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. Sweatshirts, T-shirts, 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 shirts with their boldly emblazoned

lettering.