New York, 1986
THE LOFT LOOKED as though it had been struck by a hurricane. But then,
Emma supposed, Marianne had always been a strong wind. There was a
scatter of papers and magazines, three empty handbags, two of which were
Chinese red, a single sling-back pump of the same bold color, and a pile
of records that were spread out on the floor like a deck of cards.
Choosing one, Emma set it on the turntable and was met with a blast of
Aretha Franklin.
She smiled, remembering that Marianne had played it the night before
while she'd finished her furious packing. It was hard to believe that
both Emma and the loft would have to do without Marianne for the better
part of a year.
Emma picked up a purple silk blouse and a red Converse hightop. 'fWo
more items that had somehow escaped Marianne's maniacal search for the
essentials. The chance to study for a year in Paris, at the Ecole des
Beaux Arts was an opportunity Marianne hadn't been able to turn down.
Emma was thrilled for her-but it was hard, very hard, to stand in the
middle of the loft alone.
She remained for a moment, listening. Over the sound of Aretha was the
rumble of traffic from the street below. Through the open windows she
could hear the high, strong soprano of a neighboring opera student
practicing an aria from The Marriage of Figaro. Maybe it was ridiculous
to consider herself alone in New York, but that was precisely what she
was.
Not for long, she reminded herself and set the blouse and shoe on the
bottom step. She had her own packing to do. In two days she
would be in London. She was going to tour with Devastation again, but
this time, she had a title. Official photographer. It was a title
she'd earned, Emma thought as she hauled the first suitcase onto her
bed. She'd been given her shot when her father had asked her to
photograph the group for the album cover. The Lost the Sun cover, Emma
remembered. The stark black-and-white portrait had earned enough
acclaim that even Pete had stopped mumbling about nepotism. And he
hadn't said a word when she'd been asked to shoot the cover for their
current album.
It gave her a good deal of satisfaction that it had been he, as the
group's manager, who had called to invite her on the tour. Salary and
expenses included. Runyun had muttered, but only briefly. Something
about the commercialization of art.
London, Dublin, Paris-a quick visit with Marianne-Rome, Barcelona,
Berlin. Not to mention all the cities in between. The European tour
was slated to take ten weeks. When it was done, she would do something
she'd been promising herself for almost two years. She would open her
own studio.
Unable to find her black cashmere suit, Emma headed out and up the
stairs, pausing to pick up the blouse and shoe. There was a fascinating
mix of scents. Turpentine and Opium. Marianne had left her studio
exactly as she preferred it. In chaos. Brushes and pallet knives and
broken pieces of charcoal were stuffed into everything from mayonnaise
jars to a Dresden vase. Canvases were stacked drunkenly against the