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.
“Anyway, you can’t follow us anymore,” says Tarkie, after a painful pause. “The three of us have split up. There’s nothing to follow.”
“You’ve split up?” I stare at the phone. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve all gone our separate ways. I’m helping your dad out with…” He hesitates. “Something. He’s doing his own thing. Bryce has disappeared, God knows where.”
“Bryce has disappeared?” I say in shock.
“Left last night. No idea where.”
“Oh, right.”
I feel totally wrong-footed. After all that. Bryce hasn’t ensnared Tarquin in his evil plan at all. He hasn’t brainwashed him or fleeced him or even made him start selling time-shares. He’s just buggered off.
“Becky, go back to L.A.,” says Tarquin, as though reading my mind. “Call off the search. Give it up.”
“But we might be able to help you,” I persist. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”
Let us in! I feel like shouting. Please!
“We don’t need your help,” says Tarquin adamantly. “Tell Suze I’m OK. I’m helping your dad. I’m feeling useful for the first time in…forever. I’m going to do this, OK? And I don’t need any interference from you or Suze. Bye, Becky.”
And with that, he rings off. I’ve never felt so powerless in my life. I want to cry with frustration, or at least savagely kick a barrel.
OK, it turns out savagely kicking a barrel didn’t make me feel any better. (I’m wearing flip-flops, and barrels are really hard.) Nor did pounding a fist into my palm like they do in the movies. (I’ve never understood the appeal of boxing, and now I understand it even less. My hand hurts just from me punching it. Imagine if it was someone else and you couldn’t tell them to stop.)
The only thing that will make me feel better, I realize, is talking to Suze. I need to tell her about Tarkie’s calls. I have to tell her that he’s safe and away from Bryce. This is a matter of urgency, and I must be brave and not shy away from the task.
But as I creep out of the preserves tent, I feel a swoop of nerves. Suze looks about as approachable as a lioness who’s guarding her cubs, the family food, and the crown jewels, all at once. She’s prowling around the clearing, her phone grasped in her right hand, her brows lowered, and her eyes flitting from side to side.
I’ve started to rehearse possible casual conversational openers in my mind—Gosh, Suze, fancy bumping into you here—when she stops dead. She’s standing still, watching alertly. Waiting for something. What?