Public Secrets

silly or put him to sleep. He took them only when he saw no graceful way not to. He was in turn amazed and appalled at the cheerfulness with which Brian and Stevie experimented with whatever came their way. And he was more than a little frightened by the ease with which Stevie was quietly, and consistently, shooting smack into his veins.
Johnno was more particular about what he pumped into his system, but Johnno’s personality was so strong no one would laugh at him for refusing to indulge in acid or speed or snow.
P.M. knew personality wasn’t his strong point. He wasn’t even a musician, not like the others. Oh, he knew he could hold his own with any drummer out there. He was good, damn good. But he couldn’t write music, couldn’t read it. His mind didn’t run to poetry or political statements.

He wasn’t handsome. Even now, at twenty-three, he was plagued by occasional outbreaks of pimples.
Despite what he considered his many disadvantages, he was part of one of the biggest, most successful rock groups in the world. He had friends, good and true ones, who would stand for him. In two years, he had earned more money than he had ever expected to make in the whole of his life.
And he was careful with it. P.M.’s father ran a small repair shop in London. He knew about business and books. Of the four he was the only one who ever asked Pete questions about expenses and profits. He was certainly the only one who bothered to read any of the forms or contracts they signed.
Having money pleased him, not only because he could send checks home—a kind of tangible proof to his doubting parents that he could succeed. It pleased him to have it jingling in his pocket.
He hadn’t grown up as poor as Johnno and Brian, but he’d been a long way from knowing the comforts of Stevie’s childhood.
Now they were on their way to Texas. Another festival in a year crammed with them. He didn’t mind really. After that, it would be another performance in another city. They were all blurring together, the months, the stages. Yet he didn’t want it to stop. When it did, he was desperately afraid he would sink back to obscurity.
He knew that when the summer was well and truly over, they would head to California, to Hollywood. For a few weeks, they would live among the movie stars. And for a few weeks, he thought with twinges of guilt and pleasure, he would be close to Bev. The only person P.M. loved more than Brian was Brian’s wife.

E MMA SET UP the lettered blocks. She was very proud of the fact that she was learning to read and spell, and was determined to teach Darren. “E-M-M-A,” she said, tapping each block in turn. “Emma. Say ’Emma.’”
“Ma!” Laughing, Darren pushed the blocks into a jumbled pile. “Ma Ma.”
“Em-ma.” But she leaned over to kiss him. “Here’s an easy one.” She set up two blocks. “D-A. Da.”

“Da. Da, Da, Da!” Delighted with himself, Darren climbed onto his sturdy legs to race to the doorway and look for Brian.
“No, Da’s not there now, but Mum’s in the kitchen. We’re having a big party tonight, to celebrate the new album being finished. We’ll be going home to England soon.”
She was looking forward to it, though she liked the house in America just as much as the castle outside of London. For more than a year she and her family had flown back and forth over the ocean as casually as other families drove across town.
She had turned six in the autumn of 1970, and had a proper British tutor, at Bev’s insistence. When they settled back in England again, she knew she would go to school with others her age. The idea was both frightening and wonderful.
“When we get back home, I’m going to learn lots more, and teach you everything.” As she spoke, she piled the blocks into a neat tower. “Look, here’s your name. The best name. Darren.”
On a cry of glee, he pranced back to crouch and study the letters. “D, A, Z, L, Mt N , O, P . “After sending Emma a wicked smile, he swooped his arm through it. Blocks crashed and tumbled. “Darren!” he shouted. “Darren McAvoy.”
“You can say that well enough, can’t you, boy-o?” In three years, the flow and cadence of her voice had come to mirror Brian’s. She smiled as she began to build something a little more intricate for him to demolish.
He was the light of her life, her little brother with his dark thick hair and laughing sea-green eyes. At two, he had the face of a Botticelli cherub and the energy of a demon.