"Apparently he's on the mend." She took time for a quick glimpse in the
hallway mirror. The deep, bold blue of the suede picked up the color of
her eyes. "I have the last lot of prints from the tour. Dad's meeting
me there so.we can all argue about which ones are best."
"I've got a meeting with Lady Annabelle." Bev rolled her eyes. Behind
Emma, she glanced in the mirror, pausing to tighten her left earring.
"I'm not sure if she wants me to decorate her parlor, or just pump me
for information about how P.M. is in bed."
Emma tucked her portfolio under her arm. "You don't think she already
knows?"
Bev considered, then grinned. "I'll certainly find out soon enough."
She gave Emma a quick kiss on the cheek, then dashed.
Moments later, Emma popped into her Aston Martin. She tried to imagine
sweet, self-effacing P.M. with the brash, overdressed Lady Annabelle.
She couldn't. Then again, she'd never been able to see him with Angie
Parks.
She fought the traffic in grim, British style. She was glad that Drew
and his band had signed with Pete Page. If anyone could help push
Birdcage Walk to the top, it was Pete. Look what he'd done for
Blackpool, she thought with a sneer. The man was making a bloody
fortune doing commercials. She was well aware how furious Pete had been
when Brian had refused to endorse products or lend his music to
television ads-tossing away worldwide exposure and millions of pounds.
But she was proud of him. Leave it to Blackpool, she thought nastily,
then pulled into Stevie's estate.
She'd been pleased when he'd bought the old Victorian home and rolling
grounds. He'd even taken up gardening and had appeared on
Bev's doorstep with book after book on roses, sou, and rock gardens. It
was no longer a secret that his health was poor, but Pete, being Pete,
had managed to keep the cause of it out of the press.
Emma had been afraid the tour would exhaust Stevie, but he'd made it
through. Now he was writing again, and gearing up to join Brian at some
of the benefits her father could never say no to.
Emma thought Brian was truly in his element now. Rock had embraced
causes to its gritty bosom. In Europe and America, musicians were
organizing to do something new with their talents. Benefits to aid
causes from drought-ridden Ethiopia to the struggling farmers in America
were as much a part of the eighties scene as political rallies and
love-ins had been in the sixties. The glory, and arguably selfindulgent
days, of Woodstock were over. Rockers had taken up the cause of
humanity and were clasping it to their sweaty bosoms. She was proud to
be a part of it, to record the changes, and her view of them.
At the end of the walk a barrel of violas drooped in the full sun. With
a shake of her head, Emma shifted them under the slanted shade of the
caves. Apparently, Stevie hadn't read his garden books carefully
enough.
She pressed the doorbell. Since her father's car was nowhere in sight,
she hoped Stevie might feel up to taking her for a tour of his gardens.
The housekeeper opened the door and eyed Emma with both impatience and
distrust.