Public Secrets (34 page)

She’d found a group, people she’d never met, cheerfully snorting coke in the guest room she hoped would soon be a nursery.

Drew had promised it would never happen again.

“You’re just pissed because Marianne didn’t come.”

Hadn’t been invited, Emma corrected silently. “It’s not that at all.”

“Since she got back in town you’ve been spending more time with her over at that loft than here, with me.”

“Drew, I haven’t even seen her for nearly two weeks. Between my work and our social life I haven’t had time.”

“You’ve always got time to bitch, though.”

She jerked back. Furious, she shoved his hand aside before he could grab her again. “I’m going up to bed.”

She pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the calls and laughter. He caught her on the stairs. The bite of his fingers told her he was every bit as angry as she.

“Let go of me,” she said under her breath. “I don’t think you want a fight here, in front of your friends.”

“Then we’ll take it upstairs.” He squeezed until she yelped, then dragged her the rest of the way.

She was prepared for an argument. Indeed, she relished the thought of a good screaming match. When she walked into the bedroom, she snapped.

They were using her antique mirror to cut the coke. Four of them bent over her vanity table, giggling and snorting in the white powder. The old perfume bottles she’d collected had been pushed aside. One lay shattered on the floor.

“Get out.”

Four heads popped up, and she was eyed with owlish grins.

“I said out. Get the hell out of my room, get the hell out of my house.”

Before Drew could stop her, she had grabbed the closest person, a man about twice her weight, and had dragged him up.

“Hey, look, we’ll share.”

“Get out,” she repeated, shoving him toward the door.

They moved quickly enough then, filing out. One of the women stopped long enough to pat Drew’s cheek. Emma slammed the door behind them and rounded on her husband.

“I’ve had enough. I’ve had all I’m going to take, Drew. I want those people out of here, and I won’t have them coming back.”

“Won’t you?” he said quietly.

“Doesn’t it matter to you? Doesn’t it matter at all? This is our bedroom. Christ, Drew, look at my things. They’ve been in my closet.” Enraged, she picked up a heap of silk and linen. “God knows what they’ve stolen or broken this time, but that’s not the worst. I don’t even know those people and they’re in my bedroom doing drugs. I won’t have drugs in my house.”

She saw him swing back, but the movement didn’t register. The back of his hand connected hard enough with her face to send her sprawling. She tasted blood. Dazed, she lifted a hand to her split lip.

“Your house?” He dragged her to her feet. Her shirt tore as he heaved her away. She landed hard against the bedside table. Her beloved Tiffany lamp crashed to the floor. “Spoiled little bitch. It’s your house?”

Too stunned to fight back, she cringed when he advanced on her. The roar of the music drowned out her scream as he picked her up again and threw her on the bed.

“Our house. You bloody well remember that. It’s as much mine as yours. It’s
all
as much mine as yours. Don’t you ever think you can tell me what to do. Do you think you can humiliate me that way and get away with it?”

“I wasn’t—” She broke off, drawing her shoulders up as he lifted his hand.

“That’s better. I’ll let you know when I want to hear you whine. Always get your way, don’t you, Emma? Well, we won’t let tonight be any exception. You want to sit up here all alone. That’s fine.” He picked up the phone and ripped it out of the wall. “You just sit up here.” He threw the phone up against the wall before he strode out, slamming and locking the door behind him.

She sat curled on the bed, breathing hard, too numb to ache from the cuts and bruises. It was a nightmare, she thought. She’d had other nightmares. Painfully, she remembered the slaps and shouts she’d lived with for the first three years of her life.

Spoiled little bitch
.

Was that Jane’s voice, or Drew’s?

Shivering, she reached out. The little black dog from her childhood sat on the pillow. Curling her arm around him, she cried herself to sleep.

W
HEN HE UNLOCKED
the door the next morning, she was asleep. Standing in the doorway, Drew studied her dispassionately. The side of her face was swollen. He’d have to make sure she didn’t go out in public for a couple of days.

Stupid to have lost his temper, he thought, rubbing his palms on his thighs. Satisfying, but stupid. But then, she was always pushing him. He was doing his best, wasn’t he? And it wasn’t easy. A man might as well take a dead fish to bed as sleep with her. And she was always talking about her goddamn show, sneaking off for hours in the darkroom instead of taking care of him.

It was his work, his needs, that came first. It was time she understood that.

A wife was supposed to take care of her husband. That’s why he’d married her. She was supposed to take care of him, to help him get where he wanted to go.

Maybe knocking her around had been a good thing. She’d sure as hell think twice before defying him again.

But, now that he’d shown her who was running things, he could afford to be generous. Sweet little Emma, he thought. It only took a little effort to manage her.

“Emma.” Carefully, avoiding the shards of the broken lamp, Drew crossed to the bed. He watched her eyes open. Saw the fear. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” She winced when he stroked her hair. “I don’t know what happened. I just lost it. I deserve to be locked up.”

She didn’t speak. Like an echo, her mother’s thick apologies came back to her.

“You have to forgive me, Emma. I love you so much. It was just the way you were screaming at me, blaming me. It wasn’t my fault.” He took her rigid fingers and pressed them to his lips. “I know those scum had no right to be in here, in our room. But it wasn’t my fault. I tossed them out myself,” he improvised. “It was just a rage,” he continued. “When I saw them in here, I was so furious. Then you turned on me.”

She began to cry again, slow, silent tears that squeezed between her tightly shut lashes.

“I’ll never hurt you again, Emma. I swear it. I’ll go away if you want. You can divorce me. God knows what I’d do without you, but I won’t ask you to let me stay. It’s just—Christ, it’s just that everything’s piling up. The album isn’t selling as well as we expected. The Grammy passed right over us. And … I think about us having a baby all the time.”

He began to weep then, holding his head in his hands. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his arm. He nearly laughed, then gripped her fingers in his, falling on his knees beside the bed. “Please, Emma. I know the fact that you were hounding me, that you turned on me, is no excuse for what I did. Forgive me. Give me another chance. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

“We’ll work it out,” she murmured.

With his face pressed against the coverlet, he smiled.

T
HE PARTIES STOPPED
. Oh, there were a few gatherings now and again with people Emma was comfortable with. But there were no more throngs of strangers in her home. Drew was attentive and sweet, the way she remembered him from their courtship. She convinced herself that the rage and the violence had been one isolated incident.

She had pushed him. He reminded her of that often enough to make her believe it. She had blamed him for something that wasn’t his doing. She had turned on him, viciously, instead of supporting and believing in him.

And if he lost his temper occasionally, if she saw a flare of violence in his
eyes
, watched his fists clench or his mouth tighten, he could always give solid, even logical reasons why she had set him off.

Bruises healed. Pain faded. He made an effort to take an interest in her photography, though he pointed out in dozens of subtle ways that her hobby, as he called it, took time away from their marriage and her support of him and his career.

It was a nice print, he might say, if one cared to look at old ladies feeding pigeons. So why had it taken her so many hours away from him to come up with a few black-and-white snaps of people loitering in the park?

He supposed he could eat a cold sandwich, even though he’d been composing for six hours. Apparently it was up to him to drag the laundry to the cleaners, despite the fact that he’d been tied up in a meeting all afternoon.

She wasn’t to worry a bit. If her work was so bloody important, he could entertain himself for another evening.

Whatever criticisms he handed out were tempered with compliments. She looked so inviting standing in front of the stove making a meal. It made him feel good to come home and find her waiting for him.

Perhaps he was too forceful about how she should dress, what clothes she bought, how she styled her hair. After all, her image, as his wife, was as important as his own.

He was particularly concerned about what she should wear to the showing. But as he said, he only wanted her to look her best. And, as he told her, she had a rather drab taste in clothes.

It was true that she preferred the column of black silk and hammered-gold jacket to the short, snug concoction of feathers and sequins he’d chosen. But, as he said, she was an artist now and should look the part. Because it touched her that he’d called her an artist, she wore it to please him. He gave her a pair of chunky gold earrings set with multicolored stones. If they were a bit gaudy, it hardly mattered. He had fastened them on her himself.

When they pulled up in front of the small, uptown gallery, her stomach began doing calisthenics. Drew patted her hand.

“Come on, Emma, it’s not as though you’re going onstage in front of ten thousand screaming fans. It’s just a little picture show.” With a laugh, he helped her out of the limo. “Loosen up. People are going to buy Brian McAvoy’s little girl’s snapshots whether they like them or not.”

She stopped on the curb, incredibly hurt. “Drew, that’s not what I need to hear right now. I want to do this on my own.”

“Never satisfied.” He snatched her arm hard enough to make her wince. “Here I am, trying to be a good sport about all this, trying to support you in what you’re hell-bent on doing no matter what the inconvenience to me, and you bite my head off.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You never do. Since you want to be on your own so badly, perhaps you’d like to go on in alone.”

“No, of course I don’t.” Nerves and frustration intensified the pounding behind her eyes. She could never seem to find the right thing to say, she thought. And tonight of all nights she
didn’t want to alienate him. “I’m sorry, Drew. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just nervous.”

“All right then.” Satisfied with the apology, he patted her hand and drew her inside.

They had come late—as Runyun had ordered. He’d wanted the crowd there, and already intrigued, when his star arrived. He had his eagle eye on the door, and pounced the moment Emma walked through.

He was a small, bulky man who invariably wore a black turtleneck and black jeans. Emma had once thought he was affecting an artistic image, but the simple fact was he was vain and thought black made him look slimmer. He had a big, bald head, made more prominent by the high necklines, and thick black brows flecked with gray over his surprisingly pale green eyes.

His nose was hooked, his mouth thin. He compensated by sporting a Clark Gable moustache. It did nothing to improve his looks, which had always been poor at best. Yet his three wives hadn’t left him because he was ugly, but because he paid more attention to his art than his marriages.

He greeted Emma not with a smile or a kiss but with a scowl. “Good God, you look like a starlet out to lay a director. Never mind,” he added before Emma could speak. “Just mingle for a bit.” Emma looked at the crowd, the glitter of jewels and silk, the gleam of leather, with a kind of dull horror.

“You’re not going to disgrace me by fainting,” Runyun said. No one could have called it a question.

“No.” She drew a deep breath. “No, I won’t.”

“Good.” He had yet to speak to or acknowledge Drew, whom he had detested on sight. “The press is here. They’ve already eaten half the canapés. I believe your father’s been cornered by someone.”

“Da? He’s here.”

“Over there.” Runyun gestured vaguely. “Now mingle, and look confident.”

“I didn’t think he’d come,” Emma murmured to Drew.

“Of course he came.” Drew had counted on it. He put an affectionate arm around her shoulders. “He loves you, Emma. He’d never miss an important night like this. Let’s find him.”

“I don’t—”

The affectionate arm squeezed, startling a gasp out of her. “Emma, he’s your father. Don’t be snotty.”

She moved through the crowd beside him, smiling automatically, stopping now and then to chat. It helped a great deal to hear Drew brag about her. His approval, which had been so long in coming, brought a glow inside her. She’d been stupid, she thought now, to think he resented her work. Accepting his kiss of congratulations, she vowed to spend more time with him, give more time to his needs.

She’d always wanted to be needed. Smiling at Drew as he enthusiastically discussed her prints with other guests, she was content that she was.

At his insistence, she accepted a glass of champagne, but barely touched it as they worked the room.

She saw Brian, surrounded by people, in front of a portrait of himself and Johnno. Her face hurt from keeping the smile in place as she crossed to him. “Da.”

“Emma.” He hesitated, then reached out for her hand. She looked so … remote, he thought.

“It was nice of you to come.”

“I’m proud of you.” His fingers tightened on hers as if he were searching for the connection he felt was lost. “Very, very proud.”

She started to speak, then there was a volley of flashes from the surrounding cameras. Was that another flash, she wondered, a flash of annoyance on his face before the easy smile settled in?

“Brian, how does it feel to have your daughter taking the spotlight?”

He didn’t glance up at the reporter, but continued to look at Emma. “I couldn’t be more pleased.” Making the effort, he offered his hand to Drew. “Drew.”

“Brian. She’s great, isn’t she?” He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “I don’t know who’s been more nervous about tonight, Emma or myself. I hope you’ll stick around for a few days, come by and see our place. Have dinner.”

It infuriated Brian that the invitation had come from Drew and not his own daughter. “I’m afraid I leave for LA. in the morning.”

“Emma.”

She turned, and her strained smile vanished in surprise. “Stevie.” On a laugh, she threw her arms around him. “I’m so
glad to see you.” Moving back to arm’s length, she studied him. “You look good.” And it was true. He would never be the smoothly handsome man she had known in childhood, but he had put on weight, and the heavy shadows no longer haunted his eyes. “I didn’t know you’d … no one told me …” That he was out, she thought.

Understanding, he grinned. “Time off for good behavior,” he told her, then gathered her close for another hug. “I even brought my own doctor.” He released Emma to put a hand on the shoulder of the woman beside him. After a moment’s confusion, Emma recognized the petite brunette as Stevie’s psychiatrist.

“Hello again.”

“Hello.” Katherine Haynes smiled. “And congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“I was your first sale,” Katherine went on. “The portrait of Stevie and his guitar. It looked as though he were making love to it. I couldn’t resist.”

“She’ll analyze it for hours.” He caught the scent of Scotch and had to check an old and deep craving. “P.M.’s around, you know.” Stevie leaned close and lowered his voice to a wicked whisper. “He brought Lady Annabelle.”

“No, really?”

“I think they’re engaged. But he’s being coy about it.” With a wink, he took Katherine’s arm and wandered off.

Emma was laughing as she slipped her arm through Drew’s. “I think I’ll take a look for P.M.” She cast a questioning glance at her father.

What could he say? She’d greeted Stevie with more affection and comfort than she had greeted him. He wanted to have it out with her, but now was hardly the time or place. “Go ahead. I’ll see you before I go.”

“Yes, go ahead, Emma.” Drew kissed her cheek. “I’ll just hang around with your da. That way we can both brag about you. Incredible, isn’t she?” Drew began as Emma turned away.

She very nearly felt incredible. She’d never expected so many people, or much interest in her work. There was a little voice that asked her if she really thought they’d come to see her work, or her father and his mates. She did her best to ignore it.

She did see P.M. It was obvious he was no longer running away from Lady Annabelle. In fact, he seemed to be having the
time of his life. She was dressed in emerald-green leather and snakes kin boots dyed canary-yellow. Her frizzy red hair shot out like shock waves. And after a ten-minute conversation, Emma realized the woman was completely and totally in love.

It was nice, Emma decided. P.M. deserved that kind of devotion. That kind of, well, fun.

People came and went, but more came to linger. Runyun was very cleverly playing a Devastation retrospective through the speakers. She saw, with some astonishment, the discreet blue sticker beneath more than a dozen of her prints. Sold, she thought.

Trapped in a corner by a pretentious little man who wanted to discuss form and texture, she spotted Marianne. “Excuse me,” she began. But before she could make her escape, her old roommate was bearing down on her.

“Here’s the star of the evening.” She gave Emma a big, whopping kiss. “You,” she said and pulled Emma toward her and into a cloud of Chanel, “have done it. A long way from Saint Catherine’s, pal.”

“Yeah.” Emma squeezed her eyes tight. It had taken only that to make it all seem real at last.

“Look who I found.”

“Bev!” Emma moved out of Marianne’s arms, and into Bev’s. “I didn’t think you’d be able to make it.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

“We walked in together and I recognized her,” Marianne explained. “We’ve been having a marvelous time complimenting you while we shoved through the crowd. This is wild.” She snatched one of the few remaining canapés from the table. “You know that shot of me in the loft, wearing a paint smock and rugby socks? Some gorgeous man just bought it. I’m going to go see if he’d like a chance at the real thing.”

“It’s no trouble seeing why you love her,” Bev commented as Marianne maneuvered through the groups of people. “So, how does it feel?”

“Incredible. Terrifying.” She pressed a hand to her jumpy stomach, but it wasn’t nerves as much as excitement now. “I’ve been trying to get back to the ladies’ room for an hour to have a good cry. I’m so glad you’re here.” Then she saw Brian, standing a few feet away. “Da’s here. Will you speak to him?”

Bev had to turn her head only inches to see him. She twisted
her evening bag over and over in her hand. After all these years, she thought, it was still there. Everything she’d felt was still there.

“Of course.” She said it lightly. It was safe here, in a crowd. On Emma’s night. At least they could share their pleasure for Emma.

He walked toward them. Could it be as difficult for him, Bev wondered, as it was for her? Would his palms be wet with nerves? Would his heart be trembling?

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t dare. But he struggled to find a voice as casual as his smile. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you.” She fought to relax her death grip on her bag.

“You look …” Beautiful, wonderful. “Well.”

“Thank you. I am. This is all marvelous for Emma, isn’t it?” She glanced over, but Emma had slipped away. Walls of people had closed in around them. “You must be very proud of her.”

“Yes.” He took a long swallow of the whiskey he held. “Can I get you a drink?”

So polite, Bev thought. So bloody civil. “No, thanks. I’m going to wander around a bit and look. I may just buy something myself.” But first she was going to find that ladies’ room and have a cry of her own. “It was nice seeing you again, Bri.”