He eventually found her in the studio—at two o’clock in the morning, drunk and coked-up, lying on a workbench with her skirt up, giggling then moaning in chemically dulled pain as three of his German acquaintances had their way.

Ian still loved her then.

He loved her until, instead of stopping it as he knew he should have, he took one look at her luscious thighs and pliant lips and lay on top of her like the others and smothered his love to death. He would always hold her dear. Always have a special affection for her. Always like being close to her. But he could never love her, he told himself, because she was a whore. Since then a part of him always hated Margaret, for he blamed her for his inability to love.

“Come here,” she whispered, sliding her panties over her hips.

He glanced up at the TV as he lay down in her softness. How would he explain this to Phil? She locked her ankles round his neck. How would he explain that he and Margaret have a connection that no one else would ever understand?

“Who do you love?” he asked. He wanted to beat her. But mental pain was deeper and more lasting than physical pain, he knew. So he loved her up sweetly, told himself he was an anxious finger slipping into a wedding ring.

Who did she love? Margaret wasn’t sure anymore. She’d been with Phil for a couple of months now, and she was falling in love. Not so much with him, but with his innocence, his naïveté, his faith in human goodness—but most of all his acceptance of her as a person. She was thinking now of the first time they’d slept together after the ménage with Ian.

“How is it that you make love so beautifully?” he’d asked as they showered.

“Because I’ve fucked a lot of men,” she replied. She wanted him to understand that it was just a fling. There was a part of her that didn’t think she deserved more than that.

“Good,” he replied, “because I haven’t slept with many women, so maybe you could teach me. I’m quite inexperienced for my age.”

After he’d come out of the hospital, she’d told him to come and stay with her until his new audition date. He couldn’t afford to fly back to England and return, she knew; she also knew it would be difficult for their relationship to prosper in Ian’s shadow. After a few days, however, her neighbors began to complain about his practicing. So he went back to Ian, without knowing the depth of their history together—he thought that she and Ian were just fuck buddies.

Ian.

The man she lived to please. The man who knew her body like a musician knows his chosen instrument. The man whose touch was so unerring that when she was flat—like now—he could slide his fingers down her spine and bend her back in tune.

“Who do you love?” he asked again.