Chapter Text
I suspect my client, Robert Gadlen, is an immortal from the Middle Ages.
Jesse looks at his laptop screen and rubs his forehead.
“This is insane,” he mutters.
The only lights outside the window are streetlights. He should have been asleep for hours, ready to wake well-rested for brunch with his parents and sister at their favourite café. His father will ask if Jesse has looked into buying some of the shares he recommended last time they talked on the phone. His mum will ask if he’s seeing anyone serious.
(His sister won’t ask anything, because she doesn’t want either of them to turn their attention to her, and her on-again-off-again relationship with a financial analyst twenty years her senior.)
He won’t have satisfying answers to either of these questions, but hopefully he will have an answer to something that feels far more compelling.
Jesse takes a sip of peppermint tea and begins typing again.
Here is a list of reasons I believe Rob is secretly immortal.
***
Number one: he is far too enthusiastic about therapy.
(He’s not enthusiastic about the opportunity to get better - he’s excited about the concept of therapy in itself.)
The practice receptionist, Kelly, sticks her head through the door.
“I’ve got Mr Gadlen here for you,” she says, and disappears.
The first time Jesse sees Rob, the man seems like the most average person in London. He’s got normal brown hair, and normal brown eyes, and he’s wearing a normal t-shirt and jeans.
Then Rob does the first weird thing.
He smiles widely.
“Hello!” He says, without a hint of self-consciousness. “Should I sit?”
“Go right ahead,” Jesse says, trying to roll with it. “And it’s Jesse.”
“Right,” Rob says. “I love how all the professionals go by first names now. Can’t imagine Sigmund Freud or Ivan Pavlov getting down with that. So, do I just start talking about my most traumatic experiences?”
Jesse opens his mouth.
“We can start this whatever way you feel most comfortable,” he says. “These sessions are whatever you want them to be.”
“I think it’s fantastic that blokes are able to talk about their feelings nowadays,” Rob says. “Where I grew up, it wasn’t a thing at all. You just survived to adulthood, if you were lucky, and spent most of your wages on booze trying to forget about it all for a few hours. I think all this psychology stuff is fascinating.”
“I think it’s fascinating too,” Jesse agrees.
***
Number two: he said he was thirty-four two years in a row.
(He can remember some things with incredible detail, and others, he continually gets wrong.)
Jesse is closing up the previous session’s admin work when a little birthday-cake symbol shows up on his filing program.
Recent birthday - Robert Gadlen: 7 June 1990.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Jesse calls out.
The door opens to reveal Rob. He’s wearing a blue sweater and jeans, and he looks a little subdued.
“Happy birthday for yesterday!” Jesse says. “Thirty-four… one more year until you can’t escape the mid-thirties, right?”
“Don’t remind me,” Rob says, smiling.
“Did you do anything fun?”
Rob nods.
“Yeah, got dinner with a few friends,” he says, and sits down on the sofa.
“You seem a little flat,” Jesse says, sitting down in the armchair opposite.
Rob shrugs.
“I had a fight with my friend,” he says.
“Last night?”
Rob shakes his head.
“Years ago,” he explains. “My favourite thing to do, every June seventh — when we were in the same town — was to get drinks with my friend. A few years back, we were chatting when I started teasing him. He’s such an uptight, buttoned-up guy, and I wanted to see how far I could push it. I wanted to know if he liked me enough to put up with it. We had a big blow-up fight and he told me I’d never see him again. Walked straight out the bar, into the rain, never looked back, even when I was yelling at him.”
He takes a deep breath.
“I still go back there. If he ever wants to talk, and comes looking for me… it’s been a long time, but on my birthday, I always go back.”
Rob’s hands have picked up a tissue and started shredding it. Jesse opens his mouth to say something, but Rob starts talking again.
“It’s ridiculous, honestly. Every year is tainted with this idiotic fight we had. He’s so immature.”
Jesse nods.
“Is he your best friend?”
Rob looks surprised by this.
“I suppose he was, yeah.”
“He’s no longer your best friend?”
Rob glances down at the pile of shredded tissue in his lap.
“No, he still is,” he concludes. “Dickhead.”
“What’s the dickhead’s name?” Jesse asks.
Rob takes a second to answer.
“Dylan,” he says.
When Jesse is filing his notes after the appointment, he notices the date of birth on Rob’s file again. 1990. That makes this birthday his thirty-fifth.
He didn’t want to embarrass you by pointing out your mistake, Jesse thinks to himself, and closes the file.
***
Number three: he has been through a number of marriages.
(Despite this, he shows no sign of the attachment issues that would typically present in a serial monogamist.)
“I’ve been thinking about my wife recently. The first one.”
Rob’s been coming to therapy for a few months before Jesse found out about all the wives. He peppered them into conversation, one by one, abstracted from each other, until Jesse slowly put together the bigger picture.
“Even when Eleanor had my children, died having my children, I don’t think I grieved her properly. I grieved what I lost: being a husband, a father, having the perfect life. After she died, I had to make all these decisions… I realised I didn’t know what she would’ve wanted, and it was too late to ask.”
He pauses. It's like a shadow has come over him, the melancholy of a much older man.
“I see couples in the park today, and the guys are so much wiser to how their partners are feeling. For some of them, at least, their partner is their best friend, their teammate, taking on the world together… I’ve tried to do a better job since — of loving people, and grieving them after they’re gone. You have to make use of the time you’ve got.”
“Do you think you have done a better job?”
Rob half-smiles.
“I keep trying. With Elizabeth, and Heather, and now Audrey. I think you learn from your regrets. They make you not want to fail again.”
Rob looks up at Jesse, through his fringe.
“Are you married?”
“Me? No. Not yet,” Jesse says.
“Don’t be scared of it.” Rob’s voice is gentle, paternal even, like he’s the one in the therapist’s chair. “So many of the old stories end with a wedding. Life isn’t like that. There’s no audience watching, there’s no script to follow. There’s no right way, and the only wrong way is spending more time alone or unhappy than you need to.”
Jesse looks into Rob’s warm, brown eyes, and he sees more life than a thirty-something could ever contain.
***
Number four: he is the most optimistic person I’ve ever met.
(Despite suffering an incredible number of personal tragedies. It doesn’t feel right to doubt a client’s word, but it’s hard to believe someone so young could’ve suffered so much.)
“So I have this client,” Jesse says, “who just seems… unbelievable.”
“I can’t imagine having an unbelievable client,” Carmelita shoots back drily, and takes a sip of her coffee.
Carmelita works in the psychiatric ward of a London hospital, and sometimes finds her patients in ceiling crawlspaces, looking for government listening devices. Or aliens.
Jesse sighs.
“I know it’s tedious, but please remember that I specialise in depression and anxiety,” he replies. “My patients don’t usually lie, unless they’re concealing symptoms because they’re scared of being sectioned.”
“What a peaceful life,” Carmelita says.
“Anyway,” Jesse continues, “this guy… he just seems to have too much bad luck. He’s lost two wives, and multiple children. He’s been conscripted and deployed to a warzone. He grew up in extreme poverty and he’s seen some horrific things. Yet he’s an Englishman in his thirties! I’m… honestly, it’s hard to believe.”
“You think he’s lying?”
Jesse takes a deep breath.
“No,” he says. “When he talks about his experiences, he’s being genuine. And he’s my most well-regulated client — he got excited the other day about finding really nice apples at the store! He’s being so positive about his partner’s diagnosis, too. I can’t believe him, and yet I can’t not believe him, either.”
Carmelita nods as he speaks.
“Perhaps he’s immortal,” she says. “You said he was thirty-six, or something, right?”
She puts on an American accent, badly impersonating Kristen Stewart.
“How long have you been thirty-six?”
“You’re joking!” Jesse says, picking up his tea.
She smiles.
“Obviously, I’m joking. I just think you’re shielded from how terrible some people’s lives are, and this is a taste of reality you’re struggling with.”
Carmelita puts a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay. I love the way you see the world. It’s sweet. But fate can be very unfair to people, for no reason.”
Jesse smiles back, but he can’t shake her words.
That’s what it feels like, when he’s talking. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
That night, in his mind, he starts putting together the list of everything that’s ever bothered him about Robert Gadlen.
***
Number five: he doesn’t seem to know the name of his best friend.
(It took a while to figure out that ‘my friend’ always meant the same man. First, he said Dylan. Later, he said David. He’s never used either of these names unprompted in sessions.)
“Wait…,” Jesse says in the middle of a session. “When you talk about ‘my friend’… is it always the same friend? I think you said Dylan?”
Rob laughs.
“Yeah, usually. Especially if I sound annoyed with him.”
“Okay, keep telling me about Dylan,” Jesse replies.
As Rob speaks, Jesse sees an intensity in his eyes that surprises him.
Rob has two moods: bubbling delight at some new experience, or a deep reflectiveness that seems impossible for someone his age.
Talking about his best friend is the only time Jesse’s seen him express real anger.
“He acts like he knows everything,” Rob rants. “But I know things about him that even he doesn’t know, and if he’d just listen—,” he breaks off, unable to articulate his point.
“You’re a very organised person,” Jesse says. “But this friend seems to bring out another side of you… someone younger, angstier… more insecure, dare I say.”
Rob pauses, looking contemplative. Slowly, he nods.
“I’ve known him a very long time,” he says. “I’ve lost so many people, and I’ve come to terms with that, but he’s been there since the beginning. He can push my buttons like no one else.”
He chuckles.
They both sit in silence for a second.
“Because this friend…,” Jesse pauses. His mind is blanking on the name. He glances at his notes.
Nothing.
Shit.
“David,” Rob prompts.
“Right. He’s your constant,” Jesse suggests. “Perhaps conflicts with him feel so frustrating because you might lose him, and you don’t know how to.”
"I don't really think he'll ever go," Rob replies.
"Yeah?"
There's another long pause.
Rob takes a deep, shuddering breath, and a tear rolls down his cheek.
Four years in, it’s the first time Jesse has ever seen him cry.
“That's not true,” Rob says. “I just don't think I can—,"
He takes a deep breath.
"I’ve been to so many funerals, but I just think what if it was his and— I can't imagine outliving him. You’re right. I'm scared. It scares me.”
He wipes his face, only for fresh tears for fall. Jesse picks up the tissue box and holds it out.
“I think David’s lucky to have a friend like you,” he says.
“He sure is,” Rob says hoarsely, taking a tissue.
He dabs at his face.
“I don’t mind crying,” he adds. “It makes things real.”
Jesse checks the records after the session. May 1st, the friend was Dylan. June 4th, Dylan again. Today, August 15th, David, double-checked and confirmed.
The next time he sees Rob, he asks about David.
Rob frowns.
“You mean Dylan?”
It’s only after this session that Jesse fully surrenders to the madness. Rob is lying to him. Not like Carmelita’s patients, the ones in the ceilings. Not to avoid getting sectioned.
He’s lying for a reason that’s downright impossible.