"London then, to Bev. She'd want to help you."
"No passport. Drew locked it in a safe-deposit box. I don't even have
a driver's license. He tore it up." She sat back because even the few
bites of food had made her queasy. "Marianne, I have fifty-five dollars
in my purse-I stole fifteen of that from the housekeeping money. I
don't have any credit cards. He took them months ago. I have the
clothes on my back and that's it."
Because she wanted to break something, Marianne rose and poured another
Grand Marnier. All this time, she thought. All this time she'd been
sulking in the loft, nursing hurt feelings while Emma had been going
through hell.
"You don't have to worry about money. Your credit's good with me. I'll
get a cash advance on my credit card, then call and authorize them
to accept your signature. You can have your pick. Visa, MasterCard, or
American Express."
"You must think I'm pathetic."
"No, I think you're the best friend I've ever had." Tears burned the
back of her eyes. Marianne let them fall. "If I could, I'd kill him
for you."
"You won't say anything, to anyone. Not yet."
"Not if that's what you want. But I think your father should know."
"No. Things are bad enough between me and Dad without adding this. I
think what I need most of all now is a little time. I thought about
going into the mountains somewhere, a cabin in the woods, but I don't
think I could stand the quiet. I want to lose myself in a big, noisy
city. I keep thinking of L.A. Every time I thought about running, I
imagined running there. And I've been dreaming about it again, a lot."
"About Darren?"
"Yes. The nightmares started a few months ago, and they won't let up. I
feel like I need to be there, and I hope it's the last place Drew would
expect me to go."
"I'll go with you."
Emma reached over to take her hand. "I was hoping you would. For a
little while."
IT WAS DARK in the bedroom. And filthy. Jane's last day maid had quit
the week before, nipping a couple of silver candlesticks on her way out
the door. Jane wasn't aware of the theft. She rarely left the bedroom
these days. She made occasional runs to the kitchen for food, wheezing
and panting on the stairs. Like a hermit, she horded the drugs and
bottles and food in her room.
It had once been ornately decorated. She'd had a fancy for red velvet.
It still hung at the windows, heavy creases caked with dust. But in a
rage she'd torn down the curtains that had draped the plump, round bed.
Now, because she was so often cold, she huddled under them.
The red and silver flocked wallpaper was stained. Jane had a habit of
throwing things at her lovers-lamps, bric-a-brac, and bottles. Which was
why she had such a difficult time keeping anyone in her bed for more
than two nights running.
The last one, a tall, muscular dealer named Hitch, had tolerated her
temper fits longer than most, then, philosophically, had knocked her