“Look, help me here, Rebecca!” Dad erupts at last. “I’m trying to get justice for Brent!”
“Oh, Graham.” Rebecca gives her mysterious smile. “You’re such a good man. You always were. You have a wonderful flow.”
“Justice,” mutters Becca, with an eye roll, and I feel a spike of irritation.
“What’s your problem?” I demand. “Why are you being so negative? We’re here to help your dad!”
“Maybe you are.” She glowers back at me. “But maybe it’s too late. Where were you in 2002?”
“What?” I look at her blankly.
“Dad asked Corey for help back in 2002, when he was at a real low. Put on a suit, went to see him in Vegas. He could have used your dad by his side then.”
“But my dad was in England,” I say, puzzled. “He didn’t know.”
“Of course he knew,” says Becca scathingly. “Dad wrote him.”
OK, I’m not having this. “Dad!” I interrupt the conversation he’s having with Rebecca. “Did you know about Brent asking Corey for help in 2002?”
“No.” Dad looks blank. “I heard nothing about that.”
“You never got a letter?” I gesture at Becca. “She thinks you got a letter from Brent.”
“Of course I didn’t!” says Dad hotly. “Do you think if I’d got a letter from Brent about this horrendous situation, I would have ignored it?”
Becca seems taken aback by this response. “Well, Corey told Dad you knew. Corey told Dad you’d been in touch about it and your view was…He said—” She stops herself, and I find myself wondering what exactly Corey said.
“Becca, I think Corey must have lied,” says Dad, more gently.
OK. Now this all makes sense. Corey lied and blamed my dad, and that’s why Becca hates us.
“Do you understand now?” I turn to Becca. “My dad didn’t say whatever heinous thing Corey said he did.”
So you didn’t need to be so hostile, I add silently. Or say, “Fuck off, princess girl.”
I’m hoping Becca will respond with something like: Oh my God. Now I see it all. I’ve wronged you; please accept my apologies. But she just shrugs and looks at her phone and mutters, “Anyway, you’ll never get anything out of Corey. No chance.”
God, real people are so disappointing. I’m sure she would have done it better in the box-set version. A minute or two later, she says she has to leave, and I’m really not sorry.
“Bye, princess girl,” she says, as she shrugs her bag onto her shoulder.
I want to say, Bye, horribly rude and negative girl, but instead I just smile and say, “Keep in touch!”
Not, I add in my head.
When she and Rebecca have gone, the atmosphere eases a little. Suze heads off to her room to check in with her kids. Mum is wondering whether we should order more snacks or whether that will spoil our dinners, and Janice is reading out loud from a leaflet about “spirit guides,” when Rebecca appears again.
“I thought you’d like to see this.” Her eyes glimmer at Dad as she holds out an old, faded black-and-white photograph.
“Goodness me!” says Dad, and gets out his reading spectacles. “Let me look at that.” After he’s had a good long peruse, he puts it on the table and I lean over to see. There they all are, sitting on rocks in the desert.
Dad is recognizably Dad. Corey looks like a completely different person from the tight-faced weirdo we met in Las Vegas. Raymond probably looks the same, except his graying beard is so big now, it’s hard to tell. But the person I’m focusing on is Brent. I peer more closely, trying to get a sense of this man we’re all trying to win justice for.
He has broad features. A square forehead. There’s a stubborn look to him, even in the photo. But he looks like he could be kind and wise too, just like Dad said. Then my gaze transfers to the young Rebecca, and I blink in amazement. God, she was beautiful! In the photo, she’s sitting apart from the others, her head thrown back, her hair cascading down, and her breasts almost popping out of her low-cut prairie-style dress. I can see exactly why Corey might have fallen for her. And Brent. I mean, to be honest, who wouldn’t fall for her?
Did Raymond? Did Dad?
I feel an uncomfortable little fillip in my stomach.
“Let me see!” says Mum, pulling the photo toward her, and I can see her studying Rebecca, her mouth pursed. As she lifts her gaze to the current Rebecca, her expression doesn’t change.
“So, I took the liberty of booking massages for all of you tomorrow,” says Rebecca, in her soft, mesmerizing voice. “Then maybe the hotel could organize a picnic lunch? And you must see the juniper trees while you’re here.”
“We’re not here for pleasure,” says Dad. “So we’ll have to cancel the massages.”
“You can take a few days off.” She gives him her catlike smile. “You don’t want to burn out, all of you.”
“I’m afraid we can’t.” Dad shakes his head. “We need to press on with the task.”
“You’re in Sedona, Graham. Center of relaxation. You need to kick back. Enjoy it!”
“Not really,” points out Dad. “Helping Brent is our priority. He’s the victim.”
“Victim,” mutters Rebecca, her eyes raised to heaven. She speaks so quietly I’m not sure if I actually heard it—but Dad did.
“Rebecca? What does that mean?”
“Well, really.” Her voice bursts out. “I can’t keep quiet anymore. What do you all think you’re doing? Because it’s crazy.”
“We’re trying to put things right for Dad’s old friend!” I say hotly. “That’s not crazy!”
“Put things right?” Her eyes flash at me. “You know nothing about it. If Brent was swindled, it was his own fault. Everyone knew Corey was a liar. If Brent hadn’t drank so much, maybe he would have kept his wits about him.”
“That’s very harsh,” says Dad, sounding shocked.
“It’s the truth. He’s just a loser. Always was. And now you all want to prop his life back up for him.” She sounds almost savage. “Why should Brent get his life propped up?”
We’re all exchanging shocked looks. I’m guessing that Rebecca and Brent’s relationship didn’t end too brilliantly.
“But he’s almost certainly homeless!” I point out. “And he’s your daughter’s father!”
“What does that mean to me?” Rebecca snaps. “If he’s homeless, it’s his own damn idiot fault.”
I’ve never seen someone change so fast. All the syrupy charm has slid away, and with it has gone her veneer of attractiveness. She looks older and bitter and kind of pinched around the mouth. All in ten seconds. I almost want to whisper in her ear: You know, being mean is really bad for your looks.
Dad is watching her appraisingly, and I wonder if she was like this all those years ago. Maybe she was worse.
At any rate, something tells me Mum doesn’t need to worry.
“Well,” he says at last, in pleasant tones. “We’ll do our thing. And you do your thing. It was nice to see you again, Rebecca.”
He gets to his feet and waits meaningfully. After a moment, Rebecca stands up too and picks up her tasseled leather bag.
“You’ll never succeed anyway,” she says scathingly. “Becca’s right. Not a chance.”
My blood is starting to boil. This woman is a total witch.
“Hey, wait a moment, Rebecca,” I say as she reaches the door. “You think I’m named after you, don’t you? Just like Becca is, and Corey’s daughter.”
Rebecca says nothing but turns to face us again and shakes back her long hair, all the time looking at Dad with this self-satisfied smile. She clearly believes every man gets so besotted by her that he names his child after her. Ugh. Ugh!