Part 37 (1/2)

Of the four, Stevie was the only one who had grown up with real money,

in a true house with a garden and two live-in servants. He was used to

the finer things, expected them and was easily bored with them. He'd

fallen in love with the guitar, and had made his proper parents rue the

day they had given it to him.

At fifteen, he'd formed his own band. Stevie and the Rousers. It had

lasted six months before bitter infighting had broken it up. Undaunted,

he'd formed another, then another. His natural, flashy talent with the

guitar had drawn many hopefuls to him. But then they'd looked to him

for leaders.h.i.+p that he'd been innately incapable of providing.

He'd come across Brian and Johnno at a party in Soho, one of those

candlelit, smoke-and-incense-choked gatherings his parents were

terrified of. He'd been attracted immediately to Brian's intensity

about music, and Johnno's caustic, careless wit. For the first time in

his life, Stevie had joined instead of formed. He'd followed Brian's

lead with relief.

There had been lean days, grubbing in pubs begging for a chance to play.

There had been heady days spent writing songs and creating music. There

had been women, gloriously sweaty acres of them ready to fall on their

backs for a fair-haired man with a guitar in his hand.

There had been Sylvie, the girl he had met on their first gig in

Amsterdam. Pretty, round-checked Sylvie with her broken English

and guileless eyes. They'd made love like maniacs in a filthy little

room where the roof leaked and the windows were coated with grime. He'd

fallen in love, as much as he believed himself capable. He'd even

entertained ideas about bringing her back to London with him, setting up