I mean, not that we’re here to do line dancing. I shoot a guilty look at Suze, in case she read my thoughts.
“OK, this sounds like a plan.” Luke is addressing the table. “We stay overnight, hit the fair first thing, find Raymond in the ceramics tent, and pin him down.”
There’s a huge air of relief around the table. At last, Mum’s anxious frown has melted away. Let’s just hope this Raymond character comes up with the goods, I find myself thinking. Otherwise, we really will be at the end of the road, and I don’t know what I’ll do with Mum.
—
The next day I awake full of optimism. Wilderness County Fair, here we come! We slept at the Treeside Lodge, Wilderness, last night, which had a big cancellation and was very glad to have some last-minute visitors. Janice and Mum had to squash into one tiny room, which isn’t ideal, but it was that or the RV.
Every other guest at the lodge is here for the fair, which we discovered at breakfast. The other families were all wearing WILDERNESS COUNTY FAIR T-shirts and baseball caps and talking about their plans for the day, and the excitement was contagious. I googled the fair last night, and it’s huge! It has a zillion tents and stalls, plus a rodeo, livestock shows, and a huge Ferris wheel. According to the map, the ceramics tent is situated in the northwest of the fair. It’s near the best-decorated sheaves tent and the clogging festival, while nearby is the rodeo arena, which will hold the wild-cow milking, the pig scramble, and the mutton bustin’.
It’s like a foreign language to me. A whole tent for decorated sheaves? How do you decorate a sheaf, anyway? And what’s “clogging”? And what on earth is a pig scramble? Let alone mutton bustin’?
“Luke, what do you think mutton bustin’ is?” I say, looking up from the laptop.
“No idea,” he says, putting on his watch. “A mutton-eating competition?”
“Mutton-eating?” I make a face.
“There’s an Oreo-stacking contest, in case you’re interested,” he adds. “Saw it on the website last night.”
Now, that sounds good. I think I might be rather brilliant at stacking Oreos. I can already see myself presiding over a ten-foot stack, beaming at the audience as I receive first prize, which is probably a packet of Oreos.
Not that we’re going to enter the competitions, I hastily remind myself. We’re here for business. We’ll probably only stay for half an hour.
“Ready?” I say to Luke, as he reaches for his wallet. “Ready, Minnie? Ready for the fair?”
“Fair!” shouts Minnie joyously. “See Winnie-the-Pooh!”
Hmm. This is the trouble with taking your child to Disneyland. They then think all other fairs are Disneyland too, and it’s no use trying to explain to a two-year-old about branding and copyright, like Luke did last night.
“We might see Winnie-the-Pooh,” I say, just as Luke says, “We won’t see Winnie-the-Pooh.”
Minnie looks from Luke to me, confused.
“We won’t see Winnie-the-Pooh,” I amend quickly, just as Luke says, “We might see Winnie-the-Pooh.”
Argh. Every parenting book says the most important thing you can do is present a united front, otherwise your child gets confused and starts to exploit the differences between you. Which I do totally believe in, but it can be a challenge. There was one time when Luke said, “Mummy’s just going out now, Minnie,” when I’d changed my plans, and rather than contradict him, I went out of the front door, shouting, “Byee!” then climbed back in through a window.
(Mum said I was totally mad and that parenting books cause more harm than good, and she and Dad never bothered with all that nonsense, and, “Look how you turned out, Becky.” Whereupon Luke made this stifled noise and then said, “No, nothing,” when we all turned to look at him.)
I’ve dressed Minnie up in her little blue jeans and a new fringed suede vest, which Luke bought her yesterday, and she looks absolutely delicious: a proper Western girl. I’m wearing shorts and a sleeveless top and I’ve glanced at myself in the mirror and…I look fine. I’ll do.
Somehow I can’t get excited about what I look like anymore. I’m waiting for some bit of my brain to click in—the bit that would normally go: Woo-hoo! County fair! What’s the perfect outfit for that? But it doesn’t. It’s silent.
“Ready?” says Luke, at the door.
“Yup.” I force a smile. “Let’s go.”
It’s fine. Whatever. Maybe I’m just finally growing up.
As we arrive down in the lobby, everyone is assembled and there’s an air of anticipation.
“OK, so we’ll head straight for the ceramics tent,” Luke addresses the group. “Jane will approach Raymond, along with Becky, with the rest of us on standby.”
There was a bit of a tussle last night about who should accompany Mum to accost Raymond. Janice reckoned she was Best Friend, but I countered with Daughter. Then Suze suggested, “Couldn’t we all go?” but got shouted down. Anyway, I won, on the grounds that whatever Raymond says about Dad, good or bad, Mum and I should hear it first.
The only person who wasn’t remotely interested in meeting Raymond was Alicia. In fact, she’s not even coming to the county fair. She says she’s arranged a meeting in Tucson. A meeting in Tucson? I mean, honestly. Who arranges meetings in Tucson?
Well, I suppose people who live in Tucson do. But, you know. Apart from them.
I don’t believe this “meeting in Tucson” story for a minute. Alicia’s up to something, I’m convinced of it. And if I could, I’d keep tabs on her. But I can’t, because: 1. I have to go to the fair, and 2. She’s already left for the day in a limo.
Suze is sitting on a chair made out of a barrel, hunched over her phone, frantically texting. Presumably she’s texting Alicia, because they’ve been apart for, like, twenty minutes. She looks absolutely deathly, and I want to put an arm round her or shake her out of her cloud of misery. But I don’t even dare approach her. Not only is Suze not my three-A.M. friend, I think dolefully, she’s not even my nine-A.M. sitting-five-feet-away friend.
“OK?” Luke interrupts my thoughts. “Everyone ready? Ready, Jane?”
“Oh, I’m ready,” says Mum, with a meaningful, almost ominous look. “I’m ready.”
—
We hear the fair before we see it. There’s music blasting as we snake along in the queue to the RV park. Once we’re parked we have to buy passes, and then we have to find the right entrance, and we’re all quite hot and bothered as, finally, we make it through Gate B.
(You’d think Gate B would be next to Gate A. You’d think.)
“Goodness!” says Janice, as we all look around. “It’s very…fulsome!”
I know what she means. Everywhere there’s something bright or blaring or plain extraordinary. There are tents and stalls as far as the eye can see. Every loudspeaker seems to be playing a different tune. A blimp above us in the sky reads WILDERNESS COUNTY FAIR, and beneath it soar a couple of helium balloons, silver dots against the blue, which must have been let go by mistake. A troop of cheerleader-ish girls in aquamarine costumes is hurrying into a nearby tent, and I can see Minnie watching them in awe. A man leads a massive woolly sheep past us on a rope, and I instinctively take a step back.
“Bex!” Suze rolls her eyes. “It’s only a sheep.”
Hmph. She may say “only a sheep.” But that animal has huge curly horns and an evil eye. It’s probably the prizewinning exhibit in the killer-sheep event.
The air is full of mingled smells—fuel, animal dung, roasting meat, and the sweet pungent aroma of freshly made doughnuts, which is particularly strong, as we’re standing right by a doughnut stand.
“Cake!” says Minnie, spotting the stall. “I like it, Mummy.” She tugs on my arm yearningly, almost pulling me over.
“No cake,” I say hurriedly, and start leading her away. “Come on, let’s find these ceramics.”
Even though it’s early, there are already crowds of people everywhere: clustering to get into tents, queuing for food, wandering along
the lanes between the attractions, and suddenly stopping to consult their fair maps. So it takes us a little time to make it all the way to the Creative Village, and then we can’t work out which tent we want. Mum is totally focused, barging along, her chin set, but Janice keeps getting distracted by exhibits, and I have to tug her away, saying, “You can look at the embroidered pot holders later.” Honestly, she’s worse than Minnie.
At last we make it to the ceramics tent and consult the exhibitors’ guide. Raymond is in the adult ceramics and china section and has entered the bowl class, the container-with-lid class, and the miscellaneous class. He’s also got some pieces in the for-sale gallery. It’s easy to tell which are his, because they’re about five times the size of anyone else’s. It’s also obvious that he’s not here, because apart from us only seven people are in the tent, and they’re all women.
For a couple of minutes, Mum and I circle the exhibits in silence, pausing by each of Raymond’s pieces as though it might give us a clue. He’s put a piece of paper by each entry, which goes on about the influence of the French ceramicist Pauline Audette (who?) and how he takes inspiration from nature and some other waffle about glazes.
“Well, he’s not here,” says Mum finally, as we reach a wide bowl with green glaze on it, which takes up nearly a whole table.
“But he must have been here,” I point out. “Maybe he’ll come back. Um, excuse me?” I address a lady in a strappy tank top, who’s standing at the next table. “We’re looking for Raymond Earle. Do you know him? Do you think he’ll come to the tent today?”
“Oh, Raymond,” says the woman, and rolls her eyes slightly. “He was here earlier. He might be along later. But he doesn’t hang around.”
“Thank you. Is that your vase?” I add. “It’s beautiful.”
This is a total lie, as it’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. But I’m thinking we should make a few friends and allies in case we have to tackle Raymond to the ground or anything.
“Why, thank you,” says the woman, and pats it protectively. “I have pieces in the gallery for sale too, if you’re interested.” She points to the gallery, which is at the far end.
“Great!” I say, trying to sound enthused. “I’ll look at those later. So, are you influenced by Pauline Audette too?”
“Pauline Audette?” the woman says sharply. “What is it with this Pauline Audette? I’d never even heard of her before I met Raymond. You know he wrote her in France? Asked her to come and judge the contest? Never heard back, not that he’ll admit it.” Her eyes glitter at me. “You ask me, it’s pretentious.”
“Totally pretentious,” I hastily agree.
“Why do we need a French judge when we have Erica Fromm living right here in Tucson?”
“Erica Fromm.” I nod. “Totally.”
“Do you throw yourself?” She focuses on me with renewed interest.
“Oh…Um…” I can’t bring myself to say a flat no. “Well…a bit. You know, when I have time.”
Which is sort of almost true. I mean, I did pottery at school, and maybe I’ll take it up again. I have a sudden image of myself in a potter’s smock, making some fabulous vase while Luke stands behind me, nuzzling my neck. And of everybody opening their presents on Christmas Day and saying, Wow, Becky, we didn’t realize you were so artistic! I don’t know why I’ve never thought of doing pottery before.
“So…good luck,” I add. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Becky, by the way.”
“Dee.” She shakes my hand and I beat a retreat to Mum, who is looking at a collection of tiny clay dolls.
“Well?” She looks up eagerly. “Did you learn anything?”
“Apparently Raymond might be back later,” I tell her. “We’ll just have to stake out the tent.”
—
It’s Luke who takes charge of the stakeout rota. Mum and Janice will do the first hour, because they both want to look at the pottery anyway. Danny will be on second, but first he’s going to the refreshments tent for a traditional Wilderness iced tea, which is apparently 80 percent bourbon.
“I’ll take Minnie to Toddlerville and buy her a balloon, and we’ll be on third,” says Luke in that commanding way he has. “And, Becky, why don’t you and Suze take the fourth hour? You could just hang out meanwhile. Enjoy the fair together. That OK by you, Suze?”
Oh God. I know exactly what Luke’s doing. He’s trying to push Suze and me together so we can make up. Which is really sweet of him. But I feel like a panda being told to mate with another panda that clearly doesn’t fancy me. Suze looks totally unenthusiastic at the idea of hanging out with me. Her forehead is puckered in a frown, and she shoots me a dark, unfriendly look.
“I don’t mind staking out the tent on my own,” she says. “You and Becky and Minnie should stay together.”
I feel a little stabbing pain in my heart. Is she really that anti-me? She can’t even bear to spend a couple of hours in my company?
“No, it’s better to do it this way,” says Luke briskly. “And as we’re walking round the fair, we can all keep an eye out for Raymond.”
Last night, Luke found a photo of Raymond on a Tucson news website. And I don’t want to boast, but my dad is so much handsomer than all his old friends. If Corey looks plasticky and weird, then Raymond looks ancient. He has these big gray tufty eyebrows, and in the picture he’s frowning at the camera in a really moody way.
“There’s a bit of phone signal,” Luke is saying, “although it’s patchy. So if anyone sees Raymond, immediately text the others. OK?”
As everyone disperses, Luke shoots me a little meaningful look, which I think is supposed to mean Chin up—then he and Minnie disappear into the mêlée. And it’s just Suze and me.
I haven’t been alone with Suze for…I can’t even remember. The sun suddenly seems hot on my head, and my skin feels prickly. I take a few deep breaths, trying to relax. As I glance at Suze, I see she’s staring down at the ground, as though she doesn’t even want to acknowledge my existence. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where to begin.
She’s sitting on a stack of upturned crates, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt and these ancient cowboy boots which she always used to wear in London. They look perfect here, and I want to tell her so, but something’s blocking my throat. As I draw breath to say something—anything—her phone bleeps. She pulls it out, stares at it intently, and closes her eyes.
“Suze?” I say nervously.
“What?” she lashes out. I haven’t even suggested anything yet and she’s being aggressive.
“I just…What do you want to do first?” I pull out the fair guide with trembling fingers. “Shall we go and look at the pigs?”
This is a supreme sacrifice on my part, because I’m actually quite scared of pigs. I mean, I’m not wild about sheep either, but pigs are terrifying. Suze and Tarkie have some on the farm in Hampshire, and honestly, they’re like these malevolent, squealing monsters.
But Suze loves them and gives them all names. And maybe if we go and look at them here, we can bond over how pointy their ears are, or whatever.
“American pigs are probably really interesting,” I persist, as Suze hasn’t replied. “Or sheep? They have all these rare species…or, look, there’s a pygmy-goat event!”
As Suze looks up, her gaze is absent. I don’t think she heard a word.
“Bex, I’ve got to do something,” she says. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK?” She swings her legs off the crates and is instantly gone, hurrying past the ceramics tent and into the crowd.
“Suze?” I stare after her in shock. “Suze?”
She can’t just leave me like that. We’re supposed to be a team. We’re supposed to stick together. Before I stop to think whether this is a good idea or not, I’m following her.
Luckily, Suze is so tall and her hair is so fair, it’s easy to keep track of her, even though the crowds are getting heavier by the minute. She heads determinedly past the rodeo stadium, through the Food Village, past
the kids’ petting zoo, and even stalks straight past an arena where a guy is getting his dog to jump through a hoop. She doesn’t even look at all the stalls of cowboy hats and boots and saddles, even though I know she’d normally spend hours stroking them. She’s tense and preoccupied. I can see it in the set of her shoulders. And I can see it in her expression as she finally comes to a stop, in a clearing behind the hog roast.
She leans against a tall wooden post and gets out her phone. She looks worse than preoccupied, I realize with a lurch. She looks desperate. Who’s she texting, Alicia?
As my own phone bleeps, I hastily back away, well out of sight. I’m fully expecting a text from Mum, or Luke, or even Danny—but it’s from Tarquin.
Hi Becky. Just checking in. Is Suze OK?
I stare at the phone in sudden outrage. No, she is not OK. She is not OK! I jab at Tarkie’s number and retreat into a tent full of homemade preserves.
“Becky?” Tarquin sounds surprised I’ve phoned. “Everything all right?”
“Tarkie, do you have any idea what we’re going through?” I practically scream. “Suze is utterly miserable, we’re staking out some guy at a county fair, my mum has no idea what my dad’s been up to—”
“You’re not still on that, are you?” Tarquin sounds shocked.
“Of course we are!”
“Can’t you give your dad some privacy, for God’s sake?” Tarquin sounds quite angry. “Can’t you trust him?”
I’m drawn up short. I hadn’t thought of it like that. And just for a moment, I feel chastened—until my blood starts boiling again. It’s all very well for these blokes to rush off on their mission, thinking they’re all cool and hero-like. What about those of us left behind, who thought they were dead?
“Couldn’t he trust my mum?” I counter furiously. “Couldn’t you trust Suze? You’re married! You should share things!”
There’s silence, and I know I’ve touched a nerve. I want to say more. I want to wail, Be happy with Suze! Be happy!
But you can’t interfere in another couple’s relationship. It’s like trying to step inside a cloud. The whole thing kind of dissipates, till you get back out again.
Shopaholic to the Rescue Page 13
