Shopaholic to the Rescue

by Sophie Kinsella

“I wouldn’t have thought it would suit you,” says Alicia. “You need to be able to control your mind and body.” She gives me a patronizing smile and flicks a glance at Suze.

  “Oh.” I’m trying not to feel too snubbed. “OK. Well—”

  “So, how many bedrooms, did you say?” Alicia cuts across me, resuming the obviously much more fascinating conversation she and Suze were having before.

  So much for bonding. Total fail. And what’s so interesting about bedrooms, anyway? Why is it some people will always bring the conversation back to houses and house prices and how they can’t decide whether “feature” wallpaper is over, what do I think? (OK, that last one is just Mum. I keep telling her, I don’t know anything about feature wallpaper.)

  “Oh, I’m not sure,” says Suze. “Twenty-eight? Half of them are crumbling away, though. We never even go into them.”

  “Twenty-eight,” echoes Alicia. “Imagine that. Twenty-eight bedrooms.”

  They must be talking about Letherby Hall. Poor Suze. She gets so bored when people start pestering her for details about Letherby Hall. Especially historical experts, who start saying things like, I believe you mean seventeen fifteen, in a supercilious way. I was once in the local greengrocer’s with Suze when some old man accosted her. He started quizzing her on some important fireplace in the Great Hall and putting her right on every detail. He was actually quite aggressive about which of Tarkie’s ancestors had commissioned it (I mean, who cares?), and in the end I had to deliberately knock over a stack of tangerines and cause a distraction so Suze could run away.

  “And is it one of those houses that has a title attached?”

  “I think so,” says Suze, sounding uninterested. “ ‘Lord of the Manor.’ ”

  “Right.” Alicia delicately wrinkles her brow. “So anyone who owns the house is entitled to call himself ‘Lord.’ ”

  “I suppose.” Suze looks vague. “I mean, in our case it doesn’t arise, because Tarkie has this other title anyway.”

  The truth is, Tarkie has about six other titles, although Suze is far too modest to bring that up. In fact, she hates talking about this stuff altogether. I, on the other hand, once looked it all up on a website, because I quite fancy being “Lady Brandon of Somewhere.” The titles don’t even cost that much. They’re, like, a few hundred pounds, for something that lasts your whole life. I mean, in a way, why not be Lady Brandon?

  (Only then Luke caught me and teased me about it for a week.)

  As Suze pops to the loo, I glance at Alicia. Her eyes are distant and thoughtful. And, OK, I know I’m supposed to be channeling Pollyanna, but my brain won’t do it. Instead of thinking, Golly-gosh! I bet Alicia’s a sweetheart, really; maybe we could have milkshakes together, I’m thinking, Huh. What’s she up to now?

  Maybe I’m just naturally a negative, suspicious person, I think morosely. Maybe I need therapy before I can get on with Alicia. I have a sudden image of us in couples counseling, being forced to hold each other’s hands, and I let out a strange little snort. Meanwhile, as soon as Suze returns, Alicia resumes quizzing her on Letherby Hall.

  “My husband would love to see the place,” she says. “He’s such an Anglophile.”

  “He’s welcome to!” Suze rolls her eyes ruefully. “It costs a fortune to run. We’re always trying to think of new ways to make money out of it. You’ll see when you come to stay.”

  “Is Alicia coming to stay with you?” I ask, trying to sound as though this is a super-fab idea. “When’s that?”

  “We don’t know yet, obviously,” says Suze, her brow darkening as though I’m insensitive even to ask. “We’ll have to wait until everything with Tarkie is cleared up.”

  “Great,” I manage. “That sounds perfect.”

  I sit for a bit, saying nothing, watching the landscape, thoughts bombing miserably round my brain. I’m getting so tired of my own suspicious mind. I’m supposed to be Pollyanna, I remind myself. Pollyanna. And there’s no reason to be suspicious of Alicia. None.

  But, oh God. Alicia has always been up to something, ever since I’ve known her, and I just can’t help wondering what might be in this for her. Suze is so unsuspicious and her guard is down and Alicia knows it….

  And then I sit up. Wait a minute. Wilton Merrelle is an Anglophile. A predatory, aggressive Anglophile who decides he wants something and gets it. And here’s Alicia, interrogating Suze about Letherby Hall….What if Wilton Merrelle has decided the next thing he wants is a stately home and a title? What if he wants to be Lord Merrelle of Letherby Hall?

  For about the next twenty miles, I’m silent, considering this theory. It’s a ridiculous idea. Suze and Tarkie would never sell their ancestral home, even if they were put under pressure. Surely they wouldn’t.

  Surely?

  I glance sidelong at Suze. Her hair is always scrunched in a knot these days, like she doesn’t care about anything. Her lips are chapped and her face is strained. The truth is, I don’t know what I think anymore. Suze and Tarkie aren’t in a good place; Tarkie finds Letherby Hall hard to run; Suze isn’t thinking straight right now….

  But they can’t sell. That house has been in their family for a zillion years. Just the thought gives me a horrible pang. And to Alicia Bitch Long-legs, of all people? I can just see Alicia wearing a tiara and making all the villagers curtsy while some little girl gives her a posy and whispers, You’re so beautiful, Princess Alicia. Ugh. It can’t happen. It can’t.

  From: dsmeath@locostinternet.com

  To: Brandon, Rebecca

  Subject: Re: Disaster

  * * *

  Dear Mrs. Brandon,

  Thank you for your email. I’m so sorry to hear that your efforts to bond with Ms. Bitch Long-legs failed. I am also sorry to hear you feel so powerless and “like everything’s impossible.”

  If I may be so bold, Mrs. Brandon, I would say, “Don’t give up.” Positive action boosts the soul.

  In all our years of knowing each other, I have observed with admiration your dynamic approach to life’s problems and innate sense of justice. This has empowered you before and I feel certain it will again.

  Things may seem difficult at the moment, but I feel sure that you will prevail.

  With kindest best wishes,

  Derek Smeath

  TEN

  The only disadvantage to a road trip, I’ve decided, is the actual road bit. Everything else is brilliant—the RV, the diners, the views, the country music. (I made Luke tune in to a country-music radio station for a bit, and, God, country singers understand how you feel. One song, called “Only Your Oldest Friend,” almost made me cry.)

  But the roads are a total pain. They’re too long. I mean, it’s ridiculous. Someone should rethink them. Plus the map is very deceptive and sneaky. It lures you in. It makes you think, Oh, I’ll just zip along that bit of freeway—it’s only one centimeter, it can’t take long. Ha! One centimeter? One whole day out of your life, more like.

  It’s quite a distance to Tucson, Arizona, it turns out. It’s even more of a distance when you realize that the ranch you’re after is beyond Tucson. By the time we roll up at the Red Ranch, Cactus Creek, Arizona, we’ve been on the road practically all day. We’ve taken turns driving, and we’re all stiff, exhausted, and out of conversation. Plus my head is ringing with the tunes of Aladdin, which Minnie has just forced me to watch along with her, with headphones on.

  Before we got out, I brushed my hair, but it still feels all flat and weird from where I’ve been resting my head. My legs feel like they’ve seized up, and my lungs are desperate for some fresh air.

  As I glance around, no one else looks in great shape either. Mum and Janice are staggering around on the dusty ground, like cattle let out of a lorry into the light. Suze and Alicia are swigging Tylenol and water. Danny is doing a series of complicated yoga stretches. Minnie is the only one who’s full of beans. She’s trying to skip round a massive great boulder, only she can’t skip yet, so she’s basically just running and whirl
ing her arms. As I watch, she stops dead, reaches down, and picks the tiniest little white flower. Then she brings it to me, looking all pink and pleased with herself.

  “Is a rose,” she says carefully. “Is a rose for Mummy.”

  Minnie thinks every flower is a rose, except daffodils, which she calls “raffodils.”

  “Lovely, darling, thank you!” I say. I put it in my hair, which is what I always do, and immediately she goes to pick another one, looking even more pink and pleased. (We play this game a lot. I’m getting used to my shower clogging up with wilted flowers.)

  The sky is a deep blue and the air has that warm, expectant twilight feel. In the distance are red rocky mountains which seem to go on forever, and around us are scrubby trees which are giving off some herby scent. And I think I just saw a lizard running over the dust. I glance up at Luke to see if he noticed it too, but he’s squinting at the ranch.

  The entrance is a few yards away. Huge great gates and CCTV and only a small wooden sign to tell you this is Red Ranch, home of Raymond Earle. It’s all on its own, set way back from the road, with massive fences keeping out visitors. Apparently there are over a thousand acres attached to the property, but Raymond doesn’t farm them himself: He rents them out and lives in his compound, all alone.

  We found this out at Bites ’n Brunch, where we stopped twenty minutes ago for drinks. Megan, the owner, was very chatty, and my mum is the queen of getting information out of people, so basically we found out everything Megan knows about Raymond. Which is as follows:

  1. He doesn’t spend all the time at his ranch. 2. He doesn’t socialize much. 3. He put in a new kitchen five years ago, and the guys who worked on it said he was pleasant enough. 4. He’s known for his pottery.

  So, not a huge amount of information. But it doesn’t matter. We’re here now. Time for the big meeting. Time to find out what on earth has been going on.

  “Shall we?” Danny comes out of his tree pose and gestures at the ranch.

  “We can’t all go in together,” I object. “We’ll look like a posse.” I’m about to add that I’ll go on my own, when Mum gets in there first.

  “I agree,” she says, reapplying her lipstick. “If anyone sees this man, it should be me. Me and Janice. We’ll go.”

  “Janice and I,” corrects Alicia, and I shoot her daggers. Grammar? Really? At this moment in time?

  “We’ll go.” Janice nods enthusiastically.

  “D’you want me to come too?” I suggest. “For moral support?”

  “No, love, I don’t. Whatever I have to hear about Dad and his past…” Mum looks into the middle distance. “The truth is, love, I’d rather you weren’t there to hear about his other woman.”

  “Mum, you don’t know it’s another woman!”

  “I know, Becky,” she says, with a quivering voice, like the heroine of a true-life miniseries. “I know.”

  Oh God. Does she know? I’m torn between: a) Mum is just believing the worst because she’s a drama queen…and b) After decades of marriage she has a wife’s intuition and of course she knows.

  “Well, OK,” I say at last. “You go with Janice.”

  “We’re right here,” says Luke. “Keep your phone with you.”

  “Ask him about Tarkie,” puts in Suze. “He might know something.”

  “Ask him if his property is for sale,” adds Danny. “I have a friend, works for Fred Segal, he’s longing for a ranch and this looks perfect—”

  “Danny!” I say crossly. “This isn’t about real estate! It’s about…” I look at Mum, whose lips are tightly pursed. “It’s about finding out the truth.”

  There’s silence as Mum and Janice head over the arid scrubland to the huge wooden gates. There’s an intercom system, and I can see them talking into it. Mum speaks first. Then, to my surprise, Janice tries, then Mum again. But the gates remain stubbornly closed. What is going on?

  At last, Mum and Janice head back, and as they near us, I can tell Mum’s upset.

  “He turned us away!” she exclaims. “Can you believe it?”

  At once a babble breaks out.

  “Oh my God!”

  “Turned you away?”

  “Did you actually speak to him?” I demand above the noise. “To Raymond himself?”

  “Yes! At first it was some kind of housekeeper, but she went to fetch him and I said I was Graham’s wife and explained what’s happened—” She breaks off. “Didn’t I, Janice?”

  “You did.” Janice nods. “Wonderfully, love. Very clear, very to the point.”

  “And…?” I say.

  “And he said he couldn’t help!” Mum’s voice rises in distress. “We’ve driven more than six hours, just to see him, and he can’t help! Janice tried speaking to him too….”

  “We tried everything,” says Janice dolefully.

  “But he wouldn’t even let us in for five minutes. Even though he could see me! Through his video system! I know he could see how upset I was. But he still said no.”

  “Could you see him?” I ask with sudden interest. “What does he look like?”

  “Oh no,” says Mum. “We couldn’t see him. He’s hidden himself away, hasn’t he?”

  We all turn to look at the gates, resolutely closed against the world. There’s a kind of burning in my chest. Who does this man think he is? How can he be so mean? To my mum?

  “I’ll go,” says Alicia firmly, and before anyone can protest, she’s striding toward the gates, pulling out one of her Golden Peace business cards. We all watch dumbly as she presses the buzzer, speaks, holds up her card to the camera, speaks again, starts getting really angry, and eventually swings away.

  “This is outrageous,” she’s spitting as she rejoins the group. “He claimed not to have heard of Golden Peace! Clearly he’s a liar. I don’t know why we’re wasting our time with him.”

  “He’s the only lead we’ve got!” says Mum.

  “Well, perhaps your husband should have chosen his friends more carefully,” says Alicia, her old snide manner reappearing.

  “Well, perhaps you should keep your opinions to yourself!” responds Mum hotly, and for a moment I think she and Alicia might start some full-scale row, but Luke intervenes.

  “Let me have a go,” he says, and heads off toward the ranch entrance. As he speaks into the microphone we’re all watching agog, hoping maybe he knows the special magic words, like Ali Baba at the cave entrance. But soon he turns and shakes his head. As he rejoins the group, he’s looking pensive.

  “I don’t think we’ll crack him,” he says. “He sent his housekeeper to talk to me. He doesn’t want to engage.”

  “So what do we do?” wails Mum. “Here he is, he must know the story….” She waves a hand angrily at the gates.

  “Regroup,” says Luke. “It’s getting late. We need to eat and sleep. Maybe we’ll come up with a bright idea over some food.”

  —

  I think we’re all hoping that the food will trigger a moment of genius in one of us. As we tuck into steaks and fries and cornbread at the Tall Rock Inn, Cactus Creek, there’s a feeling of optimism. Surely one of us will think of something brilliant?

  Oh, come on. Someone has to think of something.

  People keep starting sentences with “Ooh! Maybe…” and then losing confidence and trailing off into silence. I’ve had about five ideas involving scaling the walls of Raymond’s ranch, which I haven’t shared.

  The trouble is, I don’t think any of us had thought much beyond finding Raymond, being welcomed into his ranch and offered beds for the night, and having a wonderful supper while Raymond got Dad on the phone and sorted everything out. (Well, that’s what I was expecting, anyway.)

  As the steak plates are cleared away and the dessert menus handed round, conversation has died away to a minimum and I’m wondering who’ll be first to say, Let’s give up.

  It won’t be me. No way. I’m here till the bitter end. But it might be Janice. She’s looking a bit frayed around the edges.
I bet she’s longing to get back to Oxshott.

  “So can I get you folks anything for dessert?” Our waitress, Mary-Jo, has approached the table.

  “You don’t know any way to get in touch with Raymond Earle, do you?” I say impulsively. “We’re here to see him, but he’s being a bit reclusive.”

  “Raymond Earle?” She wrinkles her brow. “Guy up at Red Ranch?”

  “Exactly.” I feel a surge of hope. “Do you know him?”

  Maybe she works for him part-time, I think with sudden optimism. Maybe I can get into the ranch with her, pretending to be her assistant—

  “Sorry, hon.” Mary-Jo’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “We don’t see a lot of him. Hey, Patty?” She turns to the woman at the bar. “These folks are after Raymond Earle.”

  “We don’t see a lot of him,” says Patty, shaking her head.

  “That’s right.” Mary-Jo turns back to us. “We don’t see a lot of him.”

  “Oh well. Thanks anyway,” I say, deflated. “Could I have apple pie, please?”

  “He’ll be at the fair tomorrow.” A hoarse voice comes from the corner, and I turn to see an elderly guy with a beard and a proper cowboy shirt with those metal collar tips. “He’ll be showing his pots and such.”

  Everyone at the table swivels round in excitement, even Minnie.

  “Seriously?”

  “Will he definitely be there?”

  “Where’s the fair?” Luke inquires. “What time does it start?”

  “It’s up at Wilderness.” Mary-Jo looks surprised. “Wilderness County Fair. I assumed that’s why you folks were in town. It’s going on all week, you can’t miss it.”

  “And Raymond will be there?” persists Mum.

  “He’s usually there.” The bearded guy nods. “Exhibits his pots in the ceramics tent. Charges silly dollars. No one buys ’em, far as I can make out.”

  “Y’all should go, if you’ve never been,” says Mary-Jo with enthusiasm. “It’s the best fair in the state. You got the livestock show, the pageant, the line dancing….”

  Line dancing? Oh my God, I’ve always wanted to do line dancing.