Public Secrets Part 51

didn't matter a d.a.m.n if Stevie screwed every woman on the continent,

though he felt it lacked a certain finesse. It was the drugs, and the

fact that Stevie was rapidly losing control over them, that concerned

Johnno. He didn't care for the image they were beginning to project.

The stoned-out rockers.

Shifting his gaze, he looked at P.M. There was a bit of a problem there

as well. Oh, not with drugs. Poor old P.M. could barely function

after one toke. It was the busty blond bimbo that had attached herself

to the drummer two months before. P.M. didn't appear to be making any

attempt to sheike her off.

Johnno watched her now, the long-faced, sloe-eyed blonde-all legs and

t.i.ts in a tight red dress. She wasn't as softheaded as she made out to

be, Johnno mused. She was sharp as a tack, and knew how to play the

tune P.M. wanted to hear. If they didn't watch themselves, she'd get

him to marry her. And she wouldn't stay quietly in the background like

Bev. No, not this one.

The three of them, in their separate ways, were on the verge of

destroying the group. And nothing mattered more to Johnno.

WHEN EMMA WOK% the floor was vibrating with the ba.s.s from the stereo.

She lay quietly a moment listening, trying as she did from time to time

to recognize the song from the beat alone.

She'd gotten used to the parties. Her Dad liked to have people around.

Lots of music, lots of laughing. When she was older, she would go to

parties, too.

Bev always made sure the house was very clean before the guests arrived.

That was silly, really, Emma thought. In the morning, the house was a

terrible mess with smelly gla.s.ses and overflowing ashtrays. More often

than not a few of the guests would be sprawled over the sofas and chairs

amid the clutter.

Emma wondered what it would be like to sit up all night, talking,

laughing, listening to music. When you were grown-up, no one told you

when you had to go to bed, or have a bath.

With a sigh, she rolled over on her back. The music was faster now. She

could feel the driving ba.s.s pulse in the walls. And something else.

Footsteps, coming down the hall. Emma thought. Miss Wallingsford. She

prepared to close her eyes and feign sleep when another thought occurred

to her. Perhaps it was Dad or Mum pa.s.sing through to check

on her and Darren. If it was, she could pretend to have just woken,

then she could persuade them to tell her about the party.

But the footsteps pa.s.sed by. She sat up clutching Charlie. She'd

wanted company, even if only for a moment or two. She wanted to talk

about the party, or the trip to New York. She wanted to know what song

was playing. She sat a moment, a smalk sleepy child in a pink

nightgown, bathed by the cheerful glow of a Mickey Mouse night-light.

She thought she heard Darren crying. Straightening, she strained to

listen. She was certain she heard Darren's cranky tears over the pulse

of the music. Automatically she climbed out of bed, tucking Charlie

under one arm. She would sit with Darren until he quieted, and leave

Charlie to watch over him through the rest of the night.

The hallway was dark, which surprised her. A light always burned there