It’s five-thirty in the afternoon, and we’re all totally fried. We’ve done two turns each at staking out the ceramics tent, but no one has seen even a shadow of Raymond. Nor has Suze heard anything more from Tarkie, but she’s being very brave and not talking about it. She spent ages on the phone to her children this afternoon, and I could hear her trying to sound merry—but she wasn’t doing the most brilliant job of it. This is our third day away now, and Suze isn’t great at leaving the children at the best of times. (And this is hardly the best of times.)

Now Danny is doing another stint in the ceramics tent, Mum and Janice have gone shopping, and I’m feeding Minnie French fries in the That Western Feelin’ tent, which has bales of hay and a dance floor. At the same time, I’m giving Suze a pep talk about her meeting later on with Bryce.

“Don’t get into conversation,” I instruct her firmly. “Tell Bryce you’re not playing ball. And if he wants to get confrontational, then you’ll play hardball.”

“I thought I wasn’t playing ball.” Suze looks confused.

“Er…you’re not,” I say, a bit confused myself. “You’re playing hardball. It’s different.”

“Right.” Suze still looks perplexed. “Bex, will you come along too?”

“Really? Are you sure you want me there?”

“Please,” she begs. “I need moral support. I’m afraid I might go to pieces when I see him again.”

“OK, then. I’ll be there.” I squeeze her hand, and she squeezes it back gratefully.

It’s been restorative, just wandering round the fair with Suze, drifting and chatting and pointing things out to each other. I’ve missed her so much.

As if she can read my mind, Suze gives me a sudden hug. “Today’s been lovely,” she says. “Even despite everything.”

The band is playing some jaunty Western tune, and a woman in a leather vest has climbed on to the stage. She’s giving instructions on how to line dance, and about twenty people are out on the floor. “Come on, Minnie,” Suze says. “Dance with me!”

I can’t help smiling as Suze leads Minnie away. This afternoon she bought Minnie a teeny pair of cowboy boots, and the pair of them look like proper Western girls, doing heel-toe-kick-swivel.

Well, Suze is swiveling and kicking. Minnie’s just kind of hopping from foot to foot.

“May I have this dance?” Luke’s voice takes me by surprise, and I look up with a laugh. He’s been doing some massive great work email all afternoon, so I’ve barely seen him. But here he is, smiling down, his face tanned from spending so much time in the sun.

“Do you know how to line dance?” I parry.

“We’ll learn! Come on.” He takes my hand, pulls me up, and leads me onto the dance floor. It’s filled with people now, and everyone’s moving backward and forward together in sync. I start trying to follow the instructions, but it’s a bit difficult in flip-flops. Your heel doesn’t hit the ground properly. And you can’t swivel. And one of my flip-flops keeps falling off altogether.

At last I give up and gesture over the music to Luke that I’m sitting down again. As he follows me off the floor, he looks puzzled.

“What’s up?”

“My flip-flops.” I shrug. “I don’t think they’re designed for line dancing.”

A moment later, Suze and Minnie join us at the table.

“Come and have a go, Bex!” Suze holds out a hand, her eyes bright.

“I can’t dance in my flip-flops. It doesn’t matter.” I’m expecting Suze to shrug and return to the dance floor, but instead she glares at me, almost angrily.

“Suze?” I say in surprise.

“It does matter!” she bursts out. “I tried to buy you cowboy boots.” She turns to Luke. “But she wouldn’t let me. And now she can’t dance!”

“Look, it’s no big deal,” I say, feeling rattled. “Leave me alone.”

“Bex has gone all weird.” Suze appeals to Luke. “She won’t even let me give her a present. Bex—why?”

She and Luke are both surveying me now, and I can see the concern in their faces.

“I don’t know, OK?” With no warning, tears spring to my eyes. “I just don’t feel like it. Look, I want to do something useful. I’m going back to the ceramics tent. Luke, why not go and catch up with some more work? I know you need to. I’ll see you later, Suze. Seven P.M. at the hog-roast tent, right?” And before either of them can reply, I hurry away.

—

As I stride toward the ceramics tent, my mind is miserably whirling. I don’t know why I wouldn’t let Suze get me the cowboy boots. I know she could easily afford to. Am I punishing her? Or am I punishing myself? Or am I punishing…er…

Actually, I don’t know who else I could be punishing. All I know is that Suze is right: I’m a bit messed up inside. I got it all wrong with my job, with Dad, with everything—I feel like I’ve made mistake after mistake without even realizing it. And then, as I reach the ceramics tent, it suddenly hits me: I’m scared. Deep down, I’m scared I’m going to screw up even more. Some people lose their nerve for riding or skiing or driving; well, I’ve lost my nerve for life.

The ceramics tent is far more crowded than before, and it takes me a little time to find Danny, sitting in the corner. He has his sketchbook open and is drawing an outfit, totally absorbed. I can see more sketches piled up by his feet, and it looks like he’s been at it awhile. Isn’t he keeping a lookout for Raymond at all?

“Danny!” I say, and he jumps. “Any sign of Raymond? Are you watching?”

“Sure.” He nods alertly. “I’m on it.” He focuses on the crowd in the tent for a few seconds—then his gaze drifts down and his pencil starts moving again.

Honestly. He is so not on it.

“Danny!” I plant a hand on his sketch. “What happened to staking out the tent? If Raymond walked past right now, would you notice?”

“Jeez, Becky!” Danny raises his eyes to heaven. “Face it, Raymond’s not coming. If he wanted to be here, he’d be here. All the other artists are here.” He gestures around the tent. “I chatted with them. They said Raymond hardly ever shows up.”

“Well, still. We should at least try.”

But Danny isn’t listening. He’s drawing a belted dress with a cape, which actually looks amazing.

“You carry on with your sketches,” I say with a sigh. “Don’t worry about Raymond. I’ll stake out the tent.”

“I’m off duty?” Danny’s eyes light up. “OK, I’m getting a drink. Catch you later.” He gathers up his sketches, stuffs them into his leather portfolio, and heads off.

As he disappears, I turn my attention to the people in the tent. My eyes are narrowed and I feel on red alert. It’s all very well, Danny saying Raymond won’t turn up—but what if he does? What if it’s all down to me to discover the secret? If I could do that, if I could actually achieve something…maybe I wouldn’t feel so pointless.

I check the photo of Raymond on my phone and scan the faces around me, but I can’t see him anywhere. I circle the tent a few times, weaving through the crowd, looking at all the pots and plates and vases. I quite like a cream-colored bowl with red splatters, but as I get near I see it’s called Carnage, and my stomach turns. Are those red splatters supposed to be…

Argh. Yuck. Why would you do that? Why would you call a bowl Carnage? God, potters are weird.

“You like it?” A slight, blond woman in a smock comes up. “It’s my favorite piece.” I can see a tag reading ARTIST on a cord round her neck, so I guess she made it. Which means she’s Mona Dorsey.

“Lovely!” I say politely. “And that one’s lovely too.” I point to a vase with big black random stripes, which I think Luke would like.

“That’s Desecration.” She smiles. “It comes in a set with Holocaust.”

Desecration and Holocaust?

“Excellent!” I nod, trying to look unfazed. “Absolutely. Although I was just wondering, do you have anything with a slightly jollier title?”

“Jollier?”

“Happier. You know. Cheery.”

Mona looks blank. “I try to give my pieces meaning,” she says. “It’s all in here.” She hands me a pamphlet entitled “Wilderness Creative Festival: Guide to Artists.” “All the artists in the exhibition explain their life and working process. Mine is to depict the blackest, most morbid and nihilistic urges of human nature.”

“Right.” I gulp. “Er…great!”

“Were you interested in a piece?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I mean, I love the way they look. Only I’d prefer one that’s just a tad less depressing and nihilistic.”

“Let me think,” says Mona, considering. She gestures to a tall narrow-necked bottle. “This one is entitled Hunger in a Plentiful World.”

“Hmm.” I pull a thoughtful face. “Still quite depressing.”

“Or Ruined?” She picks up a green-and-black lidded pot.

“It’s really beautiful,” I hasten to assure her. “But it’s still a teeny bit of a gloomy title.”

“You think Ruined is a gloomy title?” She seems surprised, and I blink back in confusion. How could Ruined not be a gloomy title?

“A little bit,” I say at last. “Just…you know. To my ear.”

“Strange.” She shrugs. “Ah, now, this one is different.” She seizes a dark-blue vase with white brushstrokes. “I like to think this has a layer of hope beneath the despair. It was inspired by my grandmother’s death,” she adds.

“Oh, how touching,” I say sympathetically. “What’s it called?”

“Violence of Suicide,” she announces proudly.

For a moment I can’t quite speak. I try to imagine having Suze for supper and saying, You must look at my new vase, Violence of Suicide.

“Or there’s Beaten,” Mona is saying. “That’s quite lovely….”