Public Secrets

right to experience at least once.
And most of all, she wanted time to be sure she had at last stepped out from her father’s shadow.
She didn’t love Brian any less. Emma doubted she could. But she’d discovered that she wanted more than her photographs to stand on their own. Then there was Bev.
For most of her life Emma had been cheated out of a mother. In the weeks as summer drifted into fall, she made up for a longing of a lifetime by moving into one of Bev’s guest rooms.
If Drew was impatient with her, she had to put him off. She needed this time with Bev, not to feel like a child again, but to reforge a bond. How could her new relationship work if she left older ones unresolved?

She had her work. The city where her father had spent his childhood caught her imagination. Emma could spend hours scouring the streets and parks, finding subjects. An old woman who came day after day to feed pigeons in Green Park. The ultratrendy set who walked Labradors or pushed prams along King’s Road. The tough-faced punks who haunted the clubs.
So she stayed on, a month, then two months longer. She celebrated with Drew when Birdcage Walk’s album settled into Billboard’s number twelve slot. She watched in amusement as Lady Annabelle ruthlessly pursued a baffled P.M. She cut asters and mums from Bev’s garden. And at last, she took a step forward and submitted prints and a book proposal to a publisher.
“I’m meeting Drew at seven,” Emma called out as she tugged on a short suede jacket. “We’re going to dinner and a film.”
“Have fun.” Bev gathered up an armful of samples. “Where are you off to now?”
“Stevie’s.”
“I thought he was under the weather.”
“Apparently he’s on the mend.” She took time for a quick glimpse in the hallway mirror. The deep, bold blue of the suede picked up the color of her eyes. “I have the last lot of prints from the tour. Da’s meeting me there so we can all argue about which ones are best.”
“I’ve got a meeting with Lady Annabelle.” Bev rolled her eyes. Behind Emma, she glanced in the mirror, pausing to tighten her left earring. “I’m not sure if she wants me to decorate her parlor, or just pump me for information about how P.M. is in bed.”
Emma tucked her portfolio under her arm. “You don’t think she already knows?”
Bev considered, then grinned. “I’ll certainly find out soon enough.” She gave Emma a quick kiss on the cheek, then dashed.
Moments later, Emma popped into her Aston Martin. She tried to imagine sweet, self-effacing P.M. with the brash, overdressed Lady Annabelle. She couldn’t. Then again, she’d never been able to see him with Angie Parks.

She fought the traffic in grim, British style. She was glad that Drew and his band had signed with Pete Page. If anyone could help push Birdcage Walk to the top, it was Pete. Look what he’d done for Blackpool, she thought with a sneer. The man was making a bloody fortune doing commercials. She was well aware how furious Pete had been when Brian had refused to endorse products or lend his music to television ads—tossing away worldwide exposure and millions of pounds. But she was proud of him. Leave it to Blackpool, she thought nastily, then pulled into Stevie’s estate.
She’d been pleased when he’d bought the old Victorian home and rolling grounds. He’d even taken up gardening and had appeared on Bev’s doorstep with book after book on roses, soil, and rock gardens. It was no longer a secret that his health was poor, but Pete, being Pete, had managed to keep the cause of it out of the press.
Emma had been afraid the tour would exhaust Stevie, but he’d made it through. Now he was writing again, and gearing up to join Brian at some of the benefits her father could never say no to.
Emma thought Brian was truly in his element now. Rock had embraced causes to its gritty bosom. In Europe and America, musicians were organizing to do something new with their talents. Benefits to aid causes from drought-ridden Ethiopia to the struggling farmers in America were as much a part of the eighties scene as political rallies and love-ins had been in the sixties. The glory, and arguably self-indulgent days, of Woodstock were over. Rockers had taken up the cause of humanity and were clasping it to their sweaty bosoms. She was proud to be a part of it, to record the changes, and her view of them.
At the end of the walk a barrel of violas drooped in the full sun. With a shake of her head, Emma