‘Becky?’

‘Hi, Dad! Listen, I’m going to see your friend Brent. I’m in the car right now.’

‘Darling!’ Dad sounds surprised. ‘That was quick. I didn’t mean for you to drop everything.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ I say. ‘He’s based somewhere called the Shining Hill Home Estate, does that sound right?’

‘Sounds rather grand!’ says Dad. ‘That’ll be right. I’m sure he’s done very well for himself. He probably lives in a mansion.’

‘Really?’ I say, my interest piqued a little. ‘What does he do?’

‘I’m not sure. Back then, he was a postgraduate student.’

‘So how do you know he lives in a mansion?’ I object.

‘Oh, I’m certain he’s done all right for himself.’ Dad chuckles. ‘Let’s say, he was on the right path already— Oh, Becky!’ Dad interrupts himself. ‘Mum says, there’s a new picture of you on her phone on the internet! Standing outside your house. Is that you this morning, darling?’

‘Yes!’ I say in excitement. ‘Have they uploaded them already? What does it say?’

‘Witness Becky is pretty in pink,’ reads Dad carefully. ‘Brit set to testify in court. That’s on the National Enquirer website.’

National Enquirer! Pretty in pink! I feel a jolt of excitement. Although what’s this about testifying in court? I never said anything about that.

‘Do I look all right?’ I demand. That’s the main point.

‘You look wonderful! Ah now, Mum’s found another one: Becky steps out in YSL shoes.’

For God’s sake. I told them my shoes weren’t Yves Saint Laurent.

‘Darling, you’re quite the celebrity!’ says Dad. ‘Don’t forget us, will you?’

‘I won’t!’ I laugh, then jump as I see Luke flash up on the screen.

‘I’d better go, Dad. Talk to you later.’ I punch Answer. ‘Hi, Luke.’

‘Becky, my darling,’ he says, in that deadpan, patient tone he uses when he’s actually quite pissed off. ‘I thought you said you walked straight to the car and got in?’

‘Er … yes. Kind of.’

‘So why am I looking at a picture of you on the Daily World website, sitting on the car bonnet, brandishing your sunglasses and beaming at the camera?’

‘I was making a phone call,’ I say defensively. ‘I just happened to sit on the car. They must have snapped me.’

‘You happened to sit on the car?’ says Luke disbelievingly. ‘How does one happen to sit on a car?’

‘I was going about my daily life,’ I insist. ‘It’s not my fault if I’m being stalked and harassed by the press.’

‘Becky.’ Luke exhales. ‘What kind of game are you trying to play here? Because it’s a dangerous one. Once you invite these people into your life, it’s very difficult to shut them out again.

I don’t want to shut them out, I think mutinously. I want to grab my chance while I’m hot.

But Luke wouldn’t understand, because he’s totally warped by his job. I’ve heard his personal views before, when he’s had a couple of glasses of wine. He thinks fame is overrated and privacy is the greatest luxury of the modern world and the tsunami of social media is going to lead to the permanent disintegration of human interaction. (Or something. I sometimes stop listening, to be honest.)

‘I’m not playing any game,’ I say, trying to sound righteously indignant. ‘I’m just dealing with a situation, the best way I know how. And what you could do, Luke, is support me.’

‘I am supporting you! I’m advising you! I told you to stay indoors! Now you’re all over the papers—’

‘It’s for my career!’ I say defensively.

There’s silence down the phone and suddenly I realize my sat nav is talking to me.

‘Right turn not taken,’ she’s saying sternly. ‘Make a U-turn as soon as possible.’

Damn. I missed my exit. It’s all Luke’s fault.

‘Look, I have to go,’ I say. ‘I need to concentrate on the road. We’ll talk about it later.’

I ring off, feeling all cross and prickly. Any other husband would be proud of his wife. I want to talk to Aran. He’ll understand.

‘Make a U-turn as soon as possible,’ the sat nav persists.

‘All right! Shut up!’

I really have to focus on the road. I have no idea where I am, except that I’m going in the wrong direction. Truthfully, I’m still a bit hazy about most of LA. I mean, how on earth are you supposed to get to know the whole city? LA is so big. It’s about the size of France.

OK, maybe not France. Maybe Belgium.

Anyway, I need to step on it. Finally I reach a point where I can U-turn. I swing the car round, ignoring the hoots from some other totally unreasonable drivers who shouldn’t have been driving so fast, and set off, this time in the right direction. Shining Hill Home Estate, here we come!

As I get near my destination, I’m looking out for some beautiful shining hill, but I can’t see one. All I can see is a great big road with motels either side and lorries thundering past, and billboards. This isn’t at all what I was expecting.

After a while, my sat nav takes me off the main road and up an even less inspiring side road, and I peer around warily. There aren’t any mansions. There aren’t any expensive cars. There’s a crummy-looking gas station and a motel offering rooms for $39. Is this really where Dad’s friend lives?

‘Destination two hundred yards ahead on the right-hand side,’ my sat nav is saying. ‘Destination one hundred yards ahead … You have arrived at your destination.’

I pull up at the side of the road and stare out of the window, my jaw slack with disbelief. The sat nav is right: I’ve arrived at the Shining Hill Home Estate. But it’s not a mansion. It’s a trailer park. There’s a faded sign chained to a galvanized pair of gates and beyond it I can see rows of mobile homes stretching into the distance. I check my piece of paper again: 431 Shining Hill Home Estate. Brent Lewis must live in trailer no. 431.

Part of me wants to phone Dad instantly and tell him how wrong he’s got it about his friend, but I decide to investigate first, so I lock the car and proceed cautiously into the trailer park. No one stops me, and I soon work out where number 431 is from a map on a board. As I make my way down a line of trailers, I get stares from some people sitting outside their mobile homes, and I can’t help glancing around curiously myself. Some of the trailers are really nice-looking and well kept, with plants and pretty curtains, but some are awful. One has broken patio furniture piled high outside it, almost blocking the door. Another has the sound of screaming coming from it. Another has all its windows broken in.

I arrive at no. 431 and approach it. It’s a very plain trailer – not run-down but not very appealing, either. The door is shut and the blinds are down and there are no signs of life. There’s a piece of paper taped to the door and I glance at it as I knock. It says: Notice of Eviction.

I scan the notice, which is all about Mr Brent Lewis of 431 Shining Hill Home Estate and his failure to pay six months’ overdue rent, and the steps which must therefore be taken, signed Herb Leggett, Manager.

‘You a friend of Brent?’ A voice hails me and I turn to see a skinny woman standing on the steps of the trailer opposite. She’s wearing black jeans with her hair thrust into a ponytail and holding a small boy on her hip.

‘Is Brent around?’ I say. ‘I’m not a friend exactly, but I’d like to see him.’

‘You a social worker?’ Her eyes narrow. ‘Police?’

‘No!’ I say, shocked. ‘Nothing like that. I’m just … my dad knew him years ago.’

‘You British?’

‘Yes. My dad is too.’

The woman sniffs and nods. ‘Well, you just missed him. He took off yesterday.’

He took off? Oh God. What’s Dad going to say?

‘Do you have a forwarding address?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘Said his daughter was stopping by next week, clear things out. I can ask her.’

‘Could you?’ I say, eagerly. ‘I’m Becky Brandon, this is my number …’ I get out one of my business cards and hand it to her. ‘If she could ring me, that would be great, or maybe you could ring me. Or …’

The woman shrugs again, and tucks the card into her jeans. Immediately the small boy pulls it out and throws it on the ground.

‘No!’ I leap forward. ‘I mean … let’s not lose that. Shall I put it somewhere safe for you?’

The woman shrugs yet again. I really don’t have high hopes that she’s going to talk to Brent’s daughter. All the same, I tuck the card safely into the window frame of her door.

‘So, I’ll look forward to hearing from Brent’s daughter,’ I say as brightly as I can. ‘Or you. Whichever. I’d be really grateful. Anyway … er … lovely to meet you. I’m Becky, by the way.’

‘You said.’ She nods, but doesn’t volunteer her own name.

I can’t keep babbling on at this woman, so I give her one last friendly smile and turn on my heel to leave. I still can’t believe this is where Dad’s friend has ended up. It’s such a shame.

As soon as I’m on the road again, I dial Dad’s number.

‘Dad!’

‘Darling! Did you see him?’

‘Not exactly.’ I wince. ‘Dad, I’m afraid you were wrong. Brent Lewis has been living in a trailer park, and now he’s just been evicted because he didn’t pay his rent. I couldn’t get an address.’

‘No. No!’ Dad gives a short laugh. ‘Darling, that’s not right. It can’t be the same Brent Lewis. I’m sorry you wasted your time, but—’

‘Well, it was the address I got from his sister. It must be him.’

There’s a longish silence.

‘He lives in a trailer park?’ says Dad at last.

‘Yes. I mean, his trailer’s quite nice,’ I say hastily. ‘Not broken or anything. But now he’s been evicted.’

‘This can’t be right.’ Dad sounds almost angry. ‘You must have got it wrong, Becky.’