You gave me the manuscript of A Man of Pleasure only after I’d repeatedly asked for it. You handed it over in a brown envelope and warned me to read it when the children were in bed and to hide it afterwards. And when your novel was printed, you wouldn’t allow a copy of the book in the house. I wasn’t shocked or disgusted at the story; I knew it already from when I’d whispered the whole book to you in bed at night. But the final draft you gave me to read that autumn was missing one crucial element, wasn’t it, Gil? The one line that was more terrible than all the lurid scenes of debauchery I’d invented and you’d copied down in such arousing detail.
The book was as controversial as your publisher and agent had hoped, and the reviewers who looked beyond the subject matter said your third novel was “lean and understated,” “measured and poetic,” “from a writer at the top of his form.” Jonathan didn’t see it like that, of course, especially since you hadn’t even bothered to change his name. I agreed with all the things he shouted when he came that final time, and I’d have liked to tell him the truth of who the real author was but I was too afraid of what he’d think of me, too afraid I’d never see him again. Neither of us ever told anyone whose head the real story of A Man of Pleasure had come from.
You were keen to point out to interviewers that it was your fourth book, and I’ve always thought how I’d like to have been that brave. What did I reply when a hairdresser or a new neighbour asked how many children I had? I curled my fingers into fists, pushed my nails into the palm of my hands, and answered, “Two.” I always answered “Two,” and hated myself for it.
You were delighted with the book’s success, and the money rolled in. You gave interviews on radio and television where you were jokingly coy about your private life. You were handsome and charming. Isn’t it ironic that the publicity focused so much on the book’s author? No one, not even you, was interested in its readers.
I was usually too busy with the girls to go with you to many of your literary events. “You won’t like them,” you told me. “They’re full of boring, bookish people standing around talking about themselves for too long.” But I went up for one of your television appearances: ten minutes in an armchair on an arts chat show with a tumbler of whiskey in front of you.
In the television studio I stood in the margins, amongst the cables and the cameras, to watch you in the spotlight. You mesmerised us—studio crew, audience, interviewer (and me); we were alternately laughing and hushed, listening to everything you had to say. I was so proud. They loved you, your book, your stories, and your looks. I loved you, too.
I loved you and nodded when the production assistant, standing beside me, whispered, “Isn’t he great?” And I smiled when she said, “He’s a bit of a rogue, though.” I still loved you when she continued, “Apparently he’s got a wife and children in the country. Keeps them there out of harm’s way, I suppose.” I said nothing. “He took my friend out for drinks a few weeks ago,” the girl whispered. “And then he asked her to stay the night in his hotel room. ‘Aren’t you married?’ she said to him, and he said, ‘What the eye doesn’t see and the mind doesn’t know doesn’t exist.’”
I didn’t look at the girl as she spoke. I watched you on your black swivel chair, legs crossed in the grey slacks I’d ironed, wearing the socks I’d washed and hung as a pair on the line outside the kitchen. Even the interviewer was laughing, unable to get his questions out coherently. I remembered our first summer, lying in the long grass outside the Swimming Pavilion, your head on my lap as I read to you, holding the book high to block out the glare of the sun.
“Did she take him up on his offer?” I said. “Your friend?”
“I can’t blame her,” the production assistant said. “He’s pretty old, but God, I would. Wouldn’t you?”
I waited until we’d driven off the ferry, paid the toll, and were on the dark straight road heading home.
“I met a girl tonight,” I said, “who told me you’d fucked her friend.” I said “friend” in the way that people write to agony aunts about their friends who have slept with their boyfriend’s brother and want some advice.
“What?” You gave a short laugh, like a yap.
“So you didn’t?”
“What?” you said again.
“Fuck her?”
“Fuck a friend of a friend of a friend?” You said it like it was a joke.
I didn’t answer, and when the silence became uncomfortable, you said, “Come on, Ingrid. It’s a silly girl gossiping. She probably knew who you were and was hoping for a reaction.”
“So you’re denying that you fucked her?” I said.
“I thought it was her friend I was supposed to have fucked,” you said. “And when exactly was this meant to have happened? I have been very busy, you might have noticed, earning us money.”
“Pull over.”
“We’re nearly home. Let’s talk about this later.”
“Pull over,” I repeated sharply.
You drew up on the sandy edge of the road. A couple of cars passed us, their headlights moving over our bodies like lighthouse beams sliding across rocks. “I’m not going to do this all again,” I said.
“Do what?” You took your hands from the steering wheel and clasped them together in your lap.
“Be made a fool of!” I shouted. “Be the last to know!”
“You’re no fool, Ingrid.” You wouldn’t look at me.