“A roadside diner?” I echo in astonishment. “Where?”
“He didn’t say.” I can tell Suze is trying to keep it together, but she’s not really succeeding. “He didn’t tell me anything. And now he won’t answer the phone at all. I have no idea where he is, I have no idea what he’s doing; he could be anywhere.…” Her voice rises to an accusing roar. “And it’s all your dad’s fault!”
“My dad’s fault?” I say, staggered.
“He’s dragged him off on some wild goose chase.” Suze’s eyes blaze at me accusingly. “Apparently he’s got to ‘put something right.’ What is it? What’s he got to put right? Where’ve they gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.”
“No! I don’t!”
“Didn’t you talk to your dad, Bex? Don’t you know what he’s doing here? Weren’t you interested?” Suze sounds so scathing that I flinch. First, Mum, then Luke, now Suze.
“I was going to talk to him.” I know how feeble this sounds, and a warm shame creeps over me. Why didn’t I sit down properly with Dad? “All I know is it was something to do with some old friend from a trip years ago.”
“Some old friend,” repeats Suze sarcastically. “Could you be any more vague?”
Her tone is so lacerating, I suddenly find myself lashing back. “Why are you blaming me? It’s not my fault!”
“It is your fault! You’ve totally ignored your dad, so he’s latched on to Tarkie! They were drunk last night, you know that? Tarkie’s in a vulnerable place at the moment. He shouldn’t be getting drunk. Your dad’s a total alkie.”
“No, he isn’t! If anything, Tarquin got him drunk.”
“Rubbish.”
“It’s not rubbish!”
We’re both glaring at each other, and now I realize we’ll wake Minnie, standing here and yelling.
“Look,” I say more quietly. “Look, I’ll find out. I’ll find out where they’ve gone. We’ll track them down.”
“Where’s Luke?”
I feel a spasm of pain but hide it. I don’t feel like sharing this evening’s events with Suze right now.
“Gone back to the UK,” I say matter-of-factly. “He has to talk to the Treasury.”
“Great. Just great.” Suze lifts her hands and drops them despairingly. “I thought he’d be able to help.”
She looks so devastated, I feel instantly nettled. So what if Luke’s away? We don’t need him. We don’t need a man. I may have messed up on this, but I can put things right.
“I’ll help,” I say with determination. “I’ll do it. I’ll find them, Suze. I promise.”
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Personal message from Danny Kovitz
Dear Friends,
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Danny xxx
Where am I supposed to start? I mean, how do you find a middle-aged man and a slightly troubled aristocratic lord who could be anywhere in L.A. or California or … anywhere?
Suze rang the police last night, but it wasn’t a success. They didn’t exactly rush round to the house with their sirens blaring. In fact, they didn’t rush anywhere. Suze didn’t tell me what they said, but I could hear her getting quite shirty down the phone. I think they implied that Dad and Tarkie were probably just at a nightclub and would reel back in the morning and she should stop stressing out.
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.