Public Secrets Page 9

  deliberately, that she hadn’t given birth to Emma. No matter how familiar her body became, touching her like this took him back to their first nights together.

  They’d come a long way from a two-room flat with a single creaky bed. They owned a pair of homes now, in two countries, but the sex was as strong and sweet as it had been when he had had nothing in his pockets but desperate hopes and shiny dreams.

  They rolled over the bed, limbs tangled, mouths growing hungrier. As she rose over him, he watched her aching pleasure reflected on her face.

  She’d changed so little. Her hair swung to her shoulders now, sleek and straight. Her skin was milk pale, delicately flushed from the passion that heated it. Pushing up, he circled her breasts with slow, whispery kisses. When her head fell back, he sucked greedily, excited by the small, helpless sounds she made.

  With Bev, he wanted the beauty. With Bev, he found it.

  Gripping her hips, he lifted her up and onto him, letting her set the pace. Letting her take him exactly where he wanted to go.

  NAKED, SHE STRETCHED, then curled up against him. With her eyes half closed she could see the sun pouring through the windows. She wanted to pretend it was morning, some lazy morning, when they could stay just as they were for hours.

  “I didn’t think I’d like staying here this time, for all these months while you recorded. But it’s been wonderful.”

  “We can stay a bit longer.” His energy was beginning to build, as it always did after making love with her. “We could take a few weeks, lie around, go to Disneyland again.”

  “Darren already thinks it’s his own personal amusement park.”

  “Then we’ll have to build him one.” He rolled over, propping himself on his elbow. “Bev, I had a quick meeting with Pete before I came home. ‘Outcry’ has gone platinum.”

  “Oh, Bri. That’s marvelous.”

  “It’s more than marvelous. I was right.” He pulled her by the shoulders until she sat beside him. “People are listening, really listening. ‘Outcry’ has become like an anthem for the antiwar movement. It’s making a difference.” He didn’t hear the faint desperation in his voice, the desperation of a man trying to convince himself. “We’re going to release another single from the album. ‘Love Lost,’ I think, though Pete’s muttering about it not being commercial enough.”

  “It’s so sad.”

  “That’s the point.” The words snapped out, and he bit off the impatient rest to continue more calmly. “I’d like to pipe it into Parliament and the Pentagon and the U.N., all those places where the smug, fat bastards make decisions. We need to do something, Bev. If people listen to me because I have hit records, then I have to make sure I have something important to say.”

  IN THE PENTHOUSE he’d rented in the heart of LA, Pete Page sat at his desk and considered the possibilities. Like Brian, he was delighted with “Outcry’s” success. With him it was a matter of sales generated more than social conscience. But that’s what they paid him for.

  As he had predicted only three years before, Brian and the others were very rich. He was going to see to it that they all became a great deal richer.

  Their music was sterling. He had known that since he’d listened to their first demo six years before. It had been a little rough, a little raw, and exactly the right sound for its time. He had already managed two other groups to solid record contracts, but Devastation had been his chance for glory.

  He had needed them. They had needed him. He’d gone on the road with them, sat in dives, hustled record producers, called in all of his markers. It had paid off far beyond his initial expectations. But his expectations were flexible. He wanted more for them. He wanted more for himself.

  The band, individually and as a group, was beginning to worry him. They wandered off on their own too much these days, Johnno with his frequent trips to New York, Stevie spending weeks at a time God knew where. P.M. was always within arm’s reach, but he was taken up in an affair with some ambitious starlet. Pete no longer believed it was a fling. There was Brian, of course, spouting antiwar politics at the drop of a hat.

  They were a band, dammit, a rock-and-roll band, and what they did separately affected what they did as a group. What they did as a group affected their sales. Already they were backing off planning a tour after the new album was released.

  He wasn’t going to see them cracked down the middle as the Beatles had been.

  After a deep breath, he settled back to think about them, as they had been, and as they were.

  It pleased him to see Johnno’s collection of cars. The Bent-ley, the Rolls, the Ferrari. There was one thing about Johnno, Pete thought with a small smile. The man knew how to enjoy money. He’d nearly stopped worrying that Johnno’s sexual preferences would leak. Over the years Pete had gained a strong respect for Johnno’s intelligence, common sense, and talent.

  No, he didn’t have to worry about Johnno, Pete decided as he glanced over the papers on his desk. He was one who could keep his private affairs private. And the public loved him for his outlandish outfits and glib tongue.

  Then there was Stevie. The drugs were a bit of a problem. It wasn’t affecting his performance, yet, but he had noticed that Stevie’s mood swings were wider and more frequent. He’d been stoned during the last two recording sessions, and even Brian, no slouch in the drug department himself, had been annoyed.

  Yes, he’d have to keep his eye on Stevie.

  P.M. was as dependable as a sunrise. It was true that Pete was by turns amused and irked that the drummer pored over every word in a contract. But the boy was investing his money well, and earned Pete’s respect there. It had also been a surprise, a pleasant and profitable one, when the girls took so giddily to his homely face. Where Pete had once worried that P.M. would prove the weak link, he had turned out to be one of the strongest.

  Brian. Pete poured himself two fingers of Chivas Regal, sat back in his overstuffed leather chair and considered. Brian was, without doubt, the heart and soul of the group. He was the creative drive, the conscience.

  It had been fortunate that the business with Emma hadn’t set them back. Pete had worried about it, then had been delighted when the whole affair had generated sympathy, and record sales. True, Pete still had to cross swords with Jane Palmer from time to time, but the mess had never put a dent in the group’s popularity. Nor had Brian’s marriage. It had frustrated Pete that he hadn’t been able to portray the group as four young, single men. But Brian’s family life had turned into a bounty of press.

  The pity was the peace rallies, the speeches. Brian’s affection for the Students for a Democratic Society, his outspoken support of American draft dodgers. They’d nearly had the cover of Time before Brian had popped off with a few ill-chosen criticisms of the Chicago Seven trial.

  Pete understood the power of the press, how one careless statement could have the masses, the record-buying masses, turning against you. John Lennon had opened his own can of worms a few years earlier with an offhand, sarcastic comment about the Beatles being bigger than Jesus. Brian had come close, too close, to making the same mistake.

  He was entitled to his politics, of course, Pete thought as he sipped his whiskey. But there was a point where personal beliefs and public success parted ways. Between Stevie’s enchantment with drugs and Brian’s idealism, there was bound to be a disaster.

  There were ways to avoid it, of course, and he had already begun to consider a few. He needed the public to see Stevie not just as a drugged-out rocker, but as an extraordinary musician. He needed them to see Brian as not only a peacenik but a devoted father.

  With the right balance of images, not only the youth would be buying records and magazines but their parents as well.

  Chapter Eight

  THEY STAYED IN California another two weeks, basking in long, lazy days, making love in the afternoon, giving all-night parties. There were midweek trips to Disneyland in careful disguises. The photographers Pete hired to record the outings were
so discreet Bev never noticed them.

  She decided to throw out her birth control pills, and Brian wrote love songs.

  As the time to go back to England drew near, the group made peace within themselves, and set up an informal headquarters in Brian’s hillside home.

  “We should all go.” Johnno carelessly passed his turn on the bong. “Hair was the first important musical for our generation. A rock musical.” He liked the phrase, the grandeur of it. Already he was turning over ideas for one. He hoped, when they returned to London, he and Brian could put together a musical that would outdo Hair, and the Who’s current success, Tommy.

  “We can lay over in New York a couple of days,” he continued, “see the play, raise some hell, then head back to London.”

  “Do they really strip naked?” Stevie wanted to know.

  “Right down to the buff, son. That should be worth the price of a ticket.”

  “We should go.” Mellowed from the company and smoke, Brian rested his head on Bev’s knee. He’d already stayed in one place longer than he liked, and the idea of New York appealed. “For the music and the statement.”

  “You go for the statement.” Stevie grinned. “I’ll go for the naked birds.”

  “We’ll get Pete to fix it up. What do you say, Bev?”

  She didn’t like New York, but she could see Brian’s mind was set. And she didn’t want to spoil the easy, peaceful mood of the last weeks. “It’ll be fun. Maybe we can take Darren and Emma to the zoo and through Central Park before we fly home.”

  EMMA WAS THRILLED. She remembered her first trip to New York well, the big bed in the hotel room, the soaring thrill of standing on top of the world, the glorious rides on the carousel in Central Park. She wanted to share all of that with Darren.

  She tried to explain all the wonders of it to him as they prepared for the trip. As Alice Wallingsford packed up the nursery, she kept Darren out of mischief with his favored farm.

  “Moo cow,” he said, holding up the black spotted white piece from the set. “Want to see a moo cow.”

  “I don’t think we’ll see a moo cow, but we’ll see lions at the zoo.” She made a roar that had him squealing.

  “You’re getting him too excited, Emma,” Alice said automatically. “And it’s nearly bedtime.”

  Emma just rolled her eyes as Darren danced around her. He was wearing his Oshkosh overalls and little red Keds. For Emma’s approval, he struggled to do a sloppy somersault.

  “All that energy.” Alice clucked her tongue, though in truth she was charmed by the boy. “I don’t see how we’ll get him to sleep tonight.”

  “Don’t pack Charlie,” Emma put in before Alice could drop the stuffed dog into a packing box. “He has to ride on the plane with me.”

  With a sigh, Alice set the worn dog aside. “He needs a good washing. I don’t want you sneaking him into the baby’s crib anymore, Emma.”

  “I love Charlie,” Darren announced and tried another somersault. He landed heavily on his Playskool tool bench, but instead of crying, picked up the wooden hammer to play a tattoo on the colored pegs. “I love Charlie,” he sang to his own rhythm.

  “Be that as it may, sweet thing, he’s getting a bit smelly. I don’t want germs in the bed with my baby.”

  Darren sent her a sunny smile. “I love germs.”

  “It’s a heartbreaker you are.” Alice picked him up to bounce him on her hip. “Now Alice is going to give you a nice bath before bed, with bubbles. Emma, don’t leave, those pieces spread about,” she added as she paused in the doorway. “You can have your bath as soon as Darren’s finished. Then you can go down and say good night to your parents.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She waited until Alice was out of sight before she got up to get Charlie. He did not smell, she thought as she buried her face in his fur. And she would put him in Darren’s crib, because Charlie watched over him when she was sleeping.

  “I REALLY WISH you hadn’t asked all those people over tonight.” Bev fluffed the pillows on the couch, though she knew such niceties were a waste of time.

  “We have to say goodbye, don’t we?” He put on a Jimi Hendrix album because it reminded him that though the artist was dead, the music lived on. “Besides, once we’re back in London, we’re back to work in a big way. I want to relax while I can.”

  “How can we relax with a hundred people milling about the house?”

  “Bev. It’s our last night.”

  She opened her mouth again, then closed it when Alice ushered the children in. “There’s my boy.” She scooped Darren up on the fly before she winked at Emma. “Is Charlie ready for his trip?” She knew and sympathized with Emma’s unease with planes and smoothed a hand over the girl’s hair.

  “He’s just a little nervous. He’ll be all right with me.”

  “Of course he will.” She pressed a kiss on the delicate area between Darren’s ear and throat. “Already bathed?” She’d wanted to take care of that evening chore herself. There was nothing Bev liked better than to play with Darren in the tub, smoothing the soapy cloth over his pale, shiny skin.

  “All washed and ready for bed,” Alice put in. “They’ve just come to say good night before I tuck them up.”

  “I’ll do that, Alice. With all the confusion today, I’ve hardly seen the children.”

  “All right, ma’am. I’ll finish the packing.”

  “Da.” Emma gave Brian her shy little smile. “Can we have a story? Please.”

  What he’d planned to do was roll a joint of good grass and listen to music. But he had a hard time resisting that smile, or his son’s bright, bubbly laughter.

  He went upstairs with his family, leaving Hendrix wailing.

  It took two stories before Darren’s eyes began to droop. He fought sleep as he fought all sedentary activities. He wanted to be doing, to be running or laughing or turning somersaults. Most of all, he wanted to be the brave young knight his father spoke of. He wanted to take up the shining magic sword and slay dragons.

  He yawned and, cozied between his mother’s breasts, began to doze. He could smell Emma, and went off to sleep happy that she was nearby.

  He didn’t wake when Bev lifted him into his crib. Darren slept the way he did everything. With a full heart. She tucked the satin-bordered blue blanket around his shoulders and tried not to think that he would soon be too big for a crib.

  “He’s so beautiful.” Unable to resist, Bev stroked her fingers across his warm cheek.

  With Emma’s head resting on his shoulder, Brian looked down at his son. “When he’s like this, it’s hard to believe he can tear a room apart single-handed.”

  With a soft laugh, Bev slipped an arm around Brian’s waist. “He uses both hands.”

  “And his feet.”

  “I’ve never known anyone who loves life as much. When I look at him, I realize I have everything I’ve ever wanted. I can see him a year from now, five years from now. It makes the idea of growing older pleasant somehow.”

  “Rock stars don’t get old.” He frowned, and for the first time Bev heard a trace of sarcasm, or was it disillusionment, in his voice. “They OD or start playing Vegas in white suits.”

  “Not you, Bri.” She tightened her arm around his waist. “Ten years from now, you’ll still be on top.”

  “Yeah. Well, if I ever buy a white suit with sequins, kick me in the ass.”

  “With the greatest pleasure.” She kissed him, lifting a hand to his cheek to soothe as she might with one of the children. “Let’s put Emma down.”

  “I want to do right by them, Bev.” Shifting Emma, he started down the hall to her room. “By them, and you.”

  “You are doing right.”

  “The world’s so fucked up. I used to think if we made it, really made it, people would listen to what we had to say. That it would make a difference. Now I don’t know.”

  “What’s wrong, Bri?”

  “I don’t know.” He laid Emma down, wishing he could put his finger on the r
eason for the restless dissatisfaction he’d begun to feel. “A couple of years ago, when things really started to break for us, I thought it was fab. All those girls screaming, our pictures in all the mags, our music on every radio.”

  “It’s what you wanted.”

  “It was, is. I don’t know. How can they hear what we’re trying to say, what difference does it make how good we are, if they scream through every bloody concert? We’re just a commodity, an image Pete’s polished up to sell records. I hate that.” He stuffed his frustrated fists in his pockets. “Sometimes I think we should go back to where we started—the pubs where people listened or danced when we played. When we could reach them. I don’t know.” He passed a hand through his hair. “I guess I didn’t realize how much fun we were having then. But you can’t go back.”