Shopaholic to the Rescue

TWO

They went missing two days ago. You might say, So what? They’re probably just on a boys’ trip. Why not relax and wait for them to roll on home? Actually, that’s what the police did say. But it’s more complicated than that. Tarquin had a bit of a breakdown-type moment recently. He’s also very rich and is apparently being targeted by Bryce with “unhealthy practices,” which Suze is worried means “joining a cult.”

I mean, it’s all just a theory. In fact, it’s lots of different theories. To be honest—and I’d never say this to Suze—I secretly think we might find that Dad and Tarquin have been sitting in a twenty-four-hour café in L.A. all this time. Suze, on the other hand, believes Bryce has already thrown Tarquin down a canyon after plundering his bank account. (She won’t admit it, but I know it’s what she thinks.)

What we need is some order. We need a plan. We need one of those incident boards like they have in cop shows, with lists and arrows and pictures of Dad and Tarkie. (Actually, no, let’s not do that. Then they really would look like murder victims.) But we need something. So far, this road trip has been shambolic.

It was an utter kerfuffle this morning—what with packing and handing over Suze’s three children to her nanny, Ellie (she’s going to live in and have full charge while we’re gone). Luke arrived with the hired RV at the crack of dawn. Then I woke Mum and Janice—they’d only had a few hours’ sleep since they arrived from the UK—and we all jumped in and said, “To Vegas!”

To be absolutely truthful, we probably didn’t need to hire an RV. In fact, Luke was all for going in two sedans. But my argument was: We need to talk to one another en route. Therefore we need an RV. Plus, how can you go on an American road trip and not get an RV? Exactly.

Since then, Suze has spent the whole time googling cults, which I don’t think she should do, because it’s freaking her out. (Especially when she found one where they all paint their faces white and get married to animals.) Luke has mostly been on the phone to his second-in-command, Gary, who’s at a conference in London, taking Luke’s place. Luke owns a PR firm, and he’s got stacks of commitments right now, but he put them all aside to drive the RV. Which is really supportive and loving of him, and I will do exactly the same for him when the situation arises.

Janice and Mum have been exchanging dire theories about Dad having a meltdown and going to live wild in the desert in a poncho. (Why a poncho?) Minnie has said, “Cactus, Mummy! Cac-TUS!” about three thousand times. And I’ve sat there in silence, stroking her hair and just letting my thoughts swirl around. Which, to be honest, isn’t a lot of fun. My thoughts aren’t in a brilliant place right now.

I’m trying to stay as positive and buoyant as I can, I really am. I’m trying to keep everyone cheery and not dwell on the past. But every time I let my guard down, it all comes back, in a horrible rush of guilt. Because the truth is: This whole trip is down to me. It’s all my fault.

—

Half an hour later we stop at a diner to have some breakfast and regroup. I take Minnie to the ladies’, where we have a long conversation about different kinds of soap and Minnie decides she has to try each soap dispenser in turn and basically it takes forever. When at last we make it back into the diner, Suze is standing alone, looking at a vintage-style poster, and I head toward her.

“Suze…” I say for about the billionth time. “Listen. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” She barely looks up.

“You know. Everything—” I break off, feeling a bit despairing. I don’t know how to continue. Suze is my oldest, dearest friend, and being with her used to feel like the easiest thing in the world. But now it feels like I’m in a stage play and I’ve forgotten my lines and she’s not about to help me out.

It was over the last few weeks, while we were both living in L.A., that things went wrong. Not just between Suze and me, but altogether. I lost my head. I went careering off the track. I wanted to be a celebrity stylist so badly that I lost the plot for a bit. I can hardly believe it was only last night that I was standing on the red carpet outside a premiere, realizing quite how badly I didn’t want to be inside the cinema with all the celebrities. I feel like I’ve been in a bubble, and now it’s popped.

Luke gets it. We had a long talk last night and set a lot of things straight. What happened to me in Hollywood was freakish, he said. I became a celebrity overnight, without intending to at all, and it threw me. My friends and family won’t hold it against me forever, he said. They’ll forgive me.

Well, maybe he’s forgiven me. But Suze hasn’t.

The worst thing is, last night I thought everything was healing. Suze stood there and begged me to come on this trip, and I promised her I’d drop everything. She cried and said she’d missed me, and I felt this massive relief. But now that I’m here, everything’s changed. She’s behaving as though she doesn’t want me here. She won’t discuss it; she just exudes hostility.

I mean, I know she’s worried about Tarkie; I know I need to cut her some slack. It’s just…hard.

“Whatever,” says Suze brusquely. And without looking at me, she heads back to the table. As I follow her, Alicia Bitch Long-legs glances up and sweeps disdainful eyes over me. I still can’t quite believe she’s come on this trip. Alicia Bitch Long-legs, my least favorite person in the world.

I should say, Alicia Merrelle. That’s her name now, ever since she married Wilton Merrelle, founder of the famous yoga and rehab center Golden Peace. It’s a massive complex, with classes and a gift shop, and I used to be quite a fan. Well, we were all fans. Until Tarquin started going there all the time to hang out with Bryce and told Suze she was “toxic” and frankly became a bit weird. (I should say: a bit weirder. He’s never exactly been the most normal knife in the drawer, old Tarkie.)

It was Alicia who discovered they were heading to Vegas. It was Alicia who brought a chiller full of coconut water for the RV. Alicia’s the heroine of the hour. But I’m still wary of her. Alicia has been my bête noire ever since I first knew her, years ago, before I was married. She’s tried to wreck my life; she’s tried to wreck Luke’s life; she’s put me down at every opportunity and made me feel small and stupid. Now she says that’s all in the past and we should forget it and she’s moved on. But, I’m sorry, I can’t trust her, I just can’t.

“I was thinking,” I say, trying to sound businesslike. “We need to make a proper plan.” I get a pen and notebook from my bag, write PLAN in big letters, and put it on the table for everyone to see. “Let’s go over the facts.”

“Your dad has dragged the other two off on some mission to do with his past,” says Suze. “But you don’t know what, because you didn’t ask him.” With that, she shoots me a familiar accusing look.

“I know,” I say humbly. “I’m sorry.”

I should have talked to my dad more. If I could turn back time, I’d do everything differently, of course I would, of course I would. But I can’t. All I can do is try to make up for it now.

“So let’s recap what we do know,” I say, trying to stay upbeat. “Graham Bloomwood came to the United States in 1972. He toured around with three American friends: Brent, Corey, and Raymond. And they followed this route.” I open Dad’s map and put it down with a flourish. “Exhibit A.”

We all look at the map for the millionth time. It’s a very basic road map, old and yellowed, with a red Biro route drawn in. It doesn’t really help us, in truth, but we all keep staring at it, just in case. I searched my dad’s room after he disappeared with Tarkie, and this is all I found, apart from an old magazine.

“So, they might be following this route.” Suze is still peering at the map. “L.A….Las Vegas…Look, they went to the Grand Canyon….”

“But they might not be following that route,” I say quickly, before she can decide that Dad and Tarkie must be at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and we need to go there at once in a helicopter.

“Is your father the sort to retrace his steps?” says Alicia. “I suppose what I mean is, is he redactive?”

Redactive? What’s that?

“Well.” I cough. “Sometimes. Maybe.”

Alicia keeps asking me really difficult questions like this. And then she blinks at me in silent triumph, as though to say, You don’t understand, do you?

Plus, she speaks in this soft, serene way, which gives me the creeps. Alicia has totally changed style since she was a bossy PR girl in London. She wears yoga trousers and her hair in a low ponytail, and her speech is sprinkled with new-agey expressions. But she’s still as patronizing as ever.

“Sometimes he retraces his steps, sometimes he doesn’t,” I improvise. “Depends.”

“Bex, you must have more information,” says Suze tetchily. “Tell me about the trailer park again. Maybe you missed something.”

Obediently, I begin: “Dad wanted me to look up his old friend Brent. When I found the address, it was a trailer park and Brent had just been evicted.”

As I speak, a hotness comes over me and I take a sip of water. This is the point where I messed up most of all. Dad kept asking me to look up Brent, and I kept putting it off, because…well, because life was so exciting, and it seemed like a boring Dad errand. But if I’d just done it, if I’d got there earlier, maybe Dad would have been able to talk to Brent before he got served with an eviction notice. Maybe Brent wouldn’t have taken off. Maybe everything would be different.

“Dad couldn’t believe it,” I resume, “because he thought Brent would be rich.”

“Why?” demands Suze. “Why did he think Brent would be rich? He hadn’t seen him for what, forty years?”

“Dunno. But he was expecting Brent to be living in a mansion.”

“So your dad flew out to L.A. and went to see Brent.”

“Yes. It must have been at the trailer park. Apparently they ‘had it out’ about something.”

“And it was Brent’s daughter who told you that.” She pauses. “Rebecca.”

We’re both silent. This is the weirdest part of the story. Yet again, I replay the scene in my head. Meeting Brent’s daughter on the steps of the trailer. Feeling the hostility burning off her like heat off a sun-baked tarmac road. Staring back at her in bewilderment, thinking, What did I ever do to you? And then the killer line: “We’re all called Rebecca.” I still don’t know what she meant by “all.” She certainly wasn’t about to explain.

“What else did she say?” Suze asks impatiently.

“Nothing! She said, ‘If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.’ ”

“Helpful.” Suze rolls her eyes.

“Yes, well. She didn’t seem very keen on me. I don’t know why.”

I don’t add that she said I had a “prinky prinky voice” and that her last words to me were “Fuck off, princess girl.”

“She didn’t mention Corey at all.” Suze is tapping her pen on the table.

“No.”

“But Corey is the one who lives in Las Vegas. So your dad might be going to see him.”

“Yes. I think so.”

“You think so.” Suze suddenly lashes out. “Bex, we need some solid facts!”

It’s all very well, Suze expecting me to have all the answers. But Mum and I have no idea what Corey’s or Raymond’s surname is, even, let alone anything else. Mum says Dad only ever mentioned them when he was reminiscing about the trip, which was once a year, at Christmas, and she never really listened. (She even said that if she’d heard about the searing heat of Death Valley once, she’d heard it a million times, and why hadn’t they just stayed in a nice swimming pool?)

I’ve googled corey las vegas, corey graham bloomwood, corey brent, and everything I can think of. The trouble is, there are a lot of Coreys in Las Vegas.

“OK.” Alicia comes off her mobile. “Thanks anyway.”

Alicia’s been phoning everyone she knows, to try to find out if Bryce mentioned where he’s staying in Las Vegas. But so far no one knows anything.

“No joy?”

“No.” She sighs deeply. “Suze, I feel I’m letting you down.”

“You’re not letting me down!” says Suze at once, and clutches Alicia’s hand. “You’re an angel.”

They’re both totally ignoring me. Maybe we should have a break, anyway. I force a friendly smile and say, “I’m going to stretch my legs. Apparently there’s a barnyard at the back. Could you order me the maple waffles, please? Plus some pancakes for Minnie and a strawberry milkshake. Come on, sweetheart.” I take Minnie’s little hand in mine and at once feel comforted. At least Minnie loves me unconditionally.

(Or at least she will until she’s thirteen and I tell her she can’t wear a micro-mini to school, and she’ll hate me more than anyone in the world.)

(Oh God, that’s only eleven years away. Why can’t she just stay two and a half forever?)