(Or at least she will until she’s thirteen and I tell her she can’t wear a micro-mini to school, and she’ll hate me more than anyone in the world.)
(Oh God, that’s only eleven years away. Why can’t she just stay two and a half forever?)
THREE
As I head to the back of the diner, I see Mum and Janice exiting the ladies’. Janice is wearing a pair of white sunglasses on her head, and Minnie draws breath at the sight.
“I like that!” she says carefully, pointing. “Pleeeeease?”
“Sweetheart!” says Janice. “Would you like them?”
“Janice!” I exclaim in horror, as she hands Minnie the sunglasses. “You mustn’t!”
“Oh, it’s quite all right.” Janice chuckles. “I’ve hundreds of pairs.”
I have to say, Minnie looks adorable in oversize white sunglasses. But I can’t let her get away with it.
“Minnie,” I say severely. “You haven’t said thank you. And you mustn’t ask for things. What will poor Janice do now? She hasn’t got any sunglasses!”
The sunglasses slither down off Minnie’s nose and she holds them, thinking hard.
“Thank you,” she says at last. “Thank you, Waniss.” (She can’t quite manage “Janice.”) She reaches up, tugs her pink gingham bow out of her hair, and hands it to Janice. “Waniss bow.”
“Darling.” I can’t help giggling. “Janice doesn’t wear hair bows.”
“Nonsense!” says Janice. “That’s lovely, Minnie, thank you.”
She clips the bow into her gray hair, where it perches incongruously, and I feel a sudden wave of affection for her. I’ve known Janice forever, and she’s a bit crazy—but look at this. She’s flown out to L.A. at the drop of a hat, just to support Mum. She’s kept us all amused with stories of her flower-arranging classes and is a nice, cheery presence. (Except when she’s dealing in illegal drugs, obviously.)
“Thanks for coming out, Janice,” I say impulsively, and hug her as best I can, given that her money “safety” belt is protruding like a pregnancy bump at the front of her top. She and Mum are wearing identical models, and if you ask me, they look exactly like an advert to a mugger: STACKS OF CASH HERE. But I haven’t said that to Mum, because she’s hassled enough already.
“Mum…” I turn to hug her too. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Dad’s OK.”
But her shoulders are all tense and she doesn’t hug me back properly. “It’s all very well, Becky,” she says, sounding agitated. “But these secrets and mysteries. It’s not what you want, at my age.”
“I know,” I say soothingly.
“Dad didn’t want to call you Rebecca, you know. It was me who liked the name.”
“I know,” I repeat.
We’ve had this conversation about twenty times. It was practically the first thing I demanded of Mum as soon as I saw her: “Why was I named Rebecca?”
“After the book, you know,” Mum continues. “The Daphne du Maurier book.”
“I know.” I nod patiently.
“And Dad didn’t want it. He suggested Henrietta.” Mum’s face starts to quiver.
“Henrietta.” I wrinkle my nose. I am so not a Henrietta.
“But why didn’t he want to call you Rebecca?” Mum’s voice rises shrilly.
There’s silence, apart from a clicking sound as Mum fidgets with the pearls of her necklace. I feel a pang as I watch her trembling, anxious fingers. Dad gave her that pearl necklace. It’s an antique, from 1895, and I went to help her choose it at the shop, and she was so excited and happy. Every year, Dad gets a BB—what we call his Big Bonus—and spends it on something nice for each of us.
The truth is, my dad’s pretty amazing. He still gets his BB, even now that he’s retired, just for a bit of insurance consultancy. Luke says he must have some really impressive niche knowledge to command such high fees. But he’s so modest, he never boasts about it. He always spends it on treats for us and we have a fun celebratory lunch in London. That’s the kind of man Dad is. He’s generous. He’s loving. He cares about his family. This is all so out of character.
Gently, I take Mum’s hand and remove it from the pearls.
“You’ll break them,” I say. “Mum, please try to relax.”
“Come on, Jane.” Janice takes Mum’s arm soothingly. “Let’s sit down and have something to eat. It’s ‘bottomless coffee’ here, you know,” she adds as they head off. “They come round with a pot and refill your cup whenever you like! No limit! Such a good system. So much better than all those lattes and grandaccinos….”
As she and Mum disappear, I grab Minnie’s hand and continue toward the back of the diner. As soon as I step outside I feel better, despite the scorching sun. I needed to get away. Everyone’s so tense and irritable. What I’d really like to do is sit down with Suze and talk to her properly, but I can’t with Alicia there—
Ooh, look.
I’ve stopped dead. Not at the “barnyard,” which consists of three mangy goats in a pen, but at a sign reading LOCAL CRAFT SALE. Maybe I should go and buy something to cheer myself up. Give myself a little lift and support the local economy at the same time. Yes. I’ll do that.
There are about six stalls, with crafts and clothes and artifacts. I can see a skinny girl in high-heeled suede boots filling a basket with necklaces, exclaiming to the stall holder, “I love these! This is all my Christmas shopping done, right here!”
As I get near, a grizzled old lady appears from behind one stall, and I jump. She looks as if she’s a handcrafted artifact herself. Her skin is so brown and lined, it could be some ancient grained wood, or hand-beaten hide. She’s wearing a leather hat with a cord under her chin, she has a tooth missing, and her plaid skirt looks about a hundred years old.
“You on vacation?” she inquires, as I start looking at leather bags.
“Kind of…Well, not really,” I say honestly. “I’m on a trip. We’re searching for someone, actually. Trying to track them down.”
“Manhunt.” She nods matter-of-factly. “My granddaddy used to be a bounty hunter.”
A bounty hunter? That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard. Imagine being a bounty hunter! I can’t help visualizing a business card, perhaps with a little cowboy hat printed in the corner:
REBECCA BRANDON, BOUNTY HUNTER.
“I suppose I’m a kind of bounty hunter too,” I hear myself saying nonchalantly. “You know. In a way.”
Which is sort of true. After all, I’m hunting for people, aren’t I? And that makes me a bounty hunter, surely? “So, can you give me any tips?” I add.
“I can give you plenty,” she says hoarsely. “My granddaddy used to say, ‘Don’t try to beat ’em, meet ’em.’ ”
“ ‘Don’t try to beat ’em, meet ’em’?” I echo. “What does that mean?”
“It means be smart. Don’t go running after a moving target. Look for the friends. Look for the family.” She suddenly produces a bundle of deep-brown leather. “Do you a fine holster, ma’am. Hand-stitched.”
A holster?
A holster, like…for a gun?
“Oh,” I say, discomfited. “Right! A holster. Wow. That’s…um…gorgeous. The only tiny thing is…” I cough, feeling embarrassed. “I don’t have a gun.”
“You don’t got no weapon?” She seems staggered by this news.
Now I feel totally wussy. I’ve never even held a gun, let alone considered owning one. But maybe I should have more of an open mind. I mean, it’s the way out here in the West, isn’t it? You have your hat, you have your boots, you have your gun. Probably girls in the West walk around town and eye one another’s guns up the way I eye up Hermès bags.