"Yeah." He drew on the joint he had lit to extend the high. "I wish you
were here."
She heard the background noises, loud music, male and female laughter
mixed with it. "So do I."
"Then come." He pushed away a blonde, half naked and glazedeyed, who
tried to crawl into his lap. "Pack a bag and fly over."
"Do what?"
"I mean it. It's not half as good as it would be if you were here."
Across the room a brunette, nearly six feet tall, slowly stripped.
Stevie, the lead guitarist, popped a Quaalude like rock candy. "Look, I
know we talked about it and decided it was best for you to stay home,
but we were wrong. You need to be here, with me."
She felt tears well in her eyes even as laughter bubbled. "You want me
to come to America?"
"As soon as you can. You can meet us in New York in-shit. Johnno, when
are we in New York?"
Sprawled on a couch, Johnno poured the last of the Jim Beam. "Where the
fuck are we now?"
"Never mind." Brian rubbed his tired eyes and tried to concentrate.
His mind was bloaty with booze and smoke. "I'll get Pete to work out
the details. Just pack."
She was already out of bed. "What should I do with Emma?"
"Bring her, too." On a burst of family feeling, Brian grinned at the
blonde. "Pete will figure out how to get her a passport. Someone will
call you this afternoon and tell you what to do. Christ, I miss you,
Bev."
"I miss you, too. We'll be there as soon as we can. I love you, Bri,
more than anything."
"I love you. Talk to you soon."
Moody and restless, Brian reached for the brandy bottle the moment he'd
hung up. He wanted her with him now, not a day from now, not an hour
from now. Just listening to her voice had him hard and hurting.
She had sounded just as she had on the night he'd met her, shy, a little
hesitant. She'd been so sweetly out of place in the smoky pub where his
band had been playing. Yet even with the shyness, there had been
something so solid, so true about her. He hadn't been able to get her
out of his mind, not that night, not any night since.
He lifted the brandy and drank deeply. It seemed as though the brunette
and Stevie weren't going to bother to move to the privacy of one of the
bedrooms to have sex. The blonde had given up on Johnno and was rubbing
her long, limber body against P.M., their drummer.
Half amused, half envious, Brian drank again. P.M. was barely
twenty-one, his face still round and youthful with its sprinkle of acne
on the chin. He looked both appalled and delighted as the blonde slid
down to bury her face in his lap.
Brian closed his eyes, and with music filling his head, fell asleep.
He dreamed of Bev, and the first night they had spent together. Sitting
cross-legged on the floor of his flat, talking earnestly, about music,
about poetry. Yeats and Byron and Browning. Dreamily passing a joint
back and forth. He'd had no idea it had been her first encounter with