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her darkroom. Michael was no more than a friend-an acquaintance,
really. They had no actual ties, and certainly no relations.h.i.+p. Except
for the kiss they had shared.
She was romanticizing. One kiss meant nothing. She hadn't let it,
couldn't let it. Even if she had felt-she wasn't sure what she had
felt. It hardly mattered. If Michael had indeed been drawn into Angie's
web, she could only feel sorry for him. The idea of feeling betrayed
was ludicrous.
They each had their own life. He on one coast, she on the other. And
she was at last, at long last, doing something with hers.
She was working for Runyun. She might be a lowly a.s.sistant, but she was
Runyon's lowly a.s.sistant. In the past ten weeks, she'd learned more
from him than she had learned in years of cla.s.ses, stacks of books.
Working by the glow of her red light, she gently moved a print in the
developing fixer. She was getting better. And she intended to be
better yet.
One day, she thought, she would give Runyun a run for his money.
Professionally, she was going exactly where she wanted to go. Personally
... her life was in upheaval.
Her mother. How could she explain what it felt like to know that the
woman she had faced in the dim room in London had given birth to her?
Would she ever be able to separate and understand her feelings? And her
fears? No matter what rea.s.surances Bev had given her, she'd never be
able to shake the greatest fear of all. Could she be like Jane? Deep
down, were there seeds that would sprout one day, changing her from what
she wanted to be into what she had been born to be?
A drunk. A cheap, bitter drunk.
How could she escape a fate that rushed at her from all sides? Her
mother, her grandfather. Her father. No matter how she blinded herself
to it, she had to accept that the man she loved most was as much a slave
to drink as the woman she wanted to hate.
It terrified her.
She didn't want to believe it. She was afraid not to.
No good. It did no good to dwell on it, she told herself and hung the
rinsed print to dry. Emma studied it, critically, before moving back to
her enlarger.
Since she was sick of worrying about herself, she decided to worry about
Marianne. Emma knew her friend had taken to cutting cla.s.ses, meeting
Robert Blackpool for lunch or drinks in whatever spot was currently
trendy. From there they would often crawl the clubsElaine's, Studio 54,
Danceteria-where Blackpool could be seen.
There were nights Marianne came in at dawn, shadow-eyed and bubbling
with stories. Worse were the nights Blackpool stayed in the apartment,
in Marianne's studio. In Marianne's bed.
With all her heart she wanted to wish for Marianne's happiness. Marianne
was happy. She was wildly in love for the first time with a man who by
all appearances adored her. She was living the exciting, glittery, and
decadent life they had both pined for while trapped within Saint
Catherine's prim walls.
It annoyed Emma to find herself jealous and critical. She resented not
