“It wasn’t three A.M., though,” I say, to be fair. “More like eight P.M.”
“Same thing.” Suze gives me a push, and I laugh, although I almost feel like crying. I’d felt unmoored, losing Suze. And now I have her back. I think I have her back.
I take a step away, trying to gather myself. Then, on impulse, I pick up an ugly leather bracelet decorated with beer-bottle tops—it’s even worse than the wine-cork necklace—and hold it out to Suze, deadpan. “You know what? You’d really suit this.”
“Is that right?” counters Suze, her eyes sparkling. “Well, you’d look divine in this.” She picks up a hairband covered in lurid fake grapes, and we both snuffle with laughter. I’m just searching for the worst possible thing I can find on the table, when my eye is distracted by a familiar figure coming through the tent.
“Hey, Luke!” I wave an arm. “Over here! Any news from Mum?”
“Mummy!” yells Minnie, who is dragging on Luke’s arm. “Sheep!”
“No news that I know of,” says Luke over the noise. “How’s it going?” He greets me with a kiss, then his gaze travels from me to Suze and back again. I can see the question in his eyes: Have you two made up?
“All good,” I say emphatically. “I mean, not all good, but…you know.”
Good apart from Suze being blackmailed by her secret lover and possibly facing the end of her marriage, I try to convey with my eyes, but I’m not sure he gets it.
“Luke, have you ever been round the trees at Letherby Hall?” Suze asks, the tense tone suddenly back in her voice. “Or has Tarkie told you about them? Do you remember one called Owl’s Tower?”
“Um, no. Sorry.” Luke seems a bit puzzled at the non sequitur, as well he might be.
“Right.” Suze slumps.
“I’ll explain later,” I say. “Er…Suze, you don’t mind me telling Luke, do you? About…everything?”
A pink flush whips over Suze’s face, and she stares at the ground.
“I suppose not,” she says morosely. “But not in front of me. I’d die.”
What? Luke mouths at me.
Later, I mouth back.
“Sheep!” Minnie is still yelling passionately. “Sheeeeeep!” She’s dragging on Luke’s arm so hard, he winces.
“Wait, Minnie! We need to talk to Mummy first.”
“What does she want? Does she want to buy a sheep?”
“She wants to ride on a sheep,” says Luke with a grin. “That’s what mutton bustin’ is. Small children riding on sheep. It’s in the arena.”
“No way.” I goggle at him. “They ride on sheep? Is that a thing?”
“Well, ‘cling on for dear life’ more than ‘ride.’ ” He laughs. “It’s quite comical.”
“Oh my God.” I stare at him in horror. “Minnie, darling, you’re not doing that. We’ll buy you a lovely toy sheep instead.” I put a hand on Minnie’s arm, but she bats it away.
“Ride sheeeeep!”
“Oh, let her!” says Suze, coming out of her trance. “I used to ride sheep in Scotland.”
Is she serious?
“But it’s dangerous!” I point out.
“No, it’s not!” Suze scoffs. “They wear helmets. I’ve seen them.”
“But she’s too young!”
“Actually, they start at two and a half.” Luke raises his eyebrows. “I was coming along to suggest we let her do it.”
“Let her do it?” I’m almost speechless. “Are you nuts?”
“Where’s your spirit of adventure, Bex? I’m Minnie’s godmother, and I say we let her ride a sheep.” Suddenly Suze’s eyes are shining in the old Suze way. “Come on, Minnie, we’re in the Wild West now. Let’s bust some mutton.”
—
Am I the only responsible adult around here? Am I?
As we arrive at the mutton-bustin’ arena, I’m silent with shock. I don’t even know where to start. These are wild animals. And people are putting their children on them. And cheering. Right now a boy in a bandanna, who looks about five years old, is grasping on to the back of a big white woolly sheep, which is cavorting round the arena. The audience is yelling encouragement and filming on their phones, and the man on the microphone is giving a running commentary.
“And young Leonard’s still holding on….You go there, Leonard!…He’s got some grit….Aaaaaah.”
Leonard has fallen off the sheep, which is no surprise, because honestly it looks like a savage beast. Three men rush forward to catch the sheep, while Leonard leaps to his feet, beaming proudly, and the crowd goes even wilder.
“Let’s hear it for Leonard!”
“Leo-nard! Leo-nard!” A whole group of people, who must be Leonard’s adoring family, are chanting. Leonard gives a cocky little bow, then rips his bandanna from around his neck and throws it into the crowd.
He what? He’s a child who just fell off a sheep, not a Wimbledon champion! I look at Suze, to share my disapproval with her, but her whole face is lit up.
“This reminds me of my childhood,” she says enthusiastically. Which makes no sense. Suze was brought up in an aristocratic family in Britain, not on a ranch in Arizona.
“Did your mum and dad wear cowboy hats?” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Sometimes,” says Suze without batting an eyelid. “You know what Mummy’s like. She used to come to gymkhanas in the most frightful outfits.”
Actually, that I can believe. Suze’s mum has such an eclectic collection of clothes, it should be in Vogue. She’s also very attractive, in that bony, horsey way. If she had a good stylist on hand all the time—e.g., me—she’d look brilliantly, wonderfully weird. (As it is, most of the time she just looks weird.)
Another child has entered the arena, on the same sheep. Or maybe a different one. How am I meant to tell? It looks equally lively, and the little girl is almost falling off already.
“And here’s Kaylee Baxter!” proclaims the announcer. “Kaylee is six years old today!”
“Come on!” says Suze. “Let’s get Minnie entered!”
She grabs Minnie’s hand and heads toward the entry tent. There’s a form to fill in and places to sign, and Luke does all that, while I try to think of more reasons why this is a bad idea.
“I think Minnie’s feeling a bit unwell,” I tell him.
“Sheep!” chimes in Minnie, jumping up and down. “Ride-da-sheep. Ride-da-sheep.” Her eyes are bright and her cheeks are flushed with excitement.
“Look, she’s feverish.” I clamp a hand on her forehead.
“No, she’s not.” Luke rolls his eyes.
“I mean, I think she twisted her ankle earlier.”
“Does your ankle hurt?” Luke inquires of Minnie.
“No,” Minnie replies emphatically. “Does not hurt. Ride sheep.”
“Becky, you can’t wrap her up in cotton wool.” Luke addresses me directly. “She needs to experience the world. She needs to take some risks.”
“But she’s two! Excuse me.” Crisply, I address the woman who’s collecting the forms. She’s skinny and tanned, and her bomber jacket reads, WILDERNESS JUNIOR HIGH TWIRLERS: HEAD COACH.
“Yes, hon?” She glances up from the table. “Got your form?”
“My daughter’s only two,” I explain. “I think she’s probably too young to enter. Aren’t I right?”
“She two and a half yet?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then she’s fine.”
“She’s not fine! She can’t ride a sheep! No one can ride a sheep!” I throw my hands in the air. “This is all crazy!”
The woman gives a throaty laugh. “Ma’am, don’t panic. The dads hold on to the little ’uns.” She gives me a hearty wink. “They don’t really get to ride. They just think they do.”