CHAPTER NINE
Ian
I stretch the sleep from my limbs and open my eyes to see I’m alone in bed. Still tired, I roll over and wait for Kristina to return and cuddle up next to me. Looking at the clock, I see it’s close to ten. I’ve got a full day of writing planned, but another hour or so in bed won’t hurt.
The sound of my cell phone ringing wakes me up and I open my eyes to see it’s nearly noon. Turning my head, I see Kristina’s side of the bed empty. I wonder where she is, but she’s probably in the bathroom getting ready for the day. My phone thankfully stops ringing, but starts up again almost immediately. Still groggy, I answer my phone more concerned with why I slept so late than whoever is calling me.
“Hello?” I mumble as I work to focus my still bleary eyes.
“Ian? What are you doing?”
I vaguely recognize my agent’s voice, but it sounds frantic. Definitely not what a person wants to hear first thing in the morning. “Sheila, I just woke up, but don’t worry. I’m not back to doing anything bad. I just overslept today.”
“You overslept? So you don’t know about what’s happened?” she asks, her voice in full panic mode.
“No. Did something happen?” I ask, wide awake and beginning to get worried myself. Sheila isn’t the kind of woman to go off the deep end, and if she’s upset about something, it must be big.
“Oh, Ian. Just when I thought you got lucky, it’s all a mess. I don’t believe most of it. I can’t, but you need to wake up and listen to me.”
I sit up and swing my legs off the bed. “Sheila, calm down. Whatever it is, I’ll be fine. Just tell me what’s going on and we’ll handle it.”
“Are you alone?”
“No.” I begin to walk through the apartment and I don’t see Kristina anywhere. “Well, maybe. I think Kristina must have run out for something. What does it matter if I’m alone or not, though?”
“Ian, what did you do when you went to Rome, other than drugs? Did you even research for the Marc Antony book, or was that all a lie?”
I’ve never felt more confused than I do at that moment. I don’t know where Kristina is and nothing Sheila’s saying is making sense. Leaning back against the kitchen counter, I try to clear my head, but her questions sound like madness.
“I admit I went back to doing heroin on my trip to Rome, but I spent the time researching, Sheila. What’s all this about?”
“Who is T. Anderson, Ian?”
My eyes fly open wide at her mention of the pen name only Kristina and I know about. My mind begins spinning out of control as she continues to ask who T. Anderson is and if I’ve secretly written a book without her knowing.
“How did you find out?”
“It’s all over the news, Ian! So it’s true? How could you do this? I’m your agent and you kept this from me?”
“What do you mean it’s all over the news?” I ask as I begin to panic like she is. “What news?”
“The gossip website All The Dirt posted an article about you being this author and being in rehab this last time. It will be on Page Six by tomorrow.”
“It’s not that big a deal, Sheila. I wrote a book and published it on my own. It did better than I thought it ever would, but I’m not planning on throwing away my career writing historical fiction as Ian Anwell. Somebody must have made the connection, but the two have nothing to do with one another.”
Sheila is silent for a long moment and then says quietly, “It’s not that easy, Ian. Those two genres don’t complement each other.”
“Don’t worry. It was just something that came about as a result of me meeting Kristina. I don’t plan on writing many more as T. Anderson, so you won’t lose me.”
“It’s much worse than you think. Right now, your publisher is telling me that the Marc Antony project is on hold, and I’m hearing the same thing for the film of Caligula’s Dream.”
“Why? Does it really matter what I do under a pen name?”
“If no one had found out, it wouldn’t matter, but now that people know Ian Anwell wrote Silk, you’re too sexy for historical fiction.”
Now I’m in full panic mode like she was a few minutes ago. “What are you saying? That my career is ruined because I wrote one erotic book? That’s fucking crazy.”
“Ian, I’ll do what I can, but for right now, you’re just not a name they want to be associated with. But there’s more.”
More? Like what? Do they plan to put me in the stockade in the public square for having impure thoughts?
Suddenly, the room feels like it’s spinning out of control. As she begins to read from the All The Dirt post, I stumble to the table and fall into a chair. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Honey, I’m so sorry, but they said this about Kristina. ‘All The Dirt hears that actress Kristina Richards has been very busy lately. First she was seen kanoodling with her co-star in Original Sin Gavin Somers while they were shooting in Vancouver recently, and as you can see by the picture below, they were just as cozy as two people could be. Our source reports that cuddling in a restaurant booth isn’t all they were up to either.
But now we here at All The Dirt hear that while she was getting hot and heavy with Gavin, her boyfriend author Ian Anwell was off at rehab again trying to shake his drug habit for the fifth time. So he was trying to clean up and she was getting down and dirty.’”
I close my eyes as the bile begins to rise in my throat. “No. No. They’re a gossip site. They got this one wrong, though. She wasn’t with anyone.”
Even as I defend her, I can’t help but replay every moment together since I returned and every word she wrote me in those letters she sent all the while I was in rehab. Is it possible? Did she go with that guy while I was spending time getting clean so we could have a life together?
“I’m sure you’re right, Ian. She clearly loves you. I saw that the night I took you to Meadowbrook.”
“Yeah, these sites get shit wrong all the time, Sheila. They aren’t wrong about me being T. Anderson or about Silk. I did write it,” I say, working to keep my voice from shaking I’m so upset. “But if you want, I’ll make it up to you for keeping it secret by letting you be my agent for it. I’ve had a few contact me already, in addition to a film producer interested in talking about making a movie of the story.”
“I don’t usually work with that genre, but for you, I’ll see what I can do. Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything else too. I think for the time being you might want to lay low, though. This is a story the media thinks has legs with the pen name, the popularity of Silk, and the whole cheating story.”
“She didn’t cheat, Sheila.”
“Okay, but they don’t know that, so this story seems like it has all the elements the media likes. I think until everything dies down, you should go away for a little while. Take Kristina and leave as soon as you can. You still have that cabin upstate. Go there. Sit in front of a roaring fire and lay low until I can clear things up here.”
I hate the idea of running away and hiding, but she’s right. Staying in the city won’t help matters.
“Okay, I need a little time off anyway. I’ll give you a call in a few days.”
“Sounds good, Ian. Don’t worry. I’ll handle things for you like I always have. You don’t have to worry about this. Go enjoy a little R and R with Kristina.”
I hear the sympathy in her voice, but it’s not for what’s happened to my writing career. She thinks the part of the story about Kristina is true.
And with every minute that passes, I begin to think it is too.
I look around my apartment where just twelve hours earlier we were happier than we’d ever been before. For four days we’d enjoyed just being with one another in the way two people in love did. Completely and sublimely in love. Now all this place feels is empty. I don’t know where she is or why she left. Did she leave because this story went public and it’s true?
Flipping open my laptop, I make my way to the All The Dirt website and read the post, unable to stop myself from looking at the picture of her with this guy Gavin she worked with on that film in Vancouver.
Brown hair, average build, nothing to make him noteworthy. Goofy too perfect smile. And I hate him because there she is in his arms smiling like I thought she only smiled for me.
I don’t want to believe she betrayed me so completely. I don’t want to believe she cheated on me with this guy and then broke her promise to me and told the world about T. Anderson and our story.
I don’t, but I can’t help it. Every moment that goes by without a word from her tells me I need to begin believing it.
I can’t handle this. It hurts too much. I need something to help me deal with this.
Rummaging through my kitchen cabinets for anything to help me take the edge off how bad I feel, I find a bottle of whisky somebody gave me for Christmas one year. The stuff’s shit, but right now, I don’t care if it’s fucking lighter fluid.
I just need to be something other than sober.
I pour myself a glass and down it fast, hoping it hits me and dulls the pain that’s already beginning to hurt too fucking much. Another one goes down just as quick and begins to do the job.
By the third glass, my rage and hurt have subsided enough for me to at least try to understand what happened, so I call Kristina but get no answer. I wait ten minutes for her to call me back, finishing my drink and pouring myself another, but my phone doesn’t make a sound.
Finally, I text her and pray to God she answers with something that doesn’t make me feel even worse than I already do.
I read the All The Dirt post. All I want to know is if it’s true.
Waiting for my phone to vibrate, I try to remember any happy moment between us, but they’re all blocked by the sick feeling I have that she betrayed me.
Her message comes in, and for a moment a feeling of dread washes over me. I can’t put off looking at it, though, so after waiting a minute, I pick it up and read her text, my heart slamming against my chest as the words flow by my eyes.
I never told anyone about our story or that you wrote it, Ian. I wouldn’t do that to you. I love you. I wouldn’t ruin your life like that.
My hands shake as I write the text that may be the end of all the happiness I’ve ever wanted.
Did you sleep with him while I was in rehab?
Her message takes too long, and I know the answer before my phone even tells me she’s texted back. When it vibrates against the top of the table where we ate every meal together, I feel empty, like someone’s carved out my insides and left me hollow. I look down and read the words that tear my heart out.
Yes but it was nothing. I’m coming there right now and we’ll talk. I can explain everything, Ian. I love you. Please believe me. I can explain.
As the truth of what she did becomes reality in my mind, I stand from the table and grab a bag to fill with things I’ll need up at the cabin. I can’t stay here and listen to the woman I love tell me the reasons why she slept with another man while I was in rehab missing her more than I’d ever missed anyone in my life.
I reach the lobby and see the doorman just as I notice the mob of photographers standing outside the front door. He recognizes me immediately and steps in front of me to shield me from them.
“Mr. Anwell, I think we should find another way for you to exit the building today.”
“Good idea. I’m going to be driving, so I just need to get down to the garage.” He seems to study me for a long moment, and I realize I probably reek of cheap whisky, so I add, “I’m fine. No need to worry.”
“Yes, sir.” Extending his arm, he guides me to the door to the garage, never moving from in front of me. “Drive safely, sir.”
I head past him toward my parking spot where my BMW Series 6 is parked and smile. “Thanks.”
“Do you have any instructions in case Miss Richards arrives tonight while they’re still here?”
Shaking my head, I try to keep the sadness I’m feeling over losing her from my voice. “Nope. She’s used to that kind of thing. She’ll be fine.”
“Yes, sir. Drive safely.”
Driving safely is likely not going to happen since I’m pretty fucking buzzed from the cheap Christmas gift booze, so I speed out of the parking garage and head up the street, blowing the horn at the photographer vultures as I pass. For a few minutes I don’t feel like I’ve lost everything I love and I’m all alone, but that doesn’t last and as roar up the road to my cabin upstate, all I feel is empty.
Empty and lost without her.