“You happened to sit on the car?” says Luke disbelievingly. “How does one happen to sit on a car?”
“I was going about my daily life,” I insist. “It’s not my fault if I’m being stalked and harassed by the press.”
“Becky.” Luke exhales. “What kind of game are you trying to play here? Because it’s a dangerous one. Once you invite these people into your life, it’s very difficult to shut them out again.”
I don’t want to shut them out, I think mutinously. I want to grab my chance while I’m hot.
But Luke wouldn’t understand, because he’s totally warped by his job. I’ve heard his personal views before, when he’s had a couple of glasses of wine. He thinks fame is overrated and privacy is the greatest luxury of the modern world and the tsunami of social media is going to lead to the permanent disintegration of human interaction. (Or something. I sometimes stop listening, to be honest.)
“I’m not playing any game,” I say, trying to sound righteously indignant. “I’m just dealing with a situation, the best way I know how. And what you could do, Luke, is support me.”
“I am supporting you! I’m advising you! I told you to stay indoors! Now you’re all over the papers—”
“It’s for my career!” I say defensively.
There’s silence down the phone, and suddenly I realize my satnav is talking to me.
“Right turn not taken,” she’s saying sternly. “Make a U-turn as soon as possible.”
Damn. I missed my exit. It’s all Luke’s fault.
“Look, I have to go,” I say. “I need to concentrate on the road. We’ll talk about it later.”
I ring off, feeing all cross and prickly. Any other husband would be proud of his wife. I want to talk to Aran. He’ll understand.
“Make a U-turn as soon as possible,” the satnav persists.
“All right! Shut up!”
I really have to focus on the road. I have no idea where I am, except that I’m going in the wrong direction. Truthfully, I’m still a bit hazy about most of L.A. I mean, how on earth are you supposed to get to know the whole city? L.A. is so big. It’s about the size of France.
OK, maybe not France. Maybe Belgium.
Anyway, I need to step on it. Finally I reach a point where I can U-turn. I swing the car round, ignoring the hoots from some other totally unreasonable drivers, who shouldn’t have been driving so fast, and set off: this time in the right direction. Shining Hill Home Estate, here we come!
As I get near my destination, I’m looking out for some beautiful shining hill, but I can’t see one. All I can see is a great big road with motels on either side, and lorries thundering past, and billboards. This isn’t at all what I was expecting. After a while, my satnav takes me off the main road and up an even less inspiring side road, and I peer round warily. There aren’t any mansions. There aren’t any expensive cars. There’s a crummy-looking gas station and a motel offering rooms for thirty-nine dollars. Is this really where Dad’s friend lives?
“Destination two hundred yards ahead on the right-hand side,” my satnav is saying. “Destination one hundred yards ahead. You have arrived at your destination.”
I pull up at the side of the road and stare out of the window, my jaw slack with disbelief. The satnav is right: I’ve arrived at Shining Hill Home Estate. But it’s not a mansion. It’s a trailer park. There’s a faded sign chained onto a galvanized pair of gates, and beyond it I can see rows of mobile homes stretching into the distance. I check my piece of paper again: 431 Shining Hill Home Estate. Brent Lewis must live in trailer number 431.
Part of me wants to phone Dad instantly and tell him how wrong he’s got it about his friend, but I decide to investigate first, so I lock the car and proceed cautiously into the trailer park. No one stops me, and I soon work out where 431 is, from a map on a board. As I make my way down a line of trailers, I get stares from some people sitting outside their mobile homes, and I can’t help glancing around curiously myself. Some of the trailers are really nice-looking and well kept, with plants and pretty curtains, but some are awful. One has broken patio furniture piled high outside it, almost blocking the door. Another has the sound of screaming coming from it. Another has all its windows broken in.
I arrive at number 431 and approach it. It’s a very plain trailer—not run-down but not very appealing either. The door is shut and the blinds are down, and there are no signs of life. There’s a piece of paper taped to the door, and I glance at it as I knock. It says: Notice of Eviction.
I scan the notice, which is all about Mr. Brent Lewis of 431 Shining Hill Home Estate and his failure to pay six months’ overdue rent and the steps which must therefore be taken, signed Herb Leggett, Manager.
“You a friend of Brent?” A voice hails me, and I turn to see a skinny woman standing on the steps of the trailer opposite. She’s wearing black jeans with her hair thrust into a ponytail and is holding a small boy on her hip.
“Is Brent around?” I say. “I’m not a friend exactly, but I’d like to see him.”
“You a social worker?” Her eyes narrow. “Police?”
“No!” I say, shocked. “Nothing like that. I’m just … my dad knew him years ago.”
“You British?”
“Yes. My dad is too.”
The woman sniffs and nods. “Well, you just missed him. He took off yesterday.”
He took off? Oh God. What’s Dad going to say?