There. Ha! I’ve got her.
“I had to make small talk somehow.” Alicia flicks her eyes disparagingly at Suze. “There’s only so much one can say about that ridiculous husband of yours. I mean, really, Suze. Yawn.”
I think I could hit Alicia right now.
But I won’t do that. Instead, I glance over at Suze, who says in a shaky voice, “I think you should go, Alicia.”
And we all stand like statues as she stalks away.
—
Some things are almost too big to talk about straightaway. It’s Danny who comes to life first, says, “Drink,” and leads us into a nearby bar tent. As we sip some apple punch, he tells us all about his new collection for Elinor and shows us his drawings—and, actually, it’s the perfect thing to do right now. That’s exactly what Suze needs to focus on: something that isn’t her own messed-up life.
At last he closes his sketchbook, and we all meet eyes, as though picking up where we were. But still I can’t bear to bring up the topic of Alicia. I don’t even want to give her air space.
“Bex.” Suze takes a deep, shuddery breath. “I don’t know how—I can’t believe I fell for her—”
“Stop.” I cut her off gently. “Let’s not do this. If we talk about Alicia, she’s still winning, because she’s messing up our lives. OK?”
Suze thinks for a moment, then bows her head. “OK.”
“Good call,” applauds Danny. “I say we airbrush her out of existence. Alicia who?”
“Exactly.” I nod. “Alicia who?”
I mean, obviously we will talk about Alicia. We’ll probably spend a solid week bitching about her and maybe throwing darts at her picture. (In fact I’m quite looking forward to it.) But not yet. This isn’t the time.
“So,” I say, trying to move the conversation on. “Quite a day.”
“I guess your mum hasn’t had any luck with Raymond,” says Suze.
“She would have texted if she had.”
“I can’t believe we staked out that tent for a whole day. And nothing.”
“Not nothing,” I say. “Janice got a banjo.”
Suze gives a feeble snort of laughter, and I can’t help smiling too.
“So…what are we going to do? Where do we go next?” Suze bites her lip. “Let’s face it, there’s not much point me trying to chase Tarkie anymore.” She speaks calmly, but there’s a wobble in her voice.
“Maybe not.” I meet her eye, then quickly look away again.
“But what about your mum and dad?”
“Oh God.” I slump in my chair. “I have no idea.”
“Should we try Raymond’s house again? Or just go back to L.A., like your dad said all along? I mean, maybe he was right.” Suze lifts her gaze to mine, and I can see it’s taking her a lot to say this. “Maybe this was a stupid idea.”
“No!” I say automatically.
“We can’t go back yet,” protests Danny. “We’re on a mission. We need to see it through.”
“That’s all very well.” Suze turns to him. “But we have absolutely no idea what to do next. We’ve failed at getting through to Raymond, we don’t have a single other lead, a single idea—”
“Actually…” I break in. “I did have one idea.”
“Really?” Suze stares at me. “What?”
“Well, a kind of idea,” I amend. “It’s a bit far out. In fact, it’s a bit mad. But it’s one last possibility. And if it doesn’t work, maybe we give up and go back to L.A.”
Both Danny and Suze are regarding me with interest.
“Well, go on, then,” says Suze. “What’s this crazy last-ditch idea?”
“OK.” I hesitate, then reach into my bag for the “Wilderness Creative Festivaclass="underline" Guide to Artists” booklet. “Before I say anything, have a look at this.”
I watch as they survey the page; I watch as their faces jolt in surprise, just like mine did.
“Oh my God,” says Suze, and looks up at me incredulously. “So what…I mean, how do we…”
“Like I said, I have this idea.”
“Of course you do,” says Danny. “You always have great ideas. Spill, Beckeroo.”
He gives me an encouraging smile and sits back to listen, and once again I feel that flicker of adrenaline inside. That positive spirit. Like old friends coming to give me a little inner hug.
TWELVE
Having said that, everyone thinks it’s a mad idea.
Even Suze, who thinks it’s a good idea, thinks it’s also mad. Luke thinks it’s a terrible idea. Mum doesn’t know if it’s good or bad but is desperate for it to work. Janice keeps flitting between wild optimism and utter pessimism. Danny’s really into it—but that’s only because he’s created my costume.
“There.” I give a final adjustment to my scarf. “Perfect.” I turn to survey my audience. “What do you think—identical twins, no?”
“You don’t look anything like her,” says Luke flatly.
“I look exactly like her!”
“Sweetheart, I think you need your eyes tested.”
“No, I can see it,” says Danny. “You look quite like her.”
“Only quite?” I feel a bit crestfallen.
“Everyone looks different than their photos,” says Danny firmly. “It’s fine. It’s good.” He takes the “Guide to Artists” booklet and holds it up next to me, open at the page with the photo of Pauline Audette. And I don’t care what Luke says, I do look like her. It’s uncanny—even more so now I’ve dressed up like her.
I’m wearing a smock-type shirt, which Danny bought at the fair yesterday evening, over some loose trousers belonging to Janice. My hair is held back by a piece of tie-dye cloth, because Pauline Audette always has some boho scarf in her hair. All morning, Danny has been tugging and pinning and adding artistic streaks of paint and clay, which we bought in the crafts tent. To my eye, I look exactly like a French potter.
“OK, I’ll practice,” I announce. “My name, eet ees Pauline Audette.”
Luckily, there are lots of clips of Pauline Audette on YouTube, because she does this thing called “mini-sculpt,” where she takes a handful of clay and models it into something in about five seconds flat. Like a tree or a bird. (I must say, she is pretty amazing.) So I’ve watched her over and over, and I think I’ve got the accent. “I am ceramic artiste,” I continue. “My inspiration, eet come from ze nah-toor.”
“What’s that?” says Janice, looking baffled.
“Nature, love,” explains Mum. “Nature, in French.”
“I ’ave come to Arizona for ’oliday. I ’ave remember Monsieur Raymond who write me ze kind lettairs. I seenk, Zut! I will visite Monsieur Raymond.” I pause and look around. “What do you think?”
“Don’t say Zut,” says Luke.
“You sound like Hercule Poirot,” says Suze. “He’s never going to fall for it if you talk like that.”
“Well, it’s our only shot,” I retort. I feel a bit offended, actually. I thought my accent was pretty good. “And, all right, I won’t say Zut. Come on, assistant, let’s go.”
Suze is playing my assistant, in an all-black outfit with fake spectacles. Her hair is in a sleek ponytail and she’s got just a slash of red lipstick, which Danny says is definitely the “French art assistant” look.
I head to the door of the RV and look around at the eager, hopeful faces. “Wish us luck!”
Alicia isn’t with us anymore, obviously. I have no idea what she did last night. Called another limo service, I expect, and went back to L.A. (She left some things in the RV, and Danny was all for making a bonfire of them, but we’ve decided to send them back with a dignified note.) Over supper last night, I explained to Mum and Janice about how Alicia and her husband had been trying to rip off both Tarkie and Suze and how evil she was. Whereupon they both instantly said that they’d suspected she was up to something all along, and they’d felt it in their bones, and what a good job they’d warned me about her!