“So is Word Star paying you then?”

“Of course. If you give away things for free people don’t appreciate it. They begin to feel entitled. And that’s a bad thing. No one’s entitled to anything but a fair chance, kind encouragement, and a kick in the ass when they keep fucking up, Courts. And that’s why I’m over here. But should I really have to do this? Where are the black writers who were born here and spent most of their lives here? The ones who’ve done really well? America. That’s where they are. Teaching in the best universities.”

“Would you call them sellouts?”

“No. It’s quite complex. They’re trying to get the biggest market for their work. And that’s understandable. There’re only a million and a half black people in all of Britain versus thirty-two million in the States. I guess they feel they have to get more before they can start giving back. Labels like ‘sellout’ are too simple to describe the challenges faced by black people, Courts. Have always been. No, I wouldn’t call them sellouts. They’ve had to take a different route because they haven’t been as lucky as I’ve been. By the way, how are Little J and Kyle and Locksley?”

“They moved to America—Brooklyn, I believe. A lot of people have moved over there. England’s getting tougher and tougher every day. Layoffs everywhere. Maybe I should move over there. The funeral business must be better over there wif all the drive-by killings and disgruntled postal workers. Not to mention cancer and hypertension. Shit! Over ere I’ve got to wait for a car to run over somebody or until someone dies of old age or boredom.”

Fire and Courtney stayed up chatting about cars and music until they heard the tinkling of Nan’s keys at the door. They were in the living room now. Fire was flushed with warmth when he saw her. He’d known her since they were teenagers.

“Oh, you’ve already got supper,” she said, as she walked toward Courtney to give him a kiss. She spoke with modulated precision. “I brought you supper, luv—for you too, Fire—donners.” She dug a space between them with her hips.

“I heard you’re going to the polytech, Nan,” Fire said. “What’re you taking up?”

“Computer-aided retouching—Adobe Photoshop.”

“Courts told me you were doing word processing.”

“What does he know about me? He pays me no mind. He’s too busy with his dead bodies. I’m beginning to think he’s a necrophiliac—”

“That explains my attraction to you, Nan.”

Nan slapped Courtney playfully, then continued on about school.

When Fire woke up the next morning, Nan was sitting on the edge of his futon. Wiping his hair away from his face, he sat up and gathered the covers around his middle, aware—too much so, he felt—of the form of her breasts through her light nightgown.

She’d acquired some lines in her face, he noticed—to her advantage, for they drew attention to her best features: her dark eyes and thick lashes, and her slightly crooked Cypriot nose. Poor Nan. She needed a different kind of man, Fire thought. She needed a man who encouraged without prompting. For, as bright as she was, Nan was in thrall to self-doubt. At times he was inclined to believe that Courtney withheld his support to ensure that she’d never outgrow him. Which began to make more sense now as he considered how Courtney had pressured her to drop out of university in Liverpool, where she’d gone to study math, threatening to leave her if she didn’t return to London—where there were lots of lonely black girls. In love and insecure, she obeyed him, promising her parents that she’d finish up at Goldsmith’s. But that didn’t work out, and she lucked into a job as a photographer’s assistant, which she did off and on whenever she could find time. Courtney’s ego required a lot of nursing.