She had made good headway on the manuscript by the time Ivan returned from Marrakesh.
“Did you miss me?” he asked when he showed up at her apartment without calling first. She locked up the pages of the manuscript she’d been working on while he bounded up the stairs. He pulled her into his arms, nearly tore her clothes off, and made love to her on the living room floor. They never reached the bed. He made her feel like some kind of sex object at times, and not a woman he loved. It had been flattering and exciting at first, but now it depressed her when he made it all about sex and never about love. She wanted more, and she wasn’t sure he had it to give. He didn’t ask how her week in Dublin had been over Christmas, and didn’t apologize for not calling. He was like a wild stallion that had returned to the barn to mount his mare. They made love three times that night, and then he went home. He said he had to unpack and get ready for work the next day. She took her manuscript out as soon as he left. Working on it always centered her and calmed her. She put a sex scene in the book that night after he left. She wondered what Bert would say. She hadn’t mentioned it to him on the phone. She didn’t want him to guess what was going on, or that her life had changed. She was still just as dedicated to her work. Nothing interfered with that.
Things seemed to calm down between them for a few months after his trip to Morocco, and they put the holidays behind them. But in March she was working hard on the book, and spent less time with him, and he got nasty with her again. They had been dating for almost six months. She was sending chapters back and forth to Bert, and he was thinking about coming to London in May to work on everything she’d done so far. And she was excited to have him come. She said something to Ivan about it one night at dinner, and he had a fit.
“Who is this guy and why is he coming here? Is he your boyfriend?”
“Of course not. I was a virgin, remember? And he’s old enough to be my grandfather. He’s just a very good friend.” She couldn’t say he was her editor or why he was coming, and Ivan didn’t suspect, but he was annoyed and complained about it for a week. He said there were too many mysteries in her life. “He helped me with my school projects when I was in college, kind of like a tutor.” It seemed the best way to explain it.
“You’re not in school here. Tell him not to come.”
“He’s my friend. He’s like my family, my mentor.”
It became a raging battle between them, and the symbol of everything about her that Ivan sensed but didn’t understand. And three weeks later, Alex was having dinner with Fiona on a night that Ivan was busy, and Alex could see that she looked pained. “Is something wrong? Problems at work?”
Fiona shook her head, and wasn’t sure what to say or where to start.
“I heard some rumors,” she said, staring at her plate and finally up at her friend. She wasn’t sure of the right thing to do, but she didn’t want Alex to get hurt.
“What kind of rumors?”
“About Ivan. There’s a new intern in publicity. Someone said that Ivan’s been spending time with her. I don’t know if it’s true, but I thought you should know. The person who told me saw them having dinner at a restaurant last week.” Alex remembered instantly that she had worked on the book and hadn’t seen him very often the week before. But she couldn’t help it, she had promised a chapter to Bert by the end of the week, so he could edit it during the weekend. She had work to do after all. But Ivan had no idea. She wondered if he was using the time to cheat on her.
“Do you think they’re having an affair?” she asked Fiona.
“I honestly don’t know,” Fiona said unhappily. He had done things like it before. Fiona had warned her of it in the beginning. “Maybe you should ask him.”
The following night she did, and Ivan laughed in her face. “What difference would it make to you, if I were? You’re busy all the time yourself.”
“I had some work I had to do,” she said obliquely.
“For whom?”
She debated for a long time before she answered, wanting to come clean. It might be simpler, after six months together, as long as she didn’t tell him what she was writing and under what name.
“I’m working on a book,” she said, barely audibly.
“I don’t believe you. You haven’t got what it takes.”
“How do you know? You’ve never read a word I’ve written. That’s why my friend is coming over next month. He’s my editor.”
“For what?”
“I’m ghostwriting again.” She didn’t know what else to say.
“For whom?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she said, looking uncomfortable. The web of lies she was spinning was strangling her.
“And what do I care anyway? You’re not a writer, Alex. You’re a file clerk, for God’s sake. Ghostwriting for some celebrity isn’t like writing a novel. And what makes you think you can write?” She couldn’t tell him that either. She felt like an idiot trying to explain it to him. “What are you trying to do? Make me feel bad? Show me up? I told you I wanted to write a book, so you’re writing one? How pathetic is that? What is this, a contest?” He had managed to deflect her from the key question she had asked him, and she brought him back to it again.
“Are you cheating on me, and having an affair?” she said calmly.
He hesitated for a long time, and then shrugged as he sat back in the chair, defying her to stop him or do something about it. “Maybe I am. We’re not married. I never said I wouldn’t sleep with other women. Don’t be so archaic. She’s a cute girl, maybe the three of us could have some fun one night.” She stared at him in amazement, unable to believe what she was hearing. It showed a total lack of respect for her, and even the other girl. She knew that people did things like that, but she didn’t intend to be one of them. He had no morals, or decency. He was spoiled and lazy, felt entitled, and did whatever he wanted. It was finally clear to her. He didn’t love her. They were having sex. And the charade of hiding her books from him was just too difficult, and he didn’t respect that either, and assumed she couldn’t write.