Public Secrets

driver’s license. He tore it up.” She sat back because even the few bites of food had made her queasy. “Marianne, I have fifty-five dollars in my purse—I stole fifteen of that from the housekeeping money. I don’t have any credit cards. He took them months ago. I have the clothes on my back and that’s it.”
Because she wanted to break something, Marianne rose and poured another Grand Marnier. All this time, she thought. All this time she’d been sulking in the loft, nursing hurt feelings while Emma had been going through hell.

“You don’t have to worry about money. Your credit’s good with me. I’ll get a cash advance on my credit card, then call and authorize them to accept your signature. You can have your pick. Visa, MasterCard, or American Express.”
“You must think I’m pathetic.”
“No, I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” Tears burned the back of her eyes. Marianne let them fall. “If I could, I’d kill him for you.”
“You won’t say anything, to anyone. Not yet.”
“Not if that’s what you want. But I think your father should know.”
“No. Things are bad enough between me and Da without adding this. I think what I need most of all now is a little time. I thought about going into the mountains somewhere, a cabin in the woods, but I don’t think I could stand the quiet. I want to lose myself in a big, noisy city. I keep thinking of LA. Every time I thought about running, I imagined running there. And I’ve been dreaming about it again, a lot.”
“About Darren?”
“Yes. The nightmares started a few months ago, and they won’t let up. I feel like I need to be there, and I hope it’s the last place Drew would expect me to go.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Emma reached over to take her hand. “I was hoping you would. For a little while.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

I T WAS DARK in the bedroom. And filthy. Jane’s last day maid had quit the week before, nipping a couple of silver candlesticks on her way out the door. Jane wasn’t aware of the theft. She rarely left the bedroom these days. She made occasional runs to the kitchen for food, wheezing and panting on the stairs. Like a hermit, she horded the drugs and bottles and food in her room.
It had once been ornately decorated. She’d had a fancy for red velvet. It still hung at the windows, heavy creases caked with dust. But in a rage she’d torn down the curtains that had draped the plump, round bed. Now, because she was so often cold, she huddled under them.
The red and silver flocked wallpaper was stained. Jane had a habit of throwing things at her lovers—lamps, bric-a-brac, and bottles. Which was why she had such a difficult time keeping anyone in her bed for more than two nights running.
The last one, a tall, muscular dealer named Hitch, had tolerated her temper fits longer than most, then, philosophically, had knocked her unconscious, stolen the diamond off her finger, and had gone off to look for sunnier climes and more sympathetic company.
But he’d left her the drugs. Hitch, in his way, was a humanitarian.

Jane hadn’t had sex in over two months. It didn’t particularly bother her. If she wanted an orgasm, she only had to pop the needle under her skin and cruise. She didn’t care that no one came to see her, no one called. Except during that brief time after the drug started to wear off and before she craved another fix. Then she would become weepy and full of self-pity. And anger. Most of what she felt was anger.
The movie hadn’t done nearly as well as predicted. It had jumped, with almost rude haste, from theater to video. She had been in such a hurry to see the movie made, she had all but signed over the video rights. Her agent had been unhappy with the deal, but Jane had fired him and gone her own way.
The movie hadn’t made her rich. A lousy hundred thousand pounds didn’t last long with someone of her taste—and appetites. Her new book was being rewritten, again. She wouldn’t see the bulk of her advance until the stupid ghost writer had completed the job.
Her oldest source had dried up. There were no more checks from Brian. She’d depended on them. Not only for the money, Jane thought, but because she’d known that as long as he’d been paying, he’d been thinking of her.
She was glad he’d never found real happiness. She was proud that she’d had some part in seeing him denied. If she couldn’t have him, she at least had the pleasure of knowing no other woman had held