It didn’t mean anything else. Didn’t mean he had to confide in her or tell her his secrets. He could handle this.
Finally, when neither of them could hold back the yawns any longer, they made their way up the stairs, and he whispered a quick good night to Cesca before she disappeared into her bedroom.
He was half asleep before he’d even climbed into bed, and by the time he sank into the mattress, all sense of consciousness was gone. He must have slept restfully, because when the late morning sun stole through his curtains, he woke up in the same position he’d fallen asleep in. He practically jumped onto the wooden floor, pulling on the first pair of shorts he could find, and dragging a freshly ironed T-shirt over his messy hair, not bothering to attempt to calm it.
Cesca was already awake. He could hear her typing away in the library. A rhythmic tapping that occasionally stopped, long enough for him to imagine her taking a sip of water, or scribbling something on that notepad she always had near. Sam walked into the kitchen, grabbing the coffee pot and filling it up. It was a rare day that he could face the morning without a caffeine injection. The pot had just started hissing when the library door opened and Cesca walked out. As soon as she saw him leaning against the kitchen counter she smiled, and Sam felt himself relax.
So she didn’t still hate him. That was a good thing. He was planning to keep it that way.
‘Morning.’ He smiled back at her.
‘Is it?’ Cesca asked, her voice teasing. ‘I thought it must be afternoon. Some of us have been up for hours, you know. Sorting out the house, talking to the gardeners. Writing a play.’
He liked the lightness in her tone, enough to match it in his own. ‘I believe you’re getting paid for most of that.’
‘Not by you.’
‘True enough.’
‘Though there’s something you could do for me.’ Cesca reached across him, grabbing a couple of cups from the shelf. Sam leaned back, but her arm still brushed his chest, making him grab hold of the counter, when his first urge was to steady her.
‘Apart from make you a coffee?’
She offered him the cups and he took them from her. ‘Well that, too, of course. But I’ve finished the second act, well, the first draft of it. Do you think you’ll have time to take a look at it later?’ She gave him a tentative smile. ‘No rush, of course. But I’d really like to get your opinion. Some of the dialogue was really tricky to write.’
‘I’d love to.’
She blinked, although the sun was shining nowhere near her eyes. ‘Really?’
Her hesitance did something to him. Turned whatever strength was left inside him into mush. ‘Really,’ he said solemnly. ‘The first part of that act was amazing. I can’t wait to see where you’ve taken it. I love the way you’ve woven the two stories together. Made it so that the modern-day couple are acting the story of the older ones. There’s something so elegant about it.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ She grabbed the milk from the refrigerator. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m only telling the truth.’
‘Even so, it’s lovely to hear it. Being a writer, it’s such a lonely job. You spend all day staring at a blank screen, the voices in your head clamouring to get out. And half the time whatever you write is so terrible you have no choice but to trash it. But then sometimes, every once in a while, you manage to craft a piece of dialogue that’s so exciting it makes it all worthwhile. Even then, you’re scared to show it to somebody else, in case they burst your bubble.’
‘It’s not a bubble.’
‘It feels like it though. And I know it will never be perfect at the first draft. Not even at the second or third. But unless it has good bones, it’s impossible to flesh it out. That’s why your feedback is so important.’ She took his arm. ‘But, Sam, you have to promise to be honest. Don’t be kind. Tell me where it works and where it doesn’t, please. Even if you’ve no idea why you don’t like it, or why some of the speech jars, tell me anyway, OK?’
His throat was aching. He knew how hard it was to put yourself out there, to request the kind of open response that could leave you feeling so low. It was a part of their jobs – his and hers – to allow themselves to be critiqued, but to invite it so openly took a lot of guts. He didn’t know anybody in the business who hadn’t read a bad review and had it slaughter them. Even after six years, a few unkind words had the ability to sting like a bitch.
‘Of course.’ His voice was hoarse from the lump in his throat. ‘But if today’s work is anything like the rest of your words, I already know it’s going to be good.’
She was still holding his arm, and he could feel the warmth from her hand covering his skin. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘It’s a pleasure.’
After he poured them both a coffee, Sam followed Cesca into the library, taking the printout of her work and grabbing the old pen he’d found the day before. While Cesca sat back at the desk, resuming her pattern of typing and stopping, with long sections of deletes, Sam sat back on the old velvet sofa, squinting as he read her words.
That’s where they stayed for the rest of the day, one of them writing, the other editing. By the time the afternoon sun began to fall, they were completely worn out and hungry. Neither of them had eaten much all day, and from the sounds of gurgling coming from both their stomachs, they were paying for it now.
Laying his wad of paper on the desk, Sam waited until Cesca looked up from her writing, not wanting to interrupt her flow.
‘Come on, it’s time for dinner,’ he said, gesturing at her to close down the computer. ‘This time it’s on me.’
Cesca trailed him into the kitchen, carrying the empty coffee cups and glasses they’d accumulated throughout the afternoon. Her body was stiff, muscles aching from hours of sitting in the old leather captain’s chair, and from the way Sam was rolling his shoulders, she suspected he felt the same way. Leaning down to put the dirty cups into the dishwasher, she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes.