I can’t believe Dad is coming to L.A. It’s insane. Dad doesn’t belong in L.A.; he belongs at home. In the garden. At his golf club.
“Bex!” Suze comes into the hall and eyes me in surprise. “Are you OK?”
I realize I’m backed up against the front door as though I’m sheltering from attack.
“My dad’s coming to L.A.”
“Oh, brilliant!” Her face lights up. “And your mum?”
“It’s not brilliant. He’s run off and only left a note for Mum.”
“What?” She stares at me incredulously. “Your dad ran off?”
“There’s something going on.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what. It’s all to do with this trip he went on when he was much younger. He’s trying to track down one of his friends from it.”
“What trip? Where did they go?”
“I dunno.” I shrug. “Round California and Arizona. They had this map. They went to L.A.… Las Vegas … maybe Utah too. Death Valley!” I suddenly remember. “I’ve seen pictures of them in Death Valley.”
I wish I’d listened a bit harder now. Every Christmas, Dad used to tell me about his trip and pull out his old map with the red dotted line showing where they’d been.
“Well, I expect he’ll turn up,” says Suze reassuringly. “He’s probably just having a midlife crisis.”
I shake my head. “He’s had that. He took guitar lessons.”
“Oh.” Suze thinks for a moment. “Is there such thing as a later-life crisis?”
“God knows. Probably.”
We head into the kitchen and I open the fridge to pour us each a glass of white wine. I don’t care what time it is; I need it.
“Juice,” says Minnie at once. “Juuuuuuice! Juuuuuuuice!”
“OK!” I say, and pour her a cup of organic carrot-and-beetroot juice mix. They got her into it at the preschool. It’s the most revolting thing I’ve ever tasted, and it costs $10.99 for a tiny carton, but apparently it’s “detoxing and low sugar,” so we’ve been asked to provide it instead of fruit juice. And the worst thing is, Minnie loves it. If I’m not careful, she’s going to turn into some junior Juicing Nazi and I’ll have to hide all my KitKats from her and pretend that Chocolate Oranges are macrobiotic.
“So, where’s Tarkie?” I ask as I hand Minnie her juice.
“Do you have to ask?” Suze’s jaw tightens. “You know he’s started going out at six A.M. every day for a personal-validation session with Bryce? I barely see him anymore.”
“Wow. What’s personal validation?”
“I don’t know!” Suze erupts. “How would I know? I’m only his wife!”
“Have some wine,” I say hurriedly, and hand her a glass. “I’m sure it’s good for Tarkie to be doing all this. I mean, it’s got to be positive, hasn’t it? Personal validation? It’s better than impersonal validation anyway.”
“What is validation?” counters Suze.
“It’s … er … being yourself … kind of thing.” I try to sound knowledgeable. “You have to let go. And … be happy.”
“It’s bollocks.” Suze’s eyes flash at me.
“Well … anyway. Cheers.” I lift my wineglass and take a swig.
Suze takes a massive gulp, then another, then exhales, seeming a bit calmer. “So, how was the agent?” she asks, and my spirits instantly rise. At least something is going well.
“It was amazing!” I say. “They said we need to plan my future carefully, and they’ll help me juggle all my offers. And I need to hire security,” I add importantly.
“Hire security?” Suze stares at me. “You mean like a bodyguard?”
“Yes.” I try to sound casual. “It makes sense now I’m famous.”
“You’re not that famous.”
“Yes, I am! Haven’t you seen the photographers outside the gates?”
“They’ll get bored soon enough. Honestly, Bex, you’re only going to be famous for, like, five minutes. I wouldn’t waste money on a bodyguard.”
“Five minutes?” I say, offended. “Is that what you think? If you want to know, I’ve been offered a reality show. I’m going to be a global brand. This is only the beginning.”
“You’re doing a reality show?” She seems gobsmacked. “Has Luke agreed to that?”
“He … well, it’s under discussion,” I prevaricate.
“Does Luke know about the bodyguard?”
“He doesn’t need to know!” I’m feeling more and more scratchy. At CAA, everything seemed so shiny and exciting, and now Suze is putting a damper on it all. “I’m the celebrity, not Luke.”
“You’re not a celebrity!” says Suze scoffingly.
“Yes, I am!”
“Not a proper one. Not like Sage.”
“Yes, I am!” I say furiously. “They all said I was at CAA. Even Sage said so. And I need a bodyguard. In fact, I’m going to sort it out right now.” And I head out of the kitchen, full of indignation. I’ll show Suze. I’m going to phone Aran’s assistant and get the name of the top Hollywood security company and hire a bodyguard. I don’t care what she thinks.
From: [email protected]
To: Rebecca Brandon
Subject: Your security requirements