Shopaholic to the Rescue

TEN

The only disadvantage to a road trip, I’ve decided, is the actual road bit. Everything else is brilliant—the RV, the diners, the views, the country music. (I made Luke tune in to a country-music radio station for a bit, and, God, country singers understand how you feel. One song, called “Only Your Oldest Friend,” almost made me cry.)

But the roads are a total pain. They’re too long. I mean, it’s ridiculous. Someone should rethink them. Plus the map is very deceptive and sneaky. It lures you in. It makes you think, Oh, I’ll just zip along that bit of freeway—it’s only one centimeter, it can’t take long. Ha! One centimeter? One whole day out of your life, more like.

It’s quite a distance to Tucson, Arizona, it turns out. It’s even more of a distance when you realize that the ranch you’re after is beyond Tucson. By the time we roll up at the Red Ranch, Cactus Creek, Arizona, we’ve been on the road practically all day. We’ve taken turns driving, and we’re all stiff, exhausted, and out of conversation. Plus my head is ringing with the tunes of Aladdin, which Minnie has just forced me to watch along with her, with headphones on.

Before we got out, I brushed my hair, but it still feels all flat and weird from where I’ve been resting my head. My legs feel like they’ve seized up, and my lungs are desperate for some fresh air.

As I glance around, no one else looks in great shape either. Mum and Janice are staggering around on the dusty ground, like cattle let out of a lorry into the light. Suze and Alicia are swigging Tylenol and water. Danny is doing a series of complicated yoga stretches. Minnie is the only one who’s full of beans. She’s trying to skip round a massive great boulder, only she can’t skip yet, so she’s basically just running and whirling her arms. As I watch, she stops dead, reaches down, and picks the tiniest little white flower. Then she brings it to me, looking all pink and pleased with herself.

“Is a rose,” she says carefully. “Is a rose for Mummy.”

Minnie thinks every flower is a rose, except daffodils, which she calls “raffodils.”

“Lovely, darling, thank you!” I say. I put it in my hair, which is what I always do, and immediately she goes to pick another one, looking even more pink and pleased. (We play this game a lot. I’m getting used to my shower clogging up with wilted flowers.)

The sky is a deep blue and the air has that warm, expectant twilight feel. In the distance are red rocky mountains which seem to go on forever, and around us are scrubby trees which are giving off some herby scent. And I think I just saw a lizard running over the dust. I glance up at Luke to see if he noticed it too, but he’s squinting at the ranch.

The entrance is a few yards away. Huge great gates and CCTV and only a small wooden sign to tell you this is Red Ranch, home of Raymond Earle. It’s all on its own, set way back from the road, with massive fences keeping out visitors. Apparently there are over a thousand acres attached to the property, but Raymond doesn’t farm them himself: He rents them out and lives in his compound, all alone.

We found this out at Bites ’n Brunch, where we stopped twenty minutes ago for drinks. Megan, the owner, was very chatty, and my mum is the queen of getting information out of people, so basically we found out everything Megan knows about Raymond. Which is as follows:

1. He doesn’t spend all the time at his ranch. 2. He doesn’t socialize much. 3. He put in a new kitchen five years ago, and the guys who worked on it said he was pleasant enough. 4. He’s known for his pottery.

So, not a huge amount of information. But it doesn’t matter. We’re here now. Time for the big meeting. Time to find out what on earth has been going on.

“Shall we?” Danny comes out of his tree pose and gestures at the ranch.

“We can’t all go in together,” I object. “We’ll look like a posse.” I’m about to add that I’ll go on my own, when Mum gets in there first.

“I agree,” she says, reapplying her lipstick. “If anyone sees this man, it should be me. Me and Janice. We’ll go.”

“Janice and I,” corrects Alicia, and I shoot her daggers. Grammar? Really? At this moment in time?

“We’ll go.” Janice nods enthusiastically.

“D’you want me to come too?” I suggest. “For moral support?”

“No, love, I don’t. Whatever I have to hear about Dad and his past…” Mum looks into the middle distance. “The truth is, love, I’d rather you weren’t there to hear about his other woman.”

“Mum, you don’t know it’s another woman!”

“I know, Becky,” she says, with a quivering voice, like the heroine of a true-life miniseries. “I know.”

Oh God. Does she know? I’m torn between: a) Mum is just believing the worst because she’s a drama queen…and b) After decades of marriage she has a wife’s intuition and of course she knows.

“Well, OK,” I say at last. “You go with Janice.”

“We’re right here,” says Luke. “Keep your phone with you.”

“Ask him about Tarkie,” puts in Suze. “He might know something.”

“Ask him if his property is for sale,” adds Danny. “I have a friend, works for Fred Segal, he’s longing for a ranch and this looks perfect—”

“Danny!” I say crossly. “This isn’t about real estate! It’s about…” I look at Mum, whose lips are tightly pursed. “It’s about finding out the truth.”

There’s silence as Mum and Janice head over the arid scrubland to the huge wooden gates. There’s an intercom system, and I can see them talking into it. Mum speaks first. Then, to my surprise, Janice tries, then Mum again. But the gates remain stubbornly closed. What is going on?

At last, Mum and Janice head back, and as they near us, I can tell Mum’s upset.

“He turned us away!” she exclaims. “Can you believe it?”

At once a babble breaks out.

“Oh my God!”

“Turned you away?”

“Did you actually speak to him?” I demand above the noise. “To Raymond himself?”

“Yes! At first it was some kind of housekeeper, but she went to fetch him and I said I was Graham’s wife and explained what’s happened—” She breaks off. “Didn’t I, Janice?”

“You did.” Janice nods. “Wonderfully, love. Very clear, very to the point.”

“And…?” I say.

“And he said he couldn’t help!” Mum’s voice rises in distress. “We’ve driven more than six hours, just to see him, and he can’t help! Janice tried speaking to him too….”

“We tried everything,” says Janice dolefully.

“But he wouldn’t even let us in for five minutes. Even though he could see me! Through his video system! I know he could see how upset I was. But he still said no.”

“Could you see him?” I ask with sudden interest. “What does he look like?”

“Oh no,” says Mum. “We couldn’t see him. He’s hidden himself away, hasn’t he?”

We all turn to look at the gates, resolutely closed against the world. There’s a kind of burning in my chest. Who does this man think he is? How can he be so mean? To my mum?

“I’ll go,” says Alicia firmly, and before anyone can protest, she’s striding toward the gates, pulling out one of her Golden Peace business cards. We all watch dumbly as she presses the buzzer, speaks, holds up her card to the camera, speaks again, starts getting really angry, and eventually swings away.

“This is outrageous,” she’s spitting as she rejoins the group. “He claimed not to have heard of Golden Peace! Clearly he’s a liar. I don’t know why we’re wasting our time with him.”

“He’s the only lead we’ve got!” says Mum.

“Well, perhaps your husband should have chosen his friends more carefully,” says Alicia, her old snide manner reappearing.

“Well, perhaps you should keep your opinions to yourself!” responds Mum hotly, and for a moment I think she and Alicia might start some full-scale row, but Luke intervenes.

“Let me have a go,” he says, and heads off toward the ranch entrance. As he speaks into the microphone we’re all watching agog, hoping maybe he knows the special magic words, like Ali Baba at the cave entrance. But soon he turns and shakes his head. As he rejoins the group, he’s looking pensive.

“I don’t think we’ll crack him,” he says. “He sent his housekeeper to talk to me. He doesn’t want to engage.”

“So what do we do?” wails Mum. “Here he is, he must know the story….” She waves a hand angrily at the gates.

“Regroup,” says Luke. “It’s getting late. We need to eat and sleep. Maybe we’ll come up with a bright idea over some food.”

—

I think we’re all hoping that the food will trigger a moment of genius in one of us. As we tuck into steaks and fries and cornbread at the Tall Rock Inn, Cactus Creek, there’s a feeling of optimism. Surely one of us will think of something brilliant?

Oh, come on. Someone has to think of something.

People keep starting sentences with “Ooh! Maybe…” and then losing confidence and trailing off into silence. I’ve had about five ideas involving scaling the walls of Raymond’s ranch, which I haven’t shared.

The trouble is, I don’t think any of us had thought much beyond finding Raymond, being welcomed into his ranch and offered beds for the night, and having a wonderful supper while Raymond got Dad on the phone and sorted everything out. (Well, that’s what I was expecting, anyway.)

As the steak plates are cleared away and the dessert menus handed round, conversation has died away to a minimum and I’m wondering who’ll be first to say, Let’s give up.

It won’t be me. No way. I’m here till the bitter end. But it might be Janice. She’s looking a bit frayed around the edges. I bet she’s longing to get back to Oxshott.

“So can I get you folks anything for dessert?” Our waitress, Mary-Jo, has approached the table.

“You don’t know any way to get in touch with Raymond Earle, do you?” I say impulsively. “We’re here to see him, but he’s being a bit reclusive.”

“Raymond Earle?” She wrinkles her brow. “Guy up at Red Ranch?”

“Exactly.” I feel a surge of hope. “Do you know him?”

Maybe she works for him part-time, I think with sudden optimism. Maybe I can get into the ranch with her, pretending to be her assistant—

“Sorry, hon.” Mary-Jo’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “We don’t see a lot of him. Hey, Patty?” She turns to the woman at the bar. “These folks are after Raymond Earle.”

“We don’t see a lot of him,” says Patty, shaking her head.

“That’s right.” Mary-Jo turns back to us. “We don’t see a lot of him.”

“Oh well. Thanks anyway,” I say, deflated. “Could I have apple pie, please?”

“He’ll be at the fair tomorrow.” A hoarse voice comes from the corner, and I turn to see an elderly guy with a beard and a proper cowboy shirt with those metal collar tips. “He’ll be showing his pots and such.”

Everyone at the table swivels round in excitement, even Minnie.

“Seriously?”

“Will he definitely be there?”

“Where’s the fair?” Luke inquires. “What time does it start?”

“It’s up at Wilderness.” Mary-Jo looks surprised. “Wilderness County Fair. I assumed that’s why you folks were in town. It’s going on all week, you can’t miss it.”

“And Raymond will be there?” persists Mum.

“He’s usually there.” The bearded guy nods. “Exhibits his pots in the ceramics tent. Charges silly dollars. No one buys ’em, far as I can make out.”

“Y’all should go, if you’ve never been,” says Mary-Jo with enthusiasm. “It’s the best fair in the state. You got the livestock show, the pageant, the line dancing….”

Line dancing? Oh my God, I’ve always wanted to do line dancing.

I mean, not that we’re here to do line dancing. I shoot a guilty look at Suze, in case she read my thoughts.

“OK, this sounds like a plan.” Luke is addressing the table. “We stay overnight, hit the fair first thing, find Raymond in the ceramics tent, and pin him down.”

There’s a huge air of relief around the table. At last, Mum’s anxious frown has melted away. Let’s just hope this Raymond character comes up with the goods, I find myself thinking. Otherwise, we really will be at the end of the road, and I don’t know what I’ll do with Mum.

—

The next day I awake full of optimism. Wilderness County Fair, here we come! We slept at the Treeside Lodge, Wilderness, last night, which had a big cancellation and was very glad to have some last-minute visitors. Janice and Mum had to squash into one tiny room, which isn’t ideal, but it was that or the RV.

Every other guest at the lodge is here for the fair, which we discovered at breakfast. The other families were all wearing WILDERNESS COUNTY FAIR T-shirts and baseball caps and talking about their plans for the day, and the excitement was contagious. I googled the fair last night, and it’s huge! It has a zillion tents and stalls, plus a rodeo, livestock shows, and a huge Ferris wheel. According to the map, the ceramics tent is situated in the northwest of the fair. It’s near the best-decorated sheaves tent and the clogging festival, while nearby is the rodeo arena, which will hold the wild-cow milking, the pig scramble, and the mutton bustin’.

It’s like a foreign language to me. A whole tent for decorated sheaves? How do you decorate a sheaf, anyway? And what’s “clogging”? And what on earth is a pig scramble? Let alone mutton bustin’?

“Luke, what do you think mutton bustin’ is?” I say, looking up from the laptop.

“No idea,” he says, putting on his watch. “A mutton-eating competition?”

“Mutton-eating?” I make a face.

“There’s an Oreo-stacking contest, in case you’re interested,” he adds. “Saw it on the website last night.”

Now, that sounds good. I think I might be rather brilliant at stacking Oreos. I can already see myself presiding over a ten-foot stack, beaming at the audience as I receive first prize, which is probably a packet of Oreos.

Not that we’re going to enter the competitions, I hastily remind myself. We’re here for business. We’ll probably only stay for half an hour.

“Ready?” I say to Luke, as he reaches for his wallet. “Ready, Minnie? Ready for the fair?”

“Fair!” shouts Minnie joyously. “See Winnie-the-Pooh!”

Hmm. This is the trouble with taking your child to Disneyland. They then think all other fairs are Disneyland too, and it’s no use trying to explain to a two-year-old about branding and copyright, like Luke did last night.

“We might see Winnie-the-Pooh,” I say, just as Luke says, “We won’t see Winnie-the-Pooh.”

Minnie looks from Luke to me, confused.

“We won’t see Winnie-the-Pooh,” I amend quickly, just as Luke says, “We might see Winnie-the-Pooh.”

Argh. Every parenting book says the most important thing you can do is present a united front, otherwise your child gets confused and starts to exploit the differences between you. Which I do totally believe in, but it can be a challenge. There was one time when Luke said, “Mummy’s just going out now, Minnie,” when I’d changed my plans, and rather than contradict him, I went out of the front door, shouting, “Byee!” then climbed back in through a window.

(Mum said I was totally mad and that parenting books cause more harm than good, and she and Dad never bothered with all that nonsense, and, “Look how you turned out, Becky.” Whereupon Luke made this stifled noise and then said, “No, nothing,” when we all turned to look at him.)

I’ve dressed Minnie up in her little blue jeans and a new fringed suede vest, which Luke bought her yesterday, and she looks absolutely delicious: a proper Western girl. I’m wearing shorts and a sleeveless top and I’ve glanced at myself in the mirror and…I look fine. I’ll do.

Somehow I can’t get excited about what I look like anymore. I’m waiting for some bit of my brain to click in—the bit that would normally go: Woo-hoo! County fair! What’s the perfect outfit for that? But it doesn’t. It’s silent.

“Ready?” says Luke, at the door.

“Yup.” I force a smile. “Let’s go.”

It’s fine. Whatever. Maybe I’m just finally growing up.

As we arrive down in the lobby, everyone is assembled and there’s an air of anticipation.

“OK, so we’ll head straight for the ceramics tent,” Luke addresses the group. “Jane will approach Raymond, along with Becky, with the rest of us on standby.”

There was a bit of a tussle last night about who should accompany Mum to accost Raymond. Janice reckoned she was Best Friend, but I countered with Daughter. Then Suze suggested, “Couldn’t we all go?” but got shouted down. Anyway, I won, on the grounds that whatever Raymond says about Dad, good or bad, Mum and I should hear it first.

The only person who wasn’t remotely interested in meeting Raymond was Alicia. In fact, she’s not even coming to the county fair. She says she’s arranged a meeting in Tucson. A meeting in Tucson? I mean, honestly. Who arranges meetings in Tucson?

Well, I suppose people who live in Tucson do. But, you know. Apart from them.

I don’t believe this “meeting in Tucson” story for a minute. Alicia’s up to something, I’m convinced of it. And if I could, I’d keep tabs on her. But I can’t, because: 1. I have to go to the fair, and 2. She’s already left for the day in a limo.

Suze is sitting on a chair made out of a barrel, hunched over her phone, frantically texting. Presumably she’s texting Alicia, because they’ve been apart for, like, twenty minutes. She looks absolutely deathly, and I want to put an arm round her or shake her out of her cloud of misery. But I don’t even dare approach her. Not only is Suze not my three-A.M. friend, I think dolefully, she’s not even my nine-A.M. sitting-five-feet-away friend.

“OK?” Luke interrupts my thoughts. “Everyone ready? Ready, Jane?”

“Oh, I’m ready,” says Mum, with a meaningful, almost ominous look. “I’m ready.”

—

We hear the fair before we see it. There’s music blasting as we snake along in the queue to the RV park. Once we’re parked we have to buy passes, and then we have to find the right entrance, and we’re all quite hot and bothered as, finally, we make it through Gate B.

(You’d think Gate B would be next to Gate A. You’d think.)

“Goodness!” says Janice, as we all look around. “It’s very…fulsome!”

I know what she means. Everywhere there’s something bright or blaring or plain extraordinary. There are tents and stalls as far as the eye can see. Every loudspeaker seems to be playing a different tune. A blimp above us in the sky reads WILDERNESS COUNTY FAIR, and beneath it soar a couple of helium balloons, silver dots against the blue, which must have been let go by mistake. A troop of cheerleader-ish girls in aquamarine costumes is hurrying into a nearby tent, and I can see Minnie watching them in awe. A man leads a massive woolly sheep past us on a rope, and I instinctively take a step back.

“Bex!” Suze rolls her eyes. “It’s only a sheep.”

Hmph. She may say “only a sheep.” But that animal has huge curly horns and an evil eye. It’s probably the prizewinning exhibit in the killer-sheep event.

The air is full of mingled smells—fuel, animal dung, roasting meat, and the sweet pungent aroma of freshly made doughnuts, which is particularly strong, as we’re standing right by a doughnut stand.

“Cake!” says Minnie, spotting the stall. “I like it, Mummy.” She tugs on my arm yearningly, almost pulling me over.

“No cake,” I say hurriedly, and start leading her away. “Come on, let’s find these ceramics.”

Even though it’s early, there are already crowds of people everywhere: clustering to get into tents, queuing for food, wandering along the lanes between the attractions, and suddenly stopping to consult their fair maps. So it takes us a little time to make it all the way to the Creative Village, and then we can’t work out which tent we want. Mum is totally focused, barging along, her chin set, but Janice keeps getting distracted by exhibits, and I have to tug her away, saying, “You can look at the embroidered pot holders later.” Honestly, she’s worse than Minnie.

At last we make it to the ceramics tent and consult the exhibitors’ guide. Raymond is in the adult ceramics and china section and has entered the bowl class, the container-with-lid class, and the miscellaneous class. He’s also got some pieces in the for-sale gallery. It’s easy to tell which are his, because they’re about five times the size of anyone else’s. It’s also obvious that he’s not here, because apart from us only seven people are in the tent, and they’re all women.

For a couple of minutes, Mum and I circle the exhibits in silence, pausing by each of Raymond’s pieces as though it might give us a clue. He’s put a piece of paper by each entry, which goes on about the influence of the French ceramicist Pauline Audette (who?) and how he takes inspiration from nature and some other waffle about glazes.

“Well, he’s not here,” says Mum finally, as we reach a wide bowl with green glaze on it, which takes up nearly a whole table.

“But he must have been here,” I point out. “Maybe he’ll come back. Um, excuse me?” I address a lady in a strappy tank top, who’s standing at the next table. “We’re looking for Raymond Earle. Do you know him? Do you think he’ll come to the tent today?”

“Oh, Raymond,” says the woman, and rolls her eyes slightly. “He was here earlier. He might be along later. But he doesn’t hang around.”

“Thank you. Is that your vase?” I add. “It’s beautiful.”

This is a total lie, as it’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. But I’m thinking we should make a few friends and allies in case we have to tackle Raymond to the ground or anything.

“Why, thank you,” says the woman, and pats it protectively. “I have pieces in the gallery for sale too, if you’re interested.” She points to the gallery, which is at the far end.

“Great!” I say, trying to sound enthused. “I’ll look at those later. So, are you influenced by Pauline Audette too?”

“Pauline Audette?” the woman says sharply. “What is it with this Pauline Audette? I’d never even heard of her before I met Raymond. You know he wrote her in France? Asked her to come and judge the contest? Never heard back, not that he’ll admit it.” Her eyes glitter at me. “You ask me, it’s pretentious.”

“Totally pretentious,” I hastily agree.

“Why do we need a French judge when we have Erica Fromm living right here in Tucson?”

“Erica Fromm.” I nod. “Totally.”

“Do you throw yourself?” She focuses on me with renewed interest.

“Oh…Um…” I can’t bring myself to say a flat no. “Well…a bit. You know, when I have time.”

Which is sort of almost true. I mean, I did pottery at school, and maybe I’ll take it up again. I have a sudden image of myself in a potter’s smock, making some fabulous vase while Luke stands behind me, nuzzling my neck. And of everybody opening their presents on Christmas Day and saying, Wow, Becky, we didn’t realize you were so artistic! I don’t know why I’ve never thought of doing pottery before.

“So…good luck,” I add. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Becky, by the way.”

“Dee.” She shakes my hand and I beat a retreat to Mum, who is looking at a collection of tiny clay dolls.

“Well?” She looks up eagerly. “Did you learn anything?”

“Apparently Raymond might be back later,” I tell her. “We’ll just have to stake out the tent.”

—

It’s Luke who takes charge of the stakeout rota. Mum and Janice will do the first hour, because they both want to look at the pottery anyway. Danny will be on second, but first he’s going to the refreshments tent for a traditional Wilderness iced tea, which is apparently 80 percent bourbon.

“I’ll take Minnie to Toddlerville and buy her a balloon, and we’ll be on third,” says Luke in that commanding way he has. “And, Becky, why don’t you and Suze take the fourth hour? You could just hang out meanwhile. Enjoy the fair together. That OK by you, Suze?”

Oh God. I know exactly what Luke’s doing. He’s trying to push Suze and me together so we can make up. Which is really sweet of him. But I feel like a panda being told to mate with another panda that clearly doesn’t fancy me. Suze looks totally unenthusiastic at the idea of hanging out with me. Her forehead is puckered in a frown, and she shoots me a dark, unfriendly look.

“I don’t mind staking out the tent on my own,” she says. “You and Becky and Minnie should stay together.”

I feel a little stabbing pain in my heart. Is she really that anti-me? She can’t even bear to spend a couple of hours in my company?

“No, it’s better to do it this way,” says Luke briskly. “And as we’re walking round the fair, we can all keep an eye out for Raymond.”

Last night, Luke found a photo of Raymond on a Tucson news website. And I don’t want to boast, but my dad is so much handsomer than all his old friends. If Corey looks plasticky and weird, then Raymond looks ancient. He has these big gray tufty eyebrows, and in the picture he’s frowning at the camera in a really moody way.

“There’s a bit of phone signal,” Luke is saying, “although it’s patchy. So if anyone sees Raymond, immediately text the others. OK?”

As everyone disperses, Luke shoots me a little meaningful look, which I think is supposed to mean Chin up—then he and Minnie disappear into the mêlée. And it’s just Suze and me.

I haven’t been alone with Suze for…I can’t even remember. The sun suddenly seems hot on my head, and my skin feels prickly. I take a few deep breaths, trying to relax. As I glance at Suze, I see she’s staring down at the ground, as though she doesn’t even want to acknowledge my existence. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where to begin.

She’s sitting on a stack of upturned crates, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt and these ancient cowboy boots which she always used to wear in London. They look perfect here, and I want to tell her so, but something’s blocking my throat. As I draw breath to say something—anything—her phone bleeps. She pulls it out, stares at it intently, and closes her eyes.

“Suze?” I say nervously.

“What?” she lashes out. I haven’t even suggested anything yet and she’s being aggressive.

“I just…What do you want to do first?” I pull out the fair guide with trembling fingers. “Shall we go and look at the pigs?”

This is a supreme sacrifice on my part, because I’m actually quite scared of pigs. I mean, I’m not wild about sheep either, but pigs are terrifying. Suze and Tarkie have some on the farm in Hampshire, and honestly, they’re like these malevolent, squealing monsters.

But Suze loves them and gives them all names. And maybe if we go and look at them here, we can bond over how pointy their ears are, or whatever.

“American pigs are probably really interesting,” I persist, as Suze hasn’t replied. “Or sheep? They have all these rare species…or, look, there’s a pygmy-goat event!”

As Suze looks up, her gaze is absent. I don’t think she heard a word.

“Bex, I’ve got to do something,” she says. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK?” She swings her legs off the crates and is instantly gone, hurrying past the ceramics tent and into the crowd.

“Suze?” I stare after her in shock. “Suze?”

She can’t just leave me like that. We’re supposed to be a team. We’re supposed to stick together. Before I stop to think whether this is a good idea or not, I’m following her.

Luckily, Suze is so tall and her hair is so fair, it’s easy to keep track of her, even though the crowds are getting heavier by the minute. She heads determinedly past the rodeo stadium, through the Food Village, past the kids’ petting zoo, and even stalks straight past an arena where a guy is getting his dog to jump through a hoop. She doesn’t even look at all the stalls of cowboy hats and boots and saddles, even though I know she’d normally spend hours stroking them. She’s tense and preoccupied. I can see it in the set of her shoulders. And I can see it in her expression as she finally comes to a stop, in a clearing behind the hog roast.

She leans against a tall wooden post and gets out her phone. She looks worse than preoccupied, I realize with a lurch. She looks desperate. Who’s she texting, Alicia?

As my own phone bleeps, I hastily back away, well out of sight. I’m fully expecting a text from Mum, or Luke, or even Danny—but it’s from Tarquin.

Hi Becky. Just checking in. Is Suze OK?

I stare at the phone in sudden outrage. No, she is not OK. She is not OK! I jab at Tarkie’s number and retreat into a tent full of homemade preserves.

“Becky?” Tarquin sounds surprised I’ve phoned. “Everything all right?”

“Tarkie, do you have any idea what we’re going through?” I practically scream. “Suze is utterly miserable, we’re staking out some guy at a county fair, my mum has no idea what my dad’s been up to—”

“You’re not still on that, are you?” Tarquin sounds shocked.

“Of course we are!”

“Can’t you give your dad some privacy, for God’s sake?” Tarquin sounds quite angry. “Can’t you trust him?”

I’m drawn up short. I hadn’t thought of it like that. And just for a moment, I feel chastened—until my blood starts boiling again. It’s all very well for these blokes to rush off on their mission, thinking they’re all cool and hero-like. What about those of us left behind, who thought they were dead?

“Couldn’t he trust my mum?” I counter furiously. “Couldn’t you trust Suze? You’re married! You should share things!”

There’s silence, and I know I’ve touched a nerve. I want to say more. I want to wail, Be happy with Suze! Be happy!

But you can’t interfere in another couple’s relationship. It’s like trying to step inside a cloud. The whole thing kind of dissipates, till you get back out again.

“Anyway, you can’t follow us anymore,” says Tarkie, after a painful pause. “The three of us have split up. There’s nothing to follow.”

“You’ve split up?” I stare at the phone. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve all gone our separate ways. I’m helping your dad out with…” He hesitates. “Something. He’s doing his own thing. Bryce has disappeared, God knows where.”

“Bryce has disappeared?” I say in shock.

“Left last night. No idea where.”

“Oh, right.”

I feel totally wrong-footed. After all that. Bryce hasn’t ensnared Tarquin in his evil plan at all. He hasn’t brainwashed him or fleeced him or even made him start selling time-shares. He’s just buggered off.

“Becky, go back to L.A.,” says Tarquin, as though reading my mind. “Call off the search. Give it up.”

“But we might be able to help you,” I persist. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

Let us in! I feel like shouting. Please!

“We don’t need your help,” says Tarquin adamantly. “Tell Suze I’m OK. I’m helping your dad. I’m feeling useful for the first time in…forever. I’m going to do this, OK? And I don’t need any interference from you or Suze. Bye, Becky.”

And with that, he rings off. I’ve never felt so powerless in my life. I want to cry with frustration, or at least savagely kick a barrel.

OK, it turns out savagely kicking a barrel didn’t make me feel any better. (I’m wearing flip-flops, and barrels are really hard.) Nor did pounding a fist into my palm like they do in the movies. (I’ve never understood the appeal of boxing, and now I understand it even less. My hand hurts just from me punching it. Imagine if it was someone else and you couldn’t tell them to stop.)

The only thing that will make me feel better, I realize, is talking to Suze. I need to tell her about Tarkie’s calls. I have to tell her that he’s safe and away from Bryce. This is a matter of urgency, and I must be brave and not shy away from the task.

But as I creep out of the preserves tent, I feel a swoop of nerves. Suze looks about as approachable as a lioness who’s guarding her cubs, the family food, and the crown jewels, all at once. She’s prowling around the clearing, her phone grasped in her right hand, her brows lowered, and her eyes flitting from side to side.

I’ve started to rehearse possible casual conversational openers in my mind—Gosh, Suze, fancy bumping into you here—when she stops dead. She’s standing still, watching alertly. Waiting for something. What?

A moment later I can see what she can see coming toward her, and I gasp so strongly, I nearly black out. No. I must be hallucinating. I can’t be seeing what I’m seeing. But the tall, loping figure is unmistakable.

It’s Bryce.

Bryce. Himself. Here. At the Wilderness County Fair.

My jaw sags as I watch him approach Suze. He’s as good-looking and burnished as ever, wearing cutoffs and flip-flops. He looks easy and relaxed, whereas Suze looks absolutely desperate. But she doesn’t look surprised to see him. Clearly this was all prearranged. But…what?

I mean, what?

How can Suze be meeting Bryce? How?

We’ve been chasing Bryce. We’ve been worrying about what Bryce was up to. We’ve been talking about Bryce, trying to get inside his mind, practically believing he was a serial killer. Was Suze in touch with him all along?

Inside, I’m whimpering with confusion. I want to cry out, Whaaaaat? Explain! I want to barge up and say, You can’t do this!

But all I can do is watch mutely as they have some kind of conversation I can’t hear. Suze’s arms are crossed protectively across her body and she’s talking in short, jabbing sentences, whereas Bryce looks as calm and laid-back as he always did. I half-expect to see him produce a volleyball and start bouncing it around.

At last they seem to come to some conclusion. Bryce gives a single nod, then puts a hand on Suze’s arm. She shakes it off with such ferocity that even I jump, and Bryce gives a shrug. He seems quite amused. Then he lopes away, through the crowd, and Suze is left alone.

She slumps down on a nearby decorative hay bale, her head bowed, looking so despairing that a couple of passersby give her mildly concerned looks. She’s in such a trance that I almost don’t dare disturb her. Something tells me she’s going to lash out at me even more viciously when she realizes I saw her with Bryce.

But I have to. This isn’t just about our friendship anymore. This is about everything.

I step forward resolutely, one foot in front of the other, and wait till she looks up. Her head jerks, and for a moment she looks like a cornered animal. Every muscle in her body is tense. Her eyes dart about frantically, as though to check whether anyone else is with me—then, as she accepts I’m alone, they gradually settle back on me.

“Suze…” I begin, but my voice comes out all husky and I don’t quite know where I’m going.

“Did you…” She swallows, as though she can’t bring herself to say it, and I nod.

“Suze—”

“Don’t.” She cuts me off, her voice trembling. Her eyes are bloodshot. She looks ill, I think suddenly. Ill with worry. And it’s not because she thinks Tarkie’s unsafe. It’s something else, something she’s been keeping from all of us.

For what seems like an age, we just look at each other, and it’s almost as if we’re having a silent conversation.

I wish you’d talked to me.

I do too.

Things have got pretty bad, haven’t they?

Yes.

So let’s sort it out.

I can see Suze’s defenses lowering, little by little. Her shoulders slowly drop. Her jaw relaxes. She meets my eye properly for the first time in ages, and I feel a horrible pang at how desperate she looks.

But there’s something else going on here. There’s a kind of shift in the balance between us. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the one to get in scrapes and Suze has been the one to help me out of them. It’s just the way we are. Now, though, things feel reversed. I don’t know exactly what’s been going on—but I do know something: Suze is in a big old mess.

I have a zillion questions I want to fire at her, but I think she needs to calm down a bit first.

“C’mon,” I say. “I don’t care what time in the morning it is, we need a titchy.”

I lead her into the tequila-tasting tent, and she meekly follows, her face downcast. I order tequila shots and hand her one. Then I face her full-on, with a businesslike look, and say, “OK, Suze. You need to tell me everything. What’s up with you and Bryce?”

And of course, as soon as I see her face, I know.

I mean, I pretty much knew as soon as I saw him appear. But it’s seeing her face which drives a kind of dagger blow into my heart. “Suze, you didn’t.”

“No!” she says, as though I’ve scalded her. “Not completely…”

“What’s not completely?”

“I…we…” She looks around the bar. “Shall we find a better place to sit?”

“Suze. Just tell me.” There’s a lump in my throat. “Have you been unfaithful to Tarkie?”

I’m having a flashback to their wedding. Suze looked so radiant and beautiful. She and Tarkie were so hopeful and optimistic. We were all so hopeful and optimistic.

And, OK, Tarkie may be a bit weird at times. He may have odd taste in clothes. And music. And everything. But there’s no way he’d ever be unfaithful to Suze, no way. The thought of how hurt he’d be if he found out is bringing tears to my eyes.

“I…” Her hands flutter round her throat. “What counts as unfaithful? Kissing?”

“You only kissed?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did you—”

“No!” She hesitates. “Not exactly.”

There’s a pause, while my imagination gallops round several assorted scenarios.

“Did you feel unfaithful?”

There’s another long pause. And suddenly there are tears in Suze’s eyes too.

“Yes,” she says, with a wretched defiance. “Yes. I wanted to be. I’d had enough. Tarkie was so miserable, and everything was so difficult in England, and Bryce was all fresh and positive and…you know…”

“Sex-god-like.”

I can remember Suze and Bryce meeting for the first time and thinking that there was a spark between them. But never in a million years did I think…

It just goes to show: I’m not suspicious enough. That’s it. I’m never trusting anything again. I expect everyone’s having affairs with everyone else and I just haven’t noticed.

“Exactly,” Suze is saying. “He was so different. So confident about everything.”

“So when did you…” My mind is spooling back, trying to work it out. “I mean, you didn’t go to Golden Peace that much….Was it in the evenings?”

“Don’t ask me when!” Suze cries out in anguish. “Don’t ask me for dates and times and places! It was a mistake, OK! I realize that now. But it’s too late. He’s got me.”

“What do you mean, he’s got you?”

“He wants money,” says Suze flatly. “Lots of it.”

“You’re not giving it to him, are you?” I stare at her.

“What else can I do?”

“Suze! You mustn’t!” I feel almost faint with horror. “You mustn’t give him anything!”

“But he’ll tell Tarkie!” Tears start pouring down Suze’s face. “And my marriage will be over….The children…” She stares into her tequila glass. “Bex, I’ve screwed up my whole life and I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell anyone. I’ve been so lonely.”

I feel a tweak of hurt. Well, possibly indignation. Well, possibly anger.

“You could have told me,” I say, trying to sound calm, as opposed to hurt and indignant and angry. “You could always have confided in me, Suze.”

“No, I couldn’t! You and Luke have this perfect relationship. You would never have understood.”

What? How can she say that?

“We nearly split up in L.A.!” I retort in disbelief. “We had a terrible row and Luke went home to England and I didn’t know if he’d even come back. So I think I might have understood. If you’d given me a chance.”

“Oh.” Suze wipes her eyes. “Well…Oh. I didn’t know things were so bad.”

“I tried to tell you, but you weren’t interested! You shut me out!”

“Well, you shut me out!”

We’re gazing at each other, breathing hard, both with flushed cheeks and tequila glasses clutched in our hands. I feel as if finally I’m peeling away the layers and saying to Suze what I really want to say.

“OK, Suze, maybe I did shut you out.” My words erupt. “Maybe I did get it wrong in L.A. But you know what? I’ve said sorry a zillion times, I’ve come with you on this trip, I’m doing my best—and you haven’t even looked at me. You won’t talk to me, you won’t meet my eye, all you do is criticize me. All you care about is Alicia. But I’m supposed to be your friend.” A mountain of old hurt is rising through me, and my eyes are suddenly hot with tears. “I’m supposed to be your friend, Suze.”

“I know,” she whispers, staring into her glass. “I know you are.”

“So why are you treating me like this?” I wipe roughly at my face. “And I’m not making it up. Luke’s noticed it too.”

“Oh God.” Suze looks more anguished than ever. “I know. I’ve been so horrible. But I couldn’t even look at you.”

“Why not?” I feel so agitated, I’m practically shouting. “Why not?”

“Because I knew you’d guess everything!” she bursts out. “You know me, Bex. Alicia doesn’t. I can get away with pretending when I’m with Alicia.” As she raises her head, she’s properly crying. I mean, her face is blotchy red and her nose is running and everything. “I can’t keep anything from you.”

“You kept Bryce from me,” I point out.

“By avoiding you. Oh God, Bex.” Suze clutches her hair. “I’ve been in such a state for so long….I wish I’d told you from the start….”

I’ve never seen Suze look so piteous. She seems kind of smaller, and all her Suze-ebullience has gone. Her face is drawn and her hair is all greasy underneath the extensions.

“What if my marriage ends, Bex?” she gulps, and I feel an answering thud of dread in my chest.

“It won’t. Suze, it’ll be OK.” I fling my arms round her. “Don’t cry. We’ll work it out.”

“I’ve been so stupid,” Suze sobs. “Soooooo stupid. Haven’t I?”

But I don’t say anything in return. I just hug her tighter.

I’ve been stupid before. I’ve had things catch up with me before. And Suze has never been mean or told me off. She’s always been supportive. So that’s what I’ll be too.

As we sit there, letting the Mexican music wash over us, I’m thinking back to when things first started going wrong between Suze and me. I thought it was all my fault. I thought it was because of me and my preoccupations. It never occurred to me that she might have a preoccupation of her own.

“Oh my God.” I look up as it hits me. “That’s why you’ve been so desperate to get Tarkie away from Bryce. In case Bryce tells him.”

“That was part of it,” Suze admits.

“Wait.” I give a tiny gasp. “Did you invent the whole brainwashing thing?”

“No! I was genuinely worried about Tarkie!” says Suze defensively. “He’s really vulnerable. And Bryce is an evil, manipulative—” She stops herself and takes a deep breath. “He’s after money wherever he can get it. At first he thought Tarkie had all the money, so he went after him. Then he worked out I have my own money too, so he…Well.” She swallows. “He moved on to me.”

“You can’t give him any. You do know that.” Suze doesn’t react, and I eye her sternly. “You do know that, don’t you, Suze? What have you said to him?”

“I’ve said I’ll meet him at seven P.M. and give him some money,” mumbles Suze.

“Suze!”

“Well, what else can I do?”

“If you pay him once, he’ll have you in his power forever. Never give in to a blackmailer. Everyone knows that.”

“But what if he tells Tarkie?” Suze puts down her empty shot glass and thrusts her hands through her hair again. “Bex, what if I’ve really fucked up? What if Tarkie and I split up? What about the children?” Her voice is trembling. “I’ve jeopardized my whole life, everything….”

A guy from the Mexican band comes up and shakes his maracas at Suze with a beaming smile on his face. He offers her one to shake too, but he’s picked the wrong girl.

“Leave me alone!” yells Suze, and the maracas man backs away, startled.

For a while we both sit there in silence. My head is spinning a bit, and it’s not just from the tequila. I still have a zillion questions for Suze, like, Who made the first move? and What do you mean, “not exactly”? But I can’t start quizzing her now. The important thing is to get rid of Bryce.

“Suze, Tarkie won’t leave you,” I say abruptly.

“Why wouldn’t he? I’d leave me.” She looks up with miserable eyes. “I can be a real nightmare. I lose my temper with him and I say all kinds of frightful things….”

“I know,” I say awkwardly. “He told me. Look, Suze, you should know something. I’ve been in contact with Tarkie without telling you.”

Her eyes spark in shock and she draws a long breath. For an awful moment I think she’s going to shout at me. But then she exhales and the rage sort of subsides.

“Right,” she says at last. “I might have known. And he said, My wife’s a bitch.”

“No! Of course he didn’t!” I try to think of how to put it tactfully. “He said…um…you’d had difficulties.”

“Difficulties!” She gives a short, bitter laugh.

“No, but listen, Suze,” I continue eagerly. “It’s all good. Tarquin’s far stronger than you think. He’s separated from my dad now, he’s doing his own thing to help, and he sounds really positive. I don’t reckon Bryce brainwashed him at all. I think the reason he was so bad-tempered in L.A. was…other things.”

“Me.”

“Not just you. The whole situation. But now he’s got away…he feels useful…I think he’s in a better place.”

Suze is silent for a moment, mulling this over.

“Tarkie adores your dad,” she says at last. “Your dad is the father he would have loved to have had.”

“I know.”

“Did he say what they’re doing?”

“Of course not.” I roll my eyes. “He told me to give my dad some privacy and go back to L.A.”

“Maybe he’s got a point.” Suze draws her feet up onto her barstool and wraps her arms round her knees. “I mean, what are we doing? What are we all doing?”

I think this is one of those questions that you don’t actually reply to. So, instead of saying, We’re tracking Tarkie because you told us to, Suze, I just sip my tequila.

“I feel like I’ve been in this horrible crazy place,” Suze says suddenly. “And I took it out on you, Bex.”

“No, you didn’t.” I shrug, feeling embarrassed.

“I did.” She gazes at me with huge, miserable eyes. “I’ve been hateful. I can’t believe you’re still talking to me.”

“Well…” I hesitate, trying to find the words. “You’re my friend. And I was pretty hateful in L.A. We’ve both been hateful.”

“I was more hateful,” says Suze emphatically. “Because I tried to make you feel guilty all the time. But what was I doing? What was I doing?” Her voice rises in distress and fresh tears start flooding down her face. “It’s been a kind of madness. Ever since I came out to L.A., I felt like I wanted to escape my boring old British life. But now I’d give anything to…” She trails off and scrubs at her eyes. “I’d give anything for…”

“You can have your life back,” I say firmly. “But first you have to not give any money to Bryce.”

Suze is silent for a while, twisting her hands round and round.

“But what if he tells Tarkie?” she whispers at last.

“You can’t wait for that.” I steel myself to say what I know is right. “Suze, you have to tell Tarkie yourself. As soon as possible.”

As she gazes back at me, she looks utterly ill. But after what feels like about half an hour, she nods.

—

I think I feel nearly as sick as Suze does. I’ve had to admit plenty of awkward things to Luke over the years, like when I sold his six Tiffany clocks on eBay without telling him. But selling Tiffany clocks and kissing another man aren’t even in the same category.

And when I say “kissing,” I’m being kind to Suze, because it was obviously far more than kissing. (Although exactly what? She still won’t tell me, and I’m obviously too mature to ask her to draw a stick diagram. I’ll just have to use my imagination.)

(Actually, no, don’t do that. Urgh. Bad imagination.)

We’ve agreed that I’ll make the call and then pass the phone over to her, and as I press the speed-dial button, my heart is pumping.

“Tarkie!” I say fiercely as soon as he answers. “Listen. You have to talk to Suze right now, and if you don’t, I’m never speaking to you again, and when I tell my dad, he won’t either. This is stupid. You can’t keep phoning me and avoiding Suze. She’s your wife. And she has some very important things to say.”

There’s silence on the other end, then Tarkie says, “OK, put her on.” He sounds a bit chastened, actually.

I pass the phone to Suze, then retreat. I was half-hoping Suze would ask me to stay with her, so I could press my ear to the back of the phone and hear Tarkie’s side of the conversation. But she said she had to talk in private.

Which…you know. It’s her marriage and everything. Although I would have been very helpful and given her Dutch courage and prompted her when she ran out of words. I’m just saying.

Anyway, it’s fine. She’s gone outside the tent and I’m sitting by the Mexican band, drinking a Diet Coke to dilute the tequila. A guy in a poncho handed me a tambourine a few moments ago, and he looked so eager I didn’t have the heart to say no. So I’m banging it and singing in what I think is pretty good Spanish (“Aheya-aheya-aheya-aheya”) and trying not to picture Suze and Tarquin standing on the steps of a divorce court, when suddenly there she is, back again.

My heart gives this almighty swoop and my tambourine falls limply to my side. She’s standing by the flap of the tent, her face flushed, breathing hard, looking totally freaked out.

“What happened?” I venture as she approaches. “Suze, are you OK?”

“Bex, the trees on our estate,” she mutters feverishly. “The trees. Do you remember anything about them? Anything at all?”

Trees? What is she going on about?

“Um, no,” I say cautiously. “I don’t know anything about trees. Suze, focus. What happened? How were things left?”

“I don’t know.” She’s looking bleak.

“You don’t know?” I stare at her. “How can you not know? What did he say?”

“We talked. I told him. I mean, he didn’t quite understand to begin with….” She rubs her nose.

OK, I can just imagine the conversation. Suze saying, I’ve had this dreadful thing happen, Tarkie, and Tarkie thinking she’s lost her mascara.

“Did you actually tell him?” I demand severely. “Does he actually know what’s happened?”

“Yes.” She swallows. “Yes, he…he got it in the end. I mean, the signal was pretty patchy.”

“And?”

“He was really shocked. I think I’d kidded myself he might have guessed…but he hadn’t.”

Honestly. Of course he hadn’t guessed. This is Tarkie. Only I don’t say this to Suze, because she’s in full flight.

“I kept saying I was sorry and it wasn’t as bad as he probably imagined”—Suze gulps—“and that I couldn’t, you know, bring myself to go the whole way with Bryce, and he said, Was he supposed to be grateful for that?”

Good point, Tarkie, I think silently. Although also: Good point, Suze. I mean, she wasn’t actually unfaithful, was she? In the legal sense.

(Is there a legal sense? I must ask Luke; he’ll know.)

(Actually, no, I won’t ask Luke or he’ll wonder why I want to know, and that could lead to all sorts of misunderstandings, which I really don’t need right now.)

“Anyway, in the end I said we need to meet up and talk, as soon as possible,” Suze continues, her voice quivering. “And he said no.”

“No?” I gape at her.

“He said he was doing something very important for your dad and he wasn’t going to interrupt it. And then the signal finally went. So.” Suze shrugs, as though she’s not bothered, but I can see her hands clenching and unclenching nervously.

“So that was the end of the conversation?” I say disbelievingly.

“Yes.”

“So you don’t know how things stand?”

“Not really.” She sinks onto a barstool next to me and I gaze at her, feeling slightly dumbstruck. This is all wrong. The whole point of ringing your husband for a full and frank confession is that you talk everything through, and by the end you’re either going to split up or you’ve made up.

I mean, isn’t it?

The trouble with Tarkie is, he doesn’t watch TV, so he has no idea how these things go.

“Suze, you need to buy some box sets,” I say fervently. “Tarkie has no point of reference.”

“I know. He didn’t say anything like I thought he would.”

“Did he say he needed some space?”

“No.”

“Did he say, How can I trust anything you say now?”

“No.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“He said he could understand me being tempted by Bryce and he’d fallen under Bryce’s spell too…”

“Very true.” I nod.

“…but we were Cleath-Stuarts, and Cleath-Stuarts don’t compromise; it’s all or nothing.”

“All or nothing?” I pull a face. “What did he mean by that?”

“I don’t know!” wails Suze. “He wasn’t clear. And then he started talking about this famous tree we have on the Letherby estate, Owl’s Tower.” The freaked-out look returns to her eyes. “You know how all our biggest trees have names?”

I do know. In Suze’s spare room, there’s a booklet about the trees, and I have tried to read it, except I fall asleep every time I reach Lord Henry Cleath-Stuart bringing back seeds from India in 1873.

“Talking about a tree is good!” I exclaim encouragingly. “It’s a very good sign. It says, I want our marriage to last. Suze, if he’s talking about trees, I think you’re OK.”

“You don’t understand!” wails Suze again. “I don’t know which tree Owl’s Tower is! We’ve got millions of trees called Owl’s Something. And there was one really famous one which was struck by lightning and died. He might be talking about that one.”

“Oh God.” I stare at her, my confidence slightly dented. “Really?”

“Maybe Tarkie’s saying that Bryce is the lightning bolt and now our marriage is a charred stump with smoke rising from it.” Suze’s voice quivers.

“But maybe he’s not,” I counter. “Maybe Owl’s Tower is some really healthy oak which is still standing after lots of trials and tribulations. Didn’t you ask him which tree it was?”

Suze looks more agonized than ever.

“I couldn’t admit I didn’t know,” she says in a small voice. “Tarkie always says I should take more interest in the trees on the estate. So last year I told him I’d been round with the head groundsman and it was all really interesting.”

“Had you?”

“No,” she whispers, and buries her head in her hands. “I went riding instead.”

“Let me get this straight.” I put my tambourine down on the bar, because you can’t think properly with a tambourine in your hand. “Tarkie thought he was giving you a coded message that you would understand due to your shared love of the family trees.”

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t the foggiest what he meant.”

“No.”

Honestly. This is the trouble with living in a stately home with great poetic symbols everywhere. If they lived in a normal house with one apple tree and a privet hedge, there’d be none of this hoo-ha.

“OK,” I say firmly. “Suze, you need to find out which tree Owl’s Tower is. Phone your parents, phone his parents, phone your head groundsman—anyone!”

“I already have,” admits Suze. “I’ve left them all messages.”

“So what do we do now?”

“I don’t know. Wait.”

I can’t quite believe this. Basically Suze’s marriage is either over or not, depending on a tree. This is so bloody Tarquin.

Although I suppose it could have been worse. It could have been the plot of a Wagner opera.

Suze gets down from her barstool and starts pacing round on the spot, nibbling her fingers and checking her phone about every two seconds. Her eyes are wild and she’s muttering to herself, “Is it the chestnut? Maybe it’s that big ash.” She’s going to drive herself insane like this.

“Look, Suze.” I try to grab her arm, but miss. “Calm down. There’s nothing you can do now. You need to think of something else. Let’s go and look at the fair. Suze, please,” I beg, making another swipe at her arm. “You’ve had a really stressful time. It’s not good for you. It’s all cortisol and stuff in your veins. It’s poison!”

I learned this at Golden Peace. In fact, I went to a whole series of classes called Limit Your Stress Levels, which would have been really useful if I hadn’t always arrived late after yoga and spent the whole class feeling totally hassled. (I actually think I’d have felt less stressed if I hadn’t gone to the class.)

“OK,” says Suze at last, still pacing. “OK. Maybe I should try to get my mind off things.”

“Exactly! Look, we’ve got ages till we’re on duty in the ceramics tent. Let’s go and find a distraction.”

“Right.” Suze stops pacing, but her eyes are still wild. “You’re right. What shall we do? I wonder if I can borrow a horse. I could enter some events. I’ve never done a rodeo before.”

A rodeo? Is she nuts?

“Er…maybe!” I say warily. “I was actually thinking more like wander round? Look at the displays? They’ve got chickens, you know.”

Suze has always had a soft spot for chickens (which I understand even less than the pig thing). I unfold my guide and I’m about to tell her some of the breeds, when her eyes light up.

“I know.” She clasps hold of my arm and marches me off. “I’ve got it.”

“Where are we going?” I protest.

“You’ll see.”

—

Suze seems so determined, there’s no point arguing. And at least she’s stopped nibbling her fingers like a madwoman. We skirt round all the food tents, wind our way through the livestock arenas, and pass the Creative Village. (We pass it twice, in fact. I think Suze gets a bit lost, not that she’ll admit it.)

“Here we are.” Suze draws up at last in front of a tent with a sign reading HEEL TO TOE. I can hear “Sweet Home Alabama” being played on the sound system inside.

“What’s this?” I say blankly.

“We’re buying boots,” says Suze. “We’re at a proper county fair, so we need proper cowboy boots.” She sweeps me inside the tent and I inhale a solid smell of leather. In fact, I’m so overcome by the smell, it takes me a moment to register the spectacular sight before me.

“Oh my God,” I stutter at last.

“Isn’t it just…” Suze seems as overwhelmed as I am.

We’re standing arm in arm, staring upward in total awe like a pair of pilgrims at the holy shrine.

I mean, I’ve seen cowboy boots for sale, plenty of times. You know. A shelf here and there. But I’ve never seen anything like this. The racks reach the top of the tent. Each rack has about fifteen shelves, and each one is covered in boots. There are brown boots and black boots, pink ones and aquamarine ones. Some have rhinestones. Some have embroidery. Some have rhinestones and embroidery. Under a sign reading LUXURY BOOTS, there’s a white pair with inlaid python print, which cost five hundred dollars, and a pair made from pale-blue ostrich leather, which cost seven hundred. There’s even a black pair which are thigh high and marked Latest Fashion but they look a bit weird, to be honest.

It’s all so dazzling, neither of us can quite speak. Suze takes off her old brown cowboy boots, which she got in Covent Garden, and slips on a pair of pink and white boots from the rack. With her blue jeans and blond hair they look amazing.

“Or look at these.” I grab her a pale-tan pair with delicate rhinestones tracing a pattern up the sides.

“They’re beautiful.” Suze practically swoons in lust.

“Or these!” I’ve found a dramatic pair of black-and-dark-brown leather boots, which smell all rich and dark and saddley. “For winter?”

It’s like gorging on chocolates. Every pair is more alluring and delicious. For about twenty minutes I do nothing but chuck boots at Suze and watch as she models them. Her legs look endless and she keeps swishing her hair around and saying, “I wish I had Caramel here.”

(Caramel is her latest horse. And I have to say, I’m very glad she doesn’t have him here, if she’s thinking of riding in a rodeo.)

At last she’s narrowed it down to the tan boots with rhinestones and a black pair with amazing white embroidery. I bet she buys both.

“Hang on.” Her chin suddenly jerks up. “Bex, what about you? Why aren’t you trying any on?”

“Oh,” I say, caught out. “Actually, I don’t really feel like it.”

“Don’t feel like it?” Suze stares at me, puzzled. “What, trying on boots?”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“Not at all?”

“Well…no.” I gesture at the boots. “But you carry on.”

“I don’t want to carry on.” Suze seems a bit crestfallen. “I wanted to buy us both a pair of boots. You know, to make up. To be friends again. But if you don’t want to—”

“No, I do! That would be lovely,” I say hastily.

I can’t hurt Suze. But I’m feeling that same weird, twisting-in-my-stomach feeling as before. Trying to ignore it, I take a pair of boots off the nearest rack and Suze hands me some socks.

“These are nice.” I slip them on. They’re brown with a black laser-cut design and fit me perfectly. “Good size too. There we are. Done.” I try to smile.

Suze stands in her socks, holding two pairs of boots in her hands, her eyes narrowed.

“That’s it?”

“Er…yes.”

“Aren’t you going to try any more on?”

“Well…” I run my eyes over the boots, trying to feel like I used to. Boots! I tell myself. Suze wants to buy me some cool boots! Yay!

But it all feels false to my own ears. When it’s Suze trying them on, I get all excited for her—but when it’s me, somehow it’s different. To show willing, I quickly pull down a turquoise pair and slide my feet inside. “These are nice too.”

“Nice?”

“I mean…” I cast around for the right word. “Gorgeous. They’re gorgeous.” I nod, trying to look enthusiastic.

“Bex, stop it!” says Suze in distress. “Be normal! Be excited!”

“I am excited!” I retort—but even I can tell I’m not convincing.

“What’s happened to you?” Suze gazes at me, her face pink with agitation.

“Nothing!”

“It has! You’ve gone strange! You’ve gone all—” She stops herself suddenly. “Wait. Are you in debt, Bex? Because I’m paying for this—”

“No, I’m not in debt, for once. Look…” I rub my face. “I’ve slightly gone off shopping. That’s all.”

“You’ve gone off shopping?” Suze drops both pairs of boots with a thud.

“Just a bit. You know. For myself. I mean, I love buying Minnie things, and Luke….Look, you buy yourself a pair of boots.” I smile at her. “I’ll get some another time.” I pick up the boots she dropped and proffer them. “They look fabulous.”

But Suze doesn’t move a muscle. She’s staring at me warily.

“Bex, what’s up?” she asks at last.

“Nothing,” I answer at once. “I just—you know. Everything’s been a bit stressy, I suppose….”

“You seem flat,” she says slowly. “I didn’t notice it before. I’ve been too wrapped up in—” She halts. “I wasn’t taking notice of you.”

“There’s nothing to take notice of. Look, Suze, I’m fine.”

There’s silence. Suze is still regarding me with that wary look. Then she comes over, grabs my arms, and stares into my face.

“OK, Bex, what do you want most of all in life right now? Not only things, but, like, experiences. A holiday. A job. An ambition—anything!”

“I…well…”

I try to summon up some kind of desire. But it’s weird. It’s like that place inside me is hollow.

“I just want…everyone to be healthy,” I say lamely. “World peace. You know. Usual stuff.”

“You’re not right.” Suze releases my arms. “I don’t know what’s up with you.”

“What, because I don’t want a pair of cowboy boots?”

“No! Because nothing’s driving you.” She peers at me in distress. “You’ve always had this…this energy. This engine. Where’s it gone? What are you enthusiastic about right now?”

I don’t say anything, but inside, something’s quailing. Last time I was enthusiastic about something, it nearly cost me all my relationships.

“Dunno.” I shrug, avoiding her eye.

“Think. What do you want? Bex, we’re being honest with each other.”

“Well,” I say, after a gigantic pause. “I suppose…”

“What? Bex, talk to me.”

“Well,” I say again, and give an awkward shrug. “I suppose most of all I’d like another baby one day. But it hasn’t happened. So. I mean, maybe it’ll never happen. But whatever.” I clear my throat. “You know. It’s no big deal.”

I raise my eyes to see Suze gazing at me, stricken.

“Bex, I didn’t realize. You’ve never said anything.”

“Well, I don’t go on about it.” I roll my eyes and take a few steps away. I don’t want any sympathy. In fact, I should never have mentioned it.

“Bex—”

“No.” I shake my head. “Stop it. Honestly. It’s all good.”

We walk on a little, neither speaking, into an adjoining tent, which is full of leather accessories laid out on tables.

“So…what are you guys going to do after this?” says Suze at last, as though she’s thinking this all through for the first time. “Is Luke going back to the UK?”

“Yes.” I nod. “When we’ve finished this trip, we’ll pack up and go back. I suppose I’ll try to get a job in England. Although I don’t know if I’ll find one. It’s pretty tough out there, you know.” I pick up a plaited leather belt, look at it blankly, and put it down again.

“I wish you’d made it as a Hollywood stylist,” says Suze wistfully, and I feel so shocked I actually lurch against the table.

“No, you don’t! You gave me a hard time about it!”

“I did at the time.” Suze chews her lip. “But I’d love to have seen your name on a cinema screen. I’d have been so proud.”

“Well. All that’s over.” I look away, my face set. It’s still quite painful to think about. “And I don’t have a job to go back to.”

“You can pick up your career in England. Easy!”

“Maybe.”

I walk over to another stall, away from her penetrating eyes. I don’t want Suze getting under my protective shell. I feel too sore inside. And I think she senses this, because when she comes over, all she says is, “D’you want one of these?”

She holds up the most hideous leather necklace, decorated with wine corks.

“No,” I say firmly.

“Thank God. Because that would worry me.”

Her eyes are dancing comically, and I can’t help giving a little smile. I’ve missed Suze. The old Suze. I miss the old us.

I mean, it’s wonderful being a grown-up wife and mother and all of it. It’s fulfilling. It’s joyful. But sometimes I’d love to be drunk on a Saturday night, watching Dirty Dancing and deciding to dye our hair blue.

“Suze, d’you remember when we were single, in our flat?” I say abruptly. “D’you remember when I tried to cook you curry? And neither of us was anywhere near getting married. Let alone having children.”

“Let alone committing adultery,” Suze puts in heavily.

“Don’t think about that! I was just wondering…is this what you thought married life would be like?”

“Dunno,” she says, after mulling it over for a while. “No, not really. What about you?”

“I thought it would be simpler,” I admit. “My mum and dad always made it seem so easy. You know, Sunday lunch, rounds of golf, glasses of sherry—everything was so calm and ordered and sensible. But now look at them. Look at us. It’s all so stressy.”

“You’re OK,” says Suze at once. “You and Luke are fine.”

“Well, you and Tarkie will be fine too,” I reply as robustly as I can. “I’m sure of it.”

“And what about us?” Suze’s face is uneasy. “Bex, I’ve been so mean to you.”

“No, you haven’t!” I say at once. “I mean…we’re…it’s—”

I break off, my face hot. I don’t know what to say. I know Suze is being all warm and lovely now—but what about when Alicia comes back? Will I be left out again?

“Friendships move on.” I try to sound bright. “Whatever.”

“Move on?” Suze sounds shocked.

“Well, you know,” I say awkwardly. “You’re better friends with Alicia now….”

“I’m not! Oh God…” Suze shuts her eyes, looking agonized. “I’ve been obnoxious. I just felt so guilty…but it came out wrong. It came out as being horrible.” Her blue eyes pop open. “Bex, Alicia’s not my best friend. She could never be my best friend. You are. At least…I hope you still are.” She comes to face me, head on, her eyes all anxious. “Aren’t you?”

My throat is tight as I stare back at her familiar face. I feel like a cord is being untied from my chest. Something that had been hurting for so long that I’d kind of got used to it is being released.

“Bex?” Suze tries again.

“If I phoned you up at three A.M….” My voice is suddenly small. “Would you answer?”

“I’d come straight round,” Suze replies forthrightly. “I’d be there. Whatever you needed, I’d do it.” Tears are glistening in her eyes. “And I don’t have to ask you the same, because when I was in trouble you came. You’re here.”

“It wasn’t three A.M., though,” I say, to be fair. “More like eight P.M.”

“Same thing.” Suze gives me a push, and I laugh, although I almost feel like crying. I’d felt unmoored, losing Suze. And now I have her back. I think I have her back.

I take a step away, trying to gather myself. Then, on impulse, I pick up an ugly leather bracelet decorated with beer-bottle tops—it’s even worse than the wine-cork necklace—and hold it out to Suze, deadpan. “You know what? You’d really suit this.”

“Is that right?” counters Suze, her eyes sparkling. “Well, you’d look divine in this.” She picks up a hairband covered in lurid fake grapes, and we both snuffle with laughter. I’m just searching for the worst possible thing I can find on the table, when my eye is distracted by a familiar figure coming through the tent.

“Hey, Luke!” I wave an arm. “Over here! Any news from Mum?”

“Mummy!” yells Minnie, who is dragging on Luke’s arm. “Sheep!”

“No news that I know of,” says Luke over the noise. “How’s it going?” He greets me with a kiss, then his gaze travels from me to Suze and back again. I can see the question in his eyes: Have you two made up?

“All good,” I say emphatically. “I mean, not all good, but…you know.”

Good apart from Suze being blackmailed by her secret lover and possibly facing the end of her marriage, I try to convey with my eyes, but I’m not sure he gets it.

“Luke, have you ever been round the trees at Letherby Hall?” Suze asks, the tense tone suddenly back in her voice. “Or has Tarkie told you about them? Do you remember one called Owl’s Tower?”

“Um, no. Sorry.” Luke seems a bit puzzled at the non sequitur, as well he might be.

“Right.” Suze slumps.

“I’ll explain later,” I say. “Er…Suze, you don’t mind me telling Luke, do you? About…everything?”

A pink flush whips over Suze’s face, and she stares at the ground.

“I suppose not,” she says morosely. “But not in front of me. I’d die.”

What? Luke mouths at me.

Later, I mouth back.

“Sheep!” Minnie is still yelling passionately. “Sheeeeeep!” She’s dragging on Luke’s arm so hard, he winces.

“Wait, Minnie! We need to talk to Mummy first.”

“What does she want? Does she want to buy a sheep?”

“She wants to ride on a sheep,” says Luke with a grin. “That’s what mutton bustin’ is. Small children riding on sheep. It’s in the arena.”

“No way.” I goggle at him. “They ride on sheep? Is that a thing?”

“Well, ‘cling on for dear life’ more than ‘ride.’ ” He laughs. “It’s quite comical.”

“Oh my God.” I stare at him in horror. “Minnie, darling, you’re not doing that. We’ll buy you a lovely toy sheep instead.” I put a hand on Minnie’s arm, but she bats it away.

“Ride sheeeeep!”

“Oh, let her!” says Suze, coming out of her trance. “I used to ride sheep in Scotland.”

Is she serious?

“But it’s dangerous!” I point out.

“No, it’s not!” Suze scoffs. “They wear helmets. I’ve seen them.”

“But she’s too young!”

“Actually, they start at two and a half.” Luke raises his eyebrows. “I was coming along to suggest we let her do it.”

“Let her do it?” I’m almost speechless. “Are you nuts?”

“Where’s your spirit of adventure, Bex? I’m Minnie’s godmother, and I say we let her ride a sheep.” Suddenly Suze’s eyes are shining in the old Suze way. “Come on, Minnie, we’re in the Wild West now. Let’s bust some mutton.”

—

Am I the only responsible adult around here? Am I?

As we arrive at the mutton-bustin’ arena, I’m silent with shock. I don’t even know where to start. These are wild animals. And people are putting their children on them. And cheering. Right now a boy in a bandanna, who looks about five years old, is grasping on to the back of a big white woolly sheep, which is cavorting round the arena. The audience is yelling encouragement and filming on their phones, and the man on the microphone is giving a running commentary.

“And young Leonard’s still holding on….You go there, Leonard!…He’s got some grit….Aaaaaah.”

Leonard has fallen off the sheep, which is no surprise, because honestly it looks like a savage beast. Three men rush forward to catch the sheep, while Leonard leaps to his feet, beaming proudly, and the crowd goes even wilder.

“Let’s hear it for Leonard!”

“Leo-nard! Leo-nard!” A whole group of people, who must be Leonard’s adoring family, are chanting. Leonard gives a cocky little bow, then rips his bandanna from around his neck and throws it into the crowd.

He what? He’s a child who just fell off a sheep, not a Wimbledon champion! I look at Suze, to share my disapproval with her, but her whole face is lit up.

“This reminds me of my childhood,” she says enthusiastically. Which makes no sense. Suze was brought up in an aristocratic family in Britain, not on a ranch in Arizona.

“Did your mum and dad wear cowboy hats?” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Sometimes,” says Suze without batting an eyelid. “You know what Mummy’s like. She used to come to gymkhanas in the most frightful outfits.”

Actually, that I can believe. Suze’s mum has such an eclectic collection of clothes, it should be in Vogue. She’s also very attractive, in that bony, horsey way. If she had a good stylist on hand all the time—e.g., me—she’d look brilliantly, wonderfully weird. (As it is, most of the time she just looks weird.)

Another child has entered the arena, on the same sheep. Or maybe a different one. How am I meant to tell? It looks equally lively, and the little girl is almost falling off already.

“And here’s Kaylee Baxter!” proclaims the announcer. “Kaylee is six years old today!”

“Come on!” says Suze. “Let’s get Minnie entered!”

She grabs Minnie’s hand and heads toward the entry tent. There’s a form to fill in and places to sign, and Luke does all that, while I try to think of more reasons why this is a bad idea.

“I think Minnie’s feeling a bit unwell,” I tell him.

“Sheep!” chimes in Minnie, jumping up and down. “Ride-da-sheep. Ride-da-sheep.” Her eyes are bright and her cheeks are flushed with excitement.

“Look, she’s feverish.” I clamp a hand on her forehead.

“No, she’s not.” Luke rolls his eyes.

“I mean, I think she twisted her ankle earlier.”

“Does your ankle hurt?” Luke inquires of Minnie.

“No,” Minnie replies emphatically. “Does not hurt. Ride sheep.”

“Becky, you can’t wrap her up in cotton wool.” Luke addresses me directly. “She needs to experience the world. She needs to take some risks.”

“But she’s two! Excuse me.” Crisply, I address the woman who’s collecting the forms. She’s skinny and tanned, and her bomber jacket reads, WILDERNESS JUNIOR HIGH TWIRLERS: HEAD COACH.

“Yes, hon?” She glances up from the table. “Got your form?”

“My daughter’s only two,” I explain. “I think she’s probably too young to enter. Aren’t I right?”

“She two and a half yet?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then she’s fine.”

“She’s not fine! She can’t ride a sheep! No one can ride a sheep!” I throw my hands in the air. “This is all crazy!”

The woman gives a throaty laugh. “Ma’am, don’t panic. The dads hold on to the little ’uns.” She gives me a hearty wink. “They don’t really get to ride. They just think they do.”

She pronounces it “rahd.” They don’t really get to rahd.

“I don’t want my little ’un to rahd at all,” I say firmly. “But if she does rahd, I really, really don’t want her to fall off.”

“She won’t, ma’am. Her daddy’ll hold her firm. Won’t you, sir?”

“I will,” says Luke, nodding.

“So, if she’s gonna rahd, I need her form.”

There’s nothing I can do. My precious daughter is going to rahd a sheep. A sheep. Luke hands over the form, and we head to the competitors’ entrance. A guy in an Arizona State Fair T-shirt fits Minnie with a helmet and a body protector, then leads her to a little pen with about six sheep of different sizes in separate chutes.

“Now, you rahd that sheep good,” he instructs Minnie, who’s listening avidly. “You don’t let go that naughty sheep. Don’t let go, you hear me?”

Minnie nods with eager eyes, and the guy laughs.

“The little ’uns crack me up,” he says. “She’ll be off before you know it. Sir, you keep a tight grip on her.” He looks at Luke.

“OK.” Luke nods. “Let’s do this. Ready, Minnie?”

Oh God. I feel sick. I mean, basically it’s a rodeo. They’re putting her onto a sheep. And they’ll open the gate and she’ll be in the arena….It’s like Gladiator.

OK, it’s not exactly like Gladiator. But it’s almost as bad. My stomach is churning as I watch through my fingers, while Suze takes pictures on her phone and whoops, “Go, Minnie!”

“Now we both run alongside,” the guy’s saying to Luke. “Don’t take your hands off her, and whip her off soon’s you can.”

“OK.” Luke nods.

“This sheep’s an old docile one. We keep her for the little ’uns. But still and all…”

I glance at Minnie. Her eyebrows are lowered with intent. I’ve never seen her look so focused, except for that time she wanted to wear her fairy dress and it was in the wash, and she refused to put anything else on, the whole day.

Suddenly a buzzer is sounding. It’s happening. The gate is opening.

“Go, Minnie!” Suze yells again. “You can do it! Stay on!”

My whole body is braced, waiting for the sheep to start bucking crazily and throwing Minnie ten feet in the air. But it doesn’t, partly because the guy in the Arizona State Fair T-shirt has a firm hold of it. It’s squirming, but basically it can’t go anywhere.

Oh. Oh, I see.

OK, it’s not quite as bad as I thought.

“Good job, honey!” says the guy to Minnie after about ten seconds. “You rode the sheep good! Off you come, now….”

“Is that it?” says Suze, as Luke steps away to take a picture. “For God’s sake, that was nothing!”

“Ride sheep!” shouts Minnie with determination. “Want to ride sheep!”

“Off you come—”

“Ride sheep!”

And I don’t know what happens—if Minnie kicks the sheep or what—but suddenly the sheep gives a leap, dodges the grasp of the guy in the T-shirt, and starts off around the arena at a brisk trot, with Minnie clutching on for dear life.

“Oh my God!” I scream. “Help!”

“Stay on, Minnie!” Suze is screaming beside me.

“Save my daughter!” I’m almost hysterical. “Luke, get her!”

“Well, look at this!” the announcer is booming through the loudspeaker. “Minnie Brandon, age two, ladies and gentlemen—only two years old and she’s still on!”

The sheep is trotting and wriggling all over the place, with Luke and the T-shirt guy trying to catch it, but Minnie is grimly fastened to its back. The thing about Minnie is, if she wants something badly, her fingers get a kind of super-strength.

“She’s amazing!” Suze is gasping. “Look at her!”

“Minn-eeeee!” I cry in desperation. “Heeeelp!” I can’t watch anymore. I have to do something. I clamber over the fence and run into the arena, as best I can in my flip-flops, my breath coming fast and hard. “I’ll save you, Minnie!” I yell. “You put my daughter down, you sheep!”

I charge at the sheep and grab it by the wool, intending to wrestle it to the ground in one simple move.

Bloody hell. Ow. Sheep are strong. And it trod on my foot.

“Becky!” Luke yells. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Stopping the sheep!” I yell back. “Get it, Luke!”

As I start chasing the sheep, I can hear laughter from the audience.

“And Minnie’s mom has joined the fray!” booms the announcer. “Go, Minnie’s mom!”

“Go, Minnie’s mom!” a crowd of teenage boys at once echoes. “Minnie’s mom! Minnie’s mom!”

“Shut up!” I say, flustered. “Give me my daughter!” I launch myself at the sheep as it trots by, but it’s too quick, and I end up crashing down into a patch of mud, or even worse. Ow. My head.

“Becky!” cries Luke from the other end of the arena. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine! Get Minnie!” I flail my arms. “Get that bloody sheep!”

“Get that bloody sheep!” the teenage boys immediately echo, in fake British accents. “Get that bloody sheep!”

“Shut up!” I glower at them.

“Shut up!” they joyfully return. “Oh, guvnor. Shut up!”

I hate teenage boys. And I hate sheep.

By now Luke, the guy in the Arizona State Fair T-shirt, and a couple of others have cornered the sheep. They pin it down and try to remove Minnie, who is totally ungrateful for their help.

“Ride sheeeeep!” I can hear her yelling crossly as she clutches on to its wool. She looks round the audience, realizes she’s the star of the moment, and beams, lifting one hand to wave at everyone. She is such a show-off.

“Well, look at this, ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer is chortling. “Our youngest competitor stayed on the longest! Let’s give her a huge hand….”

The audience erupts in a cheer as finally Luke gets Minnie off the sheep and holds her aloft, still in her little helmet and body protector, her legs kicking in protest.

“Minnie!” I run toward her, dodging the sheep, which is now being manhandled back into its pen. “Minnie, are you OK?”

“Again!” Her face is pink with triumph. “Ride sheep again!”

“No, sweetheart. Not again.”

My legs are all wobbly with relief as I lead Minnie out of the arena.

“You see?” I say to Luke. “It was dangerous.”

“You see?” replies Luke calmly. “She did manage it.”

OK. I can tell this is one of those marital We’ll agree to disagree moments, like when I gave Luke a yellow tie for Christmas. (I still say he can carry off yellow.)

“Anyway.” I take off Minnie’s helmet and body protector. “Let’s go and have a cup of tea or a double vodka or something. I’m a total wreck.”

“Minnie was amazing!” Suze hurries up to us, her face shining. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Well, she’s still in one piece, that’s the main thing. I need a titchy.”

“Wait.” Suze grabs Minnie’s hand from mine. “I want to talk to you. Both of you.” She seems quite stirred up. “I think Minnie has a real talent. Don’t you think?”

“At what?” I say, puzzled.

“At riding! Did you see how she stayed on? Imagine putting her on a horse!”

“Er…yes,” I say without enthusiasm. “Well, maybe she’ll go riding one day.”

“You don’t understand,” says Suze fervently. “I want to train her. I think she could make it as a top eventer. Or a show jumper.”

“What?” My jaw sags slightly.

“She’s got amazing natural balance. I know these things, Bex. You have to spot the promise early on. Well, Minnie has astounding promise!”

“But, Suze…” I trail off helplessly. Where do I start? I can’t say, You’re mad; all she did was hold on to a sheep.

“It’s a bit early days, I’d say.” Luke smiles kindly at Suze.

“Luke, let me do this!” she persists, with sudden passion. “Let me turn Minnie into a champion. My marriage might be over, my life might be ruined—but I can do this.”

“Your marriage is over?” exclaims Luke, in shock. “What are you talking about?”

OK, this is why Suze is fixating on Minnie.

“Suze, stop it!” I grab her shoulders. “You don’t know your marriage is over.”

“I do! The tree’s a withered stump of charcoal,” says Suze with a sob. “I’m sure it is.”

“The tree?” Luke looks baffled. “Why are you still going on about trees?”

“No, it isn’t!” I say to Suze, as confidently as I can. “It’s leafy and green. With fruit. And…and birds tweeting on the branches.”

Suze is silent, and I grip her shoulders harder, trying to inject some positivity into her.

“Maybe,” she whispers at last.

“Come on,” says Luke. “I’m getting everyone a drink. Including myself.” Taking Minnie by the hand, he strides off, and I hurry to catch him up. “What the hell is going on?” he adds in a murmur.

“Bryce,” I whisper back, trying to be discreet.

“Bryce?”

“Shh!” I mutter. “Blackmail. Tarkie. Tree. Owl’s Tower.”

I jerk my head significantly, hoping he’ll read between the lines, but he just gives me a blank look.

“No. Idea,” he says. “What. Fuck. Going. On. About.”

Sometimes I despair of Luke. I really do.