“What?” she says.
“Oh, hi,” I say hesitantly. “Sorry to disturb you.”
A little dog comes running out of the door and licks my toes. He’s a Jack Russell, and he’s wearing the cutest lime-green harness.
“Gorgeous!” I say, and squat to pat him. “What’s he called?”
“Scooter.” The girl doesn’t unbend a millimeter. “What do you want?”
“Oh. Sorry.” I rise up and give her a polite smile. “How do you do?” I extend a hand and she cautiously takes mine. “I’m looking for someone called Brent Lewis. Do you know him?”
“That’s my dad.”
“Oh!” I exhale in relief. “Great! Well, he was a friend of my father, and I think my dad’s gone off looking for him, but I don’t know where’s he’s headed.”
“Who’s your dad?”
“Graham Bloomwood.”
It’s as though I’ve said the Antichrist. Her whole body jolts in shock. But her eyes stay on mine, unwavering. There’s a gimletty hardness to them, which is starting to freak me out. What’s wrong? What have I said?
“Your dad is Graham Bloomwood?” she says at last.
“Yes! Do you know him?” I say tentatively.
“So, what, you’ve come here to gloat? Is that it?”
My jaw falls open a little. Have I missed something here?
“Er … gloat?” I echo at last. “No. Why would I come here to gloat?”
“Who’s that guy?” Her eyes fix on Jeff.
“Oh. Him.” I cough, feeling a bit embarrassed. “He’s my bodyguard.”
“Your bodyguard.” She gives a bitter, incredulous laugh and shakes her head. “Figures.”
It figures? Why does it figure? She doesn’t know anything about me—
Oh, she’s recognized me! I knew I was famous.
“It’s just been since the whole ridiculous business on TV,” I say, with a modest sigh. “When you’re in my position, you have to hire security. I mean, I’m sure you can imagine what it’s like.”
She might want an autograph, it occurs to me. I really should get some of those big shiny pictures to carry about with me.
“I could sign a napkin,” I suggest. “Or a piece of paper?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says the girl, her tone unchanged. “I don’t watch TV. Are you a big deal?”
“Oh,” I say, feeling suddenly stupid. “Right. I thought … well … no. I mean, kind of …” This conversation is excruciating. “Look, can we talk?”
“Talk?” she echoes, so sarcastically that I wince. “It’s a bit late to talk, don’t you think?”
I stare at her in bewilderment. “I’m sorry … I don’t follow. Is something wrong?”
“Jesus H. Christ.” She closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. “Look, just take your little bodyguard and your little designer shoes and your little prinky prinky voice and go. OK?”
I’m feeling more and more upset by this conversation. Why is she so angry? I don’t even know her. Why did she say I’d come here to gloat?
And what prinky prinky voice? I don’t have a prinky prinky voice.
“Look.” I try to stay calm. “Please, can we start again? All I want is to track down my father. I’m quite worried about him, and this is the only place I can think of, and—” I break off. “I’m sorry; I haven’t even introduced myself properly. My name’s Rebecca.”
“I know.” She looks at me strangely. “Of course it is.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Rebecca too. We’re all called Rebecca.”
It’s as though time stands still. I gape at her blankly for a few seconds, trying to process her words. But they make no sense. We’re all called Rebecca.
We’re all … what?
What?
“You knew that.” She seems puzzled by my reaction. “You had to know that.”
Am I missing something? Have I moved into some weird, parallel universe? Who’s we?
What the bloody hell is going ON?
“Your dad did see my dad. Couple days ago.” She gives me a challenging stare. “I guess they had it out at long last.”
“Had it out about what?” I say in despair. “What? Please tell me!”
There’s a long silence. The other Rebecca is just staring at me with narrowed blue eyes, as though she can’t work me out.
“What did your dad tell you about that trip?” she says at last. “The trip in ’72.”
“Nothing much. I mean, just little stuff. They went to the rodeo, they ate ice cream, my dad got really sunburned.…”
“That’s all?” She seems incredulous. “Sunburn?”
“Yes,” I say helplessly. “What else was there to tell? What do you mean, we’re all called Rebecca?”
“Jesus H. Christ.” She shakes her head. “Well, if you don’t know I’m not telling you.”
“You have to tell me!”
“I have to tell you nothing.” She looks me up and down, and I can feel the contempt in her eyes. “I don’t know where your dad is. Now, fuck off, princess girl.” She picks up the little dog and, to my horror, bangs the trailer door shut. A moment later I can hear the back door being locked too.
“Come back!” I beat furiously on the door. “Please! Rebecca! I need to talk to you!”