Free The Fictional Man by Al Ewing Page B

it was part of the film.
    “It was hard,” Niles mumbled. The writer ended the call. He put the phone down and ended the call, and then he dropped his phone in the toilet. All it took was the smallest movement of his thumb and the whole ordeal was over.
    The thumb didn’t move.
    “‘Oh, she’s so clingy,’ you said. ‘It was supposed to be this casual thing and she wants more, I don’t know what to do...’ I had to leave my job, you fucking asshole! You were so fucking cowardly about it I had to end your affair for you!Your affair with my fucking boss ! I couldn’t stay! I had to go back to children’s books !” Niles could tell Iyla was crying now, although she was almost managing to hide it. He moved the phone back to his ear, feeling numb. “I should have left you then. I should have just fucking kicked you out right then...”
    Niles remembered – the couples’ counselling they’d tried for half a year, until Niles had called it off, unable to deal with the implied judgement Dr Alder loaded every single sentence with. Then the sessions with Dr Loewes, on his own – what a waste of money that had been.
    Eventually, he’d come to the realisation, after Justine had stalked his Facebook page with vague threats to go to the press and tell them everything – threats she thankfully never carried out – that he’d been a fool. Possibly even a sex addict. LA was the town for it, after all. Somehow, the marriage had survived, and for a couple of years – and yes, during that time there had been the occasional one-night stand, but if he was a sex addict it couldn’t be helped – it had been almost healthy. Not quite the blissful time of old, but he’d been happy, and for all he knew she had been too.
    And then, of course, he’d met Danica Moss.
    “Listen, let’s not... let’s not talk about this anymore,” he heard himself pleading, his voice weary, drained. He couldn’t bear it if she brought up Danica. Not now.
    There was a white-hot moment of silence on the other end of the line.
    “Please,” he said, hearing how hollow it sounded in his ears.
    Iyla let out a long, slow breath. “All right. Let’s not,” she said, her voice shaking, and then Niles could hear the wet, snuffling sound of her blowing her nose. Eventually, she spoke again. “So you’re getting therapy now?” Her voice still had that edge of bitterness. “Still think you’re a sex addict?”
    “No,” he said quietly.
    “So who is it?” she asked. “Anyone I know? Who knows, maybe we’re going to the same one.”
    Niles hesitated a moment. “Um, probably not. Do you... do you remember Ralph Cutner?”
    “Not really. Was he a friend of yours, or –” She tailed off. “Ralph Cutner?”
    Niles said nothing.
    “ Cutner’s Chair Ralph Cutner? You’re seeing a Fictional for therapy? Is he even licensed?” She sounded like she didn’t know whether to be disgusted or find it hilarious. Or both.
    “Yes,” he replied, “As a life coach.” He could feel his cheeks growing hotter, though he didn’t know why he was so embarrassed – about this, at least. It was her problem, not his. She’d always had a nasty streak of realism inside her, buried down deep – at least he’d always thought so. He remembered the way she’d treated Bob.
    He cleared his throat. “Listen, there’s no need to be realist about –”
    “Oh, fuck you, Niles. As far as I’m concerned, you and he deserve each other. And I’m throwing all this shit away.” There were four brief pips and the line went dead. Iyla’s name vanished from the phone display.
    Niles looked at it for a long moment, wondering if he should call her back – it’d be a shame to download all of Beggar On A Beach Of Gold again – and then he put the phone on the table, picked up his notebook, and restarted the film.
     
    INT. F.L.O.O.Z.Y. DUNGEON – NIGHT.
     
    KITTEN:
    You can do what you want with me, Mizz Harridan. But you’ll never turn Dalton Doll into one of