Last Line first

 I knew I had flaws. Despite my vanity and pride, my quick temper, my eccentricates and rapacious literary ambitions, I believe Jack Theo Carter had truly loved me.  He had been an exciting and wonderful lover. Jack Theo Carter was the love of my life, the one who would for ever live in my heart.

As for my feminist leanings, the remark he had once made that he never objected to my writing, nor ever attempted to confine me in any way, was perfectly true. At least that is what he told himself.  

 He was a musician and at first I attended all his concerts and in truth some rehearsals too. I even flew over from Italy, where I had lived for a time, to hear him perform the Bruch violin concerto.  But early on I recognised that there was a danger of my life revolving around his. At first I managed to write in the margins as it were. Writing, unlike music is silent and moreover can be done descretly. There was no paraphernalia either. Unlike the amount of baggage he hawked around. It wasn't just the instruments (he played the french horn and the trumpet as well as the fiddle for a time) it was the bags of music and the music stands and sometimes amps and mics. At first no-one knew that I was a writer not even him. 

I am not sure how it came about but people started to ask, ”What are you writing?” and “I hope that is not a crit of the band.”  and “Are you a journalist?”

At first I  looked up, smiled and continued to write. Then I thought why not expose myself. So sometimes I'd say, “I am writing a short story.”  or “It's just my diary.”  Next I played games and I'd say ,”It's the last chapter of my novel. I have to get it to the publisher.” 

I had to change my replies because people to wanted  to know more and they would ask,”What's it about? And “What kind of novel is it? Detective? Historical? Love story? “

That did it. I had a light bulb moment. I asked myself some questions. “What in God's name was I doing? I wanted to be a writer. I had an office in my house with a damn good desk, a bookcase full of reference books, a telephone at my elbow, and even a computer which gave me access to wikipedia.”

At about that time my autobiography had just been published. Of course Jack knew nothing about it. He hadn't seen me writing it, nor had he been aware that I was comunicating with a publisher. When I received the first copies  I put them on my well stocked book shelves and he never noticed. That all changed when my friend, Janet, suggested that she wanted to help me to take it from the page to the stage.  She did most of the work here but I suggested which parts I thought would work and she did it. Jane had written a couple of plays and performed them around Liverpool and Manchester to great acclaim. We had a mutual friend who had produced and directed her plays and was willing to do the same for me. Keith was a really good friend who frequently accompanied me to exhibitions and theatre productions. On one occasion when I told Jack that I was going to Manchester with Keith he seemed upset and objected. 

“You know Keith's gay, don't you? “ I said. To which he replied, “Does he have a certificate to prove it?”

He was a good producer and director. We were lucky enough to perform my play in a prestigous theatre and it was well attended. The audience was very appreciative. Jack didn't appear. He knew the date the venue and the time.  A huge bouquet arrived at the theatre from him to me. Later he didn't ask about the performance. He wanted praise for his exceptional thoughtfulness.

 That was when I decided to end the relationship.  For now I had become what I had always longed to be, a woman of letters.