Of the four, Stevie was the only one who had grown up with real money,
in a true house with a garden and two live-in servants. He was used to
the finer things, expected them and was easily bored with them. He'd
fallen in love with the guitar, and had made his proper parents rue the
day they had given it to him.
At fifteen, he'd formed his own band. Stevie and the Rousers. It had
lasted six months before bitter infighting had broken it up. Undaunted,
he'd formed another, then another. His natural, flashy talent with the
guitar had drawn many hopefuls to him. But then they'd looked to him
for leadership that he'd been innately incapable of providing.
He'd come across Brian and Johnno at a party in Soho, one of those
candlelit, smoke-and-incense-choked gatherings his parents were
terrified of. He'd been attracted immediately to Brian's intensity
about music, and Johnno's caustic, careless wit. For the first time in
his life, Stevie had joined instead of formed. He'd followed Brian's
lead with relief.
There had been lean days, grubbing in pubs begging for a chance to play.
There had been heady days spent writing songs and creating music. There
had been women, gloriously sweaty acres of them ready to fall on their
backs for a fair-haired man with a guitar in his hand.
There had been Sylvie, the girl he had met on their first gig in
Amsterdam. Pretty, round-checked Sylvie with her broken English
and guileless eyes. They'd made love like maniacs in a filthy little
room where the roof leaked and the windows were coated with grime. He'd
fallen in love, as much as he believed himself capable. He'd even
entertained ideas about bringing her back to London with him, setting up
house in some cramped cold-water flat.
But Sylvie had gotten pregnant.
He remembered when she'd told him, her face pale and her eyes full of
hope and fear. He hadn't wanted children. Good Christ, he'd only been
twenty. His music had come first, had had to. And if his parents had
discovered he'd fathered a child with a Dutch cocktail waitress ...
It had been lowering to realize that no matter how far he'd run, how
much he'd protested, what his parents thought had still mattered so
much.
Pete had arranged for an abortion, discreetly, expensively. Sylvie,
with the tears flowing down her cheeks, had done what he'd asked. Once
she had, she had walked out of his life. Until she had gone, Stevie
hadn't realized he'd loved her even more than he'd believed himself
capable.
He didn't want to think of it, hated to remember it, and her. But just
lately it had begun preying on his mind. It probably had to do with
Emma, he thought as he glanced over and saw her sitting flushed and
delighted in her swivel chair. His child, whatever it had been, would
have been about her age now.
The day in the studio was fun for Emma. So much fun her only regret was
that Darren wasn't there to share it. Watching her father and his
friends play now was different from seeing them in the theaters and
auditoriums across America. There was a different energy here. She
didn't understand it, but she felt it.