Public Secrets

on such a clear and powerful life of its own. There were still times when he listened to what he had helped create that he felt an echo of the thrill he’d experienced in writing his first song.
He could see Pete standing in the engineering booth, annoyed and impatient as always with Brian’s nit-picking perfectionism. Brian didn’t give him a second thought, and let the music wash over him.
Johnno was playing poker with one of the flutists and the stunning, slender-fingered harpist. Johnno had unearthed a green visor from somewhere and livened up the game with straightforward cheating and wild betting.

P.M. was reading what appeared to be a paperback mystery. A lurid one if one could tell a book by its cover. He seemed to prefer his own company and a couple of grisly murders at the moment.
Stevie was in the bathroom again. His last attempt at coming clean had lasted less than a week after he’d checked himself out of the newest clinic.
They were satisfied, Brian thought, and more than ready to call it a day. He listened to the final sustained note.
“I want to do the vocals again.”
Johnno pulled in the pot. Who said you couldn’t draw to an inside straight? He sent the harpist a lusty wink. With a laugh, she handed over a five-pound note.
“How did you know he’d want another take?”
“I know my boy,” Johnno told her. He rose and lifted a fist toward the engineering booth. Like Brian he noted Pete’s irritated scowl and ignored it. “Once more into the breech.”
“You can’t want another one, son.” Stevie lurched into the studio. He was flying high now, pumped full of top-grade cocaine with a heroin chaser. “Don’t you know what day it is? It’s Christmas fucking Eve.”
“Not for a couple of hours yet.” Brian buried his irritation. Sad as it was, they’d get a good twenty minutes out of Stevie before he crashed. “Let’s get it done so you can go home and hang up your stocking.”
“Well, look who’s here,” Stevie announced as Emma slipped into the studio. “It’s our little girl.” He swung an arm around her shoulder. “Okay, Emma luv, who’s the best?”
She managed to smile and kiss his thin, bony cheek. “Da.”
“Nothing but coal in your stocking, pet.”
“I thought you’d still be here.” Because Stevie’s arm was still around her, she walked with him to the mike. She could feel him vibrate like a tightly strung wire. “Is it all right if I listen for a while?”
“Tickets are five pence and two.” Noting her distress, Johnno gently disengaged Stevie. “But seeing it’s Christmas, we’ll forget the shillings.”
“We won’t be much longer,” Brian stated.
“He said the same thing two hours ago.” Johnno gave her a quick, reassuring squeeze. “The man’s a maniac. We’re turning him in right after the audition.”

Brian put out his cigarette then cleared his throat with plain water. “Just the vocals on ’Lost the Sun.”
“The twentieth take of the vocals,” P.M. put in. He was pleased when Emma brushed her lips over his cheek.
“Sorry to take you away from your dip into literature,” Brian snapped.
Automatically, Emma shifted to stand between them as she shrugged out of her coat. “‘Lost the Sun’?” she repeated. “I’m in luck then, that’s my favorite of this lot.”
“Good. You can sing backup.”
She laughed at Johnno, then started to take her seat.
“No, wait.” Brian grabbed her arm, grinning. “That’s it. That’s what we need.” He was already signaling for another set of headphones. “You come in on the second verse.”
“Da, I couldn’t.”
“Of course you could. You know the lyrics, the melody.”
“Yes, but—”
“It’s perfect. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. This song needs a feminine touch. Keep it light, just a little sad.”
“No use arguing,” Johnno said as he fit the headphones over her ears. “He’s on a roll.”
Emma let out a sigh. It wouldn’t hurt to humor him. “What’s my percentage? Do I get a mention in the liner notes? What about artistic control?”
Brian twisted her nose, hard.
It was enough to see him happy, she thought. There was nothing like a new idea to send her father off. He was calling out instructions, deferring to Johnno now and again, keeping what seemed like an eagle eye on Stevie, and subtly staying aloof from P.M.
She heard the music in her head, the sad and moody strings and flutes. It was a full, almost classical sound. Like rain, she