It’s half an hour later and we’ve stopped at another diner, for lunch and a regroup. Minnie is unpacking the bag onto the table, and we’re all staring, slack-jawed. The ballerina doll is just the start. There’s also a DKNY watch, a Young Versace hoodie, and a pair of tickets to Cirque du Soleil. Suze is especially horrified, because she’s really not into party bags. She thinks they’re common. (She never actually uses that word, but she twists her fingers into knots, and I know it’s what she thinks. When she gives a children’s party, the party bag consists of a balloon and a big piece of homemade toffee, wrapped in greaseproof paper.)

As Minnie pulls out a gorgeous pink Kate Spade clutch, Mum and Janice start googling Las Vegas property prices on their phones, to see how much Corey’s house must be worth, while I quickly remove the Kate Spade for safekeeping. I’ll keep it nice for Minnie till she’s grown up enough to use it. (And in the meantime maybe borrow it once or twice.)

“How does he make his money, exactly?” Janice asks. “Goodness, this one is sixteen million dollars!”

“Property,” says Mum vaguely.

“No, he started out in patents,” I inform them. “Science inventions or whatever. He invented a special spring, apparently.”

I got this from page three of my Google search, where there was a profile of Corey from The Wall Street Journal. According to that, the spring was the first thing he invented and it still makes him money today. Although how can you invent a spring? It’s just curly wire, isn’t it?

“There, Becky, I told you to concentrate in your science lessons,” says Mum. “Janice, look, this house has two swimming pools.”

“Now, that’s vulgar,” says Janice disapprovingly as she leans over to see. “But look at that view….”

“I don’t understand how he’s managed to lie about his age,” I put in. Corey’s got to be around the same age as my dad, but I’ve searched online and I can’t find anything to disprove the so-called “fiftieth birthday party.” “I mean, you can’t just invent an age these days. What about Google?”

“He probably started lying before Google was invented,” says Janice wisely. “Like Marjorie Willis, remember, Jane? She shaved a year off every other birthday.”

“Oh, that Marjorie!” exclaims Mum indignantly. “She turned thirty-four at least twice, if not three times. That’s the way to do it, love.” She turns to me. “Gradually and early.”

“Yes!” Janice nods. “Start now, Becky. You could lose a decade, easily.”

Should I do that? I hadn’t even thought about shaving years off my age. Anyway, surely the most sensible thing is to pretend to be older than you are? And then everyone says, Wow, you look amazing for ninety-three! when you’re only seventy—

My thoughts are interrupted by Luke beckoning to me. He’s standing by the window and has rather an odd expression.

“Hi,” I say as I join him. “What’s up?” Without answering, he hands me his phone.

“Now, look, Becky,” says Dad into my ear, with no preamble. “What’s all this nonsense about Mum flying out to L.A.?”

It’s Dad’s voice. It’s my dad. He’s alive. I think I might pass out, except I want to whoop as well.

“Dad!” I exclaim breathlessly. “Oh my God. Is that you?”

Tears have already sprung to my eyes. I hadn’t realized quite how worried I was. Or how guilty I felt. Or how many horrible images had been circling in my head.

“I’ve just received a very garbled message on my phone,” Dad says. “As I’ve said to Luke, I want you to put Mum off, all right? Tell her to stay in the UK.”

Is he kidding? Does he have any idea what we’ve been going through?

“But she’s already here! And so is Janice! Dad, we’re worried about you!” My words tumble out. “And we’re worried about Tarkie, and we’re worried about—”

“We’re all fine,” says Dad testily. “Please tell Mum not to fret. I’ll only be a few days.”

“But where are you? What are you doing?”

“It doesn’t matter,” responds Dad shortly. “It’s a small issue between friends, and it’ll take no time at all to sort out, I’m sure. Try to amuse your mother in the meantime.”

“But we’re following you!”

“Well, please don’t follow me!” Dad sounds really quite angry. “This is ridiculous! Can a man not deal with a small private matter without being trailed?”

“But you didn’t even tell Mum what you were doing! You just disappeared!”

“I left you a note,” says Dad impatiently. “You knew I was safe. Shouldn’t that have been enough?”

“Dad, you need to speak to her, right now. I’ll pass you over—”

“No.” Dad cuts me off. “Becky, I’m trying to achieve an important task, and I have to focus on that. I can’t deal with your mother having hysterics at me for an hour.”

“She wouldn’t—” I begin, then stop mid-sentence. I hate to say it, but he’s right. If Mum gets on the phone with him, the rant will last until the phone runs out of power.

“Take your mother back to L.A.,” Dad’s saying. “Go to a spa and—what do you call it?—chill out.”

“How can we chill out?” Now I’m starting to feel angry. “You won’t tell us anything, and we know Bryce is trying to brainwash Tarkie….I mean, is he OK?”

Dad gives a short laugh. “Bryce isn’t brainwashing anyone. He’s a very helpful young man. He’s been invaluable to me. Knows the area, you see. And he’s quite taken Tarquin under his wing. They spend hours chatting with each other about this and that.”

Under his wing? Hours chatting about this and that? I don’t like the sound of that one bit.

“Well, is Tarkie there?”

“He’s here. D’you want to speak to him?”

What? I stare at the phone in disbelief. There’s a scuffling noise down the line, then Tarquin’s unmistakable reedy voice says, “Ahm, hello? Becky?”

“Tarkie!” I nearly explode with relief. “Hi! I’ll get Suze—”

“No, ahm…don’t bother,” he says. “Just tell her I’m all right.”

“But she’s so worried! We’re all worried. You know Bryce is trying to brainwash you? He’s dangerous, Tarkie. He wants your money. You haven’t given him any, have you? Because don’t, OK?”

“Of course he wants my money.” Tarquin sounds so matter-of-fact, the wind is taken out of my sails. “Asks me about it every five minutes. Not very subtle either. I’m not giving it to him, though.”

“Thank God!” I exhale. “Well, don’t.”

“I’m not a total chump, you know, Becky.”

“Oh,” I say feebly.

“Chap like Bryce, you just have to keep your wits about you.”

“Right.”

I’m feeling totally confused right now. Tarkie sounds so together. I thought he’d been having a nervous breakdown.

But then, what was that whole act in L.A. about? I can still picture him, sitting at the table in our house, glowering at everyone, telling Suze she was toxic.

“Becky, I have to go,” Tarquin’s saying. “I’ll put your father back on.”

“No, don’t go!” I cry, but it’s too late.

“Becky?” My dad’s back on the line and I quickly draw breath.

“Dad, listen. Please. I don’t know what you’re up to, and if you don’t want me to know, that’s fine. But you can’t leave Mum in the lurch like this. Are you anywhere near Las Vegas? Because if you’ve ever loved us and you have any time at all, meet us there. Just so we can see you for a couple of minutes. Just so we know you’re OK. And then go off on your mission. Please, Dad. Please.”

There’s a long silence. I can feel Dad’s unwillingness seeping down the phone.

“I’m a fair way away,” he says at last.

“Then we’ll come to you! Give me an address!”

“No,” says Dad. “No, let’s not do that.”

There’s another silence, and I hold my breath.

The thing about my dad is, he’s actually a very reasonable man. I mean, he was in insurance.

“All right,” he says at last. “I’ll have a quick breakfast with you tomorrow in Las Vegas. Then you can all relax and go back to L.A. and leave me in peace. But no questions.”

“Absolutely,” I say hastily. “No questions.”

I am so going to ask questions. I’ll start a list straightaway.

“Where shall we meet?”

“Er…”

My knowledge of Las Vegas is fairly limited. In fact, it basically consists of watching Ocean’s Eleven about a thousand times.

“The Bellagio,” I say. “Breakfast at the Bellagio, nine A.M.”

“Good. See you there.”

And I wasn’t going to ask anything else, because clearly he doesn’t want me to know, but I can’t help myself, so I blurt out: “Dad, why didn’t you want to call me Rebecca?”

There’s another prickly silence, and I hold my breath. I know Dad’s still on the line. He’s on the line and he’s not saying anything….

And then he’s rung off.

I immediately press CALL RETURN but it goes straight to voicemail. I try Tarkie’s phone, but the same thing happens. They must have switched them both off.

“Well done!” says Luke as I finally raise my head. “You should be a hostage negotiator! Do I take it we have a breakfast appointment with the runaways?”

“Apparently so,” I say, blinking at him. I feel a bit dazed. After all the stressing and worrying, it turns out Dad and Tarkie are both fine. Not at the bottom of a ravine.

“Relax, Becky!” Luke puts his hands on my shoulders. “This is good news! We’ve found them!”

“Yes!” And at last I feel a smile starting to spread across my face. “We have! We’ve found them. Let’s tell Mum and Suze!”

—

Well, honestly. I thought it was the bearers of bad news who were supposed to be given a hard time. There I was, imagining Mum and Suze would gasp and cheer and congratulate me on having pinned Dad down to breakfast in Las Vegas. There I was, hoping for a group hug. I must have been deluded.