincere.”
“It was carefully judged.”
Sam laughed, then rubbed his eye.
“I’m more irritable.”
“With anyone in particular?”
“Everyone gets a turn.”
“Do they notice?”
“I try not to let them.”
“Do you succeed?”
“Mostly.”
“What else?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
“I didn’t ask for dramatic.”
Sam blinked several times.
“I feel a bit flat.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does flat mean?”
“It means flat.”
“Try.”
Sam shifted in the chair.
“I’m all right while I’m doing something.”
“Working.”
“Working, training, travelling, being with people. Whatever it is.”
“And when it ends?”
His fingers tightened loosely together.
“That’s the problem.”
“What happens?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing emotionally?”
“Yeah.”
“Relief?”
“Sometimes.”
“Satisfaction?”
“For a few minutes.”
“Pleasure?”
“While it’s happening.”
“And afterwards?”
Sam looked towards the window.
“It’s finished.”
Mercer allowed the silence to remain.
Sam gave a small, self-conscious smile.
“That sounded very tragic.”
“It sounded honest.”
“Would anyone watching you know that?”
Sam looked at him.
“Know what?”
“That the pleasure disappears when the thing ends.”
“No.”
“What would they see?”
Sam gave a short laugh.
“Someone having a brilliant time.”
“Are you?”
“Sometimes.”
“And the rest?”
“I’m good at looking as though I am.”
Mercer rested the pen against the notebook.
“What does that look like?”
“Louder, mostly.”
“Than you are here.”
“Most people are.”
“How much louder?”
Sam rubbed his palms against his thighs.
“More jokes. More energy. Going out. Drinking. Acting like everything is the best night I’ve ever had.”
“Do you recognise that version of yourself?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you like him?”
Sam’s mouth tightened.
“Not particularly.”
“Why not?”
“He’s exhausting.”
Mercer waited.
“And a bit of an asshole sometimes,” Sam added.
“Why keep showing him to people?”
Sam looked away.
“People like him.”
“What does he give them?”
“An easy night. He’s having fun. He doesn’t need anyone asking if he’s all right.”
“And what does he give you?”
Sam gave him a faint look.
“That sounds dramatic.”
“Does it feel wrong?”
He looked down.
“No.”
Mercer allowed a brief silence.
“The truth is I’d usually rather be at home watching some terrible science-fiction programme.”
“Terrible?”
“Some of it is excellent. The terrible ones are still useful.”
Mercer’s mouth shifted slightly.
“Are you aware that the blinking has become more pronounced?”
Sam’s expression changed.
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“A while. It’s a tic, I suppose.”
“Worse when you’re tired?”
“Tired. Anxious. Cameras.”
“Has anyone mentioned it?”
“A few people.”
“And then you become more aware of it.”
“Which makes it worse.”
Sam rubbed beneath one eye, then caught himself doing it.
“Useful little system.”
“A visible sign that the louder version is not entirely in control.”
Sam looked down.
“Apparently.”
“I’ve got plenty going on.”
“I know.”
“That’s the ridiculous part. I’m not sitting in an empty room with no work and no friends.”
“No. You appear to have arranged your life so that sitting in an empty room is unlikely.”
Sam smiled, but the expression faded quickly.
“I’m busy.”
“Deliberately?”
“Most people don’t accidentally relocate and run several businesses.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I know.”
“What happens when there is an empty day?”
“I fill it.”
“With what?”
“Work. Training. Seeing people.”
“Do you enjoy seeing them?”
“Some of them.”
“Or does it prevent something?”
Sam studied him.
“That’s a very therapist question.”
“It is reassuring that I still remember how.”
He rubbed his palms once against his thighs.
“I don’t like sitting around.”
“Have you ever?”
“No.”
“Does it feel different now?”
Sam took a moment.
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Before, time off felt like time off.”
“And now?”
“Like I’ve forgotten something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Work. Emails. Something I should be doing.”
“What happens when you realise there is nothing?”
“I start thinking.”
“About?”
“The businesses. Money. Acting. What comes next. Life.”
“What is happening with the businesses?”
Sam rubbed his palms against his thighs.
“I bought the distillery.”
Mercer looked up.
“Since I saw you last?”
“Yeah.”
“How has that been?”
“Expensive.”
Mercer’s mouth shifted slightly.
“And?”
“Staff. Production. Stock. Payroll. Decisions that cost actual money when I get them wrong.”
“People depending on you.”
“More than before.”
“Do you know where the business is heading?”
“Some days.”
“And acting?”
Sam looked towards the window.
“I don’t know what comes next.”
“The series as well?”
“The final episode aired a few weeks ago.”
“Did that make it feel more final?”
“It ended for us eighteen months ago. This was everyone else finally catching up.”
“What did that bring back?”
“The lack of structure.”
“No filming dates.”
“No call sheet. No knowing where I’ll be six months from now. No promotion after this year.”
“No place you are expected to be on Monday.”
“Exactly.”
“So the structure you had for twelve years has disappeared while the responsibility elsewhere has increased.”
“Pretty much.”
“And publicly?”
Sam gave a tired smile.
“Publicly I’m having a fantastic time.”
“Did you keep in touch with people from the show?”
“Some.”
“Was that difficult without work bringing you together?”
“Not really. Everyone messages. You see people when you can.”
“So that part of your life didn’t disappear entirely.”
“No.”
Sam looked down, turning one ring a fraction beneath his thumb.
“I probably see Cait more now, actually.”
Mercer glanced down at the notebook.
“Cait?”
“Caitriona. My co-star from the show. We’re close.”
“Ah. Yes. I remember.”
Sam gave him a wary look.
“How much?”
“That she was important to you. And that there had been some history between you.”
Sam looked towards the window.
“Yeah.”
Mercer closed the notebook again.
“You said you see more of her now.”
“Yeah. She lives near me.”
“In Battersea?”
“Not far.”
“Has that made it easier?”
“Yeah. We’ll go for a drink, get something to eat. Coffee sometimes.”
“Without needing work as a reason.”
“Exactly.”
“How has that been?”
“Nice.”
The answer was simple, but warmer than most of the ones before it.
“It’s different now. More normal. Domestic, even.”
“Domestic? Do you visit her home?”
“Sometimes.”
His expression changed slightly.
“She has a little boy. He’s four.”
“You’re fond of him.”
A smile appeared before Sam answered.
“Yeah. He’s brilliant.”
“What does brilliant involve at four?”
“Mostly telling me I’m wrong.”
“About?”
“Everything, apparently. Lego. Dinosaurs. The correct way to cut toast.”
“Important standards.”
“Very high.”
Sam’s smile widened.
Mercer smiled faintly.
“Do you spend much time with the two of them together?”
“Sometimes. If I go to hers.”
“What is that like?”
Sam shrugged at first.
“Nice.”
Mercer waited.
“It’s just easy,” Sam added. “She’ll make snacks. He’ll have his things all over the floor. I’ll sit down for five minutes and somehow it’s two hours later.”
“You don’t usually enjoy sitting still for two hours.”
“No.”
“But you do there.”
Sam glanced at him.
“I’m not sitting staring at a wall.”
“No. You’re playing Lego.”
“Yeah.”
Mercer allowed a brief silence.
“What do you like about it?”
Sam rubbed his thumb against the side of his ring.
“I don’t know. Nothing’s happening.”
The answer seemed to surprise him.
“No one needs anything from me. Not work, anyway. We’re not going somewhere. There’s no event after it. No one’s taking photographs.”
“You can stop performing.”
Sam’s mouth tightened slightly.
“I wouldn’t put it like that.”
“How would you?”
“I can just be there.”
Mercer nodded.
Sam looked away again.
“I didn’t think I’d enjoy it as much as I do.”
“The child?”
“All of it.”
He shifted, uncomfortable with his own answer.
“I’ve never been particularly domestic.”
“Hmm.”
“I like travelling. Work. Having my own space.”
“And yet.”
“Yeah.”
“What surprised you?”
Sam took a moment.
“That it doesn’t feel dull.”
“You expected it to.”
“A bit.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the sort of thing I’ve spent years avoiding.”
Sam continued after a moment.
“Being somewhere with no plan. A kid arguing about vegetables. Cait in the kitchen complaining because I’ve put a glass in the wrong cupboard.”
“That sounds fairly dangerous.”
“She’s very particular.”
“Does it feel like family life?”
Sam’s eyes lifted towards him.
“It’s her family.”
“That wasn’t quite what I asked.”
“No.”
Mercer waited without repeating it.
Sam rubbed beneath one eye.
“I suppose it does.”
“How does that feel?”
“Good.”
The answer came quickly, almost defensively.
“And?”
Sam gave him a faint, irritated look.
“You always do that.”
“Only when you leave the rest of the sentence unattended.”
He looked down.
“It’s not mine.”
Mercer remained quiet.
Sam’s fingers moved once against his ring.
“I’m there, and they include me. He’ll bring me whatever he’s doing. Cait asks if I’m staying for dinner. Sometimes I do.”
“And then?”
“I go home.”
“What is that like?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“I don’t know.”
Sam looked towards the window.
“Sometimes I like the quiet.”
“And sometimes?”
He did not answer immediately.
“It feels empty.”
The word landed without emphasis.
Mercer let it remain.
Sam sat back.
“That sounds worse than it is.”
“What does?”
“The flat. It’s a good flat.”
“We have already established that everything works.”
Sam smiled faintly.
“It does.”
“But sometimes it feels empty.”
“Sometimes.”
“After you have been at Caitriona’s?”
“More afterward.”
Mercer nodded.
“Because of the contrast.”
“Probably.”
“Or because you are leaving something you want.”
Sam’s expression closed slightly.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No.”
Mercer did not pursue it.
“If I recall correctly, she's married.”
Sam’s eyes wandered to the floor.
“Yeah.”
“Is her husband usually there?”
“Not when I’m there.”
“Deliberately?”
“Not exactly. It’s just easier.”
“For whom?”
“Everyone.”
“Are you and he close?”
Sam gave a small, dismissive shrug.
“Not really.”
“Does that make being there uncomfortable?”
“Sometimes.”
“Because of anything he does?”
“Not especially.”
Sam rubbed his thumb against the side of his ring.
“I used to think he was being territorial.”
“And now?”
“I think he probably saw more than I wanted to admit.”
“What did he see?”
Sam gave a small shrug.
“How we are.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“I’m asking you.”
Sam looked at Mercer for a moment.
“Cait and I know each other well.”
“So you’ve said.”
“She’s my best friend.”
“And?”
Sam’s jaw shifted as he took a deep breath.
Mercer let the silence remain.
“We had a fight a couple of weeks ago,” Sam said.
“You and Caitriona.”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“It got out of hand.”
“That could describe several things.”
“She came to my flat. We talked. Then we stopped talking particularly well.”
“Why did she come?”
“She was worried about me.”
“Because of the sleep?”
“The sleep. The way I’d been acting.”
“How had you been acting?”
“Fine.”
Mercer gave him a look.
Sam’s mouth moved faintly.
“Apparently not convincingly.”
“What had she noticed?”
“That I was tired. More irritable. A bit off. Drinking more than usual.”
“How much more?”
“Not enough to make it the problem.”
“But enough for her to notice.”
“Yeah.”
Sam rubbed beneath one eye.
“She said she’d been worried since Stratford.”
“Stratford?”
“I did a run there last autumn. Macbeth.”
Mercer looked at him.
“You played Macbeth?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a considerable role.”
“So people kept telling me.”
“You don’t sound especially pleased about it.”
“I was. When I got it.”
“And afterwards?”
Sam sat back in the chair.
“It was a few weeks. Six shows most weeks. It was a lot.”
“Physically?”
“Everything.”
“Had you wanted to play him?”
“For years.”
“Then I imagine being cast felt significant.”
“It did.”
“What did you hope it would give you?”
Sam gave him a faint look.
“That’s a rather large question.”
“You can give me a smaller answer.”
He looked towards the window.
“I wanted to know I could do it.”
“Had you doubted that?”
“Not until I was doing it.”
Mercer waited.
Sam rubbed his palms once against his trousers.
“Some nights were good. Really good. You could feel it working.”
“And the others?”
“I could hear myself acting.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d say a line and part of my head would already be going over it. Too much. Too fast. Missed something. Then I’d be thinking about the next bit before I’d finished the one I was in.”
“You were watching yourself perform.”
“Yeah.”
“Instead of being inside it.”
“Exactly.”
“When did that begin?”
“Not straight away. It got worse as the run went on.”
“Because you were tired?”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
Sam hesitated.
“The audiences.”
“Were they difficult?”
“No. Not exactly.”
He rubbed his thumb along the side of his ring.
“There were a lot of fans. People coming more than once. Waiting outside. Phones where there shouldn’t have been phones. Sometimes noise.”
“Did it disrupt the performances?”
“Not usually.”
“But it affected you.”
“I was embarrassed.”
“In front of the other actors?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because it was attached to me.”
Mercer let him continue.
“I knew my name was useful. I’m not stupid. It sold tickets.”
“And you began wondering whether that was why you had been cast.”
Sam looked down.
“Sometimes.”
“Did anyone in the company suggest that?”
“No.”
“The director?”
“No.”
“But the question remained.”
“Yeah.”
“Were you close to the other actors?”
“They were good people.”
“That isn’t quite what I asked.”
Sam glanced at him.
“No. Not particularly.”
“Why not?”
“I was busy.”
“With other work?”
“Sometimes.”
“Was that the only reason?”
Sam blinked several times.
“I didn’t particularly want them to know I was panicking.”
“Did you think they would judge you?”
“I thought they might already be judging me.”
“On what evidence?”
“None.”
Mercer nodded.
“That did not make the fear less convincing.”
“No.”
“What were you afraid they would decide?”
Sam looked towards the window again.
“That I was there because I could fill the theatre.”
“Rather than because you could play the role.”
“Yeah.”
“Did praise help?”
“For a bit.”
“Reviews?”
“Sometimes.”
“Anyone whose opinion carried particular weight?”
Sam gave a quiet laugh.
“Judi Dench and Ian McKellen came on the same night.”
Mercer’s eyebrows rose.
“Yeah.”
“Did you know they were coming?”
“Unfortunately.”
“How was the performance?”
“I don’t know.”
“You still don’t know?”
“No.”
“What did they think?”
“They were lovely.”
“Did you believe them?”
“For about an hour.”
“And then?”
“I went through everything I thought I’d done badly.”
Mercer rested the pen against the notebook.
“So by the end of the run, the problem was not simply that you thought you might be performing badly.”
“No.”
“You no longer trusted yourself to know.”
Sam looked at him.
“Yeah.”
The agreement came quietly.
Mercer gave it a moment.
“And this was when Caitriona began asking whether you were all right.”
“She came to see it.”
“During the run.”
“Yeah. The night Judi and Ian were there, actually.”
Sam shifted slightly.
“She came with Tony, her husband. Steph was there too. We all went for a drink afterwards.”
“Steph?”
“The woman I’ve been seeing.”
“How long?”
“About a year now.”
“Is she your partner?”
Sam hesitated.
“I suppose.”
“That sounds uncertain.”
“It’s complicated.”
Mercer let it go for now.
“How were you by the time you reached the pub?”
“Finished.”
“Did you want to go?”
“No.”
“Why did you?”
“They’d all come to the show. I couldn’t exactly disappear.”
“What did you need?”
“Quiet.”
“Did you get it?”
Sam gave him a tired look.
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
Mercer waited.
“It was busy,” Sam continued. “Everyone wanted to talk about the performance. Steph kept saying how brilliant I’d been.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly, and Sam seemed to hear it.
“Why not?”
“She always said that.”
“She may have meant it.”
“Maybe.”
“But it didn’t reach you.”
“No.”
“What would have?”
“I don’t know.”
Mercer waited.
Sam looked down at his hands.
“Something specific. Something that made me think the person saying it actually knew what they’d watched.”
“You did not trust Steph’s judgment.”
“No.”
“Whose did you trust?”
Sam did not answer immediately.
“Cait’s.”
“Because she is an actor?”
“Partly.”
“What is the other part?”
“She knows me.”
Mercer nodded.
“Did she tell you what she thought?”
“Yeah. She said it was good.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Yes.”
“Did that help?”
“Not as much as it should’ve.”
“Why?”
“She said it at the table. In front of everyone.”
“You wanted to speak to her alone.”
“Maybe.”
“About the performance?”
Sam rubbed his eyes.
“About all of it.”
“What would you have told her?”
“That I didn’t know if I was any good.”
“Had you told anyone else that?”
“No.”
“Why Caitriona?”
Sam’s expression tightened slightly.
“She would’ve understood what I meant.”
“Without reassuring you automatically.”
“Yeah.”
Mercer nodded.
“What was Steph doing while you were looking for that from Caitriona?”
Sam’s jaw shifted.
“Trying to be supportive.”
“How?”
“Talking. Touching me.”
“Touching?”
“My arm. Shoulder. Leaning against me.”
“Did you want her to?”
“No.”
Mercer allowed the answer to sit.
“I was exhausted,” Sam added.
“Would anyone touching you have felt like too much?”
Sam looked away.
“No.”
“So it was not simply exhaustion.”
“That night, it was her.”
“Had that happened before?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What did her touch feel like?”
Sam took a moment.
“Like I had to do something back.”
“Respond.”
“Put my arm around her. Kiss her. Look pleased she was there.”
“And you weren’t.”
“I guess I was pleased she’d come.”
“That is not the same.”
“No.”
Mercer watched him.
“You had spent the evening performing Macbeth. Then you felt expected to perform being happy with Steph.”
Sam’s eyes lifted towards him.
“That sounds a bit dramatic.”
“Does it feel wrong?”
He looked down again.
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“Moved away a bit.”
“Did she notice?”
Sam went still.
“Cait did.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“At the pub?”
“During our argument.”
Mercer waited.
Sam rubbed his palms slowly against his thighs.
“She said she’d watched me spend the whole evening moving away from Steph and looking across the table at her.”
“Was she right?”
“I wasn’t looking at her the whole evening.”
“That was not quite what I asked.”
Sam gave him an irritated look.
“I looked at her.”
“What did you want from her?”
“I don’t know.”
Mercer did not rescue him from the silence.
“Five minutes.”
“Alone.”
“Yeah.”
“To tell her you were frightened about the play.”
“Maybe.”
“And if you two were alone at the table?”
Sam’s fingers tightened together.
“It would’ve been easier.”
“In what way?”
“She knows when to leave something alone.”
Mercer’s mouth shifted slightly.
“And when not to.”
“Yeah.”
“What did Caitriona see that evening?”
Sam rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“That I wasn’t happy.”
“With what?”
“With anything.”
“And she remembered it months later.”
“Apparently.”
“Did you?”
“I remembered the evening. I didn’t know she’d been watching that closely.”
“How did it feel to learn that she had?”
Sam’s mouth tightened.
“Complicated.”
“In what way?”
“Part of me was embarrassed.”
“And the other part?”
He hesitated.
“Liked that she’d noticed.”
Mercer nodded.
“What happened after she brought up Stratford?”
“The conversation went back to why she’d come over that night.”
“Because she was worried.”
“She asked if I was happy.”
“What did you say?”
“No.”
Mercer did not rush to fill the silence.
Sam rubbed his palms against his trousers.
“It was the first time I’d said it properly.”
“To her?”
“To anyone.”
“What was that like?”
“A bit of a relief.”
“Did she seem surprised?”
“No.”
Sam gave a brief, humourless laugh.
“That was almost worse.”
“Because she had already seen it.”
“Yeah.”
“And then?”
“She asked whether Steph made me happy.”
“What did you tell her?”
“No.”
“How did Caitriona respond?”
Sam looked towards the window.
“She looked relieved.”
“Did that please you?”
“At first.”
“And then?”
“I asked her what exactly she was relieved about.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing useful.”
Mercer waited.
Sam looked down at his hands.
“She tried to take it back. Said she only meant I shouldn’t be with someone who didn’t make me happy.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No.”
“What did you believe?”
“That it bothered her.”
“Your relationship with Steph.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Eventually.”
“What did she say?”
Sam rubbed beneath one eye.
“That she hadn’t liked watching us at Stratford.”
“Watching Steph touch you.”
“Yeah.”
“Did she explain why?”
“Not at first.”
Mercer remained quiet.
“I asked if she was jealous.”
“Was she?”
Sam gave a small, uncomfortable shrug.
“She didn’t say the word.”
“What did she say?”
“That I knew why she hadn’t liked it.”
Mercer let the answer sit between them.
“How did you understand that?”
Sam looked towards the window.
“The obvious way.”
“That she had been jealous.”
“Yeah.”
“What did that feel like?”
“Good.”
The admission came reluctantly.
“For about five seconds.”
“What changed?”
“I remembered she was married.”
Mercer nodded slightly.
Sam’s jaw tightened.
“She can’t sit in my flat looking relieved that I don’t love Steph, admit she hated watching Steph touch me, and then go home to Tony.”
“Did you say that?”
“More or less.”
“What happened?”
“She said things with Tony weren’t good.”
Mercer did not react immediately.
“What did ‘not good’ mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she say they were separating?”
“No.”
“That she intended to leave?”
“No.”
“What did she say?”
“That it had been difficult for a while. That they weren’t in a good place.”
“How did you hear that?”
Sam gave a quiet laugh without humour.
“As an opening.”
“Was it one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did that stop you?”
“No.”
Mercer waited.
“I started asking questions,” Sam said. “Whether they were going to separate. Whether she’d tell me if they did. What she thought would happen afterwards.”
“With you.”
“Yeah.”
“Did she answer?”
“Not properly.”
“What did she do?”
“Kept telling me she doesn’t know.”
“But she did not tell you there was no possibility.”
“No.”
Sam looked down at his hands.
“That was worse.”
“Worse than certainty?”
“I’d spent years thinking I knew where I stood.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t.”
Mercer allowed a short silence.
“Is that what brought you here?”
“Partly.”
“What is the other part?”
Sam rubbed his palms against his trousers.
“She said the reason she’d never trusted the possibility had nothing to do with whether I wanted her.”
Mercer did not ask him to explain yet.
Sam’s mouth tightened.
“And then she asked why I was still with Steph.”
“Why are you?”
Sam’s expression tightened.
“That’s what I’m trying to explain.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That it wasn’t as simple as she made it sound.”
“What was complicated about it?”
“She hasn’t done anything.”
“Anything wrong.”
“Yeah.”
“That is a reason not to dislike someone. It is not necessarily a reason to remain in a relationship.”
Sam gave him a faintly irritated look.
“I didn’t say it was.”
Mercer waited.
“At first, it was easy,” Sam said.
“In what sense?”
“She was easy to be around.”
“Because you enjoyed being with her?”
“I guess.”
The answer was defensive enough that Mercer did not challenge it.
“She was fun,” Sam continued. “She liked going out. Travelling. She understood that work came first.”
“She fitted around your schedule.”
“Most people I know fit around a schedule.”
“Did you fit around hers?”
Sam looked down at his hands.
“Not really.”
Mercer gave the answer a moment.
“What else made it easy?”
“She didn’t ask a lot of questions.”
“About your work?”
“About me.”
“You preferred that.”
“At the time.”
“Why?”
“Because I was tired.”
“From Macbeth.”
“From everything.”
Sam rubbed beneath one eye.
“She didn’t need me to explain why I was quiet or why I didn’t want to talk. If I had a few days free, she came. If I was busy, she found something else to do.”
“She did not require much adjustment from you.”
“No.”
“Did you know that was part of the appeal?”
“Probably.”
Mercer nodded.
Sam shifted in the chair.
“It wasn’t some calculated arrangement.”
“I didn’t suggest it was.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I think you entered a relationship that asked very little of you at a time when you believed you had very little available.”
“That sounds less offensive.”
“It is not intended to be offensive.”
Sam looked towards the window.
“She wanted to be there.”
“With you.”
“Yeah.”
“Did that matter?”
“Of course.”
Mercer said nothing.
Sam noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“Waiting until I improve the answer.”
“I thought you might have more to say.”
Sam rubbed his palms against his trousers.
“She wanted people to know as well.”
“That you were together.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you?”
“Sometimes.”
“And other times?”
“I didn’t want every event to become about who I was dating.”
“Was that what happened?”
“It felt like it.”
“Did Steph create that, or did the public interest?”
“Both.”
Sam paused.
“She liked it more than I did.”
“The attention.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you resent her for that?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she would’ve denied it. Or cried. Or we’d have spent three hours arguing about whether I was ashamed of her.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Mercer waited.
“Not ashamed,” Sam amended. “I just didn’t want it becoming the main thing people saw.”
“What did you want them to see?”
“The work.”
“Only the work?”
Sam glanced at him.
“What else?”
Mercer did not answer for him.
Sam looked away.
“At forty-six, turning up alone to everything starts to feel a bit…”
He stopped.
“A bit what?”
“Sad.”
The word came reluctantly.
“It shouldn’t.”
“But it did.”
“Sometimes.”
“So Steph gave you someone to arrive with.”
“That makes her sound like an accessory.”
“Was she?”
“No.”
Sam’s voice sharpened.
“I cared about her.”
“I believe you.”
“She was good company. She made an effort.”
“But?”
Sam exhaled.
“I don’t know.”
Mercer remained quiet.
“It was easier when nothing was being asked,” Sam said eventually.
“What began to be asked?”
“More.”
“More time?”
“More acknowledgement. Photographs. Being invited to everything. Knowing where it was going.”
“And where was it going?”
Sam looked down at his hands.
“Nowhere.”
“Did she know that?”
“I don’t think I knew it at first.”
“When did you?”
“Before New York. The premiere.”
“Of the show?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted it to be more official.”
“You had been together for quite some time by then.”
“I know.”
“What did official mean to her?”
“Pictures. A kiss where people could see. Not being treated like someone who’d just happened to turn up.”
“Was that unreasonable?”
“No.”
Sam rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“That was part of the problem.”
“Her requests were reasonable, but you did not want to meet them.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you want?”
“For the night to be about the show.”
“And Caitriona.”
“The cast.”
Mercer waited.
“Caitriona is part of the cast,” Sam said.
“Yes.”
Sam gave him a look.
“It was our last premiere. We’d done all of it together.”
“And Steph’s presence felt like an intrusion.”
“Not her presence.”
“What, then?”
“What she wanted the evening to mean.”
“To her, it meant being publicly recognised as your partner.”
“Yeah.”
“And to you?”
“The end of the show.”
Sam’s voice had flattened.
“I didn’t want to spend it managing whether she felt included enough.”
“Was that only at the premiere?”
“No. By then every event came with a second job. Working out whether she was all right, whether I’d paid her enough attention, whether someone had taken the right photograph.”
“And you resented her for requiring what a partner normally requires.”
Sam looked away.
“Yeah.”
“How well did you manage it?”
“Badly.”
“What does badly mean?”
“I ignored her.”
“Intentionally?”
“Not exactly.”
“But you noticed.”
“Eventually.”
“Where were you?”
“With people. Working. Talking.”
“With Caitriona.”
Sam looked away.
“Some of the time.”
“How were you with her?”
“Normal.”
“And how were you with Steph?”
“Apparently not.”
Mercer let the distinction remain.
“She said afterwards that I’d barely looked at her,” Sam continued. “That I’d spent the whole night hanging off Caitriona.”
“Had you?”
“Cait and I are physical. We always have been.”
“In what way?”
“An arm around her. Standing close. Nothing strange.”
“Did you touch Steph in the same way?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Sam’s jaw shifted.
“I didn’t want to.”
The answer sat more heavily than he seemed to expect.
Mercer did not soften it.
“She asked me to kiss her,” Sam said.
“Did you?”
“Eventually.”
“Because you wanted to?”
“Because not doing it had become a bigger thing than doing it.”
“And afterwards?”
“Nothing changed.”
“Except that the relationship became more visible.”
“Yeah.”
“Did that make you feel closer to her?”
“No.”
Sam looked towards the floor.
“She left the next morning.”
“How did you feel?”
“Relieved.”
He gave a brief, humourless laugh.
“That’s horrible.”
“It is honest.”
“She was upset.”
“Did you apologise?”
“For hurting her.”
“Did you regret the way you behaved?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you regret spending the evening with Caitriona?”
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Sam closed his eyes briefly.
“That was what Caitriona kept coming back to.”
“During the fight.”
“Yeah.”
“What did she think it showed?”
“That I was using Steph.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
Mercer waited.
“Not deliberately.”
“What did Caitriona say?”
Sam rubbed beneath one eye.
“That I liked having someone there as long as she didn’t expect too much from me.”
“How did you respond?”
“I told her that was unfair.”
“Was it?”
“Some of it.”
“What part?”
“I wasn’t pretending to love Steph.”
“Did Steph know you did not?”
“I never said I did.”
Mercer nodded.
“That is not the same as knowing.”
Sam looked at him.
“She’s an adult.”
“Yes.”
“She could see what the relationship was.”
“Could she?”
Sam did not answer.
Mercer continued carefully.
“You have described a woman who believed the relationship was becoming more serious. She wanted public acknowledgement, more time and a clearer future.”
“And I should’ve ended it.”
“Do you think so?”
“Probably.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Sam looked towards the window.
“It was easier not to.”
“Because ending it would have meant hurting her.”
“Yeah.”
“And being alone.”
His mouth tightened.
“Maybe.”
“Anything else?”
Sam rubbed his palms together.
“She made it look like I wasn’t waiting around.”
Mercer did not immediately respond.
Sam gave him a tired look.
“There. That’s the answer you wanted.”
“I wasn’t looking for a particular one.”
“It’s still a terrible answer.”
“What do you mean by waiting around?”
“You know.”
“For Caitriona.”
“Yeah.”
Sam looked away again.
“If I was with someone, then at least I wasn’t the pathetic middle-aged single man still following his married best friend around after twelve years.”
“Did being with Steph make that less true?”
“No.”
“But it made it less visible.”
“Mostly to me.”
Mercer nodded.
“What did Caitriona make of that?”
“She thought I’d kept Steph because she was convenient.”
“Was she wrong?”
“She wasn’t only convenient.”
“No.”
“I liked her.”
“But you did not want the life she believed the relationship was moving toward.”
“No.”
“And when she began asking for signs of that life, you experienced it as pressure.”
Sam’s face tightened.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want it with her.”
Mercer allowed a pause.
“Did Caitriona understand the distinction?”
“What distinction?”
“That the problem was Steph, rather than commitment itself.”
Sam looked up.
“That was what we ended up arguing about.”
“What did Caitriona believe?”
“That I’d do the same thing to anyone.”
“Accept the relationship while it remained easy, then withdraw when it required more.”
“That’s how she put it.”
“Did she include herself in that?”
Mercer waited.
Sam shifted further back in the chair.
“She made me sound like some selfish child collecting people.”
“Is that how you see yourself?”
“No.”
“But the accusation hurt.”
“Because it came from her.”
“And because?”
Sam blinked several times.
“Because I knew what she was actually talking about.”
“Which was?”
“Us.”
Mercer nodded slightly.
“Caitriona did not see your relationship with Steph as a separate problem.”
“No.”
“She saw it as evidence.”
“That I still wasn’t someone you could build anything around.”
“Did she say that?”
“Not then.”
“But that was where the argument was going.”
Sam looked towards the window.
“That was when I turned it back on her.”
“How?”
“I said she had no right to judge how I handled another relationship.”
“Because she was married.”
“Because she’d kept me close for years while being married.”
Mercer waited.
Sam’s jaw tightened.
“You resent her for that.”
“I resent that she knows what it does.”
“Do you believe she invites you because she wants to hurt you?”
“No.”
“Then what do you believe she wants?”
Sam took a moment.
“Me there.”
“Why?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“I’m asking what you think.”
He rubbed beneath one eye.
“She likes me there. Her son likes me. We’ve known each other forever. It’s comfortable.”
“Is that all?”
“No.”
The answer was quiet.
Mercer waited.
Sam looked down.
“She needs me.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. I’m the person she calls when she’s upset. Or when she needs to get out of the house. When something happens with work. When she can’t sleep.”
“And she is that person for you.”
“Yeah.”
“Does her husband know the extent of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you want him to?”
“No.”
Mercer nodded once.
Sam glanced at him.
“I know how it sounds.”
“How does it sound?”
“Like I’m having an affair with someone without the useful part.”
Mercer’s expression remained neutral.
Sam gave a short, humourless laugh.
“There. You wanted honesty.”
“I didn’t ask for a particular answer.”
“Well, that’s what it feels like sometimes. All the guilt and none of the…”
He stopped.
“The physical relationship.”
“Yeah.”
“But the emotional intimacy is there.”
Sam looked away.
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“No.”
“She’s my best friend.”
“I believe you.”
“And she’s married.”
“Yes.”
“And I’ve never asked her to change that.”
“No.”
Sam sat back again.
“But she knows I haven’t moved on.”
“Does she?”
“She knew before the argument.”
“How?”
“Because she knows me.”
Mercer watched him for a moment.
“That answer seems to do a great deal of work between the two of you.”
Sam’s brow furrowed.
“What does that mean?”
“You both rely on being known without having to say very much.”
“That’s usually considered a good thing.”
“It can be.”
“But.”
“But it may also allow both of you to avoid saying things that would require a response.”
Sam looked down at his hands.
“I told her she had never let me go.”
“What did you mean?”
“That.”
Mercer waited.
“All of it,” Sam said. “Calling. Wanting me around. Making space for me, then acting as though it’s only friendship.”
“Is it only friendship to her?”
“No.”
He answered too quickly and seemed to regret it.
Mercer did not challenge the certainty.
“What did she say?”
“That I could’ve stayed away.”
Sam’s mouth tightened as he repeated it.
“How did that land?”
“Like she was washing her hands of it.”
“What did she actually say?”
“That she’d never forced me to come.”
“Was she wrong?”
Sam looked away.
“No. I could’ve stopped answering. Stopped going over.”
“Did you want to?”
“No.”
“Do you want to now?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Sam looked down, irritated by how little thought it had required.
“That doesn’t make it all my fault.”
“No. She kept offering closeness. You kept accepting it. Both things can be true.”
“She knew what it meant.”
“I imagine she did.”
“And she kept asking me back.”
“Yes.”
Sam stared at him.
“You’re taking her side.”
“I’m trying to keep both of you in the room.”
Sam’s jaw tightened.
Mercer continued quietly.
“Caitriona may have wanted you close while knowing she could not offer you the place you wanted. That may have been selfish.”
Sam said nothing.
“And you may have accepted what she offered because losing the closeness felt worse.”
“That doesn’t make it a good arrangement.”
“No.”
“She said almost the same thing.”
“During the argument.”
“Yeah.”
“Was she angry?”
“Very.”
“Were you?”
“Yeah.”
“What were you angry about?”
Sam gave a small, incredulous laugh.
“Everything.”
“Choose one part.”
He looked down at his hands.
“That she acted as though I’d had all this freedom.”
“To leave.”
“To get over her. To build something with someone else.”
“Did you?”
“Technically.”
“Technically?”
“Because technically is all it was.”
Mercer waited.
“You can’t be that close to someone for twelve years and then decide it’s only your own fault you never stopped loving them.”
“No.”
“And she can’t pretend she didn’t encourage it.”
“Did she pretend that?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did she acknowledge?”
Sam hesitated.
“That she didn’t want me to go.”
Mercer allowed a short silence.
“How did it feel to hear that?”
“Good.”
The honesty seemed to irritate him.
“And awful.”
“Because it confirmed the attachment without changing the situation.”
“Yeah.”
“She wanted you in her life.”
“She still does.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“What are you less certain about?”
Sam’s fingers tightened together.
“What she wanted me there as.”
Mercer nodded.
“Did you ask?”
“Not like that.”
“What did you do?”
“I told her she’d chosen Tony and expected me to live around the edges of it.”
“What did she say?”
Sam breathed out slowly.
“That I was rewriting what happened.”
“In what way?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“She said I talk about it as though I’d been standing there offering her some complete life and she’d simply picked someone else.”
“Had you?”
Sam looked at him.
“I loved her.”
“I didn’t ask whether you loved her.”
“She knew I did.”
“I imagine she did.”
“Then what else was I supposed to do?”
Mercer did not answer immediately.
“What did Caitriona say?”
Sam looked away.
“That wanting her was never the part she doubted.”
Mercer let the line remain between them.
Sam rubbed his palms once against his trousers.
“What did she doubt?” Mercer asked.
Sam’s jaw tightened.
“That I could stay.”
Mercer let the silence remain for a moment.
“What happened when she left?”
Sam looked down at his hands.
“She took her coat and went.”
“Did you try to stop her?”
“No.”
“Did you want to?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know what I was stopping her for.”
Mercer nodded slightly.
“Have you spoken since?”
“A few messages.”
“About the argument?”
“No.”
“What have you spoken about?”
“Nothing. She forgot something at mine. I sent her a picture.”
“And?”
“She said she’d get it another time.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Nearly two weeks.”
Mercer watched him.
“Do you think she is avoiding you?”
“I think she’s frightened she said too much.”
“Are you?”
Sam gave a quiet laugh.
“Terrified.”
“But hopeful.”
His expression tightened.
“I’m trying not to be.”
“Why?”
“Because she didn’t promise anything. She said things with Tony were bad. She admitted Steph bothered her. That isn’t the same as saying she’s leaving.”
“No.”
Sam rubbed beneath one eye.
“But it isn’t nothing.”
“No.”
He looked towards the window.
“I could end things with Steph tomorrow.”
“Would you?”
“If Cait asked me to?”
Mercer said nothing.
Sam’s mouth tightened.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“I shouldn’t need her to ask.”
“Why are you still waiting?”
“I don’t know. Because once I do it, I’m not pretending anymore. I’m not with someone else. I’m not moving on. I’m just…”
“Available.”
Sam gave him a look.
“That sounds particularly grim.”
“Honest, perhaps.”
He looked down again.
“I don’t want Steph. I know that.”
“And Caitriona?”
Sam’s fingers stilled against his ring.
“I want the chance to do it properly.”
“What would properly mean?”
“Not asking her to blow up her life because I’m lonely. Not telling her I want everything and assuming the details will sort themselves out.”
Mercer waited.
Sam breathed out slowly.
“I need to be someone she can rely on.”
“Do you believe you are?”
“Not enough.”
“And is that why you came back?”
Sam nodded.
“For her?”
A small, reluctant smile touched his mouth.
“Who else?”
Mercer closed the notebook.
Sam looked at him.
“That’s it?”
“For today.”
“That seems irresponsible.”
“We have established that you intend to return.”
Sam stood and reached for his jacket.
At the door, he paused.
“Do you think I should call her?”
Mercer regarded him.
“What would you say?”
Sam looked down at the handle.
“That I’m not asking her for an answer.”
“And?”
His fingers tightened around it.
“That I heard her.”
Mercer nodded.
Sam opened the door, then stopped again.
“And that I’m not going anywhere.”