Summer's Lease (The Shakespeare Sisters 1)

Sam nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. My therapist always suggested keeping a journal and a pen by my bed.’

She wasn’t sure what was more surprising: the fact he had a therapist, or him actually admitting to it. It wasn’t a very British thing to do. But then, Sam wasn’t very British, was he?

‘Did you follow his suggestion?’

‘I did for a while. But I’m OK now.’

‘OK is good.’

‘Sometimes it is.’ The corner of his lips arched into a smile.

Their conversation was making Cesca feel uncomfortable yet warm at the same time.

‘I’ve never had therapy,’ she told him. ‘A few people suggested it after my mother died. But I didn’t want to go there. And then when the play bombed, I thought about it again but couldn’t afford it.’

Sam’s smile faltered, the guilty look returning again. ‘Couldn’t you get it paid for by the government?’

She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t in a bad enough way. My godfather offered to pay, but by then I wasn’t easily persuaded. I thought I could handle things all by myself.’

‘You must have done something right,’ Sam said. ‘Because here you are.’

‘Here I am.’ She decided not to go deeper. ‘And now I really should go back to bed.’ Though Cesca wanted to stay, to grill him about his therapy and find out what the hell he had to talk about with a counsellor, she knew she shouldn’t. Every encounter, every conversation, was making her doubt what she’d believed for the past six years. That Sam Carlton was a bastard, someone who only cared about himself.

‘Sounds sensible. I won’t be far behind you.’ She could almost feel him pulling away from her.

Cesca nodded, then turned around to leave.

‘Don’t forget your notebook.’ He held it out to her.

‘I need my pen, too.’

‘Of course you do.’ Sam grabbed it from the desk, then offered them both to her. For a moment, when she took it, he still held on to the other end. There was only an inch between their fingertips. His hand was so much bigger than hers, the tendons beneath his skin defined and sinewy. She tried not to remember how he’d caught her and held on tight the night before.

‘Good night, Sam.’

‘Sweet dreams.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

Sam switched the screen back on. He was only halfway through her script, but what he’d read was engrossing, enough for him to want to see the rest. There were thirty pages in there, full of elegant dialogue and descriptive stage directions, all leading up to the end of the first act.

He’d read plays before, of course, acted in them at drama school. And for the past six years he was rarely without at least a couple of movie scripts, weighing up the offers, working out which ones to go for. He knew a good story when he read it, one that kept you coming back for more, one that made you desperate to play the lead character. Cesca’s first play had been like that, the role of Daniel grabbing him from the first scene, and when he’d been cast in the play Sam had been ecstatic.

That was all before Foster’s revelation, of course. The rest, sadly, was his messed-up history.

The play was good. Really good. Full of emotion and drama, and almost perfect dialogue. Some of the stage directions needed polishing, and he could see typos and some areas to clean up, but apart from that, her talent shone through. How had she managed to hide it away for six years? There weren’t many people who managed to write such a beautiful first draft. In Hollywood most scripts he’d seen had been written over months or years, and by a team of writers, not a single person. Sam breathed out softly, wondering if what she’d said was true, if Cesca’s writer’s block really had come because of his thoughtless actions.

His eye was caught by a silver-framed photograph of Sam and his sisters. They were playing down at the private beach, laughing their heads off as their mother emerged bedraggled from the water. He could remember that moment so well. They’d spent the day by the lake with his mother and her best friend. For some reason he couldn’t remember now, Sam had decided it would be fun to throw his mother in the water, his growing teenage body able to lift her up without much struggle.

But it wasn’t that moment that stayed in his mind, it was what happened afterwards. His body tensed at the memory, before he chased it out of his mind. He wasn’t going to think about that now.

Looking up, he reached for the mouse, highlighting a badly written stage direction and correcting the words. Tracked changes were on, revealing his interference, but at that point he didn’t care. He’d save it in another file. She’d never have to know he read it. Not unless she wanted to.

He was a fucked up mess, but he knew what read well, and Cesca’s play could be almost perfect, with a little polish.

Maybe it was a kind of atonement to help her achieve that.

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