No. Not that bad, not again. Never that bad. Where the fuck is the remote? I'd tossed it with the chocolates. A carefully aimed shoe hit the off button, and I sank into the couch, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

Go home, Em. Back to America. Cincinnati or Philadelphia, it didn't matter. But get out of this freaking city before you depress yourself to death. There would still be a teaching job for me in Philly, I'd made very sure of that before I left for grad school.

I used to do things. Important things. I taught teenagers to appreciate literature. Hell, I’d taught a few of them to read. I took classes and taught all day and started a support group to help my kids get the money to go to college. What the fuck was I doing, eating chocolates and working a dead end job in fucking London?

The plan was to take three years and get my Ph.D in London. I hadn’t planned on falling in love with a pop star. And that got me kicked out of grad school and now here I was, at one with my couch.

To be honest, that wasn't Alex's fault. I'd fallen in love with him at first sight, as stupid as that sounded. He was the bassist in Blur, soon to become the biggest band in England. I met him right before they exploded onto the charts. Within 24 hours of meeting, we were tearing one another's clothes off- it would have been sooner, if we both hadn't been so drunk the first night we met. Within 48 hours, I was on a plane with him to America. It was supposed to be for a week, during semester break. I'd stayed a month, and scammed extensions on all my first semester classes. I'd been a teacher myself, I knew which excuses worked.

It was like those stories we used to write in high school, just erase "John" and put in "Alex". They even had the same square jaw. And the same bad habits. John had kicked his. I wondered if Alex ever would... but that's not my problem any longer.

It had been second semester, after the "incident", as I referred to it, that got me kicked out. Alex and I had an ugly, ugly break-up, and Justine offered me a tour of Europe, tagging along with her band. That's where I'd been last spring, crying into my beer in a million bars where they didn't speak English.

I'd returned to a dusty apartment and a stack of mail. Mostly overdue bills, but a very polite "we regret to inform you that" letter from the university in the midst of them. If I'd really wanted to, if I'd had the energy to work at it, I probably could have talked my way back in.

Or I could have gone home, where everyone who loved me was. But... I came to London to change my life. To go back home smarter and older and more independent. I’d grown up with my three best friends, we’d literally known each other our entire lives. So everything I did related to them. I was the smart one. Bayley was the obnoxious funny one, Astrid the pretty one, and Tricia the sensible one that took care of us all. It wasn’t until I met Alex that I discovered I could be pretty and funny and sensible, too. He loved it when I took care of him, he laughed at my jokes, he told me I was gorgeous.

Maybe that was what I really missed most about him. His belief in me. My life in London was terrifying without him. But returning to life in the States would be admitting defeat, so I got a job to survive and wandered around London in my off time, thinking. I took pictures, stacks of them, developing them after hours at the shop where I worked. My parents had given me my first camera when I was four. I'd had one in my hands ever since, I think. It was never going to be a career, it was a hobby. It made me some extra money, and along with Bayley's gift for scamming, it got me photo passes and backstage at more concerts than I could count anymore. It was how I met Alex.

Does everything have to come back to Alex, Emma? In London, it just might.

I was thinking of adding March to my list of dreaded months, as it loomed ahead of me and things were not much better. Soon there would be no months left that I like. Then what do I do? Hibernate? Hide back here in the darkroom more often? I loved the darkroom. I loved to play with chemicals and red light bulbs.

Not that they were even interesting pictures. We specialized in weddings and studio shots, some repair work. I did weddings and developing and repairing. At least at weddings things happened. Studio shots were too posed for my liking. "Tilt your head. Ah, lovely." My boss was good at that, not me.

A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. Cathy, telling me someone was admiring my work out front. We each had a wall, Cathy, Sean and I, pictures of perfect brides and smiling grooms. Boring. Damn, I look like hell, too.

I pasted on my cheery "aren't you a lovely couple?" smile and sailed into the main shop, peeling off my rubber gloves as I went.

Shit. It's Nick. And this time I recognize him. I will not goon. I hadn't listened to anything but Duran since our meeting, even subscribed to the internet mailing list. Not that anyone had anything interesting to say. John Taylor had done a solo album. Wow. It wasn’t great poetry, but it grew on me.

But this is Nick. Again! Will he remember me, or does he often buy flowers for strangers? Maybe his friend John is with him... Nevermind. I need to find the lovely couple and sell some wedding photos. How come no one ever admires my concert shots over there in the corner?

Where Nick is standing....

Nah...

But then Sean turned and grinned at me. "Em! This gentleman was just admiring some of your work."

Nick turned, his smile deepening when he saw me. "Hello again, Em as in Emily."

"Emma." He remembers me! Swoon. Bayley can bite me. He's lovely.

"Do you know one another?"

Nick raised an eyebrow at me. "Do we?"

"I suppose." I told Sean the story of meeting Nick.

"It was fated to be, then."

"Funny, that. Flowers and now these." He motioned to my concert shots on the wall. "They're very good. Have you ever considered video?"

"No. I barely consider myself a photographer, let alone a director."

He was kneeling down to see one hanging near the floor, and looked up at me. "What do you consider yourself?"

"Um..." I don't know. I used to. "Someone who takes pictures."

"You could be more than that. You have a wonderful eye. Is this Blur?"

"Yes."

"Its a small venue, where was it?"

"America. Boston. I think."

Standing up, he considered me. "Do you have more?"

Millions. "Yes. But not here. We don't get many people in here who are interested in my concert shots. They usually like the vapid wedding pictures over there."

Wandering over towards the wedding photos, he smiled at me. "You don't get the die-hard Blur fans?"

I laughed, attempting to steer him towards the more interesting wedding photos. I hated posed shots, so some of them weren't a total bore. "Actually, we do. A handful who want me to take their school pictures. And I think we're a stop on the official Blur tour of London."

Examining one of my favorites, he laughed. "Oh, there's a Blur tour now? I only know the Duran one. I'm in Duran Duran, by the way."

He looked at me quickly, waiting for a reaction. I pasted on the most innocuous expression I could muster. "I know."

"Do you?"

This is a test, Em. What's the right answer? "Yes. I was 15 years old in 1984, I thought you looked familiar at the flower stand."

Nodding at me, he went back to pursuing my photos. I think I passed.

"Is this you?"

I couldn't help but smile when I looked at that photo. That's why it was there, after all. "Yes."

"So did one of the other photographers here take it?"

"No. I used the timer. It was at my best friend's wedding. Tricia. She's the one, well, the one in the wedding dress, obviously." Duh. Composure, Em. Composure. You were doing so well...

"Your friends look very American." We all did. Midwest born and bred, Tricia had been prom queen. She married the captain of the football team. We were every stereotype in the book.

"They are. I moved to London, um, about a year and a half ago."

"Why?"

"Grad school. A Ph.D in Literature. Shakespeare."

He raised an eyebrow at me, glancing around our humble shop, and I sighed. "I got kicked out. Too many pop shows."

"Did you take pictures at all of them?"

"A lot of them. But, ya know, the same show, night after night, Damon bounces around, Alex balances a cigarette on his lip ... it gets dull."

Smiling, he considered me. "Yes. I know. Still, would you mind showing me some more of your work?"

Why? Hell, why not? "Sure. I don't have anything else here... but I could have some stuff together by tomorrow."

"They tell me my camera will be fixed by then. I'll see you tomorrow."

Nick

It was three in the afternoon before he got a chance to get back to the shop. It was crowded, so he hung back, glancing around at the other customers and the photos on the wall while he waited for Em to be done, watching her. She was a workaholic, he could tell by the set of her jaw and the way she juggled four customers at once without blinking an eye. Her jeans were faded in spots, probably by developing chemicals. Holding a customer’s camera up to her eye, she surveyed the room, smiling around the viewfinder when she saw him.

Nick nodded at her, smiling, and stepped up to the counter. One of her co-workers looked at his reciept and sighed. "A Polaroid, that would be Em. Em, love, I’ll trade you." They traded places, Em grabbing Nick’s camera as she crossed the room. "Good afternoon, Mr. Rhodes."

"So, is it salvagable?"

"It took me half the night, but yes. How did you get that much sand in such a good camera?"

Taking it from her, he shook his head. "I have a very clever nine-year-old daughter. Long story. Smile." He took her picture before she could object. "I hope you didn’t lose sleep over it?"

"I’m fine. I enjoyed it, actually, never had to a chance to play with one of the top of the line Polaroids before."

"Are you a Polaroid afficiando?"

"I’ve played around with them. Never come up with much." They both looked down at the picture as it developed, her face slowly emerging, a startled smile, her pretty grey eyes unfortunately red. Nick scowled at it. "For as much as I spent on this, I should not be getting red eye."

"It’s the flash."

"I know." She blushed, remembering that he knew at least as much as she did about photography. "Do you have your porfolio?"

"Umm... yeah. Sean? I’ll be in the back?" Her co-worker nodded and she led Nick back to a quiet corner of the store, hesitating only a second before placing a porfolio in front of him.

"I wasn’t quite sure what you’d want to see. So I gave you a bit of everything." It started with concert photos, mostly of Blur and Pulp in small venues, a few bands he didn’t immediately recognize, then moved into cityscapes and a few portraits. He asked a million questions and she answered them with quick, intelligent answers, only hesitating when he questioned how she got access to Blur.

"I was... involved with Alex. The bassist. That one." She tapped the picture in front of him, pointing out the tall, dark-haired man glowering at something out of range of the camera. Nick glanced back up at her, picturing them together. They must have been a striking couple, both tall and gorgeous with dark hair falling in their eyes. "And here and here and there." She flipped the pages quickly, pointing out Alex in various moods. "Fucking obvious, hmm?"

Nick laughed. "Not really. You’ve got more of Damon, I think."

"Damon loves to have his picture taken."

"Must be a trait common to lead singers. When did you take these?"

"Last year, mostly, on their American tour. Pulp opened, that’s how I got them, too. And then Damon’s dating Justine Elastica... they’re all so incestuous, those Britpoppers."

"Lucky for you."

She shrugged, flipping the pages of her portfolio absently. "For a brief shining moment, perhaps. I don’t speak with any of them but Justine any longer."

Nick started to answer, then noticed the contact sheets tucked in the back pocket of the portfolio. "Could I see those?"

"Um..." She hestitated, trying to remember what was on them. "Go ahead."

Finally. Precisely what he was looking for. Backstage, behind the scenes, everything that happened before the lights went up and they became pop gods. "Do you have a print of this one? Could you make one?"

She glanced down at the picture he was pointing to, Damon looking suspiciously into the camera while Alex concentrated on the wires to his amp. "Um... I can make one. But why?"

He settled back into his chair, considering her. "Because I'd like you to come by our studio tomorrow and show them to the rest of the band."

"Why, precisely?"

"Because we're looking for someone new to take some shots for this b-sides compilation we're doing. We want shots of us working, laying down some new tracks at the studio, remixing, that sort of behind the scenes type of thing."

Her eyes widened briefly, then she looked nearly bored as she responded, "you're not serious," in a rather calm tone. Nick smiled to himself at her quick cover.

"I am."

"I'm not a rock photographer."

"But you should be. We're looking at a few other photographers, if the others agree that you're good, we'll have you take a few test shots and then decide from there."

"OK. Great. God, thank you!" She grinned widely at him, and he returned it.

"You haven't gotten the job yet."

"That's OK. Just the chance is incredible. Thank you. So do you want prints of any others of these?" She found a marking pencil and they discussed them briefly before he gave her directions to the studio, better known as Warren’s living room.

I wasn't sure whether to praise or damn the time difference the next afternoon. I hadn't slept at all. This news was way too great to confine to e-mail, or have one person call the others. No, Bayley ended up using her three-way calling and Astrid and Tricia shared a line in Ohio. We shrieked for hours, planning my outfit, which shots to add to the portfolio, and I was armed with a list of questions for each member of the band. We were all acting like we were 15 again, and this was one of those stories we used to write come to life.

But now I was standing outside of Privacy. Alone. Well, ok, there were about 10 fans gathered outside, carefully not stepping on the neighbor’s grass. They'd all watched in amazement as I walked up to the front door like I belonged there. My bravado faded as I faced the doorbell. Damnit, Em, you've made it this far. Just ring the bell. Nick said it was ok. I'm even half an hour late, surely he's there by now. Or maybe they've all left, and I missed my chance. No. Nick's always late, and the fans would have gone home. Right?

Ring the bell. Nick is expecting me. Nick likes me, he was nice enough to give me this chance. Or maybe it was all some cruel joke. I rang the fucking bell before I gave up in terror.

I should have given up. Simon answered. Fuck.

He was huge. I'm 5'10" and he towered over me. What is he, 6'9"? I pasted on my most professional smile and looked up at him. "Hello, Mr. leBon. I'm Em Evesham, I believe Mr. Rhodes is expecting me."

Mistake. Eyes too blue, must look away. Retreat, retreat! He sighed and leaned in the doorway. "M?"

"As in Emerald. Not James Bond's boss."

"And Mr. Rhodes is expecting you?" He wasn't believing me. Shit. Does it just show on my face that I was once a blithering Duranie? Once? Is John in that house somewhere? Don't go there, Em. Make it through this interaction first. I'm going to tell Nick that Simon was mean to me!

God, I'm so tired. I haven't slept in two days.

"Yes, he is. He wanted me to show you all some of my photographs."

"Sweetie, that is one of the best stories I have heard in a long time. You even have the sunglasses right, I'm impressed."

"The sunglasses are his. He left them at my, um, office yesterday." Shit. That sounds really bad. Office. Do photographers have offices? Studio. I should have said studio. Simon obviously took it in a different sense, giving me quite an appraising look. Fucking grand. What am I doing here?

"I don't know what he told you last night, honey, but we already have a photographer." He started to shut the door, then I heard a voice behind him.

"Wait! I forgot, Nick told me someone was coming by. Simon, be nice." John appeared behind Simon in the doorway. Sigh. My hero! "Simon, get out of the woman's way!" Simon stepped aside, still not quite believing my story, while John pulled me into the house.

"Sorry, Ms. Evesham. Nick's running late-"

"As always." Simon stalked down the hallway next to John, pissed that maybe I did have a legitimate reason to be here.

"Anyway, he called to tell me to expect you, and I completely forgot until I heard the bell ring. Forgive us?"

"Certainly. I imagine you hear all sorts of amazing stories at that front door." John and Simon were standing next to one another, and were nearly the same height. But Simon seemed much, much bigger. John seemed much, much kinder. Especially when a gorgeous cherub of a child ran out of the living room, giggling, and hid behind his legs.

"Daddy! Warren's going to make me drink one of those scary protein drinks!" Warren followed behind her, laughing and brandishing a cup like a weapon. He was only wearing jeans. I imagine that was for Atlanta's benefit.

"Warren, stop torturing Bean. That's my job!" John scooped her up and flung her over his shoulder, while she laughingly protested. He is absolutely adorable. I could only gaze at him until I noticed a hand outstretched in front of me.

"I'm Warren. You must be the photographer. Sorry, didn't catch your name."

I shook his hand, but Simon answered for me. "Emerald."

"I prefer Em. And its Emma, actually."

John smiled at me while holding Atlanta by her ankles, her head somewhere around his knees. *I love you to pieces, you're the bee's knees...* I had listened to his album way too many times in the last 24 hours. "I thought Nick said it was Emily."

"He has a problem with that, for some reason. Is he always this late?"

"Something came up. He said we should be nice to you, that you're very talented."

"He flatters me. Is there somewhere I can spread out my portfolio?"

Warren led us back to what, in some life, had been a dining room. Maybe. It had a table. Everything else was musical equipment, from guitars to mixing boards. "John, have to say, your album is great darkroom music."

He laughed. God. Is he aware that he can turn an otherwise normal woman in her mid-twenties into a blithering teenager with just one smile? "That's a new one. Thank you."

I smiled down at Atlanta. "I really like your song, Atlanta. It's fun. Tell me, did you help with any of the words?"

She giggled. "No!"

"Not even the 'dum de de dum diddly" bits?"

"No. But they're my favorite part!"

"And do bees have knees?"

She had obviously never considered this, and looked up at her father questioningly. He rolled his eyes at me and I turned to help Warren clear off the table. Warren and John had looked at half of my portfolio when Nick appeared. I don't know what happened to Simon. Just as well, he scared me.

It was all a blur. A complete blur, overshadowed by terror. Blur. It all comes back to Alex... Simon reappeared at some point, and grunted at my portfolio. They had a brief discussion and I made tea, simply for something to do. Astrid would kill me later for not memorizing every detail of Warren's cabinets. Nick found me and told me I had 30 minutes and one roll of film. Test shots. If they liked them, I had the job.

In other words, this might be the most important roll of film in my life.

At the risk of sounding cliched, as soon as I had a camera in my hands, they came into focus. Does Warren have something against natural light? All the windows were covered, throwing off my light levels. They were working on the vocals to one of the tracks on the new album, much to Simon's annoyance. But it seemed like everything was to Simon's annoyance today. Atlanta was at the kitchen table with cookies and a coloring book, Nick was off in the corner with his keyboards, programming and re-programming the same line over and over, Warren fiddling with the sound board and Simon was flipping through his lyric book. Which would leave John. And me.

I was focusing my zoom lens on Simon's notebook when John leaned down next to me, attempting to figure out what shot I was lining up. I could smell him, soap and faint hint of sweat, his hair, that ever perfect hair, tickled my cheek. Em. Em. EM! Stop it. Either you can let that inner teenager free or you can get this job.

"He'll hate that."

"But my friend Astrid will love it." I clicked the picture and put down the camera to smile at him. He is so close I could kiss him... "I'm going to scan it in and make a webpage out of it."

"Are you really a Duranie spy?"

"I'll never tell." I almost took his picture, but figured the flash would blind him. And the zoom lens is still on; it'll whack him in the nose. Doesn't matter. I will never, ever forget standing this close to John Taylor. Ever.

He leaned even closer to whisper to me. There is nothing like an English accent when it whispers... especially this particular one, that I've listened to for years. "I think you've got the job." Especially when it says things like that!

"Simon hates me."

"Simon hates everyone today. And Nick thinks you're the bee's knees."

I couldn't stand that accent in my ear any longer. I will shriek. If my parents had just let me go to more concerts when I was 15, I would have gotten it all out of my system then. No, I'm stuck with it now, when it can fuck up my life. Looking back at my camera, I started removing the zoom lens. "So that's one against one."

"I'm sick of fashion photographers. And Warren will agree with Nick. And Simon knows talent when he sees it. So relax and take some great pictures." He moved away to pick up his bass and I got a great shot of his forearms. That one is for me.

The roll was nearly gone in mere moments. Nick shook my hand at the door and I practically ran for the darkroom. The store was just closing, so I had the place to myself, just me, the film and Feelings are Good blasting on our shoddy little stereo system. They were good, I knew they were. I scanned them in to e-mail to Bayley and Tricia, and faxed them to Astrid. In my most professional move to date, I called a courier service to deliver them to each member of Duran, with a smarmy little cover letter. It cost me a fortune. (And I hoped they’d never ask where I got their addresses... the Duranie spy network was very efficient.)

It was worth it. By the time I got back to my apartment, I had a message from Nick. Yes, I could meet with their solicitor tomorrow to discuss the contract. Yes, the terms of the agreement seem more than fair to me. Yes, I would be happy to start on Thursday.

Ohmigod.

It was so much fun. I was there once a week, on Thursdays. They ignored me and I took pictures. Well, except Nick. I'd be lining up a shot and suddenly his voice would be in my ear, telling me to try a different exposure or to stand on a chair, the angle would be better. He was generally right.

Between the fact that I changed my hours at the shop to still work a full week without Thursdays, and the extra hours I spent in the darkroom, plus the weddings I still had booked every weekend, I didn't have time to be depressed any longer. Maybe this is why I stayed in London. Maybe I was just bored before.

Warren

95... 96... 97... The doorbell rang. Fuck. 9899100. Warren finished his sit-ups in a rush, then jumped to his feet, grabbing a towel as he headed for the door. Was it time for work already?

It was Em. Warren liked her, she had a wide-open face, always ready to smile. And she was an American accent in the midst of London. Not that he ever felt like an outsider in London- it was just nice to hear an American accent every once in a while.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt your workout?" She was surveying his body, which was clad in only a pair of workout shorts. He loved being looked at.

"No. I should have quit about 15 minutes ago. Do you want to set up while I shower?" He had thought the idea of someone photographing them while they worked was annoying at first, but Em was good. He often forgot she was even in the room until he heard her throaty laugh mixed with the much more familiar laughter of the others.

"Sure. I'll let the others in."

"Oh, its just me and Nick today. Saffie's sick, so Simon needed to stay with her, and John’s... well, he’s gone. As usual." Her face fell. She was incredibly easy to read, it was one of things Warren liked about her. John was her favorite, and Simon scared her. She looked at Nick with the accepting eyes of a disciple. Warren had noticed them in countless interactions over the last couple of weeks, as Nick would give her some small advice on lining up a shot and she would immediately do as he asked. He figured that would wear off soon enough, as she became more confident in her talent. They normally didn't work with anyone as inexperienced as Em, it was sorta fun.

"Oh. Should I just go?"

"Do you want to?"

"No. I'd love to stay, I'll get some great pictures of those muscles of yours, make all the Duranies scream." They shared a grin as Warren flexed his biceps. "Actually, I've developed the pictures from last week, would you like to see them before Nick gets here and gives me a million tiny suggestions and convinces me that they're awful?"

Aha. Maybe she was already outgrowing her awe of Nick. She cleared a space on the coffee table and Warren looked though the new prints she had brought while she began unpacking her cameras. They were good. Very good, light years better than the original portfolio she'd shown them- and those original photos had been striking. Perhaps all of Nick's advice was paying off. She had a talent for capturing a bit of a person's personality in every shot.

"What are you doing next week, babe?"

Camera in hand, she looked over at him. "Umm... well, you're in the States, so back to my regular routine."

"Would you like to come with me?"

"Why?"

"To take pictures. I'd like some new shots for the art on my next album."

Her surprise was evident in the way she stared at him. "I'd pay you, of course. I'm doing a couple of in-stores, late night shows, a million on-line chats."

Her eyes lit up at that thought. "I'd love to take pictures while you do the on-line things."

"They're not very interesting."

"No, but I've always wondered about those things. Who's feeding you the questions? Do you do your own typing?"

"That could be fun. They could go on the Imago website that will be up someday. So is that a yes?"

"Um... I need to think about it. I'm not sure if I can get away that quickly."

"Ok. I'll need to know soon, though."

"Fine. Tomorrow?"

"Fine. I'll go shower now. Let Nick in if he actually gets here before noon."

He did. Warren could hear their voices as he walked downstairs after his shower. "You're still working at the photo shop?" Nick was asking, incredulous.

"Yes. Of course. This job won't last forever. And I've got weddings booked through June."

"You can be much more than a wedding photographer, Em. And doing this job for Warren could help you do that." Warren stopped on the stairs, listening.

"Yes... or he could hate all my shots, and I'll have lost my job."

"He wouldn't have asked you to do it if he expected to hate your work. And we are certainly paying you enough to live on. I've seen your flat, your rent can't be that much."

She laughed. "I suppose. It's just... a risk. I'm not really sure if I want to be taking any risks right now."

"Why is this a bigger risk than doing Duran's pictures?"

"Because the Duran job doesn't involve me taking off a week from work that they will probably not give me."

"Why not?"

"Because we're a busy shop, and they need me. They keep making noises about hiring someone else to do the developing."

"I thought they liked you."

"They do. But they need the help."

"It doesn't matter. You shouldn't be working there anyway. What are you doing, working for us one day a week and them four?"

"Um... more like five."

"You're working six days a week?"

"I had two weddings last Saturday. It feels like ten."

"Quit the shop and the weddings. I'll see if we can pay you more."

"It's not the money, Nick. What Duran is paying me is more than adequate."

"What is it, then?"

Silence for a moment, and Warren wished he could see her face. He wished he could see Nick's. Did he look as much like a father as he sounded like one? "Security. I'm not going to be taking pictures of rock groups forever."

"You could. Hell, even if you fail, you can always go back to weddings."

"Not if I cancel the bookings I have for April, and ruin some bride's day."

"So quit the shop, do the weddings. Simon's going to be gone all of April anyway, we won't be doing much on the b-sides."

Warren crept down the steps enough that he could see her chewing her lip. She never would have said anything like this in front of him. She trusted Nick, for some reason. "Oh, hell. Fine. Thus begins the saga of Em Evesham, struggling young rock photographer."