“Oh, he probably won’t,” says Dad, with an easy laugh. “I’d like you to meet him, though. He’s a pigheaded old soul, and he can be his own worst enemy, but he’s wise. ‘You can C.B. or you can M.M.M.,’ he used to say. I’ve always remembered that.” Dad sees Janice’s confused look. “Cut Back or Make More Money,” he explains.
“That’s very good!” says Janice in delight. “C.B. or M.M.M. Oh, I like that. I’m going to write it down.”
I’m staring at Dad in stupefaction. C.B. or M.M.M.? That came from Brent?
“But that’s Becky’s motto!” says Suze, in equal disbelief. “That’s, like, her Bible.”
“I thought that was your saying!” I say almost accusingly to Dad. “That’s what I always tell people. ‘My dad says you have to C.B. or M.M.M.’ ”
“Well, I do say that.” He smiles. “But I learned it first from Brent. I learned a lot from him, in fact.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Dad leans back in his chair, his glass in his hand, his eyes distant. “Brent was always philosophical. He was a listener. I was going through some anxieties about my career path at the time, and he’d put everything in perspective. His other saying was, ‘The other person always has a point.’ He’d bring that one out when Raymond and Corey were arguing, which they often did after a few beers.” Dad laughs at the recollection. “They’d be going at it, hammer and tongs, and Brent would be lying there, feet up on a rock, smoking, saying, ‘The other person always has a point. Listen to each other, and you’ll hear it.’ It drove the others mad.” He pauses, and I can tell he’s lost in his memories.
OK, next Christmas, when Dad starts telling us about his trip again, I am so going to lap up every word.
“But why couldn’t Brent sort out his own life a bit better?” I venture. “I mean, if he was so wise and everything?”
A strange, melancholy expression passes over Dad’s face.
“Not so easy when it’s your own life. He knew he drank too much, even then, although he hid it. I tried to talk to him about it, but…” His hands fall to his lap. “We were young. What did I know about alcoholism?” He looks so downcast. “What a waste.”
There’s a kind of sober little silence. This is such a sad story. And I’m feeling like Dad now. I’m burning with righteous indignation. I want to sort everything out for Brent and crush that vile Corey.
“But I’m not sure where to go from here.” Dad rubs his eyes wearily. “If I can’t get access to Corey…”
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t meet up with you,” I say hotly. “His old friend.”
“He’s built a fortress around himself,” says Dad with a shrug. “Gates, guards, dogs…”
“We only got in because they were holding a children’s birthday party and thought we were guests,” I tell him.
“You did well, love,” says Dad wryly. “I didn’t even manage to get through on the phone.”
“We met his new wife and everything. She actually seems lovely.”
“From what I hear, she’s very sweet-natured.” Dad nods. “I thought perhaps I could get at Corey through her. But Corey controls her. He wants to know where she is at all times, reads her correspondence….” He sips his drink. “I tried to get a meeting with her, after I’d failed with Corey. She emailed back and said it wasn’t possible and not to contact her again. I wouldn’t be surprised if Corey sent the email.”
“Oh, Dad,” I say with sympathy.
“Oh, that wasn’t the worst! I even stood outside the house and called out as they drove away in their Bugatti. Waved my arms, shouted…but no joy.”
I feel a surge of fresh fury at Corey. How dare he demean my dad like that?
“If Brent only knew how much you were doing on his behalf,” I say. “Do you think he has any idea?”
“I doubt it,” says Dad with a rueful chuckle. “I mean, he knew I wanted to help. But I don’t expect he imagined I’d end up on such an escapade—”
He stops at the sound of clicking beads. Something weird passes over his face and he blinks several times. At once I turn to see what it is—and freeze dead.
No way. No way.
It’s all happening! The box-set plot is unfolding before my eyes. It’s like a whole new season is kicking off.
Season 2, Episode 1: Forty-something years later, in a hotel in Sedona, Arizona, Graham Bloomwood and Rebecca Miades finally come face-to-face again.
She’s standing at the beaded curtain, curling a strand of long, dyed-red hair round one finger. She has lots of amber eye shadow round her green eyes, too much kohl, and a long floaty skirt in burgundy. Her matching top is low-cut, displaying lots of cleavage. Her nails are painted black, and she has a henna tattoo snaking up her arm. She looks at Dad and says nothing but smiles slowly in recognition, her eyes crinkling up like a cat’s.
“Oh my God,” says Dad at last, and his voice sounds a little faint. “Rebecca.”
“Oh my God,” comes an abrasive-sounding voice from behind Rebecca. “Princess girl.”
From: dsmeath@locostinternet.com
To: Brandon, Rebecca
Subject: Re: Massive, MASSIVE request
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
I received your email an hour ago and was taken by its “urgent” tone. I do not quite understand how “lives can be hanging in the balance” over such a matter, but I do perceive your anxiety and, as you reminded me, I did indeed “offer to help.”
I therefore set out immediately, with a small packed supper and my Thermos. I am writing now from a service station on the A27.
I hope to reach my destination before too long and will keep you abreast of “developments.”
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath
FOURTEEN
OK, there are officially too many Rebeccas in this gathering.
There’s me, Becky.
There’s Rebecca.
And there’s “Becca,” who is Brent and Rebecca’s daughter. She’s the one I met at the trailer park, the one who calls me “princess girl,” which is getting quite annoying.
It’s about half an hour later. Dad’s ordered more food and drinks (we don’t really want them, but it gives us something to do), and we’re all trying to get to know the two new additions. But it’s not the most relaxed group, I must say. Mum keeps eyeing Rebecca with deep suspicion, especially her outfit. Mum has views on how ladies of a certain age should dress, and they involve not having lots of cleavage showing, or henna tattoos, or a nose ring. (I only just noticed it. It’s teeny.)
Becca is sitting next to me, and I can smell some really strong fabric conditioner on her T-shirt. She’s wearing cutoff jeans and is sitting with her legs sprawled, unlike her mother, who looks like an elegant witch perched on her broomstick.
It turns out that Becca is on her way to a new job at a hotel in Santa Fe but has stopped off here for a night. I asked about her little dog, Scooter—I met him at the trailer park—and she told me she can’t have a pet at her new job and she had to give him away. And then glared at me like it’s all my fault.
She’s so unfriendly, and I can’t understand it at all. What you’d think is that the two of them would marvel at Dad’s plan to help Brent and would offer assistance. Instead, Becca answers every question with a defensive monosyllable. She doesn’t know where her dad is right now. He’ll be in touch when he’s ready. She doesn’t see how Dad can right the wrong that was done Brent. No, she doesn’t have any ideas. No, she doesn’t want to brainstorm.
Meanwhile, Rebecca just wants to tell us about the amazing “spirit-cleansing” hikes we can do in the area. When Dad brings her back to the subject of Brent, she starts reminiscing about the time they all met a shaman at a reservation.