“What does she expect?” he suddenly bursts out. “What does she expect me to do?”
“Maybe she doesn’t expect anything,” I venture.
Luke doesn’t reply, just sips his coffee with a murderous scowl.
“What kind of surgery is she having?” I ask. “Is it serious?”
“Let’s forget about it,” he says abruptly, and gets to his feet. “So I’ll tell Aran there are four acceptances for the benefit. It’s black tie,” he adds, and kisses me. “See you later.”
“Luke—” I grab his hand to stop him. But as he turns back, I realize I don’t know what I want to say except Please make peace with your mother, which I can’t blurt out with no buildup. “Have a good day,” I say lamely, and he nods.
“Black tie?” Tarquin is looking dismayed as he turns to Suze. “Darling, what will I wear? I don’t have my kilt.”
His kilt? Oh my God. The idea of Tarkie turning up to some L.A. benefit in a kilt and sporran and those big woolly socks makes me want to collapse in laughter.
“You’re not going to wear a kilt!” expostulates Suze. “You’re going to wear …” She thinks for a moment. “An Armani tuxedo. And a black shirt and a black tie. That’s what all these Hollywood types wear.”
“A black shirt?” Now it’s Tarquin’s turn to expostulate. “Suze, darling, only spivs wear black shirts.”
“Well, OK, a white shirt,” Suze relents. “But not a wing collar. You need to look cool. And I’m going to test you on celebrities later.”
Poor Tarkie. As he leaves the kitchen, he looks like a man sentenced to prison, not a man who’s got a ticket to the coolest party in town.
“He’s hopeless,” sighs Suze. “You know, he can name about a hundred breeds of sheep but not one of Madonna’s husbands.”
“I’ve never seen anyone so out of place.” I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. “Tarkie’s not suited to L.A., is he?”
“Well, we’ve been on enough holidays to grouse moors,” says Suze. “It’s my turn. And I love it here.” She pours herself some more orange juice, then lowers her voice. “What do you think’s up with Elinor?”
“I don’t know.” I lower my voice even further. “What if she’s really ill?”
We look at each other anxiously. I can tell our thoughts are heading in the same direction, then sheering away.
“He has to know the truth about the party,” says Suze at length. “He has to know how generous she was. Just in case … anything happens.”
“But how do I tell him? He’ll fly off the handle. He won’t even listen!”
“Could you write it down?”
I consider this for a moment. I am quite good at letter-writing, and I could make Luke promise to read to the end before shouting. But even as I’m considering it, I know what I truly want to do.
“I’m going to invite her over,” I say with resolve. “Either before her surgery or afterward, depending.”
“Invite her where? Here?” Suze’s eyes widen. “Are you sure, Bex?”
“If I write a letter, he’ll just ignore it. I need the two of them together. I’m going to stage an intervention,” I say with a flourish.
We were talking about interventions at Golden Peace the other day, and I was the only one who hadn’t been in one. I felt quite left out.
Suze looks doubtful. “Aren’t they for drug addicts?”
“And family disputes,” I say authoritatively.
I don’t actually know if this is true. But I can always start my own kind of intervention, can’t I? I have a vision of myself, dressed in flowing white clothes, talking in a low melodious voice, and bringing harmony to the fractured souls of Luke and Elinor.
Maybe I’ll buy some healing crystals for the occasion. And some scented candles, and a CD of soothing chants. I’ll come up with my own special cocktail of techniques, and I won’t let Luke or Elinor leave until they’ve achieved some sort of resolution.
“Shouldn’t you get someone specially trained?” Suze is still looking dubious. “I mean, what do you know about it?”
“Loads,” I say, a bit offended. “I’ve picked up a lot from Golden Peace, you know, Suze. I’ve done conflict resolution and everything. To understand everything is to forgive everything,” I can’t resist quoting. “Buddha.”
“OK, if you’re such an expert, sort out this conflict.” Suze points at Wilfie and Clemmie, who are fighting desperately over some tiny plastic animal.
“Er … hey, Wilfie! Clemmie!” I call out. “Who wants a sweetie?”
Both children instantly stop tussling and hold out their hands.
“There!” I say smugly.
“Is that how you’re going to sort out Luke and Elinor?” scoffs Suze. “Offer them sweeties?”
“Of course not,” I say with dignity. “I’ll use a variety of techniques.”
“Well, I still think it’s risky.” She shakes her head. “Very risky.”
“One cannot refuse to eat simply because there is a risk of being choked,” I say wisely. “Chinese proverb.”
“Bex, stop talking like a bloody T-shirt!” Suze suddenly flips out. “I hate this stupid Golden Peace place! Talk about something normal. What are you going to wear for the benefit? And don’t say something stupid, like, Clothes are a metaphor for the soul.”