“I hate my job,” he said then, and she felt sorry for him.
“Maybe you should do something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. What do you want to do, other than write a book?” She wasn’t convinced he really wanted to write either, just say he did. “The beauty about writing is that you’re competing with yourself, not someone else.”
“Bullshit. Every writer wants to be on the bestseller list.” He spoke with the lofty tone of someone who knew all about it, and as if she didn’t.
“Of course they do, but while they’re writing, they’re on their own, crawling their way up Everest.” He looked at her blankly, as though her words had no meaning and he didn’t believe her.
“You’ll never write a book, Alex,” he told her with conviction. “You don’t know what it’s all about.”
“I guess not,” she agreed with him, and finally got him to talk of other things, like the exhibit they’d seen that day. But she was shocked by how little he knew about the business they were in, and what the writers went through to produce a book. She had enormous respect for other writers. They were all lonely travelers, rock climbing to the top, fighting for their lives and the lives of their characters along the way. It was like trying to carve a statue out of marble, breathing life into it, and giving it the warmth of human flesh. They gave birth to their characters with each book. Ivan was missing the best part, by focusing on the money, when the words and story and characters they created were so much more valuable and interesting, although the money was nice too. But no one did it just for the money, because they had to pay with blood, sweat, and tears for the end result.
They talked about a variety of other subjects during dinner, and he was in better spirits by the end of the meal. He enjoyed her company, and thought there was something mysterious about her. And when he was charming and fun to be with, she liked him, and when he was angry and jealous, she wanted to run away from him. There was a bitter layer of envy under his skin. But also times when he was very seductive. She was confused about her feelings for him, and whether she wanted to be friends with him or something more. One thing was certain, she could never confess to him about her work. She would have loved to take someone into her confidence about the books she wrote, but she knew it would never be him.
Their friendship continued erratically, and sometimes she liked going out with him, but when she started her book a few weeks later, she no longer had as much time for him, or the girls from the office who invited her out too. She spent a lot of time on the phone with Bert in Boston, to talk about the book and get direction from him. He was like the conductor and she was the orchestra, playing all the instruments as he directed her. She had enormous respect for him, and trusted what he told her to do. He loved the subtleties of her new plot, with the psychological element she’d added. Her writing was maturing, and the book was going to be better than anything she had written when she finished. She didn’t go out with Ivan for several weeks while she worked on it. He questioned her about her absence when she had dinner at the pub near the office with him again.
“Are you seeing someone else?” he asked her, looking suspicious. She thought about telling him she was ghostwriting again, but she didn’t dare. Who would she say she was doing it for here? She knew no one in England, except him, her boss, and the girls at work. And she hadn’t had time to make other friends, now that she had started writing again. He saw the Smith Corona on her desk, but she had put all the pages of the manuscript away in a locked drawer.
“No, I’m not,” she said innocently. Except the characters in her book, who were fully alive to her.
He acted like a boyfriend at times, and a friend at others. And she was both attracted to him, and afraid of him and his competitive, jealous nature once you scratched the surface. He didn’t seem like the right man to her. She didn’t think Ivan was it. But he was sexy, and he kissed her one night when they came back to her place after dinner, and the kiss was searing. He’d drunk most of a bottle of wine by himself, and she responded to the kiss with more fervor than she wanted to. He ran hot and cold and criticized her so much that sometimes he turned her off totally. But when he kissed her, she felt as though her whole body was on fire. He knew all the right things to do to arouse her, and she was an innocent in his expert hands. He used sex as a means to get women to do what he wanted, and it always worked for him. She had thought she could invite him to come in, but she realized she’d been mistaken.
“No,” she said softly, but without conviction, when he unzipped her jeans, as they sat on the couch together. “I shouldn’t…I don’t want to.” He laughed at what she said, and slipped his hand into the small lacy underwear she was wearing, and she was startled by the tidal wave of sensations he created. It was more powerful than anything she had imagined until then. She had written about sex, but never done it.
“Which is it?” he whispered between kisses, as one expert hand started working her breast. He was coming at her from all directions, her mouth, her nipple, and between her legs, and she could hardly breathe. “You shouldn’t…or you don’t want to? And why shouldn’t you, Alex?” She couldn’t remember the right answer to the question. She had had a few glasses of wine herself, and shouldn’t have done that either, she knew, if she wanted to keep a clear head. But she could no longer remember why that mattered…why did she need a clear head with all the incredible things he was doing to her, and then he slowly peeled off her jeans, and all she knew was that she wanted him to, and it all seemed right. Suddenly she wanted him as she never had before. “I want you, Alex…I need you,” he said passionately, and she needed him too. He spread her legs wide and entered her, ripped off her blouse, and bent to kiss her nipples as she moaned. His hands were everywhere and his mouth, and she was murmuring his name as he moved rhythmically, and then suddenly she gave a sharp cry of pain as he thrust deeper and he paid no attention to it. She dug her nails into his back and was torn between wanting him to stop and wanting it to go on forever, and he gave a loud shuddering cry and so did she. It had been pain and pleasure all at once, and he looked down at her in surprise, as he lay on top of her and realized what had happened.
“Were you a virgin?”
She nodded, as two tears rolled down her cheeks. She had wanted the first time to be with someone she loved passionately, not because desire had overwhelmed her after too much wine. She was ashamed of what she’d done, but she had wanted him so much. He rolled slowly off her and went to get towels to get the blood off her legs, and then he held her tight against him. She wanted him to say he loved her, but he didn’t, and she didn’t love him either. She wasn’t even sure she liked him sometimes, but she had loved what he had done to her, some of the time at least. And she clung to him, feeling lost and confused and guilty, but when he touched her, all she wanted was for him to do it again.
Chapter 12
Their relationship was confusing to Alex. Sometimes Ivan acted as though he hated her, other times as though he loved her, and she wasn’t sure what she felt for him either. She hated his caustic words and resentment, and the chip on his shoulder about anyone who had more than he did or had achieved something he thought should be his. And at other times, he was gentle and loving, and he brought her to heights in bed that bonded her to him in ways that frightened her too. It was not the relationship she had dreamed of or imagined, and yet at times she thought they were best friends.
She never took him into her confidence about her writing, and knew she couldn’t. And he sensed that there were parts of her she would never expose, allow him into, or give away. Alex was a woman with a secret, and he could never figure out the code. And she was adamant about needing time to herself, when she wanted to write. But she never explained her absences to him, or the distance she created between them when the book was on her mind. He still wondered at times if it was another man, but he found that hard to believe. Their sex life was astounding, and yet at times, she totally shut dow
n and wouldn’t let him near her. She allowed nothing to interfere with the book he didn’t know about. As always, her writing came first. And she felt guilty for keeping part of herself separate.
She was debating about whether to go home to Boston for the holidays, when Fiona invited her to come to Ireland with her to spend them with her family. And Alex loved the idea. Ivan said he hated Christmas, and went somewhere on his own every year where he didn’t have to hear stories about Father Christmas and see people carrying presents or dragging their Christmas trees home. He said he was going to Morocco and invited Alex to come with him, but she either wanted to go home to the nuns, go home with Fiona, or stay in London, and enjoy a British Christmas. She wasn’t going to go to Marrakesh with him, ignoring the holiday entirely. She put up a tree before he left. In the end, Fiona’s invitation had the most appeal. Fiona was going to Ireland for a week and coming back to London on New Year’s Eve, to spend it with friends. Ivan was planning to spend two weeks in Marrakesh, so she’d be alone for New Year’s. She was annoyed at him for leaving, and said that their relationship shouldn’t just be about sex. She wanted to spend the holidays with him, but he was nonnegotiable about it.
“I don’t do holidays. They were rotten when I was a kid. And I don’t like sharing them with anyone now,” he said coldly. There were a lot of things about the relationship she didn’t like, the way he treated her when he was moody, the things he said to demean her, the fact that sex was all-important to him and he never told her he loved her, and then at other times he was tender with her and seemed to care about her, and the sex was extraordinary, and for him that replaced love. She wondered sometimes if he hated women, or if he was just a very unhappy person and hated himself. He was hard to read at times, and he was in such a foul mood as the holidays began that it was a relief when he left.
Alex had had a letter from Brigid, the ex–Sister Regina. She loved her teaching job in Boston, and was dating the math teacher at the school. She was going to meet his family over Christmas. She said that he was thirty-eight years old, had never been married either, and wanted children. And Brigid sounded very excited about him. Alex was happy for her. Rose Porter had sent her a white cashmere scarf with mittens to match to keep warm. She missed all of them at times, but for now her life was here, and she wanted to see it through.
She called Mother Mary Margaret to say she wasn’t coming for Christmas, but she would be going to Ireland with her friend.
“As long as you’re with a family over Christmas,” the superior said generously, “then I won’t worry about you. We’ll catch up when you get back.” But Alex didn’t know when that would be. She didn’t want to leave Ivan, or her job. She had no idea how long the relationship would last with Ivan, his feelings for her seemed to wax and wane day by day. He was impossible to predict.
“Do you love him?” Fiona asked her when they boarded the train to Heathrow to fly to Ireland.
“I don’t know,” Alex said honestly. “I’m not sure.”
“Sex confuses everything, doesn’t it?” Fiona said wistfully. There had been a boy she had loved in Ireland and wanted to marry, and then she had gone to London, gotten involved with someone else, and everything went wrong. Fiona seemed much more worldly and experienced after living in London for four years. Alex’s home had been the convent and a college dorm until six months before, although now everything had changed. And Fiona was right, Alex decided, sex made everything so confusing. She no longer knew what she felt or where she belonged. At times she just wanted to go back to Boston, but she wasn’t ready to give up on Ivan yet. Maybe his rough edges and bitterness would smooth down in time. He expected the world to give him what he wanted, like a successful novel, but he wasn’t willing to strive and sacrifice for it. Alex didn’t hear from him once he left for Marrakesh. He’d been there before, and he said it was cheap, sunny, and fun, which was all he wanted for two weeks.
But the week that Alex spent with Fiona’s family was warm and wonderful. She had a hundred-and-two-year-old great-grandmother who lived with them. And Fiona’s family were very kind to her while she was there. They made her feel welcome, and Alex called the nuns before they left for midnight mass on Christmas Eve, which was only seven in the evening in Boston. They were about to have Christmas Eve dinner. And she talked to everyone. They said they missed her terribly, but thought working in London was a wonderful experience for her. She was sad when she hung up. Fiona could see that she was homesick. Alex prayed for the nuns that night in church.
The next morning she and Fiona went to the kitchen and made breakfast together, and an hour later, the whole family was crammed into the kitchen, even Fiona’s great-grandmother in her wheelchair. Fiona had four younger brothers and two sisters, and Alex was glad she’d come, and grateful that they’d included her. She and Fiona were sad to leave on the morning of New Year’s Eve, but Fiona had plans in London that night with a hot date. The interlude in Dublin with Fiona’s family had done Alex good. It was nice being with a normal family. And she and Fiona had slept in the same room with her sisters on bunk beds. It made Alex feel like a kid again. But she was hungry to work on her book when she got home to her apartment in London.
And as soon as she got back, Alex got to work in earnest. She was even beginning to think that she should give up her internship and work on the book full-time. It was difficult doing both. But she wasn’t quite ready to quit the job yet. And she knew that Ivan would be upset if she did. In some ways, it was nice working in the same place as he was.
She hadn’t told the nuns about him, but Mother MaryMeg suspected that she had a beau, and didn’t want to ask. And Alex was old enough now to choose the right man, or so she hoped.
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 c
ome.”
“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.
The Right Time Page 16