“Well, great to meet you guys!” says Cyndi uncertainly. “Pick up a party bag for your little one as you leave.”
“Oh, we couldn’t do that!” I say at once. “They’re for your guests.”
“But we have way too many. Please, go ahead.” She hurries after Corey, stumbling a little on her heels. I can hear her saying in puzzled tones, “Babe, what’s up?”
A few moments later, the guy in the linen suit rounds the corner of the house, accompanied by two guys who are not in linen suits. They’re in jeans, and they have crew cuts and those expressionless faces which say Only doing my job as they beat you to a pulp.
You know. I’m assuming.
“Um, let’s go,” I say nervously.
“Goodness,” gulps Janice. “Those men look rather threatening.”
“Big bullies!” says Mum indignantly, and I have a sudden dreadful image of her squaring up to them with her Oxshott Senior Ladies’ Self-Defense Group moves.
“Mum, we need to go,” I say, before she can get any bright ideas.
“I think we should leave,” agrees Alicia. “We’ve learned all we can for now.”
“Thanks!” I call to the crew-cut guys. “We’re on our way out. Super party, we’re just getting our party bag….”
As I steer Minnie to a table covered in massive loot bags, Cyndi reappears, holding a cocktail. She sees us approaching the table and hurries over.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Cyndi says breathlessly. “My husband can be a grouch with people he doesn’t know. I say to him, ‘Honey! Lighten up!’ ” She picks up a bag tied with purple ribbons and peeks inside. “Oh, now, this one has a ballerina doll in it.” She holds it out to Minnie. “You like ballerinas, honey?”
“Party bag!” yells Minnie ecstatically. “Thank-you-for-da-lovely-party,” she adds with care. “Thank-you-for-da-lovely-parteee.”
“You’re a darling.” Cyndi beams at her. “That accent!”
“It’s an amazing party,” I say politely.
“I have a very generous husband,” says Cyndi earnestly. “We’re very lucky. But you know, we appreciate it. We don’t take it for granted.” She nods at the table. “Every one of these loot bags has a counterpart going to an underprivileged kid.”
“Wow.” I blink at her. “That’s a great idea.”
“It’s the way I like to do things. I wasn’t born to this.” She sweeps an arm around, gesturing at the castle. “We can always remember those less fortunate than ourselves. And that’s what I want to teach Peyton.”
“Good for you.” I feel a tweak of admiration. I reckon there’s more to Cyndi than meets the eye.
“Corey has his own charitable foundation too,” she adds. “He’s the most generous, giving man. He constantly thinks of others.” She looks a little misty-eyed. “But you must have picked that up from meeting him.”
“Er…absolutely!” I lie. “Well, nice to meet you.”
“Great to meet you too! Bye-bye, pumpkin!” She pinches Minnie’s cheek. “Good luck with everything.”
“Oh, just one thing,” I add casually as we turn away. “I was wondering…do you know why Corey called his first daughter Rebecca?”
“Oh my.” Cyndi looks awkward. “I have no idea. You know, they don’t really talk. I’ve never met her. It’s kinda sad.”
“Oh.” I digest this.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned her just now. Corey doesn’t like to talk about the past at all. He says it brings him bad luck. I tried to invite her for Thanksgiving once, but…” She looks crestfallen for a moment, then brightens. “Anyhow. Can I get you guys a snack for the road?”
FIVE
The party bag is insanely lavish.
It’s half an hour later and we’ve stopped at another diner, for lunch and a regroup. Minnie is unpacking the bag onto the table, and we’re all staring, slack-jawed. The ballerina doll is just the start. There’s also a DKNY watch, a Young Versace hoodie, and a pair of tickets to Cirque du Soleil. Suze is especially horrified, because she’s really not into party bags. She thinks they’re common. (She never actually uses that word, but she twists her fingers into knots, and I know it’s what she thinks. When she gives a children’s party, the party bag consists of a balloon and a big piece of homemade toffee, wrapped in greaseproof paper.)
As Minnie pulls out a gorgeous pink Kate Spade clutch, Mum and Janice start googling Las Vegas property prices on their phones, to see how much Corey’s house must be worth, while I quickly remove the Kate Spade for safekeeping. I’ll keep it nice for Minnie till she’s grown up enough to use it. (And in the meantime maybe borrow it once or twice.)
“How does he make his money, exactly?” Janice asks. “Goodness, this one is sixteen million dollars!”
“Property,” says Mum vaguely.
“No, he started out in patents,” I inform them. “Science inventions or whatever. He invented a special spring, apparently.”
I got this from page three of my Google search, where there was a profile of Corey from The Wall Street Journal. According to that, the spring was the first thing he invented and it still makes him money today. Although how can you invent a spring? It’s just curly wire, isn’t it?
“There, Becky, I told you to concentrate in your science lessons,” says Mum. “Janice, look, this house has two swimming pools.”
“Now, that’s vulgar,” says Janice disapprovingly as she leans over to see. “But look at that view….”
“I don’t understand how he’s managed to lie about his age,” I put in. Corey’s got to be around the same age as my dad, but I’ve searched online and I can’t find anything to disprove the so-called “fiftieth birthday party.” “I mean, you can’t just invent an age these days. What about Google?”
“He probably started lying before Google was invented,” says Janice wisely. “Like Marjorie Willis, remember, Jane? She shaved a year off every other birthday.”
“Oh, that Marjorie!” exclaims Mum indignantly. “She turned thirty-four at least twice, if not three times. That’s the way to do it, love.” She turns to me. “Gradually and early.”
“Yes!” Janice nods. “Start now, Becky. You could lose a decade, easily.”
Should I do that? I hadn’t even thought about shaving years off my age. Anyway, surely the most sensible thing is to pretend to be older than you are? And then everyone says, Wow, you look amazing for ninety-three! when you’re only seventy—
My thoughts are interrupted by Luke beckoning to me. He’s standing by the window and has rather an odd expression.
“Hi,” I say as I join him. “What’s up?” Without answering, he hands me his phone.
“Now, look, Becky,” says Dad into my ear, with no preamble. “What’s all this nonsense about Mum flying out to L.A.?”
It’s Dad’s voice. It’s my dad. He’s alive. I think I might pass out, except I want to whoop as well.
“Dad!” I exclaim breathlessly. “Oh my God. Is that you?”
Tears have already sprung to my eyes. I hadn’t realized quite how worried I was. Or how guilty I felt. Or how many horrible images had been circling in my head.
“I’ve just received a very garbled message on my phone,” Dad says. “As I’ve said to Luke, I want you to put Mum off, all right? Tell her to stay in the UK.”
Is he kidding? Does he have any idea what we’ve been going through?
“But she’s already here! And so is Janice! Dad, we’re worried about you!” My words tumble out. “And we’re worried about Tarkie, and we’re worried about—”