Ideas are seeding in my brain, thoughts, half plans….I keep taking a pen out of my bag and scribbling odd words on a scrap of paper. Surely we can do it, somehow?

“What are you up to, love?” says Mum, noticing me, and I pause mid-word.

“Thinking of a plan to squash Corey. But I’m not sure yet.” I glance down again at my page. “I’ve got a bit of an idea….”

We’re going to have a meeting later to discuss everything, and I might raise my plan as a possibility. Maybe.

“Well done, love!” says Mum, and I shrug.

“I don’t know. It’s only a few thoughts so far. I need to work on it.”

“Look at that!” says Suze, and we all pause at a shop called Someday My Prints Will Come. The window is full of gorgeous books, folders, boxes, and cushions—all covered in hand-blocked prints of trees, birds, and other nature-y stuff.

“Beautiful!” Mum agrees. “Becky, look at those dinky little suitcases! Let’s go in!”

We leave Luke outside, finishing his email, because he says it’s super-urgent and otherwise he would absolutely have loved to go and browse photo frames covered in cactuses. (He’s such a fibber.) As we enter, a woman wearing a feather-print dress rises from behind the till with a smile.

“Welcome,” she says in a soft voice.

“Did you create these prints?” asks Suze, and as the woman nods her head, Suze adds, “I love them!”

As I stroll around, I can hear Suze asking lots of questions about printmaking. The thing about Suze is, she’s very artistic. She could totally open a shop like this. In fact, maybe that’s what she should do at Letherby Hall: “The Letherby Print Collection.” It would be fantastic! I’m just squirreling this idea away to tell her later, when I come across a display of pencils and stop dead. Wow. I’ve never seen such amazing pencils.

They’re a little thicker than normal pencils, and each is covered in a different print. But not just that: The wood’s colored too. There are orange-print pencils with lavender-colored wood…turquoise-print pencils with crimson wood….They’re just stunning. As I raise one to my nose, I can smell this gorgeous, wafty, sandalwood-y scent.

“Are you buying one, Becky?” says Mum, and I swivel round to see her, Dad, and Janice approaching. Mum’s carrying three box files decorated with a tree print, and Janice has about a dozen tea towels covered in pumpkins.

“Oh no,” I say automatically, and put the pencil back. “They’re lovely, though, aren’t they?”

“They’re only two forty-nine,” says Mum, picking up a green-leaf-print pencil with amber wood. “You should get one.”

“It’s fine,” I say hastily. “What are you getting?”

“I’m organizing my life,” says Mum with a flourish. “It’s all changing.” She taps each box file in turn. “Letters, warranties, and printed-out emails. They’ll be the death of me. All over the kitchen.”

“Why do you print out your emails?” I say, puzzled.

“Oh, I can’t read emails on the screen.” Mum wrinkles her nose as though this is a mad idea. “I don’t know how you do that, love. And Luke! Doing all his business on a tiny little phone! How on earth does he manage it?”

“You could increase the font size,” I suggest, whereupon Mum looks as though I’ve said, You could travel to Mars.

“I’ll buy myself a set of box files.” She pats them fondly. “Much simpler.”

OK. I already know Mum’s next birthday present. A day with an IT tutor.

“So, what are you getting?” Mum looks over the display. “What about a pencil? They’re lovely.”

“Nothing.” I smile. “Let’s go and pay for your box files.”

“Bex doesn’t shop anymore,” says Suze, joining us. “Even if she can afford it.” She’s holding Minnie’s hand and they’re both clutching what look like aprons decorated with rabbits.

“What do you mean, she doesn’t shop anymore?” says Mum, looking baffled.

“I tried to buy her a pair of cowboy boots. She wouldn’t let me.”

“I didn’t need cowboy boots.”

“Well, you need a pencil!” says Mum brightly. “You can use it to write out your plan, love.”

“I don’t.” I abruptly turn away. “Let’s go.”

“They’re only two forty-nine,” points out Suze, picking one up. “Wow, they smell amazing.”

I let my gaze run over the pencils, feeling all twisty and miserable again. They are gorgeous. And of course I can afford one. But something’s blocking me. I can hear that horrible voice inside my head again.

“Let’s go and explore the rest of the town,” I say, trying to move everyone on, trying to get away. But Mum is gazing at me, her brow all wrinkled up.

“Becky, love…” she says gently. “This isn’t you. What’s happened to you, love? What’s going on inside?”

There’s something about hearing Mum’s kind voice, the voice I’ve been listening to since before I was born: It seems to wriggle past all my defenses, all the other voices, and get to the kernel of me. I can’t not listen to her. And I can’t not reply. This is my mum.

“It’s just…you know,” I say at last. “I messed up. All this trouble was my fault. So…” I swallow hard, avoiding everyone’s eye. “You know. So I don’t deserve to—” I break off and rub my nose. “Anyway. It’s fine. It’s all good. I’m supposed to be stopping shopping. So.”

“Not like this!” says Mum in horror. “Not like this, punishing yourself! I never heard of such a thing! Is this what they told you at that center? You don’t deserve to buy a pencil?”

“Well, not exactly,” I admit after a pause.

The truth is, at Golden Peace they said it was all about “getting shopping in proportion” and “spending meaningfully” and that the aim was to “find a balance.” Maybe “finding a balance” isn’t really my strong point.

Now Mum is glancing at Suze and Dad, as though for support. “I don’t care what happened in L.A.!” she says hotly. “What I can see in front of me is a young lady who’s dropped everything to help her friend…” She starts counting off. “Who found the address of Corey, thought of a way to get through to Raymond…What else?”

“Saw through Alicia,” adds Suze.

“Exactly!” says Mum. “Exactly! You’ve been a little star, Becky! You don’t need to feel guilty!”

“Becky, why do you think this trip is all your fault?” puts in Dad.

“Well, you know!” I say desperately. “Because I should have gone to see Brent sooner; then he wouldn’t have been evicted and he wouldn’t have disappeared….”

“Becky.” Dad puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me with his wise-Dad gaze. “Not for one moment have I blamed you for this. Brent disappeared for many reasons. The truth is, he didn’t need to leave. I’d paid off his arrears and the rent on his trailer for the next year.”

He…what?

I stare at Dad, staggered—then almost at once realize: Well, of course Dad would have done something lovely like that.

“But his daughter never said…”

“His daughter may not have known.” Dad sighs. “These matters are complex, Becky, and that’s no one’s fault. And the idea that you would blame yourself for everything—it’s appalling.”

“Oh,” I say feebly. I don’t know what else to say. It’s like a great rock is rolling off me.

“And in light of this”—Dad steps forward—“please, my darling, let me buy you a pencil. You certainly deserve it.”

“No!” Mum steps in front of Dad before he can choose a pencil, and we all stare at her in surprise. “That’s not what this is about. This is about Becky. And what’s going on inside Becky.” She pauses, as though marshaling her thoughts, and everyone exchanges uncertain looks. “I refuse to have brought up a daughter who can’t buy herself a pencil, because she feels too bad about herself,” she says at last. “Becky, there’s not-shopping for good reasons. And there’s not-shopping for bad reasons. And they’re not the same.” She’s breathing hard and her eyes are glittering. “No one wants you to go back to the way you were. No one wants you to be hiding Visa bills under the bed. Sorry, love,” she adds, pink in the face. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“It’s OK,” I reply, feeling my cheeks flush too. “Everyone here knows; we’re all friends.” I catch the eye of a woman in blue lurking nearby, totally eavesdropping, and she hastily moves away.

“But this isn’t the way to do it. This isn’t my Becky.” She gazes at me in concern. “Are you overdrawn?”

“Actually…no, I’m not,” I admit. “In fact, I just got paid for my styling work in L.A. I’m doing pretty well for money.”

“Would you like a pencil?”

“Um…” I swallow hard. “Yes. I suppose I would. Maybe.”

“Well. It’s up to you, love. You have to make your own choices. Maybe you don’t want to buy anything.” Mum steps back and blows her nose. “But no more of this talk about ‘not deserving’ it. The idea!”

There’s a short silence as everyone moves away a little and pretends not to be watching. I feel so, so weird. Everything’s reshuffling in my mind. Bits that have felt stuck for so long are coming free. It wasn’t my fault. At least…it wasn’t all my fault. Maybe…

Maybe I could get myself a pencil. Just as a souvenir. Maybe that beautiful purple one with the gray bird print and the pale-orange wood. I mean, it’s only $2.49. And pencils are always useful, aren’t they?

Yes, I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, am going to buy myself a pencil.

I reach for it, and as my fingers close over it, I feel a happy beam spreading slowly over my face. A kind of warmth in my stomach. I have so missed this feeling….

Ooh. Wait a minute. So am I shopping “calmly and with meaning”? The thought passes through my mind and I pause, trying to examine myself. Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know. I feel calm-ish, I suppose. As for “meaning”…Well. The fact is, this one little pencil seems to have taken on a ridiculous amount of meaning.