her darkroom. Michael was no more than a friend-an acquaintance,

really. They had no actual ties, and certainly no relationship. 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