“Look, help me here, Rebecca!” Dad erupts at last. “I’m trying to get justice for Brent!”
“Oh, Graham.” Rebecca gives her mysterious smile. “You’re such a good man. You always were. You have a wonderful flow.”
“Justice,” mutters Becca, with an eye roll, and I feel a spike of irritation.
“What’s your problem?” I demand. “Why are you being so negative? We’re here to help your dad!”
“Maybe you are.” She glowers back at me. “But maybe it’s too late. Where were you in 2002?”
“What?” I look at her blankly.
“Dad asked Corey for help back in 2002, when he was at a real low. Put on a suit, went to see him in Vegas. He could have used your dad by his side then.”
“But my dad was in England,” I say, puzzled. “He didn’t know.”
“Of course he knew,” says Becca scathingly. “Dad wrote him.”
OK, I’m not having this. “Dad!” I interrupt the conversation he’s having with Rebecca. “Did you know about Brent asking Corey for help in 2002?”
“No.” Dad looks blank. “I heard nothing about that.”
“You never got a letter?” I gesture at Becca. “She thinks you got a letter from Brent.”
“Of course I didn’t!” says Dad hotly. “Do you think if I’d got a letter from Brent about this horrendous situation, I would have ignored it?”
Becca seems taken aback by this response. “Well, Corey told Dad you knew. Corey told Dad you’d been in touch about it and your view was…He said—” She stops herself, and I find myself wondering what exactly Corey said.
“Becca, I think Corey must have lied,” says Dad, more gently.
OK. Now this all makes sense. Corey lied and blamed my dad, and that’s why Becca hates us.
“Do you understand now?” I turn to Becca. “My dad didn’t say whatever heinous thing Corey said he did.”
So you didn’t need to be so hostile, I add silently. Or say, “Fuck off, princess girl.”
I’m hoping Becca will respond with something like: Oh my God. Now I see it all. I’ve wronged you; please accept my apologies. But she just shrugs and looks at her phone and mutters, “Anyway, you’ll never get anything out of Corey. No chance.”
God, real people are so disappointing. I’m sure she would have done it better in the box-set version. A minute or two later, she says she has to leave, and I’m really not sorry.
“Bye, princess girl,” she says, as she shrugs her bag onto her shoulder.
I want to say, Bye, horribly rude and negative girl, but instead I just smile and say, “Keep in touch!”
Not, I add in my head.
When she and Rebecca have gone, the atmosphere eases a little. Suze heads off to her room to check in with her kids. Mum is wondering whether we should order more snacks or whether that will spoil our dinners, and Janice is reading out loud from a leaflet about “spirit guides,” when Rebecca appears again.
“I thought you’d like to see this.” Her eyes glimmer at Dad as she holds out an old, faded black-and-white photograph.
“Goodness me!” says Dad, and gets out his reading spectacles. “Let me look at that.” After he’s had a good long peruse, he puts it on the table and I lean over to see. There they all are, sitting on rocks in the desert.
Dad is recognizably Dad. Corey looks like a completely different person from the tight-faced weirdo we met in Las Vegas. Raymond probably looks the same, except his graying beard is so big now, it’s hard to tell. But the person I’m focusing on is Brent. I peer more closely, trying to get a sense of this man we’re all trying to win justice for.
He has broad features. A square forehead. There’s a stubborn look to him, even in the photo. But he looks like he could be kind and wise too, just like Dad said. Then my gaze transfers to the young Rebecca, and I blink in amazement. God, she was beautiful! In the photo, she’s sitting apart from the others, her head thrown back, her hair cascading down, and her breasts almost popping out of her low-cut prairie-style dress. I can see exactly why Corey might have fallen for her. And Brent. I mean, to be honest, who wouldn’t fall for her?
Did Raymond? Did Dad?
I feel an uncomfortable little fillip in my stomach.
“Let me see!” says Mum, pulling the photo toward her, and I can see her studying Rebecca, her mouth pursed. As she lifts her gaze to the current Rebecca, her expression doesn’t change.
“So, I took the liberty of booking massages for all of you tomorrow,” says Rebecca, in her soft, mesmerizing voice. “Then maybe the hotel could organize a picnic lunch? And you must see the juniper trees while you’re here.”
“We’re not here for pleasure,” says Dad. “So we’ll have to cancel the massages.”
“You can take a few days off.” She gives him her catlike smile. “You don’t want to burn out, all of you.”
“I’m afraid we can’t.” Dad shakes his head. “We need to press on with the task.”
“You’re in Sedona, Graham. Center of relaxation. You need to kick back. Enjoy it!”
“Not really,” points out Dad. “Helping Brent is our priority. He’s the victim.”
“Victim,” mutters Rebecca, her eyes raised to heaven. She speaks so quietly I’m not sure if I actually heard it—but Dad did.
“Rebecca? What does that mean?”
“Well, really.” Her voice bursts out. “I can’t keep quiet anymore. What do you all think you’re doing? Because it’s crazy.”
“We’re trying to put things right for Dad’s old friend!” I say hotly. “That’s not crazy!”
“Put things right?” Her eyes flash at me. “You know nothing about it. If Brent was swindled, it was his own fault. Everyone knew Corey was a liar. If Brent hadn’t drank so much, maybe he would have kept his wits about him.”
“That’s very harsh,” says Dad, sounding shocked.
“It’s the truth. He’s just a loser. Always was. And now you all want to prop his life back up for him.” She sounds almost savage. “Why should Brent get his life propped up?”
We’re all exchanging shocked looks. I’m guessing that Rebecca and Brent’s relationship didn’t end too brilliantly.
“But he’s almost certainly homeless!” I point out. “And he’s your daughter’s father!”
“What does that mean to me?” Rebecca snaps. “If he’s homeless, it’s his own damn idiot fault.”
I’ve never seen someone change so fast. All the syrupy charm has slid away, and with it has gone her veneer of attractiveness. She looks older and bitter and kind of pinched around the mouth. All in ten seconds. I almost want to whisper in her ear: You know, being mean is really bad for your looks.
Dad is watching her appraisingly, and I wonder if she was like this all those years ago. Maybe she was worse.
At any rate, something tells me Mum doesn’t need to worry.
“Well,” he says at last, in pleasant tones. “We’ll do our thing. And you do your thing. It was nice to see you again, Rebecca.”
He gets to his feet and waits meaningfully. After a moment, Rebecca stands up too and picks up her tasseled leather bag.
“You’ll never succeed anyway,” she says scathingly. “Becca’s right. Not a chance.”
My blood is starting to boil. This woman is a total witch.
“Hey, wait a moment, Rebecca,” I say as she reaches the door. “You think I’m named after you, don’t you? Just like Becca is, and Corey’s daughter.”
Rebecca says nothing but turns to face us again and shakes back her long hair, all the time looking at Dad with this self-satisfied smile. She clearly believes every man gets so besotted by her that he names his child after her. Ugh. Ugh!
“I knew it!” I glare at her. “That’s what your daughter thought when I met her at the trailer park. You must have looked Dad up online and found out about me, and you simply assumed that he’d called me Rebecca after you.” I lift my chin firmly. “Well, guess what? He didn’t. I’m named a
fter the book.”
“Hear, hear!” chimes in Mum wildly. “The book!”
“And you want to know something even more interesting?” I add, in my most lacerating tones. “Dad didn’t want to name me Rebecca. He wanted to name me anything but Rebecca. I wonder why?”
Rebecca says nothing, but I can see two small pink dots appear on her cheeks. Ha. That tells her. A moment later, the beads have fallen in a noisy clatter behind her, and we all look at one another.
“Well!” says Mum, breathing hard. “Well! Of all the…”
“Dear oh dear,” says Dad, shaking his head, in that understated way he has.
“She reminds me of that Angela who used to run the church raffle,” muses Janice. “Do you remember her, Jane? With the bracelets? Drove a blue Honda?”
Only Janice could bring up the church raffle at this moment in time. I feel a giggle rising, and then it’s a snuffle, and then it’s a full-blown burst of laughter. I feel like I haven’t laughed in so long.
Dad’s smiling too, and even Mum seems to see the funny side. As I glance at Luke, he’s also grinning, and then Minnie decides that she finds it all hilarious too.
“Funny!” she announces, clutching her stomach with laughter. “Funny lady!”
“She was a funny lady,” agrees Janice, and that sets us all off again. As Suze rejoins us, we’re still giving the occasional giggle, and she stares at us in astonishment.
“Sorry.” I wipe my nose. “I’ll explain later. What’s up at home?”
“Oh, everything’s fine,” says Suze. “I was just thinking, it’s still a nice afternoon. D’you want to go for a little walk?”
FIFTEEN
Sedona’s an amazing place to walk. The panorama of towering red rocks is like some kind of film backdrop, and all of us keep glancing up as though to check it’s still there. As we stroll past the “chic shops and galleries,” Mum and Dad are walking arm in arm, which is very sweet. Suze and Janice are holding Minnie’s hands and showing her things in windows. Luke is typing an email. And I’m walking along in a bit of a trance. I’m still seething with indignation at Rebecca. (And her daughter.) The more people tell me I can’t succeed at something, the more I want to prove them wrong. We will right this injustice. We will. She’ll see.
Ideas are seeding in my brain, thoughts, half plans….I keep taking a pen out of my bag and scribbling odd words on a scrap of paper. Surely we can do it, somehow?
“What are you up to, love?” says Mum, noticing me, and I pause mid-word.
“Thinking of a plan to squash Corey. But I’m not sure yet.” I glance down again at my page. “I’ve got a bit of an idea….”
We’re going to have a meeting later to discuss everything, and I might raise my plan as a possibility. Maybe.
“Well done, love!” says Mum, and I shrug.
“I don’t know. It’s only a few thoughts so far. I need to work on it.”
“Look at that!” says Suze, and we all pause at a shop called Someday My Prints Will Come. The window is full of gorgeous books, folders, boxes, and cushions—all covered in hand-blocked prints of trees, birds, and other nature-y stuff.
“Beautiful!” Mum agrees. “Becky, look at those dinky little suitcases! Let’s go in!”
We leave Luke outside, finishing his email, because he says it’s super-urgent and otherwise he would absolutely have loved to go and browse photo frames covered in cactuses. (He’s such a fibber.) As we enter, a woman wearing a feather-print dress rises from behind the till with a smile.
“Welcome,” she says in a soft voice.
“Did you create these prints?” asks Suze, and as the woman nods her head, Suze adds, “I love them!”
As I stroll around, I can hear Suze asking lots of questions about printmaking. The thing about Suze is, she’s very artistic. She could totally open a shop like this. In fact, maybe that’s what she should do at Letherby Hall: “The Letherby Print Collection.” It would be fantastic! I’m just squirreling this idea away to tell her later, when I come across a display of pencils and stop dead. Wow. I’ve never seen such amazing pencils.
They’re a little thicker than normal pencils, and each is covered in a different print. But not just that: The wood’s colored too. There are orange-print pencils with lavender-colored wood…turquoise-print pencils with crimson wood….They’re just stunning. As I raise one to my nose, I can smell this gorgeous, wafty, sandalwood-y scent.
“Are you buying one, Becky?” says Mum, and I swivel round to see her, Dad, and Janice approaching. Mum’s carrying three box files decorated with a tree print, and Janice has about a dozen tea towels covered in pumpkins.
“Oh no,” I say automatically, and put the pencil back. “They’re lovely, though, aren’t they?”
“They’re only two forty-nine,” says Mum, picking up a green-leaf-print pencil with amber wood. “You should get one.”
“It’s fine,” I say hastily. “What are you getting?”
“I’m organizing my life,” says Mum with a flourish. “It’s all changing.” She taps each box file in turn. “Letters, warranties, and printed-out emails. They’ll be the death of me. All over the kitchen.”
“Why do you print out your emails?” I say, puzzled.
“Oh, I can’t read emails on the screen.” Mum wrinkles her nose as though this is a mad idea. “I don’t know how you do that, love. And Luke! Doing all his business on a tiny little phone! How on earth does he manage it?”
“You could increase the font size,” I suggest, whereupon Mum looks as though I’ve said, You could travel to Mars.
“I’ll buy myself a set of box files.” She pats them fondly. “Much simpler.”
OK. I already know Mum’s next birthday present. A day with an IT tutor.
“So, what are you getting?” Mum looks over the display. “What about a pencil? They’re lovely.”
“Nothing.” I smile. “Let’s go and pay for your box files.”
“Bex doesn’t shop anymore,” says Suze, joining us. “Even if she can afford it.” She’s holding Minnie’s hand and they’re both clutching what look like aprons decorated with rabbits.
“What do you mean, she doesn’t shop anymore?” says Mum, looking baffled.
“I tried to buy her a pair of cowboy boots. She wouldn’t let me.”
“I didn’t need cowboy boots.”
“Well, you need a pencil!” says Mum brightly. “You can use it to write out your plan, love.”
“I don’t.” I abruptly turn away. “Let’s go.”
“They’re only two forty-nine,” points out Suze, picking one up. “Wow, they smell amazing.”
I let my gaze run over the pencils, feeling all twisty and miserable again. They are gorgeous. And of course I can afford one. But something’s blocking me. I can hear that horrible voice inside my head again.
“Let’s go and explore the rest of the town,” I say, trying to move everyone on, trying to get away. But Mum is gazing at me, her brow all wrinkled up.
“Becky, love…” she says gently. “This isn’t you. What’s happened to you, love? What’s going on inside?”
There’s something about hearing Mum’s kind voice, the voice I’ve been listening to since before I was born: It seems to wriggle past all my defenses, all the other voices, and get to the kernel of me. I can’t not listen to her. And I can’t not reply. This is my mum.
“It’s just…you know,” I say at last. “I messed up. All this trouble was my fault. So…” I swallow hard, avoiding everyone’s eye. “You know. So I don’t deserve to—” I break off and rub my nose. “Anyway. It’s fine. It’s all good. I’m supposed to be stopping shopping. So.”
“Not like this!” says Mum in horror. “Not like this, punishing yourself! I never heard of such a thing! Is this what they told you at that center? You don’t deserve to buy a pencil?”
“Well, not exactly,” I admit after a pause.
The truth is, at Golden Peace they said it was all about “ge
tting shopping in proportion” and “spending meaningfully” and that the aim was to “find a balance.” Maybe “finding a balance” isn’t really my strong point.
Now Mum is glancing at Suze and Dad, as though for support. “I don’t care what happened in L.A.!” she says hotly. “What I can see in front of me is a young lady who’s dropped everything to help her friend…” She starts counting off. “Who found the address of Corey, thought of a way to get through to Raymond…What else?”
“Saw through Alicia,” adds Suze.
“Exactly!” says Mum. “Exactly! You’ve been a little star, Becky! You don’t need to feel guilty!”
“Becky, why do you think this trip is all your fault?” puts in Dad.
“Well, you know!” I say desperately. “Because I should have gone to see Brent sooner; then he wouldn’t have been evicted and he wouldn’t have disappeared….”
“Becky.” Dad puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me with his wise-Dad gaze. “Not for one moment have I blamed you for this. Brent disappeared for many reasons. The truth is, he didn’t need to leave. I’d paid off his arrears and the rent on his trailer for the next year.”
He…what?
I stare at Dad, staggered—then almost at once realize: Well, of course Dad would have done something lovely like that.
“But his daughter never said…”
“His daughter may not have known.” Dad sighs. “These matters are complex, Becky, and that’s no one’s fault. And the idea that you would blame yourself for everything—it’s appalling.”
“Oh,” I say feebly. I don’t know what else to say. It’s like a great rock is rolling off me.
“And in light of this”—Dad steps forward—“please, my darling, let me buy you a pencil. You certainly deserve it.”
“No!” Mum steps in front of Dad before he can choose a pencil, and we all stare at her in surprise. “That’s not what this is about. This is about Becky. And what’s going on inside Becky.” She pauses, as though marshaling her thoughts, and everyone exchanges uncertain looks. “I refuse to have brought up a daughter who can’t buy herself a pencil, because she feels too bad about herself,” she says at last. “Becky, there’s not-shopping for good reasons. And there’s not-shopping for bad reasons. And they’re not the same.” She’s breathing hard and her eyes are glittering. “No one wants you to go back to the way you were. No one wants you to be hiding Visa bills under the bed. Sorry, love,” she adds, pink in the face. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”
Shopaholic to the Rescue Page 23
