“No, I needed it.” Tarkie frowns. “He said we all have roles in life and that I was running away from mine. It’s true. Being who I am—well, it’s a big job. I didn’t choose it…but I can’t dodge it. I have to take it on.” He pauses. “And I will. I’m going to carry on with my plans for Letherby Hall, no matter what my parents think.”
“They’re brilliant plans,” says Suze loyally. “It’s going to be another Chatsworth.”
“Well, not quite,” says Tarkie. “But the plans do make sense. They will work.” He sounds like he’s fighting with someone in his head. “They will.”
I shoot him a sidelong glance. I don’t know what Dad’s done to him, but he’s grown. He sounds older. More assured. Like a guy who could take charge of a great big empire and not let it weigh him down.
When we’ve crossed the road, Suze walks alongside me, and we splinter off into a little twosome, just for a bit. (Two and a half–some, actually. I’m holding Minnie’s hand.)
“So, Bex…” she says softly. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I’m…” She waves her hands in a vague, Suze-ish way.
“What?” I gawp at her. “Not…”
“Yes.” Her cheeks pinken.
“Not…You’re not…”
“Yes!”
OK, I have to make sure we’re on the same page here. Because I might mean one thing and she might mean, intending to start a Cordon Bleu course when I get back to England.
“Pregnant?” I whisper, and she nods frantically. “How long have you known?”
“Since the day after Tarkie left. I did the test that day. I totally freaked out.” Her face tightens with remembered stress. “Oh God, it’s been awful, Bex. So awful. I thought…I didn’t know what to do…I was so afraid that…” She trails off. “It’s been a nightmare,” she whispers.
OK, this explains a lot. A lot. For a start, is this why she’s been so irritable? She always gets irritable in early pregnancy. And no wonder she was so freaked out about Bryce. She thought her marriage was going to fall apart, and Tarkie didn’t even know he was going to be a father again….I wince at the thought. And she’s been dealing with it all on her own, saying nothing to anybody.
Or…has she?
“Does Alicia know?” I ask, more abruptly than I mean to.
“No!” Suze sounds shocked. “Of course not. I would never have told her before you.” She puts an arm around me and squeezes. “I wouldn’t, Bex.”
I turn to face her and, of course, now I see all the telltale signs that only a best friend can pick up. Her skin is flaring up around her nose. That always happens when she’s pregnant. And…
Well, actually, that’s the only telltale sign. That, and—
“Hey!” I take a step back. “You’ve been drinking! All that tequila, the bourbon iced tea…”
“Faked it,” says Suze succinctly. “Chucked it away when no one was looking. I knew if I was obvious about it, you’d guess.”
“Fair enough.” I nod. “Oh my God, Suze, four children.” I stare at her wonderingly. “Four.”
“I know.” She gulps.
“Or five, if you have twins. Or six if you have triplets—”
“Shut up!” says Suze, looking freaked out. “I won’t! Bex…” Her expression becomes agonized. “I wish…I wish you…I just wish—”
“I know,” I cut her off gently. “I know you do.”
“It doesn’t seem fair.” She swallows. “We didn’t even plan this. Total surprise.”
She gestures at her stomach, and deep inside I feel a little wrench of jealousy. I’d love a total surprise. To my horror, tears prick at my eyes, and I quickly turn away.
Anyway. It’s fine. We have Minnie and she’s perfect. She’s more than perfect. We don’t need anything else. I bend down to kiss the smooth two-year-old cheek that I love so much it hurts inside. And as I straighten up, I see Suze watching me with a shimmer in her own eyes.
“Stop it,” I say, swallowing hard. “Stop it. Look. OK. You can’t have everything. Can you?”
“No,” says Suze after a pause. “No, I suppose not.”
“You can’t have everything,” I repeat, as we resume walking. This is my favorite ever saying—in fact, I’ve got it on a fridge magnet. “You can’t have everything,” I emphasize. “Because where on earth would you put it?”
Suze gives a snort of laughter, and I can’t help grinning. She nudges me with her shoulder and I bash her back with my hand, and then she takes Minnie’s other hand and we start swinging her along the road, and Minnie exclaims, “Again! Again!” And just for a few minutes, all the angst and urgency dissipates into the sky. And we’re just two friends, walking along down a sunny street, swinging a little girl.
SIXTEEN
Tarkie has taken a conference room for our meeting, and he even negotiated a deal on it. He is so the man of the moment. We’ve all got pads of paper and our lucky mascot pencils and glasses of water, and I’ve already written Get Justice for Brent at the top of my pad and underlined it three times, which I think gives it purpose.
Suze and I are sitting next to each other, and we keep nudging each other and admiring our new cowboy boots. It was Suze who bought them. She practically manhandled me into the shop, and she said to the store owner, “We’re buying boots,” so firmly she almost sounded aggressive. And then we tried on nearly every pair, and God, it was fun.
I don’t know quite what happened to me before. How could I not want to buy cowboy boots? How could anyone not want to buy cowboy boots? I feel like a weird fog has lifted from my brain and I’m back to who I was.
My pair are anthracite gray with silver studs, and Minnie absolutely adores them. She grabbed them and put them on as soon as I got them out of the box, and she tottered around in them all evening. Then she wanted to go to bed in them. When I said, “No, darling, you can’t wear boots in bed,” she wanted to hug them in bed, like a teddy. And then, when I finally exclaimed, “No! Mummy is wearing them tonight!” she said, “But da boots love Minnie,” and gave me this sad, reproachful look that actually made me feel really bad, even though they’re my boots. I mean, honestly.
Anyway, she’s asleep now. We’ve found a really nice, highly recommended babysitter called Judy, and she’s staying in our bedroom till we’ve finished our meeting. I mean, yes, I could have brought Minnie along and sat her on my knee. But first: It’s past her bedtime. And second: This is business. As I look around, I can see that all our faces are taut with intent. (Except Danny’s, which is taut with the “firming serum” he got at his facial. Apparently his afternoon at the spa was so blissful, he doesn’t care if he missed all the action, and he can always get it on “catch-up”—i.e., me telling him all about it.)
“Corey is like a fortress, we all know that.” Dad’s voice brings me back to the room. “Nevertheless, Tarquin has managed to get into the inner sanctum.”
“Corey’s asked me to meet his board members.” Tarquin gives an affirming nod. “I have his cell number. He’s told me to call anytime.”
“That’s amazing!” I say. “Well done!” I break into applause and everyone joins in, while Tarquin looks modest.
“It’s still tricky, though,” Tarkie continues. “First, because Corey has stepped back from the day-to-day running of his business. His new wife and daughter are the apple of his eye, and that’s all he’s interested in. Second, because he doesn’t like talking about the past.”
“Because his wife thinks he’s fifty-something,” I put in, and Dad gives a wry chuckle.
“It’s not just that,” says Tarkie. “He’s almost phobic. He ducks any question about the past. I asked him directly if he’d ever traveled round the States as a young man, whereupon he flinched and started talking about his last holiday in Hawaii.”
“So we can’t appeal to the goodness of his heart,” says Dad. “Or any sense of nostalgia.”
“Not at all,” agrees Tarkie. “We’ll somehow have to force h
im into doing the right thing. Now, as I said, I’m having lawyers look at the deal that Brent did. But unfortunately there’s no hard evidence that Corey ever lied to or misled Brent. This all happened a long time ago, and it’s one man’s word against the other’s.”
“But Raymond told us!” puts in Suze.
“Maybe. But do you think Raymond will ever agree to appear in court to support Brent?” Tarkie shakes his head. “Corey’s story will be that Brent is simply bitter after having made a poor business decision.”
“Like EMI turning down the Beatles,” puts in Janice helpfully. “Brent would be EMI.”
“No, he’d be the drummer,” says Mum. “The other drummer.”
“Ringo Starr?” says Janice, looking baffled.
“No, love, the other drummer. Pete Whatsit—”
“Fascinating stuff, Jane,” Tarkie interrupts briskly. “But if we could return to the business in hand…?” He fixes Mum with a look which, for Tarkie, is almost stern, and to my astonishment she shuts up.
“There’s one arcane point of law that the lawyers are still looking into,” Tarkie continues. “But, meanwhile, our dilemma is this: Do we contact Corey before we have any legal backing, or do we wait?”
“What will we say if we contact him?” says Mum.
“We’ll pressure him,” says Tarkie. “Bring influences to bear, introduce the element of threat, perhaps.”
“Threat?” echoes Janice in alarm.
“I have a client who’d help,” volunteers Danny. “She’s Russian. Spends a ton every year. Believe me, if you want any threatening done, her husband’s the one.”
“Are you talking about the Russian Mafia?” Dad stares at him in horror.
“Of course I’m not talking about it.” Danny mimes a zip pull across his mouth. “First rule of the Mafia: You don’t talk about the Mafia.”
“That’s Fight Club,” objects Suze.
“Fight Club and the Mafia.” Danny shrugs. “And my haute couture show in Qatar.”
“I never knew you had a haute couture show in Qatar!” I say avidly.
“I know.” Danny gives me an enigmatic eyebrow raise. “That’s because I can’t talk about it.”
Since when did he have secret haute couture shows in Qatar he didn’t tell me about? I want to ask him more, only it’s not exactly the time.
“We can’t get involved with the Mafia!” Janice looks like she might hyperventilate. “Graham, you never mentioned the Mafia!”
“Obviously we’re not going to involve the Mafia,” says Dad impatiently.
“I don’t think threatening Corey is the way forward, anyway,” I put in. “People like that, the more you try to threaten them, the more aggressive they get. We need to coax him. Persuade him. Like that story about the man in his cloak—the wind can’t blow it off him but the sun makes him take it off of his own accord. Remember that story you used to read me, Mum?” I turn to her. “With the lovely illustrations?”
I’m trying to get Mum onside, but she looks a bit perturbed. “Becky love, I’m not sure picture books are the best reference right now.”
“Why not? Persuading is definitely the way to go.” I look around the table. “Forget the lawyers, forget the Mafia—he won’t take any notice of them, anyway.”
“But, darling, how on earth can we persuade him?” says Dad gently.
“Well, actually, I have an idea,” I confess.
“What idea?” demands Suze at once.
“It’s a bit complicated,” I admit. “We’ll need to use all our forces for it. We’ll need to go back to Las Vegas and hire some rooms. And we’ll need to plan it really carefully. We’ll need to trap him. Con him. We want Elinor for this too,” I add. “We’ll have to talk her into it.”
“My mother?” Luke sounds incredulous. “Becky, what have you got up your sleeve?”
“You want to con Corey?” Dad looks anxious.
“You said ‘persuade’!” says Mum. “Conning a man like that is dangerous!”
“Darling, is this wise?” reiterates Dad.
“We’ll only con him a bit,” I say robustly. “If we all work together, we can do it. I know we can.” I look around the table, trying to whip up some enthusiasm. “We can work together, can’t we? We’ve got this far, haven’t we? Everyone will have their own job to do; it’ll be all about timing and planning.”
“How many are we?” says Suze, and starts counting off on her fingers. “You, me, Luke, Tarkie, Jane, Graham, Janice, Danny, Elinor…”
“Can we use Ulla too?” I turn to Danny. “She might be useful.”
“Sure.” Danny nods. “Anything you want.”
“So that makes ten of us.” Suze finishes counting. “Ten of us, conning a businessman in Las Vegas. You realize what this is?” She shoots me a wicked grin. “It’s Becky’s Ten.”
“Ooh, Becky love!” exclaims Janice. “Well done, you!”
“Becky’s Ten?” echoes Dad, looking puzzled.
“The film,” explains Suze. “Ocean’s Eleven. With Brad Pitt in it? And George Clooney?”
“Ah, yes.” Recognition comes to Dad’s face. “Now, I enjoyed that film.”
“This is very cool,” Danny is saying with approval. “I’ll be the billionaire. I can so play that role. ‘Greetings, hotel underling.’ ” He puts on a mittel-European accent. “ ‘I weesh to place a nuclear weapon in your high-security wault.’ ”
“We aren’t placing anything in any high-security ‘waults.’ ” I roll my eyes. “And, actually, it’ll be Becky’s Eleven,” I tell Suze. “There’s someone else we need on the team. Someone crucial.”
“Who?”
But I don’t answer. My mind is buzzing with the plan. I need to write it all down in full, look at it properly, and see if it’ll work.
Except: No, I don’t. I already know it’ll work.
OK, that’s not right either. I don’t know that my plan will work…but I know that it could work. That it ought to work.
As I start writing, there’s a lightness in my heart. An excitement. I’m doing something. I’m achieving something. Derek Smeath is right: Positive action does boost the soul.
“We need a bunch of balloons,” adds Danny, who is getting more and more enthused. “And everyone needs to wear shades, even inside the casinos. In fact, I’m styling all of you,” he announces with animation. “We can’t be Becky’s Eleven and not rock a great look. What’s the plan, anyway, Becky? Drive to Vegas, check in to the Bellagio, pull off the con, and then watch the fountains while the music plays?”
“Pretty much.” I nod.
“Cool.” Danny looks round. “Well, I’m in. Are you in or out, Suze?”
“In,” says Suze emphatically.
“In,” agrees Tarquin.
“In,” chimes in Janice.
Everyone else is nodding around the table, although Dad looks anxious. “Becky, darling, what exactly is your plan?”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve worked it all out properly,” I say, still scribbling. “We need to make some reservations, get back to Vegas, sort a few things out. But, actually, before the plan…” I beam at him. “I think there’s one other crucial thing we should do first.”
SEVENTEEN
“Dearly beloved,” intones Elvis. “Uh-huh-huh. We are gathered here. Uh-huh-huh.”
Oh God. I’m going to get the giggles. Is he going to say “Uh-huh-huh” after every line?
He’s a pretty impressive Elvis. He’s in a black spangled suit, with the most massive flares and platforms and a really good wig (you can’t see his real hair at all), and he’s already sung “Can’t Help Falling in Love” with lots of reverb and pelvic thrusts.
It’s two days since we left Sedona, and we’re clustered in the Silver Candles Elvis Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas. Everyone’s overexcited—especially Minnie, who is dressed up as a “ring girl” even though there aren’t any rings. Suze is in a floaty white dress with a flower garland in her hair, and she’s never
looked more beautiful. Mum’s sitting in the front pew and she’s already thrown a handful of confetti over Suze, although we haven’t started yet. (I found Mum and Dad at the bar of our hotel this morning, quaffing glasses of champagne. And judging by their bill, they’d each had more than one.)
“To witness the promise of renewed love between this couple. Uh-huh-huh.” Elvis surveys Suze. “I believe you have written your own vows.”
“That’s right.” Suze clears her throat and glances at Tarkie, who’s standing nearby, a look of huge pride on his face. “I, Susan, vow to you, Becky, always to be your friend.” She gazes seriously into my eyes. “For richer, for poorer, in daytime and at three A.M. And I swear this on my new cowboy boots.”
“Uh-huh-huh,” says Elvis with a nod.
“Hurrah!” Mum gives a whoop and throws some more confetti over Suze’s head.
“And I, Becky, swear to be your friend forever, Suze,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “For richer, for poorer, in daytime and at three A.M. Let no one put us asunder.”
Especially Alicia Bitch Long-legs, I don’t say—but we all know that’s who I mean.
“I swear this on my new cowboy boots,” I add for good measure, and do a little twirl. I love my cowboy boots. I’m never wearing anything else, ever. And they’re brilliant for line dancing, as I discovered last night, because we went to a line-dancing bar. Suze insisted we go, and it was the best fun. Now I just need to get Luke to buy a pair of cowboy boots, and we’ll match.
(I already know this is never going to happen.)
“And I swear never to leave you, Suze.” Tarkie steps forward for his turn. He takes Suze’s hands and holds them tight. “I swear to love and protect you and keep you forever, as long as Owl’s Tower shall stand. Or longer, if it falls down,” he adds hastily, as he sees Suze open her mouth. “Much longer. Forever.”
“I vow to be your wife forever, Tarquin,” says Suze, her voice a whisper. “And to stay faithful only to you, my beloved husband.”
She looks like an angel in her wispy dress, her face all lit up with hope and love and relief. I feel a bit misty-eyed as I watch them, and I’m wondering if I have a tissue anywhere, when Luke rises to his feet.