Public Secrets

you do, or whom you do it with.” The anger she hadn’t been able to feel through fear came bubbling to the surface. “I can’t think of any reason I should care who you’re screwing. Can you?”
“Yes. No, dammit. Emma, I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
She was trembling now, but mistook grief and nerves for rage. “Are you going to tell me you haven’t slept with her?”
“No, I’m not going to tell you that.”
“Then we really have nothing more to discuss.”
“Emma. Shit, I don’t know how all of this got so out of hand. I want to talk to you about it, but I can’t do it over the frigging phone. I can try to trade some duty, fly out for a couple of days.”
“I won’t see you.”
“For Christ’s sake, Emma.”
“I won’t. There’s no reason to, Michael. As I said, you’re free to be with whomever you choose, and my blessing if you want it. I’m going to put all of that part of my life behind me. All of it. So seeing you again wouldn’t suit my plans. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” There was a long, long pause. “Yes, I guess I do. Good luck, Emma.”
“Thank you, Michael. Goodbye.”
She was crying again, but didn’t bother to brush the tears away. Reaction, she told herself. Reaction was setting in from that horrible scene with Blackpool. She wished Michael well, she really did. Damn him and all men.
She locked her door, turned the radio up loud, sat on the floor and wept.

Chapter Twenty-Five

New York, 1986
T HE LOFT LOOKED as though it had been struck by a hurricane. But then, Emma supposed, Marianne had always been a strong wind. There was a scatter of papers and magazines, three empty handbags, two of which were Chinese red, a single sling-back pump of the same bold color, and a pile of records that were spread out on the floor like a deck of cards. Choosing one, Emma set it on the turntable and was met with a blast of Aretha Franklin.
She smiled, remembering that Marianne had played it the night before while she’d finished her furious packing. It was hard to believe that both Emma and the loft would have to do without Marianne for the better part of a year.
Emma picked up a purple silk blouse and a red Converse hightop. Two more items that had somehow escaped Marianne’s maniacal search for the essentials. The chance to study for a year in Paris, at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, was an opportunity Marianne hadn’t been able to turn down. Emma was thrilled for her —but it was hard, very hard, to stand in the middle of the loft alone.
She remained for a moment, listening. Over the sound of Aretha was the rumble of traffic from the street below. Through the open windows she could hear the high, strong soprano of a neighboring opera student practicing an aria from The Marriage of Figaro , Maybe it was ridiculous to consider herself alone in New York, but that was precisely what she was.

Not for long, she reminded herself and set the blouse and shoe on the bottom step. She had her own packing to do. In two days she would be in London. She was going to tour with Devastation again, but this time, she had a title. Official photographer. It was a tide she’d earned, Emma thought as she hauled the first suitcase onto her bed. She’d been given her shot when her father had asked her to photograph the group for the album cover. The Lost the Sun cover, Emma remembered. The stark black-and-white portrait had earned enough acclaim that even Pete had stopped mumbling about nepotism. And he hadn’t said a word when she’d been asked to shoot the cover for their current album.
It gave her a good deal of satisfaction that it had been he, as the group’s manager, who had called to invite her on the tour. Salary and expenses included. Runyun had muttered, but only briefly. Something about the commercialization of art.
London, Dublin, Paris—a quick visit with Marianne—Rome, Barcelona, Berlin. Not to mention all the cities in between. The European tour was slated to take ten weeks. When it was done, she would do something she’d been promising herself for almost two years. She would open her own studio.
Unable to find her black cashmere suit, Emma headed out and up the stairs, pausing to pick up the blouse and shoe. There was a fascinating mix of scents. Turpentine and Opium. Marianne had left her studio exactly as she preferred it. In chaos. Brushes and pallet knives and broken pieces of charcoal were stuffed into everything from mayonnaise jars to a Dresden vase. Canvases