him timidly. He was awkward with her friends and almost never participated in their regular Sunday-night family-style meals. He always had an excuse to miss them.
“I have to meet with the accountant,” he said quickly. “And now I have to read the girl’s play, so we can snag her father’s money as a backer. We’ll have a quiet dinner together next week,” he promised. But he was always soft about plans, and never remembered the nights he had suggested to her. The only way to spend time with him was impromptu, when he was in the mood, and not too drained by his writing, or a performance. She wasn’t surprised that he’d declined—she was used to it. He was a creative being to his core, and not easy to pin down, so she no longer tried.
She left him at the theater and went home to clean up, and try to get the paint off before meeting him at midnight at his studio. He didn’t like the lack of privacy at her place, and preferred spending nights with her, when they did, at his own. It was small and disorderly, but they could be alone for the tantalizing things they did in bed.
He kissed her again before she left, and the girl seemed insignificant to Abby now. She was a means to an end, money for his theater, which Abby knew he needed desperately. Even his regular supporters had limited funds. And theater as avant-garde as his was not a big moneymaker. They often played to a half-empty house, since so few people understood his work. It was very oblique.
Ivan had asked her to lend him money a few times to help pay the rent at the theater, when he was particularly strapped, and she had, which had left her short of money for the next several weeks. And she never wanted to ask her parents for money for him, since he didn’t approve of their work and was so outspoken about it. Whatever she gave him was money she had saved. And he was always annoyed that her parents weren’t willing to back his theater, given how rich he thought they were. Abby never told him her father was convinced he was a fraud, writing nonsense that went nowhere and never would. He wished that Abby would start writing “normal” material again, not what he considered experimental “garbage.” And Ivan liked them no better than they liked him.
Abby arrived at Ivan’s studio at midnight, and he was sound asleep. His graying sandy hair was tousled when he opened the door and he seemed surprised to see her, and then pulled her into his arms. He had been naked when he opened the door and didn’t seem to mind, since it was a warm night, and he had no air conditioning in the tiny studio. She was breathless after climbing seven flights of stairs, and even more so when he peeled her clothes away and began making love to her even before they got to his bed. They made love all night long, and fell asleep in each other’s arms at dawn. It was nights like this that kept her tied to him and washed all her doubts and disappointments away. He was so good at sweeping her off her feet again, turning her head, and playing her body like a harp.
—
Sasha was on call on Saturday night but dropped by Max’s restaurant for dinner. Morgan was already there, Claire had no plans so she walked over with Sasha, and Abby had said she might stop in on her way home from the theater. Their Saturday-night plans were always loose and impromptu, and Max kept a table for them just in case.
“Is Ivan coming?” Sasha asked the others, hoping he wasn’t.
“No, Abby said he’d be ‘too tired’ after the performance, thank God,” Claire answered her.
And Sasha was praying they wouldn’t call her in, but just in case, she wouldn’t drink. Oliver and Greg said they might drop by, and Sasha had invited Valentina, but she was in St. Bart’s for the weekend with a new man. She said he was French and a terrific guy, sixty years old, a multimillionaire, and had just moved to New York. All of the men Valentina dated were old enough to be her father, so Sasha wasn’t
“I have to meet with the accountant,” he said quickly. “And now I have to read the girl’s play, so we can snag her father’s money as a backer. We’ll have a quiet dinner together next week,” he promised. But he was always soft about plans, and never remembered the nights he had suggested to her. The only way to spend time with him was impromptu, when he was in the mood, and not too drained by his writing, or a performance. She wasn’t surprised that he’d declined—she was used to it. He was a creative being to his core, and not easy to pin down, so she no longer tried.
She left him at the theater and went home to clean up, and try to get the paint off before meeting him at midnight at his studio. He didn’t like the lack of privacy at her place, and preferred spending nights with her, when they did, at his own. It was small and disorderly, but they could be alone for the tantalizing things they did in bed.
He kissed her again before she left, and the girl seemed insignificant to Abby now. She was a means to an end, money for his theater, which Abby knew he needed desperately. Even his regular supporters had limited funds. And theater as avant-garde as his was not a big moneymaker. They often played to a half-empty house, since so few people understood his work. It was very oblique.
Ivan had asked her to lend him money a few times to help pay the rent at the theater, when he was particularly strapped, and she had, which had left her short of money for the next several weeks. And she never wanted to ask her parents for money for him, since he didn’t approve of their work and was so outspoken about it. Whatever she gave him was money she had saved. And he was always annoyed that her parents weren’t willing to back his theater, given how rich he thought they were. Abby never told him her father was convinced he was a fraud, writing nonsense that went nowhere and never would. He wished that Abby would start writing “normal” material again, not what he considered experimental “garbage.” And Ivan liked them no better than they liked him.
Abby arrived at Ivan’s studio at midnight, and he was sound asleep. His graying sandy hair was tousled when he opened the door and he seemed surprised to see her, and then pulled her into his arms. He had been naked when he opened the door and didn’t seem to mind, since it was a warm night, and he had no air conditioning in the tiny studio. She was breathless after climbing seven flights of stairs, and even more so when he peeled her clothes away and began making love to her even before they got to his bed. They made love all night long, and fell asleep in each other’s arms at dawn. It was nights like this that kept her tied to him and washed all her doubts and disappointments away. He was so good at sweeping her off her feet again, turning her head, and playing her body like a harp.
—
Sasha was on call on Saturday night but dropped by Max’s restaurant for dinner. Morgan was already there, Claire had no plans so she walked over with Sasha, and Abby had said she might stop in on her way home from the theater. Their Saturday-night plans were always loose and impromptu, and Max kept a table for them just in case.
“Is Ivan coming?” Sasha asked the others, hoping he wasn’t.
“No, Abby said he’d be ‘too tired’ after the performance, thank God,” Claire answered her.
And Sasha was praying they wouldn’t call her in, but just in case, she wouldn’t drink. Oliver and Greg said they might drop by, and Sasha had invited Valentina, but she was in St. Bart’s for the weekend with a new man. She said he was French and a terrific guy, sixty years old, a multimillionaire, and had just moved to New York. All of the men Valentina dated were old enough to be her father, so Sasha wasn’t
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