Public Secrets

envelope out of her purse. “He wanted me to give you this.”
She turned to study the dreamy rain while he opened the envelope. He read in silence. There was only the quiet hum of the motor, the gentle lap of rain, the muted music of a Chopin prelude from the speakers. She waited, a minute, then five, before she looked at Johnno again.
He was staring straight ahead, his eyes blank. The letter lay in his lap where he had dropped it. When he turned to look at her, her heart wrenched.
“You know?”
“Yes, he told me.” Not knowing what else to do, she took Johnno’s hand in both of hers. “I’m sorry, Johnno. So sorry.”
“He’s worried about me.” Johnno’s voice was dull as he stared back down at the letter. “He wants to make sure I go in for tests. And he—he wanted to reassure me that he’d keep quiet about our relationship. Jesus.” His head fell back on a hollow laugh. “Jesus Christ. He’s dying and he wants me to know my reputation’s safe.”
“It matters to him.”
His throat was raw. There were tears in it, he realized and took another rough drag on his cigarette. “He was important to me, dammit. Now he’s dying, and what am I supposed to say? Thanks, old man. Damn sporting of you to take my secret to the grave.”
“Don’t, Johnno. It’s important to him to do this his way. He’s—Luke’s trying to tie up his loose ends. He needs to tie up his loose ends.”
“Oh fuck. Oh bloody fucking hell.” The grief and the fury raged inside him. There was nothing he could vent it on. It did no more good for him to curse the disease than it had done for him to curse fate for making him what he was. He took out another cigarette, fingers shaking as he fought with the lighter. “I arranged for some very discreet, very expensive testing about six months ago. I’m clean.” He dragged in smoke while he crumpled the letter in his fist. “No nasty problems with my immune system. Nope. No problem here.”
Because she understood, her voice was brisk. “It’s incredibly stupid to feel guilty because you’re well.”

“Where’s the justice, Emma?” He smoothed out the letter, then carefully folded it and slipped it into his pocket. “Where’s the frigging justice?”
“I don’t know.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “When Darren was murdered I was too young to ask myself that question. But I’ve asked it, Johnno, hundreds of times since. Why is it the people we love die, and we don’t? The nuns say it’s God’s will.”
“It’s not enough.”
“No, it’s not enough.” She searched her conscience. She supposed she’d known all along that she would tell him. “Luke’s in New York. He’s staying at the Plaza for a few weeks. He didn’t want me to tell you.”
He tightened his arm around her. “Thanks.”
When the limo pulled up in front of Brian’s London home, Johnno kissed her. “Tell Brian … tell him the truth. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
“All right.” She watched the limo disappear in the misty rain.

Chapter Twenty-Six

E MMA SWITCHED TO a wide-angle lens and crouched at the foot of the stage in the London Palladium. There was no denying that Devastation was as dynamic in rehearsals as they were in concert. She was delighted with the shots she’d taken so far, and was already readjusting her schedule to work in darkroom time.
But now she was shooting the empty stage, the instruments, amps, and cables left behind while the group took an hour’s break. There were electric keyboards, horns, even a grand piano. What interested her now, what she wanted to immortalize in her way, were the underpinnings of music-making.
The scarred and sacred Martin made her think of the man who played it. Stevie was as battle-worn and as brilliant as the instrument he had favored for almost twenty years. Its strap, a bold, eye-popping mix of colors, had been her last Christmas gift to him.
There was Johnno’s Fender bass, painted a slick turquoise. On its stand next to the Martin, it looked frivolous and funky. Like the man, it was a competent, clever instrument under a coat of fancy varnish.
P.M.’s drum set had the band’s logo splashed across the front. From one angle it looked so ordinary. Then, on closer inspection, you could see the complicated arrangement of bass and snare and cymbals. The cautious addition of three sets of drumsticks, the gleam of chrome trim that P.M. still insisted on polishing himself.

Then there was her father’s custom-made