“Well, where is he?” I hear a shrill of alarm in her voice. “Where’s he gone? Becky, you said you’d keep an eye on him!”
“I am keeping an eye on him!” I retort, a bit impatiently. Honestly, what does she expect, that I stalk my own father? “He’s been out with Tarquin, Mum. They’ve really bonded. It’s so sweet. Yesterday they went sightseeing and had supper together and—” I break off just before I say “got drunk.” “They had a good time,” I amend. “Mum, you mustn’t worry.”
“But what’s this all about? Why did he suddenly fly to L.A.?” She still sounds distressed. “Have you found out? What’s he said to you, love?”
I feel a huge twinge of guilt. I should have made more time to talk to Dad yesterday. I really should. And I should have got those autographs for him. I feel terrible about that.
“He hasn’t said that much,” I admit. “But we’ll have a big old talk tonight. I promise. I’ll wheedle it out of him.”
As I put the phone down ten minutes later, I feel both better and worse. Better because it’s always good to talk to Mum. But worse because I can see how I’ve let things unravel. I’ve been too distracted. I should be more on the case with Dad.… I should have been there for Suze.… I close my eyes, burying my face in my palms. Everything feels painful and wrong. I’ve messed up in all directions, all at once, and I didn’t even realize I was doing it, and now I don’t know where to start to put things right.… What am I going to do?
For what seems like ages, I simply sit there, letting my thoughts whirl round and gradually settle. Then, full of determination, I grab a piece of paper from the kitchen notepad and write a heading: Resolutions. I’m going to make my life work for me. I’m not going to let it whirl round like a kaleidoscope anymore. It’s my life, which means I get to choose how it goes. Even if that means wrestling it to the floor and bashing it on the head and saying, Take that, life!
I scribble hard for a while, then sit back and look at my list with resolve. It’s quite a lot—it’ll be a challenge—but I can do it all. I have to do it all.
Resolutions:
1. Bring peace to Luke and Elinor. (Like St. Francis.)
2. Go on the red carpet and get a million autographs for Dad.
3. Come up with perfect outfit for Sage and get hired by Nenita Dietz.
4. Make friends with Suze again.
5. Save Tarkie from cult.
6. Find out reason for Dad’s trip and reassure Mum.
7. Buy strapless bra.
OK, so the last one isn’t quite as life-changing as the others, but I really do need a new strapless bra.
By 3:00 P.M. I’m feeling a lot calmer. I’ve bought my new bra and I’ve sent over three dresses, six pairs of shoes, and a tuxedo suit for Sage to try on. (I don’t think she’ll go for the tuxedo suit, but she should. She’d look amazing.) I’ve also taken Minnie out of preschool early and dressed her up in her sweetest smocked pink lawn frock, with a big sash and puffed sleeves. It has matching pink lawn knickers, too, and I’m actually quite envious. Why don’t grown-up dresses have matching knickers? Everyone would buy them. I might write to a few designers and suggest it.
Jeff has driven us to the Purple Tea Room, which is halfway along Melrose Avenue and has a big hand-painted sign with swirly letters. I help Minnie down from the SUV, shake out her skirts, and say, “See you later, Jeff. I’ll call.” Then we head toward the sign and push open the glass-paned door.
Crikey.
OK, so I don’t think Aran and I mean quite the same thing by “afternoon tea.” When I say “afternoon tea” I mean silver teapots and waitresses in frilly white aprons and tiny cucumber sandwiches. I mean starched tablecloths and maybe a harp playing and Miss-Marple-type ladies sitting at the next table.
The Purple Tea Room is nothing like that. For a start, there aren’t any chairs or tables, only cushions and beanbags and odd-shaped stools made out of wood. The room is big, but it’s dimly lit, with candles casting a wavery glow over the walls. There’s music playing, but it’s Eastern sitar music, and the air smells scented, but not of scones or cinnamon. More of …
Well. Hmm. You’d think they’d be more subtle; I mean, this isn’t Amsterdam, is it?
Everywhere I look, I can see hip young people lying around, sipping at teacups, typing on Apple Macs, and having their feet or shoulders rubbed by what seem to be therapists in baggy Indian trousers. And in the middle of it all is sitting Elinor, bolt upright, wearing her usual stiff bouclé suit and chilly expression. She’s perched on a stool in the shape of a mushroom, holding a glass of water and looking around as though she’s Queen Victoria and these are the savages. I bite my lip, trying not to giggle. Poor Elinor. She was probably expecting starched tablecloths too.