‘You have plenty of friends. Faye lives twenty minutes away; you see her all the time. We could invite her over tomorrow if you like.’
This is a relief. ‘What about Zoya, Roisin? I couldn’t get through to anyone.’
Sam braces both hands against the edge of the table before saying, ‘How about we sit down in the morning, and I’ll catch you up on everyone. We’ll work out how to tell people what’s going on.’ His face darkens, all the levity gone. ‘Today has been a lot to take in. I don’t think you should try anyone tonight.’
I’m not sure if he means a lot for me, or a lot for him, but I nod. I suppose I can’t expect to be caught up on sixteen years in just one day.
‘Will you tell me more about you?’ I ask.
‘Me?’ Sam looks coy suddenly.
‘Yes. I don’t know anything about you. What do you do for work? Where are you from? Do you have siblings? Any weird hobbies or predilections I should know about, apart from a strange relationship with grouse hens?’ He smiles. ‘I see from the wedding album you play the piano.’
He shakes his head and puffs out his cheeks, perhaps still unable to compute that I really don’t know any of this. Then he takes a long, slow breath, as though gearing up to respond.
‘Well, I’m from Scotland originally, a small village called Balquhidder. I have two sisters, Leda and Maeve. Leda’s still in Scotland, Maeve moved to America, we don’t see them as often as we’d like. I work as a composer, so yes, I play the piano every day. I used to have hobbies, but now I spend my weekends running around after the kids and picking up my drunk wife from train stations.’ This last part makes me reach out and gently tap my fist against his arm.
‘A composer? That sounds impressive. What do you compose? Where’s your piano?’
‘This is so nuts,’ Sam says beneath his breath. Then he turns to face me and says, ‘I used to write songs, now I mainly do scores for film and television. I have a studio at the end of the garden. You and I built it together when we first bought this house.’
‘I don’t know what I’m more surprised by,’ I say, ‘that I helped construct a studio or that I’m married to a pop star.’
‘Definitely not a pop star,’ Sam says firmly. ‘I wrote songs for other people; I never performed them myself.’
‘You never wanted to?’
‘No, I don’t enjoy performing. You think it’s because I’m shy, but it’s not. I love writing music, that doesn’t mean I have any compulsion to get on a stage.’
‘There’s a photo of you playing at our wedding.’
‘That was different. That was for you, for close family and friends.’ He drops his gaze to the table. ‘Plus my leg was shaking so much I could hardly press the pedals.’
‘We look very in love in that photo,’ I say, feeling my cheeks heat as I say it.
‘We were. We are.’ His eyes meet mine, causing the heat to spread through my entire body.
‘Have you written anything I would have heard of?’ I ask briskly, unnerved by this new energy between us. He pauses. ‘What? Why are you smiling?’
‘I wrote the song you sang in the karaoke bar eleven years ago, the night we met.’
‘So, it was “love at first sight” because I was singing your song?’
‘That’s not why,’ he says, biting back a smile.
‘I bet you use it as a line all the time – “Hey, you hear that song on the radio? I wrote that.” ’ Am I flirting with him? It feels like I’m flirting with him. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and it’s endearing, this coyness. He clears his throat.
‘That’s not my style, no.’
‘That’s what I would do if I wrote a famous song,’ I tell him.
‘I know.’ Sam’s eyes are dancing with amusement. ‘You go up to people in bars all the time and yell, “My husband wrote this song!” It’s embarrassing.’
We share a look and then I laugh, because that does sound like something I would do. ‘I want to hear it, this song – the reason we met. Will you sing it for me?’
He pulls out his phone and searches for something. ‘Better you hear it sung by a professional.’ After a few taps, music spills out of unseen speakers that must be built into the walls. I’m about to object, to insist I want to hear him sing it, but the beat captivates me, and I pause to listen. A deep, soulful male voice is accompanied by an electronic beat and the rousing swell of classical strings – it’s a unique combination.
‘When did you write this?’
‘Years ago. I haven’t written anything as good since.’
The chorus kicks in:
Like an imprint on a slept-in bed,
Like words that are felt but never said,
Somehow I always sensed, I always knew,
That I had the promise of you.
My skin prickles with goosebumps, as the words get straight beneath my skin. Then the beat kicks back in and the violins swell, lending an ethereal, almost religious quality to the song.
‘I love it,’ I say, and when my eyes meet his I get goosebumps again. There’s something in his gaze I can’t translate; sadness that I don’t remember, pride that I like his song, something else intangible that makes me prickle with desire.
‘Was it a huge hit? Did it make you rich?’
‘It was a hit for the singer, Lex.’ Sam shakes his head. ‘I was young and naive, I signed a contract I shouldn’t have signed, so sadly no, not rich.’
‘Did you write more songs when you were older and wiser?’
He stops the music with a tap to his watch. ‘I don’t write that kind of music any more.’ He stands up, reaching to take my empty bowl. I was enjoying our conversation, but I sense I’ve said something wrong, because then he says, ‘It’s been a long day. Shall we go to bed?’
Go to bed? Does he mean together? Talking to Sam this evening has felt like a perfect first date, and I haven’t had one of those in a long time. I like Sam, I know I’m attracted to him, but now the thought of sleeping with him, even beside him, feels more complicated than I’m ready for.
‘Um, do you have a spare room?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Sure,’ he says. His voice is kind, but I see the injury of rejection in his eyes. ‘I can sleep in the spare room.’
‘I’m happy to. I just, I need to get my bearings, a good night’s sleep. This is all so . . . different.’
‘Of course. The doctors said you need to rest, avoid stress.’ He shoots me a smile, but now there’s an awkwardness between us, the playful, flirty energy gone. Until now he was treating me like his wife, a wife who’s lost her memory. Now, it’s as though he’s finally understood the possibility that I am not her.
We go upstairs, and Sam follows me into our shared bedroom to collect his toothbrush and book. Then he gives me a tentative kiss on the cheek. As he leans in, I inhale the oaky warm smell of him and my hands lift, almost in reflex, as though they’re used to wrapping themselves around his back. But I catch them just in time, pulling my hands tight behind me.