Emma places her empty glass on the counter and exhales slowly. ‘No, I know it’s not. In no way could the situation be described as funny.’ She turns and faces him. ‘I’ve told you, Ian, I’m not seeing anyone. I’m not in love with anyone and I don’t want to be. I just want to be left alone . . .’
‘I’ve got a theory!’ he says, proudly.
‘What theory?’
‘I know who it is.’
She sighs. ‘Who is it then, Sherlock?’
‘Dexter!’ he says, triumphantly.
‘Oh for Christ’s sake—’ She drains the glass.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
She laughs bitterly. ‘God, I wish—’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing. Ian, as you well know, I haven’t spoken to Dexter for months—’
‘Or so you say!’
‘You’re being ridiculous, Ian. What, you think we’ve been having this secret love affair behind everyone’s back?’
‘That’s what the evidence seems to suggest.’
‘Evidence? What evidence?’
And for the first time, Ian looks a little sheepish. ‘Your notebooks.’
A moment, then she puts her glass out of reach so that she won’t be tempted to throw it. ‘You’ve been reading my notebooks?’
‘I’ve glanced. Once or twice. Over the years.’
‘You bastard—’
‘The little bits of poetry, those magical ten days in Greece, all that yearning, all that desire—’
‘How dare you! How dare you go behind my back like that!’
‘You left them lying round! What do you expect!’
‘I expected some trust and I expected you to have some dignity—’
‘And anyway I didn’t need to read them, it was so bloody obvious, the two of you—’
‘—but I have limited reserves of sympathy, Ian! Months of you moaning and moping and whining and hanging round like a kicked dog. Well if you ever turn up out of the blue like this and start going through my drawers, I swear I will call the fucking police—’
‘Go on then! Go on, call them!’ and he steps towards her, his arms out to the side filling the little room. ‘It’s my flat too, remember?’
‘Is it? How come? You never paid the mortgage! I did that! You never did anything, just lay around feeling sorry for yourself—’
‘That’s not true!’
‘And whatever money you did earn went on stupid videos and take-away—’
‘I chipped in! When I could—’
‘Well it wasn’t enough! Oh, God I hate this flat, and I hate my life here. I have got to get out of here or I will go crazy—’
‘This was our home!’ he protests, desperately.
‘I was never happy here, Ian. Why couldn’t you see that? I just got . . . stuck here, we both did. Surely you must know that.’
He has never seen her like this, or heard her say these things. Shocked, his eyes wide like a panicked child, he stumbles towards her. ‘Calm down!’ He’s gripping her arm now. ‘Don’t say things like that—’
‘Get away from me, Ian! I mean it, Ian! Just get away!’ They’re shouting at each other now and she thinks, Oh God, we’ve become one of those crazy couples you hear through the walls at night. Somewhere, someone’s thinking, should I call the police? How did it come to this? ‘Get out!’ she shouts as he desperately tries to put his arms around her. ‘Just give me your keys and get out, I don’t want to see you anymore—’
And then just as suddenly, they’re both crying, slumped on the floor in the narrow hallway of the flat they had bought together with such hope. Ian’s hand is covering his face, and he’s struggling to speak between great sobs and gulps of air. ‘I can’t stand this. Why is this happening to me? This is hell. I’m in hell, Em!’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She wraps her arms around his shoulder.
‘Why can’t you just love me? Why can’t you just be in love with me? You were once, weren’t you? In the beginning.’
‘Course I was.’
‘Well why can’t you be in love with me again?’
‘Oh Ian, I can’t. I’ve tried, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.’
Some time later they lie together on the floor in the same spot, as if they’ve been washed up there. Her head is on his shoulder, her arm across his chest, taking in the smell of him, the warm, comfortable smell that she had become so used to. Eventually, he speaks.
‘I should go.’
‘I think you should.’
Keeping his red, swollen face averted, he sits and nods towards the mess of paper, notebooks and photographs on the bedroom floor. ‘You know what makes me sad?’
‘Go on.’
‘That there aren’t more photographs of us. Together I mean. There’s thousands of you and Dex, hardly any of just you and me. Not recent anyway. It’s like we just stopped taking them.’
‘No decent camera,’ she says weakly, but he chooses to accept it.
‘Sorry for . . . you know, flipping out like that, going through your stuff. Completely unacceptable behaviour.’
‘S’alright. Just don’t do it again.’
‘Some of the stories are quite good, by the way.’
‘Thank you. Though they were meant to be private.’
‘What’s the point of that? You’ll have to show them to someone someday. Put yourself out there.’
‘Okay, maybe I will. One day.’
‘Not the poems. Don’t show them the poems, but the stories. They’re good. You’re a good writer. You’re clever.’
‘Thank you, Ian.’
His face starts to crumple. ‘It wasn’t so bad, was it? Living here with me?’
‘It was great. I’m just taking it all out on you, that’s all.’
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘So.’
‘So.’ They smile at each other. He is standing by the door now, one hand on the handle, not quite able to leave.
‘One last thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘You’re not seeing him, are you? I mean Dexter. I’m just being paranoid.’