Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 138
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Which, you know. Might be true.
I’ve searched Dad’s room for clues, of course. The first thing I found was a jolly note on his pillow, telling me that he was off on a little trip and he had something to put right but that I wasn’t to worry and he would be back with Tarquin in two shakes of a duck’s tail. Apart from that, my findings consist of:
1. The map from his trip all those years ago.
2. A copy of Vanity Fair from 1972.
3. A napkin from Dillon’s Irish Bar. (Relevant?)
I look yet again at the map. I’m holding it really carefully, because it’s pretty fragile, and I’m tracing my finger over the ancient red Biro marking their route. Los Angeles … Las Vegas … Salt Lake City …
What is he “putting right”? What’s been going on?
I wish for the millionth time that I’d listened more carefully when Dad was telling me about his trip. I can remember vague details and stories—like the time they staked their rental car in a poker game and the time they got lost in Death Valley and thought they were going to die—but nothing solid. Nothing that actually helps us.
Mum had no idea about it when I spoke to her on the phone either. In fact, she was in such a state that I couldn’t get much sense out of her at all. She was packing, and Janice was helping, and the two of them were getting in a total tizzy about how to carry their money without being mugged. She and Janice are both coming out on the next possible flight to L.A., leaving Martin to “man the phones at home,” as Mum put it. She’s convinced that Dad is dead in a ditch somewhere and kept talking about “If the worst should happen” and “If he’s alive, God willing,” until I finally snapped and yelled, “Mum, he’s not dead!” Then she accused me of being insensitive.
I’ve left about five messages for Brent Lewis’s sister, Leah, but she hasn’t replied. The only thing I can think of doing now is going back to that trailer park where Brent Lewis lived. I know he’s been evicted, but maybe some neighbor will have a number for him, or something? He’s my only connection with Dad’s trip, or any of it.
“If you’ll take the children to school, I’ll head over to the trailer park straightaway,” I say to Suze. “Jeff will drive me.”
“Fine.” Suze doesn’t look at me properly. She hasn’t looked at me properly since last night. Her phone is clamped to her ear, and she’s stirring her tea obsessively with her other hand, round and round and round.
“Who are you phoning?” I venture.
“Alicia.”
“Oh.” I turn away.
“Hi,” says Suze into the phone. “No. Nothing.”
I feel a tweak of hurt. She’s talking in the kind of intimate shorthand you use when you’re really close to someone. Like the way we talk. Used to talk.
I can almost feel tears rising at the thought of Suze and Alicia being that close, but, then, I’ve had only about two hours’ sleep. I kept checking my phone for messages from Luke, but there weren’t any. I’ve composed a million texts to him, but I haven’t sent any of them. Every time I even picture him, I feel such a tidal wave of hurt that I don’t know where to start.
I rub my eyes and drain my coffee. “OK, Jeff,” I call. “Shall we go?”
As Jeff comes into the kitchen, his demeanor is gloomier than ever. He hasn’t reacted well to the news of Dad and Tarkie disappearing. He seems to feel it’s all his fault, even though I keep reassuring him that it isn’t.
“The site’s secure,” he says. “Mitchell’s on patrol in the yard with Echo.”
“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”
Jeff heads to the kitchen door and checks it, then goes to the window and runs a finger along the glass. He murmurs into his headpiece, then goes back to check the door again. God, he’s making me edgy.
“The kitchen’s fine!” I say. “We’re safe! Look, Jeff, my dad just took off. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Shouldn’ta happened,” he says heavily. “Not on my watch.”
“Well, let’s go, and maybe we’ll find something out.” I push my chair back with a scrape. “Suze, I’ll keep you posted.”
“Fine.” Suze’s eyes are fixed resolutely beyond me. Her jaw is tight and her hair is lank. I know she didn’t get any sleep at all.
“Look, Suze,” I say tentatively. “Please don’t worry. I’m sure everything’s fine.”
She doesn’t even answer. I can see her mind grimly whirring round all the worst possibilities. There’s nothing more I can say.
I’ve searched Dad’s room for clues, of course. The first thing I found was a jolly note on his pillow, telling me that he was off on a little trip and he had something to put right but that I wasn’t to worry and he would be back with Tarquin in two shakes of a duck’s tail. Apart from that, my findings consist of:
1. The map from his trip all those years ago.
2. A copy of Vanity Fair from 1972.
3. A napkin from Dillon’s Irish Bar. (Relevant?)
I look yet again at the map. I’m holding it really carefully, because it’s pretty fragile, and I’m tracing my finger over the ancient red Biro marking their route. Los Angeles … Las Vegas … Salt Lake City …
What is he “putting right”? What’s been going on?
I wish for the millionth time that I’d listened more carefully when Dad was telling me about his trip. I can remember vague details and stories—like the time they staked their rental car in a poker game and the time they got lost in Death Valley and thought they were going to die—but nothing solid. Nothing that actually helps us.
Mum had no idea about it when I spoke to her on the phone either. In fact, she was in such a state that I couldn’t get much sense out of her at all. She was packing, and Janice was helping, and the two of them were getting in a total tizzy about how to carry their money without being mugged. She and Janice are both coming out on the next possible flight to L.A., leaving Martin to “man the phones at home,” as Mum put it. She’s convinced that Dad is dead in a ditch somewhere and kept talking about “If the worst should happen” and “If he’s alive, God willing,” until I finally snapped and yelled, “Mum, he’s not dead!” Then she accused me of being insensitive.
I’ve left about five messages for Brent Lewis’s sister, Leah, but she hasn’t replied. The only thing I can think of doing now is going back to that trailer park where Brent Lewis lived. I know he’s been evicted, but maybe some neighbor will have a number for him, or something? He’s my only connection with Dad’s trip, or any of it.
“If you’ll take the children to school, I’ll head over to the trailer park straightaway,” I say to Suze. “Jeff will drive me.”
“Fine.” Suze doesn’t look at me properly. She hasn’t looked at me properly since last night. Her phone is clamped to her ear, and she’s stirring her tea obsessively with her other hand, round and round and round.
“Who are you phoning?” I venture.
“Alicia.”
“Oh.” I turn away.
“Hi,” says Suze into the phone. “No. Nothing.”
I feel a tweak of hurt. She’s talking in the kind of intimate shorthand you use when you’re really close to someone. Like the way we talk. Used to talk.
I can almost feel tears rising at the thought of Suze and Alicia being that close, but, then, I’ve had only about two hours’ sleep. I kept checking my phone for messages from Luke, but there weren’t any. I’ve composed a million texts to him, but I haven’t sent any of them. Every time I even picture him, I feel such a tidal wave of hurt that I don’t know where to start.
I rub my eyes and drain my coffee. “OK, Jeff,” I call. “Shall we go?”
As Jeff comes into the kitchen, his demeanor is gloomier than ever. He hasn’t reacted well to the news of Dad and Tarkie disappearing. He seems to feel it’s all his fault, even though I keep reassuring him that it isn’t.
“The site’s secure,” he says. “Mitchell’s on patrol in the yard with Echo.”
“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”
Jeff heads to the kitchen door and checks it, then goes to the window and runs a finger along the glass. He murmurs into his headpiece, then goes back to check the door again. God, he’s making me edgy.
“The kitchen’s fine!” I say. “We’re safe! Look, Jeff, my dad just took off. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Shouldn’ta happened,” he says heavily. “Not on my watch.”
“Well, let’s go, and maybe we’ll find something out.” I push my chair back with a scrape. “Suze, I’ll keep you posted.”
“Fine.” Suze’s eyes are fixed resolutely beyond me. Her jaw is tight and her hair is lank. I know she didn’t get any sleep at all.
“Look, Suze,” I say tentatively. “Please don’t worry. I’m sure everything’s fine.”
She doesn’t even answer. I can see her mind grimly whirring round all the worst possibilities. There’s nothing more I can say.
