Public Secrets Part 2

woman for one thing, and you'll find out what that is soon enough. When

they're done, they're done, and you're left with a big stomach and a

broken heart."

She picked up a cigarette and began to smoke it in quick, jerky puffs as

she paced. She wished it was gra.s.s, sweet, calming gra.s.s, but she'd

spent her drug money on Emma's new dress. The sacrifices a mother made.

"Well, he may not want you, but after one look he won't be able to deny

you're his." Eyes narrowed against the smoke, she studied her daughter.

There was another tug, almost maternal. The little tyke was certainly

pretty as a picture when she was cleaned up. "You're the G.o.dd.a.m.n image

of him, Emma luy. The papers say he's going to marry that Wilson

s.l.u.t-old money and fancy manners-but we'll see, we'll just see about

that. He'll come back to me. I always knew he'd come back." She

stubbed the cigarette in a chipped ashtray and left it smoldering. She

needed a drink-just one taste of gin to calm her nerves. "You sit on the

bed," she ordered. "Sit right there and keep quiet. Mess with any of my

stuff, and you'll be sorry."

She had two drinks before she heard the knock on the door. Her heart

began to pound. Like most drunks, she felt more attractive, more in

control, once she'd had the liquor. She smoothed down her hair, fixed

what she thought was a sultry smile on her face, and opened the door.

He was beautiful. For a moment in the streaming summer sunlight, she

saw only him, tall and slender, his wavy blond hair and full, serious

mouth giving him the look of a poet or an apostle. As nearly as she was

able, she loved.

"Brian. So nice of you to drop by." Her smile faded immediately when

she saw the two men behind him. "Traveling in a pack these days, Bri?"

He wasn't in the mood. He was carrying around a simmering rage at being

trapped into seeing Jane again and put the bulk of the blame on his

manager and his flancee. Now that he was here, he intended to get out

again as quickly as possible.

"You remember, Johnno." Brian stepped inside. The smell, gin, sweat,

and grease from yesterday's dinner, reminded him uncomfortably of his

own childhood.

"Sure." Jane nodded briefly to the tall, gangly ba.s.s player. He was

wearing a diamond on his pinky and sported a dark, fluffy beard. "Come

up in the world, haven't we, Johnno?"

He glanced around the dingy flat. "Some of us."

"This is Pete Page, our manager."

"Miss Palmer." Smooth, thirtyish, Pete offered a white-toothed smile and

a manicured hand.

"I've heard all about you." She laid her hand in his, back up, an

invitation to lift it to his lips. He released it. "You made our boys

stars."

"I opened a few doors."

"Performing for the queen, playing on the telly. Got a new alb.u.m on the

charts and a big American tour coming up." She looked back at Brian. His

hair fell nearly to his shoulders. His face was thin and pale and

sensitive. Reproductions of it were gracing teenagers' walls on both

sides of the Atlantic as his second alb.u.m, Complete Devastation,