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like to be Brian McAvoy's daughter. But he asked me to dinner before he
knew. It didn't make a difference to him. Then when I told him, he
was, well, embarra.s.sed. There was something so charming about the way
he reacted."
"Did you go out with him?"
"No. I was too fl.u.s.tered, and maybe a little afraid to say yes. Then
today, he sent me a note. And-oh, Mum, I'm dying to see him again. I
wish you'd come tonight so you could just be there."
"You know I can't, Emma."
"I know, I know." She let out a long breath. "You see, I've never felt
this way before. Sort of .
"Light-headed, short of breath."
"Yes." Emma laughed. "Yes, exactly-11
She had felt the same way once. Only once. "You have plenty of time to
get to know him. Go slow."
"I've always gone slow," she muttered. "Did you go slow with Dad?"
It hurt. More than fifteen years had pa.s.sed, and it still hurt. "No. I
wouldn't listen to anyone."
"You listened to yourself Mum-"
"Let's not talk about Brian."
"All right. Just one thing more. Dad goes to Ireland-to Darrentwice
every year. Once on Darren's birthday, and once on ... once in
December. I thought you should know."
"Thank you." She gave Emma's hand a squeeze. "You didn't come here to
talk about sad things."
"No. No, I didn't." Emma knelt, rested her hands on Bev's thigh. "I
came to ask you something vitally important. I need something
absolutely wonderful to wear tonight. Go shopping with me and help me
find it."
With a delighted laugh, Bev sprang up. "I'll get a jacket."
EMmA Han NEARLY CONVINCED herself she'd been foolish to worry about her
attire. She was there to photograph, not to flirt with the lead singer
of the opening act. There was so much to do, equipment and lighting to
check, stagehands and smoke machines to dodge, that she soon forgot it
had taken her over an hour to dress.
The audience was already filing in, though there were more than thirty
minutes to the opening. There were stands of merchandise to be plucked
through. Sweats.h.i.+rts, T-s.h.i.+rts, posters, key chains. In the eighties
rock and roll was no longer just music for young, rebellious kids. It
was big business, umbrellaed by conglomerates.
Anonymous enough in her black jumpsuit, she prowled the stands, snapping
pictures of fans as they forked over pound after pound for memorabilia
of the big concert. She heard her father discussed, dissected, and
cooed over. It made her smile and remember the day so long ago when she
had stood on line for the elevator to the top of the Empire State
Building. She hadn't been quite three then, and now, nineteen years
later, Brian McAvoy was still making giddy teenagers' hearts throb.
She switched cameras, wanting color now to show the screaming
streaks of red, blue, green, of the s.h.i.+rts with their boldly emblazoned
lettering.
