Or maybe his analyst asked him about the other sources of his anxiety besides me. His wife, of course. And his other mistress, E.

I knew about E. He had promised me that he was going to break up with her soon, but it was complicated. She was married to a friend of his. The two couples dined regularly together. The affair had started seven years ago when E took private drawing lessons with him, though he assured me, she was not nearly as talented as I. I accepted his Gordian sex life as the birthright of the male artist.

But I was curious.

“Do you still have sex with your wife?”

“I have to, Jill, or she would be suspicious.”

“What about E?”

“I’ve only made love to her once since I started seeing you.”

“Isn’t she suspicious?”

E, by the way, never made it into the memoir.