“Where is he?” Suze is tapping at her phone. “Honestly, this bloody Golden Peace …” She shoots me an accusing look, which is totally unfair. “I told him to get back in good time,” she mutters as she presses SEND. “He totally loses track of time. What’s he doing?”
I know Suze thinks Tarkie attends Golden Peace far too much. But she’s prejudiced. The truth is, Tarkie is having a brilliant time hanging out with his volleyball gang, being one of the guys. No one pesters him about listed gables or investments in South Africa. Nor do they keep trying to pitch him movie ideas, because that kind of thing is totally banned at Golden Peace. I think it’s the first place he’s ever been where he’s just him. Tarkie. The person.
From outside comes the sound of car doors slamming. A moment later I hear the front door opening and closing, followed by footsteps in the hall. There we go. I knew Tarkie would turn up.
“You see? He’s here.” I grab my Lara Bohinc clutch bag and the diamanté one. “Let’s have a titchy while he gets ready.”
Suze is stepping into her teetering high heels, which make her look even taller and more willowy than usual. Her blond hair, piled high in snaky curls, gives her yet more height, and she basically looks amazing: all golden suntanned limbs and fake lashes and imperious frown. No one can frown like Suze. She’s really quite scary, especially when she’s towering above you in her Louboutins. She gets it from her mother, who is equally formidable. Apparently she can trace her ancestry back to Boudicca. (Do I mean Boadicea? The fierce fighty woman anyway.)
Now Suze grabs her clutch (Tory Burch, snakeskin, on sale at Bloomingdale’s) and strides out of the room, calling, “Tarkie! Where have you been? We have to go!”
I hurry after her along the galleried landing and stop dead at the same time as she does. Tarkie is in the hall below, but he’s not alone. He’s with Bryce, who is looking as tanned and crinkly-eyed as ever. They’re both in baggy surfer shorts and bandannas, and Tarkie is holding a Frisbee. I’ve seen Tarkie holding many weird things in my time—a First World War gun, an antique stuffed owl, an ancient scythe—but somehow seeing him with a Frisbee makes me want to burst into giggles.
As I glance at Suze, I can tell she isn’t thrilled.
“Hello, Bryce,” she says, overly pleasant, walking down the stairs. “How lovely to see you again. Please don’t let us keep you. Tarkie, you’d better get changed.”
Ouch. Suze’s clipped, polite tones are like little shards of glass landing one by one. Her smile is icy, and the atmosphere is distinctly uncomfortable.
“Darling, I’d rather not come tonight if you don’t mind,” says Tarkie, apparently oblivious. “Bryce’s organized an evening hike with some of the chaps. Sounds rather fun.”
“But, darling, we’re going to the Actors’ Society Awards. Remember? We arranged it?” Suze’s voice is so flinty that even Tarkie seems to realize something’s up.
“Oh, Suze, you don’t need me there, do you?” he says pleadingly. “It’ll be full of ghastly people.”
Only Tarkie could describe the pick of A-list Hollywood celebrities as “ghastly people.”
“Yes, I do need you there!” exclaims Suze. “And I could have done without you disappearing all day too. Where’ve you been anyway?”
“We played volleyball,” says Tarquin, looking a bit shifty. “And we had lunch … and we talked.…”
“All afternoon?” Suze is sounding shriller and shriller.
“My apologies,” says Bryce charmingly, in that smooth, hypnotic voice of his. “I waylaid Tarquin. We got talking and never stopped.”
“Don’t apologize! It was a wonderful day.” Tarkie turns eagerly to Suze. “Suze, darling, Bryce has so many brilliant insights. I’d love us all to have supper one night. And, Bryce—” He turns back to him. “I’d love to come to that class you were talking about. Meditation, was it?”
“Mindfulness.”
“That’s it! Sounds … ahm … fascinating.”
“I’m brilliant at that,” I put in helpfully. “It’s really easy.”
“You don’t need to go to any classes, Tarquin!” snaps Suze.
“I agree,” says Bryce, surprisingly. “It’s not at all essential. Tarquin, I think you’re someone who will heal himself through a slow, natural process. Just don’t be afraid to talk.”
“Right. Ahm … absolutely.” Tarquin looks uncomfortable. “The thing is, it’s not terribly easy—”
“I know.” Bryce nods. “It’s hard. But it’ll come. Remember, it doesn’t have to be with anyone. The sea will hear you. The air will hear you. Just express yourself, and let your soul find the answers.”
I’m listening, totally mesmerized, but Suze is bristling.
“Talk to the sea?” she scoffs. “What, and have everyone think you’re mad?”
“ ‘Mad’ is a word I try not to use,” says Bryce, unruffled. “And, yes, I think talking to other people can bring its own unhelpful baggage. Sometimes you just need to talk to an entity. The void. Your God. We do a lot of healing work with animals.”
“Tarkie doesn’t need healing.” Suze sounds outraged.
“That’s your opinion.” Bryce shrugs in a kind of all-wise, all-knowing, I have perspective because I have more experience of human problems and neuroses and stress than you could possibly guess at, even though I’m bound to secrecy and will never blab any celebrity details way.