Donovan was standing behind Sam’s desk with one arm folded across his chest and a finger pressed to his chin when I joined him inside the study.
‘Does your boyfriend chase aliens?’ he asked, nodding towards a framed poster on the wall.
The print was a blurred image of an alien spaceship with the slogan ‘The Truth Is Out There!’ written across it. It was a replica of the poster that had featured in Fox Mulder’s office in the television series The X-Files. It was one of Sam’s favourite shows. Early on in our relationship, we’d binged our way through a rewatch together, cuddling under blankets on the sofa.
‘Birthday present,’ I said. ‘Sam is a big fan of The X-Files.’
‘Is he always this tidy in here?’
‘He’s never this tidy in here.’
‘So this is you?’
‘Mostly. But I have to promise to keep everything in the order he had it in.’
And even then, it wasn’t that tidy. There were papers and files stacked everywhere. Textbooks piled on the floor. We’d bought a small filing cabinet for some of Sam’s research materials, but it had quickly been filled to overflowing.
‘If we weren’t selling the house . . . Truthfully, I doubt you could see the carpet.’
Donovan toed a stack of textbooks on the floor. Among them was a book on repressed memories that I’d slipped out once and flicked through when Sam had been out. I hadn’t learned anything Sam hadn’t already told me about my condition. Certainly nothing encouraging. In some ways, reading about it in such stark and clinical terms had just made it more upsetting. It probably hadn’t been the healthiest approach, but I’d put the book back before I’d got more than halfway through.
It could have been worse, I supposed. There were books on all kinds of rare and unusual mental conditions, ranging from studies on schizophrenia to extreme narcissism and psychopathy, PTSD to ADHD, insomnia to self-mutilation. For a nice guy, Sam was fascinated by some of the darkest things.
‘I don’t know many academics who could afford to renovate a house in Putney,’ Donovan said.
I got where he was going with it, but I didn’t bite. He was obviously fishing for information about our finances. So far he hadn’t mentioned anything about the house he didn’t like and if he was looking for an angle to make us a low offer, I didn’t want to be the one to give it to him.
‘Now that you’ve seen in here, do you think you could make this room your home office?’ I asked him.
‘Maybe.’
‘Sam likes it up here because it’s quiet. He can shut himself away and focus. And when he comes downstairs, he can close the door behind him and completely switch off.’
‘Can he?’ He gave me a quizzical look. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that working from home, I’m not sure you can ever fully leave your job behind.’
Speaking from experience, I wondered? But then again, my attempts to find out what Donovan did for a living had already hit a brick wall.
I smiled neutrally, unwilling to engage on the subject of Sam’s working habits, though in truth I knew he was right. I loved Sam. We’d built a life together. We’d pushed ourselves to the edge doing up this house to give us a platform for the future, and he’d cared for me and nurtured me after what had happened to me.
But one thing I’d had to learn to accept was that a part of Sam was never fully present. His mind was always turning on other things, preoccupied with his teaching or his research. Sometimes I thought that he spent so long analysing behavioural theories and striving to understand other people’s tics that he left no space to truly be himself.
It didn’t help that his professional life had been so stressful lately. I’d heard that academia was fiercely competitive and that it could be a dog-eat-dog working environment. But some of the tales Sam had told me about the internal politics in his department had shocked me.
One of the reasons we were looking to take a break and go travelling for a while was that Sam’s career prospects at LSE had become unfairly stymied. Even now, there were colleagues who queried the value and efficacy of the support groups Sam ran, but I admired Sam for not backing down on his belief that psychological research programmes could and should have positive real-world outcomes. That said, he still had to cover his back, which was why anyone who took part in his support groups first had to file an online consent form with his department secretary.
Donovan swivelled on his heels, taking in the rest of the room. I wondered if he was picturing his own belongings up here, asking himself how it would feel to occupy this space, in this house, if it was the right fit for him or not.
‘What about a landline phone?’ He pointed to a socket down near the skirting board. ‘Is that connected?’
‘It can be. Sam and I don’t use a landline. We both just use our mobiles.’ I pointed behind him towards the pair of French doors that had been fitted into one of the two dormer openings in the roof. ‘Did you see on the details that there’s a small balcony outside?’
‘Mind if I take a look?’
‘Go ahead.’
He strolled over, reaching out with both hands to take hold of the handles and test the security of the doors, then unlocking them with the key, opening them outwards and stepping through.
It was growing steadily dimmer outside. Donovan’s outline was grey and sketchy in the ambient glow of the street lighting showing through the tree branches below.
From my position over by the doorway, I could have been looking at Sam out there, and for a second I was reminded of the first time I’d caught Sam vaping. He’d been sheepish when I’d stepped out and clocked the smell of weed, but then I’d held out my hand and taken a drag myself. I didn’t smoke with him often but it sometimes helped us both to wind down in the evenings. Especially before sex.
‘Nice spot.’ Donovan leaned forwards over the brick parapet and briefly surveyed the drop, then ducked his head as he returned to the room, closing the doors behind him.
‘Do you have any questions?’ I asked him. ‘I’m trying to think what else Bethany would be telling you that I’m not.’
‘Some, but they can wait. What’s next? Your bedroom?’
‘The master bedroom, yes,’ I told him. ‘I’ll show you.’