Shopaholic to the Rescue

by Sophie Kinsella

  Ooh, look.

  I’ve stopped dead. Not at the “barnyard,” which consists of three mangy goats in a pen, but at a sign reading LOCAL CRAFT SALE. Maybe I should go and buy something to cheer myself up. Give myself a little lift and support the local economy at the same time. Yes. I’ll do that.

  There are about six stalls, with crafts and clothes and artifacts. I can see a skinny girl in high-heeled suede boots filling a basket with necklaces, exclaiming to the stall holder, “I love these! This is all my Christmas shopping done, right here!”

  As I get near, a grizzled old lady appears from behind one stall, and I jump. She looks as if she’s a handcrafted artifact herself. Her skin is so brown and lined, it could be some ancient grained wood, or hand-beaten hide. She’s wearing a leather hat with a cord under her chin, she has a tooth missing, and her plaid skirt looks about a hundred years old.

  “You on vacation?” she inquires, as I start looking at leather bags.

  “Kind of…Well, not really,” I say honestly. “I’m on a trip. We’re searching for someone, actually. Trying to track them down.”

  “Manhunt.” She nods matter-of-factly. “My granddaddy used to be a bounty hunter.”

  A bounty hunter? That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard. Imagine being a bounty hunter! I can’t help visualizing a business card, perhaps with a little cowboy hat printed in the corner:

  REBECCA BRANDON, BOUNTY HUNTER.

  “I suppose I’m a kind of bounty hunter too,” I hear myself saying nonchalantly. “You know. In a way.”

  Which is sort of true. After all, I’m hunting for people, aren’t I? And that makes me a bounty hunter, surely? “So, can you give me any tips?” I add.

  “I can give you plenty,” she says hoarsely. “My granddaddy used to say, ‘Don’t try to beat ’em, meet ’em.’ ”

  “ ‘Don’t try to beat ’em, meet ’em’?” I echo. “What does that mean?”

  “It means be smart. Don’t go running after a moving target. Look for the friends. Look for the family.” She suddenly produces a bundle of deep-brown leather. “Do you a fine holster, ma’am. Hand-stitched.”

  A holster?

  A holster, like…for a gun?

  “Oh,” I say, discomfited. “Right! A holster. Wow. That’s…um…gorgeous. The only tiny thing is…” I cough, feeling embarrassed. “I don’t have a gun.”

  “You don’t got no weapon?” She seems staggered by this news.

  Now I feel totally wussy. I’ve never even held a gun, let alone considered owning one. But maybe I should have more of an open mind. I mean, it’s the way out here in the West, isn’t it? You have your hat, you have your boots, you have your gun. Probably girls in the West walk around town and eye one another’s guns up the way I eye up Hermès bags.

  “I don’t have a weapon right now,” I amend. “Not exactly on me. But when I do, I’ll come and get a holster.”

  As I’m walking away, I wonder if I should quickly have shooting lessons and get a firearms license and buy a Gluck. Or do I mean Glock? Or a Smith and Whatsit. I don’t even know which the coolest one is. They should have Vogue for guns.

  I head toward the next stall, where the skinny girl I noticed before is filling up her second basket.

  “Hey,” she says pleasantly, glancing up at me. “These shawls are all fifty percent off.”

  “Some are seventy-five percent off,” chimes in the stall owner. She has a graying braid with ribbons wound around it, which looks stunning. “I’m doing a big clear-out.”

  “Wow.” I pick up one of the shawls and shake it out. It’s really soft wool, with beautiful embroidered birds, and is an amazing value.

  “I’m getting two each for my mom and me,” the skinny girl says in chatty tones. “And you should check out the belts.” She gestures at a neighboring stall. “I’m, like, you can never have too many belts.”

  “Totally,” I agree. “Belts are a staple.”

  “Right?” She nods enthusiastically. “Can I have another basket?” she adds to the stall owner. “And do you take Amex?”

  While the stall owner is getting out her credit-card machine, I pick up a couple of shawls. But it’s strange. Maybe I’m not in a shawl mood or something, because even though I can see how gorgeous they are, I don’t feel like buying them. It’s as if I’m looking at some trolley full of delicious desserts but I’ve lost my appetite.

  So instead I head over to the belt stall and have a look at those.

  I mean, they’re really well made. The buckles are nice and heavy, and they’re in some good colors. I can’t spot a single thing wrong with them. I just don’t feel like buying them. In fact, the thought makes me feel a bit ill. Which is weird.

  The skinny girl has lined up five baskets of stuff and is scrabbling in her Michael Kors bag. “I was sure that credit card was OK,” she says fretfully. “Let me try another one…oh, shoot!” She drops her bag on the floor and bends down to pick up all her stuff. I’m about to help her, when I hear my name.

  “Bex!” I turn to see Suze looking out the back door of the diner. “The food’s here—” She breaks off, and her eyes run along the row of five baskets. “Oh, that’s typical. You’ve been shopping. What else would you be doing?”

  She sounds so censorious, I feel the color flood into my cheeks. But I just stare back silently. There’s no point saying anything. Suze is determined to find fault, whatever I do. She disappears back into the diner, and I breathe out.

  “Come on, Minnie,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted. “We’d better get some breakfast. And you can even have a milkshake.”

  “Milkshake!” exclaims Minnie joyfully. “From a cow,” she tells me. “A chocolate cow?”

  “No, it’s a strawberry cow today,” I tell her, tickling her under the chin.

  OK. So I know we’re going to have to put Minnie straight about cows one day, but I can’t bear to just yet. It’s so sweet. She honestly thinks there are chocolate cows and vanilla cows and strawberry cows.

  “It’s a very yummy strawberry cow,” comes Luke’s voice, and I look up to see him coming out of the diner. “Food’s ready.” He winks at me.

  “Thanks. We’re coming.”

  “Swing time?” asks Minnie, screwing up her face in hope, and Luke laughs.

  “Come on then, sausage.”

  For a few minutes we walk around, swinging Minnie between our arms.

  “How’s tricks?” Luke asks me over Minnie’s head. “You’ve been pretty quiet in the RV.”

  “Oh,” I say, disconcerted that he’s even noticed. “Well, I’ve just been, you know. Thinking.”

  This isn’t quite true. I’m quiet because I don’t have anyone to talk to. Suze and Alicia are in their little twosome; Mum and Janice are in their little twosome. All I have is Minnie, and she’s been glued to Enchanted on the iPad.

  I mean, I’ve tried. As we left L.A., I sat down with Suze and made to give her a hug, but she went all stiff and cut me dead. I felt so stupid, I scuttled back to my seat and pretended to be interested in the landscape.

  But I won’t go into any of that right now. I’m not going to burden Luke with my problems. He’s been such a star—the least I can do is refrain from dumping my stupid worries on him. I’ll be dignified and discreet, as a wife should be. “Thank you for coming,” I add. “Thank you for doing this. I know you’re really busy.”

  “I wasn’t about to let you drive off into the desert with Suze on your own.” He gives a short laugh.

  It was Suze’s idea to rush off to Vegas—she and Alicia were both convinced they’d soon track down Bryce. But they haven’t yet, and here we are, halfway there, without a hotel reservation or a plan or anything….

  I mean, believe me, I’m all for rushing off to places. But even I can see this is all a bit crazy. Except I don’t want to be the one to say that, or I’ll get my head bitten off by Suze. At the thought of Suze, I feel a fresh wave of distress, and suddenly I can’t bottle it up any long
er. I’ll have to be dignified and discreet another time.

  “Luke, I think I’m losing her,” I say in a rush. “She never looks at me, she never talks to me….”

  “Who, Suze?” Luke gives a little wince. “I’d noticed.”

  “I can’t lose Suze.” My voice starts to wobble. “I can’t. She’s my three-A.M. friend!”

  “Your what?” Luke looks puzzled.

  “You know. The friend you could ring up at three A.M. if you were in trouble, and she’d come straightaway, no problem? Like, Janice is Mum’s three-A.M. friend; Gary’s your three-A.M. friend….”

  “Right. I see what you mean.” Luke nods.

  Gary is the most loyal guy in the world. And he adores Luke. He’d be there at three A.M. like a shot, and Luke would be there for him too. I always thought Suze and I would be like that forever.

  “If I was in trouble at three A.M. right now, I’m not sure I could ring Suze.” I look miserably at Luke. “I think she’d tell me to go away.”

  “That’s nonsense,” says Luke robustly. “Suze loves you as much as she ever did.”

  “She doesn’t.” I shake my head. “I mean, I don’t blame her or anything; this whole thing’s all my fault….”

  “No, it’s not,” says Luke, with a surprised laugh. “What are you talking about?”

  I stare at him in bewilderment. How can he even ask that?

  “Of course it is! If I’d gone to see Brent sooner, like I was meant to, we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Becky, this is not all your fault,” Luke counters firmly. “You don’t know what would have happened if you’d gone to see Brent sooner. And by the way, both Tarquin and your father are grown men. You mustn’t blame yourself. OK?”

  I can hear what he’s saying, but he’s wrong. He doesn’t understand.

  “Well, anyway.” I give a gusty sigh. “Suze is only interested in Alicia.”

  “You realize that Alicia’s trying to psych you out,” says Luke, and he sounds so sure that I lift my head in astonishment.

  “Really?”

  “It’s obvious. She talks a lot of shit, that girl. ‘Redactive’ isn’t a word.”

  “Really?” I feel suddenly cheered. “I thought I was just being stupid.”

  “Stupid? You’re never stupid.” Luke lets go of Minnie’s hand, pulls me close, and looks right into my eyes. “Abysmal at parking, maybe. But never stupid. Becky, don’t let that witch get to you.”

  “You know what I think?” I lower my voice, even though no one’s in earshot. “She’s up to something. Alicia, I mean.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I’m going to find out.”

  Luke raises his eyebrows. “All I’ll say is, watch your step. Suze is pretty sensitive at the moment.”

  “I know. You don’t have to tell me.”

  Luke hugs me tight for a minute, and I let myself relax. I’m pretty exhausted, actually.

  “Come on, let’s go in,” he says at last. “By the way, I think Janice was ripped off,” he adds as we head toward the building. “Those tablets? I looked at the active ingredient, and it’s aspirin in fancy Latin.”

  “Really?” I almost want to giggle as I picture Janice frantically scattering the tablets over the desert. “Well, let’s not tell her.”

  —

  The table is covered with food when we arrive back in the diner, although no one seems to be eating except Janice, who’s devouring scrambled eggs. Mum is stirring her coffee furiously, Suze is nibbling the side of her thumbnail (which she always does when she’s stressed), and Alicia is pouring some kind of green powder into a cup. It’ll be some revolting healthy thing.

  “Hi, everyone,” I say, and slide into my chair. “How’s the food?”

  “We’re trying to think,” growls Suze. “No one’s thinking hard enough.”

  Alicia murmurs something in her ear, Suze nods, and they both shoot sidelong looks at me. And just for one awful moment I feel as though I’m back at school and the mean girls are all pointing at my games kit. (Mum made me wear the old games kit, long after everyone else had changed to the new outfit, because she thought it was a rip-off. I mean, I don’t blame her, but I did get laughed at, every single games lesson.)

  Anyway. I’m not going to get upset. I’m a grown-up with a job to do. I take a bite of my waffle, pull Dad’s map toward me again, and stare at it until the lines blur. That wise old woman’s words are ringing in my ears. Look for the friends. Look for the family.

  Whatever this mystery is, it’s all about those four friends. So let’s go back to basics. Corey’s the friend in Las Vegas. That’s our biggest clue. We need to track him down. Be smarter. But how?

  I must know more than I realize, I tell myself firmly. I must. I just need to think harder. I close my eyes tight and try to send myself back in time. It’s Christmas. I’m sitting by the fire in our Oxshott house. I can smell the Chocolate Orange in my lap. Dad has spread his old map out on the coffee table and is reminiscing about his trip to America. I can hear his voice again, in random snippets of memory.

  “…and then the fire got out of control; let me tell you, that was no picnic….”

  “…they say, ‘stubborn as a mule,’ and I know why—that wretched creature would not go down into the canyon….”

  “…we used to sit late into the night, drinking the local beer….”

  “…Brent and Corey were clever fellows—science grads they were….”

  “…they’d discuss their theories and scribble down their ideas….”

  “…Corey had the money, of course, wealthy family….”

  “…there’s nothing like camping out and seeing the sunrise….”

  “…we nearly lost the car down a ravine because Raymond would not give in….”

  “…Corey would be sketching away; he was quite an artist, as well as everything else….”

  Wait a minute.

  Corey was quite an artist. I’d forgotten that. And there was something else about Corey and his art. What was it? What was it…?

  The thing about me is: I’m quite good at bossing my brain about. It can forget about Visa bills if I want it to, and it can blur over arguments, and it can see the plus side in almost any situation. And now I’m telling it to remember. To go into all those old dusty holes in my head, which I never bother clearing out, and remember. Because I know there was something else…I simply know there was….

  Yes!

  “He used to put an eagle in each picture, like a trademark….”

  My eyes pop open. An eagle. I knew there was something. Well, it’s not much, but it’s a start, isn’t it?

  I whip out my phone, google corey artist eagle las vegas, and wait for the results. There’s something wrong with the signal, and I prod the keypad impatiently, trying to scour my brain for more information. Corey the artist. Corey the wealthy one. Corey the science grad. Were there any other clues?

  “I’ve just heard from my last contact,” says Alicia, looking up from her phone. “No luck. Suze…” She pauses, her face drawn. “We might have to go back to L.A. and think again.”

  “Give up?” Suze’s face crumples, and I feel a pang of alarm. We’ve come rushing into the desert on a wave of adrenaline and drama. If we just give up and go home now, I think Suze will actually collapse.

  “Let’s not give up yet,” I say, trying to sound positive. “I’m sure if we keep thinking we’ll get somewhere—”

  “Oh, really, Bex?” Suze spits. “It’s all very well saying that, but what are you doing to help? Nothing! What are you doing right now?” She waves a hand angrily at my phone. “Probably shopping online.”

  “I’m not!” I say defensively. “I’m doing my own research.”

  “Research into what?”

  My stupid screen has frozen. I press ENTER again, jabbing at it in my impatience.

  “Luke, you must have influence!” Mum interjects. “You know the prime minister. Can’
t he help?”

  “The prime minister?” Luke sounds flabbergasted.

  Suddenly my screen starts filling with Google results. And as I scan down the type, I feel an inner whoop. It’s him! It’s Corey from Dad’s trip!

  Local artist Corey Andrews…signature eagle…was exhibiting at the Las Vegas Gallery…

  It has to be him, surely?

  I quickly tap in Corey Andrews and hold my breath. A few moments later, a page of entries appears. There’s a Wikipedia page, business reports, property news, some company called Firelight Innovations, Inc.—all the same guy. Corey Andrews of Las Vegas. I’ve found him!

  “Or that chap you know from the Bank of England,” Mum is persisting.

  “You mean the Governor of the Bank of England?” says Luke, after a pause.

  “Yes, him! Ring him up!”

  I almost want to laugh at Luke’s expression. I honestly think Mum expects him to marshal the whole British cabinet to come out here and hunt for Dad.

  “I’m not sure that will be possible,” says Luke politely, and turns to Alicia. “Do you really have no more leads?”

  “No.” Alicia sighs. “I think we’ve reached the end of the road.”

  “I have a lead,” I begin nervously, and everyone turns to look at me.

  “You do?” says Suze suspiciously.

  “I’ve tracked down Corey from the trip. Corey Andrews, he’s called. Mum, does that sound right?”

  “Corey Andrews.” Mum frowns. “Yes, it might have been Andrews….” Her frown lifts. “Becky, I think you’ve got it! Corey Andrews. He was the wealthy one, Dad always said. Wasn’t he an artist too?”

  “Exactly! And he lives in Las Vegas. I’ve got his address.”

  “Well done, Becky, love!” says Janice, and I can’t help feeling a little glow.

  “How did you work that out?” demands Alicia, looking almost affronted.

  “Just…um…you know. Lateral thinking.” I hand my phone to Luke. “Here’s the zip code. Let’s go.”