The fuck is wrong with her? Wha she a-try say? This thing with Phil is serious? He laughed inside. She’d even tried to cut him off—had said she’d never sleep with him again. But here she was, only weeks beyond her declaration, ready to let off, because Phil didn’t know how to slap her despite being taught by the master.

He went to the fridge for a Guinness, asked Margaret what she wanted. She said, without looking up, red wine.

Despite all the mix-up, Ian liked having Phil around. He was jovial and domestic. He cooked and cleaned and washed. Went shopping and ran errands. Without any sort of prompting. He had a nice spirit. And hearing him practice on his trumpet from dawn till noon was indulging in aural sex.

He also liked having Phil around because he gave him access to Margaret. Because of Phil’s presence, Margaret visited often, and had even spent a few nights.

Ian pretended to be unaffected by her visits, and he kept out of her way under the guise of giving her some privacy with Phil, although she didn’t seem to cherish it. As a matter of fact she tried to outrage him by being openly sexual with Phil.

So Ian was faced with a choice between two hurts—the hurt of seeing Margaret with Phil, and the hurt of losing touch with her altogether. Through Phil, he learned about the goings-on in her life—what she ate, where she went, how she was feeling. And gleaning this information was easy because Phil spoke about Margaret constantly. He adored her.

About a month ago, Phil had made an announcement. He said it very simply: “I’m thinking about living with Margaret.” He and Ian were sitting next to each other on the staircase having dinner.

“Why? What appen?” Ian said. “You tink I runnin y’out? Stay as long as you want, man.”

“It’s not that you’re making me uncomfortable or anything,” Phil replied. “It’s just that I’m thinking of staying in America for a while and I guess I’d need my own place.”

Ian heaved a sigh and swallowed. “I mean if you get the Philharmonic gig then you’ll be over here for a while, but you can stay here for as long as you need, man,” he said, worried about the prospect of losing touch with Margaret.

“I’ve kinda soured on the Philharmonic, Ian,” Phil replied laconically.

“What you mean?”

“I’m not sure if my future is in classical music. Margaret’s been suggesting that I start thinking about jazz. She could do things for me, she says … open doors … She knows a lot of people, being at the station and all.”

“Me never know you like jazz all dat much, Phil.”

“I do. I’ve been playing more in the last couple of years … but come on, America’s where it’s at. Not England. New York. Not London.”

Ian sucked his teeth.

“Listen,” Phil continued. “It’s not just about music … I love Margaret, and I want to stay near her.”