“Of course I have. The rehab place.”
“Not only rehab,” says Luke. “They do a lot of programs and deal with all kinds of … disorders. The guy I was talking to has a girlfriend who was a terrible hoarder. It was ruining her life. She went to Golden Peace and they really sorted out her issues. And I wondered if somewhere like that could be helpful. For you.”
It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying.
“Me? But I’m not a hoarder. Or an alcoholic.”
“No, but you do …” He rubs his nose. “You have had a history of spending issues, wouldn’t you agree?”
I inhale sharply. That’s below the belt. Waaay below the belt. So I’ve had a few minor problems in my time. So I’ve had a couple of teeny financial blips. If I were an FTSE company, you’d call them “corrections” and just shove them at the back of the annual report and forget about them. Not drag them up at every opportunity. Not suggest rehab.
“So, what, I’m an addict now? Thanks a lot, Luke!”
“No! But—”
“I can’t believe you’re making these accusations in front of our child.” I clasp Minnie to me dramatically. “What, you think I’m an unfit mother?”
“No!” Luke rubs his head. “It was just an idea. Nanny Sue suggested the same, remember?”
I glare at him balefully. I don’t want to be reminded of Nanny Sue. I’m never hiring a so-called “expert” again. Her brief was to help us with Minnie’s behavior, and what did she do? Turn the spotlight on me. Start talking about my behavior, as if that’s got anything to do with anything.
“Anyway, Golden Peace is an American place.” I suddenly think of a winning argument. “I’m British. So.”
Luke looks perplexed. “So what?”
“So it wouldn’t work,” I say patiently. “If I had issues, which I don’t, they’d be British issues. Totally different.”
“But—”
“Want Grana,” chimes in Minnie. “Want Grana make cupcakes. Please. Pleeeease.”
Both Luke and I stop mid-flow and turn in surprise. Minnie has sunk down crosslegged onto the floor and looks up, her bottom lip trembling. “Want Grana make cupcakes,” she insists, and a tear balances on her lashes.
“Grana” is what Minnie calls my mum. Oh God, she’s homesick.
“Darling!” I put my arms round Minnie and hug her tight. “Sweetheart, lovely girl. We all want to see Grana, and we’ll see her very soon, but right now we’re in a different place and we’re going to make lots of new friends. Lots of new friends,” I repeat, almost to convince myself.
“Where’s this come from?” murmurs Luke above Minnie’s head.
“Dunno.” I shrug. “I suppose because I mentioned making cupcakes with sprinkles, and she often makes cupcakes with Mum.”
“Minnie, my love.” Luke comes down onto the floor, too, and sits Minnie on his knee. “Let’s look at Grana and say hello, shall we?” He’s taken my phone from off the carved chest and summons up my photos. “Let’s see … there she is! Grana and Grandpa!” He shows Minnie a picture of Mum and Dad dressed up for a flamenco night at their bridge club. “And there’s Wilfie …” He scrolls to another picture. “And Auntie Suze …”
At the sight of Suze’s cheerful face beaming out of my phone, I feel a tiny pang myself. The truth is, although I keep denying it to Luke, I am feeling a bit lonely here in L.A. Everyone feels so far away, there aren’t any neighbors to speak of, and I don’t have a job.…
“Say, Hello, Grana!” Luke is cajoling Minnie, and after a moment she gives a little wave at the phone, her tears gone. “And you know what, darling? It may seem a bit scary here to begin with. But soon we’ll know lots of people in Los Angeles.” He taps the screen. “Soon this phone will be full of pictures of all our new friends. It’s always hard at first, but we’ll settle in, I’m sure we will.”
Is he talking to Minnie or me?
“We’d better go.” I smile gratefully at him. “Minnie has toys to play with and I have new friends to make.”
“Attagirls.” He hugs Minnie, then stands up to kiss me. “You knock ’em dead.”
Minnie’s preschool is somewhere off Franklin Avenue, and although I’ve driven there before, I arrive a bit flustered. God, driving in L.A. is stressy. I haven’t got used to our rental car yet, at all. The controls seem to be in weird places, and I keep hooting the horn by mistake. And as for driving on the right-hand side, well, that’s just wrong. It’s unnatural. Plus, the roads in L.A. are far too big. They have too many lanes. London is far cozier. You know where you are.
At last I manage to park the car, which is a Chrysler and also far too big. Why couldn’t we have rented a Mini? I exhale, my heart still thumping, and turn to face Minnie, strapped into her car seat.
“We’re here! Preschool time! Are you excited, darling?”
“Idiot American driver,” replies Minnie equably.
I stare at her, aghast. Where did she get that from? I did not say that. Did I?
“Minnie, don’t say that! That’s not a nice word. Mummy didn’t mean to say it. Mummy meant to say … lovely American cars!”
“Idiot,” says Minnie, ignoring me. “Idiot American driver, Idiot American driver …” She’s singing it to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” “Idiot American dri-ver …”