“We’re all fine,” says Dad testily. “Please tell Mum not to fret. I’ll only be a few days.”
“But where are you? What are you doing?”
“It doesn’t matter,” responds Dad shortly. “It’s a small issue between friends, and it’ll take no time at all to sort out, I’m sure. Try to amuse your mother in the meantime.”
“But we’re following you!”
“Well, please don’t follow me!” Dad sounds really quite angry. “This is ridiculous! Can a man not deal with a small private matter without being trailed?”
“But you didn’t even tell Mum what you were doing! You just disappeared!”
“I left you a note,” says Dad impatiently. “You knew I was safe. Shouldn’t that have been enough?”
“Dad, you need to speak to her, right now. I’ll pass you over—”
“No.” Dad cuts me off. “Becky, I’m trying to achieve an important task, and I have to focus on that. I can’t deal with your mother having hysterics at me for an hour.”
“She wouldn’t—” I begin, then stop mid-sentence. I hate to say it, but he’s right. If Mum gets on the phone with him, the rant will last until the phone runs out of power.
“Take your mother back to L.A.,” Dad’s saying. “Go to a spa and—what do you call it?—chill out.”
“How can we chill out?” Now I’m starting to feel angry. “You won’t tell us anything, and we know Bryce is trying to brainwash Tarkie….I mean, is he OK?”
Dad gives a short laugh. “Bryce isn’t brainwashing anyone. He’s a very helpful young man. He’s been invaluable to me. Knows the area, you see. And he’s quite taken Tarquin under his wing. They spend hours chatting with each other about this and that.”
Under his wing? Hours chatting about this and that? I don’t like the sound of that one bit.
“Well, is Tarkie there?”
“He’s here. D’you want to speak to him?”
What? I stare at the phone in disbelief. There’s a scuffling noise down the line, then Tarquin’s unmistakable reedy voice says, “Ahm, hello? Becky?”
“Tarkie!” I nearly explode with relief. “Hi! I’ll get Suze—”
“No, ahm…don’t bother,” he says. “Just tell her I’m all right.”
“But she’s so worried! We’re all worried. You know Bryce is trying to brainwash you? He’s dangerous, Tarkie. He wants your money. You haven’t given him any, have you? Because don’t, OK?”
“Of course he wants my money.” Tarquin sounds so matter-of-fact, the wind is taken out of my sails. “Asks me about it every five minutes. Not very subtle either. I’m not giving it to him, though.”
“Thank God!” I exhale. “Well, don’t.”
“I’m not a total chump, you know, Becky.”
“Oh,” I say feebly.
“Chap like Bryce, you just have to keep your wits about you.”
“Right.”
I’m feeling totally confused right now. Tarkie sounds so together. I thought he’d been having a nervous breakdown.
But then, what was that whole act in L.A. about? I can still picture him, sitting at the table in our house, glowering at everyone, telling Suze she was toxic.
“Becky, I have to go,” Tarquin’s saying. “I’ll put your father back on.”
“No, don’t go!” I cry, but it’s too late.
“Becky?” My dad’s back on the line and I quickly draw breath.
“Dad, listen. Please. I don’t know what you’re up to, and if you don’t want me to know, that’s fine. But you can’t leave Mum in the lurch like this. Are you anywhere near Las Vegas? Because if you’ve ever loved us and you have any time at all, meet us there. Just so we can see you for a couple of minutes. Just so we know you’re OK. And then go off on your mission. Please, Dad. Please.”
There’s a long silence. I can feel Dad’s unwillingness seeping down the phone.
“I’m a fair way away,” he says at last.
“Then we’ll come to you! Give me an address!”
“No,” says Dad. “No, let’s not do that.”
There’s another silence, and I hold my breath.
The thing about my dad is, he’s actually a very reasonable man. I mean, he was in insurance.
“All right,” he says at last. “I’ll have a quick breakfast with you tomorrow in Las Vegas. Then you can all relax and go back to L.A. and leave me in peace. But no questions.”
“Absolutely,” I say hastily. “No questions.”
I am so going to ask questions. I’ll start a list straightaway.
“Where shall we meet?”
“Er…”
My knowledge of Las Vegas is fairly limited. In fact, it basically consists of watching Ocean’s Eleven about a thousand times.
“The Bellagio,” I say. “Breakfast at the Bellagio, nine A.M.”
“Good. See you there.”
And I wasn’t going to ask anything else, because clearly he doesn’t want me to know, but I can’t help myself, so I blurt out: “Dad, why didn’t you want to call me Rebecca?”
There’s another prickly silence, and I hold my breath. I know Dad’s still on the line. He’s on the line and he’s not saying anything….
And then he’s rung off.
I immediately press CALL RETURN but it goes straight to voicemail. I try Tarkie’s phone, but the same thing happens. They must have switched them both off.
“Well done!” says Luke as I finally raise my head. “You should be a hostage negotiator! Do I take it we have a breakfast appointment with the runaways?”
“Apparently so,” I say, blinking at him. I feel a bit dazed. After all the stressing and worrying, it turns out Dad and Tarkie are both fine. Not at the bottom of a ravine.
“Relax, Becky!” Luke puts his hands on my shoulders. “This is good news! We’ve found them!”
“Yes!” And at last I feel a smile starting to spread across my face. “We have! We’ve found them. Let’s tell Mum and Suze!”
—
Well, honestly. I thought it was the bearers of bad news who were supposed to be given a hard time. There I was, imagining Mum and Suze would gasp and cheer and congratulate me on having pinned Dad down to breakfast in Las Vegas. There I was, hoping for a group hug. I must have been deluded.
Neither Mum nor Suze looks any cheerier for the news that their beloved husbands are alive and well. There was a brief flicker of delight, and Suze breathed, “Thank God.” But now both of them are back on their grievances.
Mum’s line is: “Why doesn’t my own husband trust me?” At least, it’s a kind of duet, with Janice taking the lines: “I know, Jane,” and “You’re so right, Jane,” and “Jane, dear, have some M&M’s.” Mum’s basic argument is that any husband who goes off with secrets is disrespectful and he’s a grown man and who does he think he is, Kojak?
(I’m not sure how Kojak comes into it. In fact, I’m not sure who Kojak is. Someone off the telly, I think.)
Meanwhile, Suze’s complaint is: Why didn’t Tarkie want to talk to her? She’s tried Tarkie’s number about ninety-five times, and each time it goes to voicemail and she darts me a resentful look, as though it’s my fault. As we approach the looming skyline of Las Vegas, she’s chewing her fingers and staring out of the window.
“Suze?” I say cautiously.
“Yes?” She turns her head impatiently, as though I’ve distracted her from something really important.
“Isn’t it great? Tarkie’s fine!”
Suze looks blank, as though she doesn’t even understand what I’m saying.
“I mean, you can stop worrying,” I persist. “It must be such a relief.”
A pained expression comes over Suze’s face, as though I’m too stupid to realize the truth.
“Not till I see him,” she insists. “Not till I see for myself. I still think Bryce has got to him. He’s messed with his head somehow.”