“Well, I am. And he’s gone missing. We’ve been trying to track him down and help him out, but all we know is, he’s trying to put something right. Do you know what that is?”
“Has he been here?” puts in Suze.
“Has he made contact?”
“Can you tell us what this is all about?”
Raymond’s face has closed up as we’ve been talking. He meets my eye briefly, then glances away, and I feel a twinge in my stomach. He knows.
“What is it?” I demand. “What happened?”
“What’s he doing?” chimes in Suze.
There’s another flicker in Raymond’s eye, and he stares at the far corner of the room.
“You know, don’t you?” I try to catch his eye. “Why won’t you speak? Why did you turn my mum away?”
“Tell us!” exclaims Suze.
“Whatever he’s doing, that’s his business,” says Raymond, without moving his gaze.
He knows. We’ve come all this way and he knows and he’s not telling us. I feel such a surge of fury, I start quivering.
“I’ll throw this to the ground!” I yell, brandishing Twice. “I’ll throw everything to the ground! I can do a lot of damage in thirty seconds! And I don’t care if you call the police, because this is my dad and I need to know!”
“Jesus!” Raymond seems shocked at my outburst. “Chill out. You really Graham’s daughter?” He turns to Suze. “Graham was always Mr. Calm.”
“He still is,” says Suze.
“I take a bit more after my mum,” I admit.
“So…you’re Graham’s daughter,” he says for a third time. God, is he always this slow on the uptake?
“Yes, I’m Rebecca,” I say pointedly. “But my dad didn’t want to give me that name. For some reason. Which no one will tell me.”
“And Brent’s and Corey’s daughters are Rebecca too,” puts in Suze.
“Brent’s daughter said, ‘We’re all called Rebecca,’ but I don’t know why, and, basically, I’m tired of not knowing about my own life.” My voice is shaking as I finish, and a weird little silence falls over the room.
Raymond seems to be processing everything. He looks at me and at Suze. He looks at the pots, still above our heads. (Suze must have such bad pins and needles by now.)
Then, at last, he seems to give in. “OK,” he says.
“OK what?” I say warily.
“I’ll tell you what your dad’s doing.”
“So you do know?”
“He was here.” He gestures to a paint-stained sofa. “Sit. I’ll tell you what I know. You want some iced tea?”
—
Even though Raymond seems to have decided to play along, we don’t relinquish the pottery, just in case. We sit on the sofa, clutching the two sculptures on our laps, while Raymond pours iced tea from a jug, then arranges himself on a chair opposite.
“Well, it comes down to the money,” he says, as though this is perfectly obvious, and takes a thoughtful sip from his glass.
“What money?”
“Brent signing away his rights. I mean, that’s years ago now. But your dad only just found out, thought it was wrong. Wanted to do something about it. I said, ‘That’s their business.’ But your dad got the bit between his teeth. He and Corey always did have that…I don’t know what you’d call it. A spark. Corey wound your dad up. Anyway, so that’s what he’s up to.”
Raymond leans back as though all is now perfectly clear and takes another sip of iced tea. I stare at him, nonplussed.
“What?” I say at last. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, you know,” says Raymond with a shrug. “The spring. The money.” He eyes me closely. “I’m talking about the money.”
“What money?” I retort with a flash of irritation. “You keep talking about money, but I don’t know what you’re going on about.”
“You don’t know?” Raymond gives a little whoop. “He never told you?”
“No!”
“Oh, Graham. Not so holier-than-thou now.” He gives a sudden guffaw.
“What are you talking about?” I’m exploding with frustration.
“OK.” Raymond flashes me a grin. “Now, you pay attention. This is a good story. We all first met in New York, the four of us, waiting tables. Corey and Brent were science grads. I was a design postgrad. Your dad was…I don’t remember what your dad was. We were young men, waiting to see where life would take us, and we decided to go west. Have an adventure.”
“Right.” I nod politely, though my heart is sinking. People say, “This is a good story,” and what they mean is, I’m going to share a random slice of my life with you now, and you have to look fascinated. The truth is, I’ve heard this story a million times from Dad. Next we’ll be on to the sunsets and the shimmering heat and that time they spent the night in the desert. “So, where does money come into it?”
“I’ll get to that.” Raymond lifts a hand. “Off we went, traveling around the West. And we talked. A lot. No cell phones back then, remember. No Wi-Fi. Just music and conversation. In bars, sitting around the campfire, on the road…wherever. Corey and Brent used to spitball ideas. They used to talk about setting up a research company together. Bright boys, both of them. Corey had money too. And looks. He was what you might call the alpha male.”
“Right,” I say dubiously, remembering the tanned, weird-looking guy we met in Las Vegas.
“Then one night…” Raymond pauses for effect. “They came up with the spring.” A little smile dances around his mouth. “Ever heard of a balloon spring?”
Something is ringing in my mind, and I sit up straighter. “Hang on. Corey invented a spring, didn’t he?”
“Corey and Brent invented a spring,” corrects Raymond.
“But…” I stare at him. “I saw articles about that spring online. There’s no mention of Brent anywhere.”
“Guess Corey had him airbrushed out of the story.” Raymond gives a wry chuckle. “But Brent helped invent it, all right. They came up with the first notion together one night by the fire. Sketched out the concept right then and there. It was four years before it was actually developed, but that’s where it all began. Corey, Brent, your dad, and me. We all had a stake in it.”
“Wait, what?” I stare at him. “My dad had a stake in it?”
“Well, I say ‘stake.’ ” Raymond begins to chuckle again. “He didn’t put any money in. It was more like a ‘contribution.’ ”
“Contribution? What contribution?”
I’m half-hoping to hear that my dad was the one who had the blinding insight that kick-started the whole invention.
“Your dad gave them the pad of paper they wrote it on.”
“Paper,” I say, deflated. “Is that all?”
“It was enough! They joked about it. Corey and Brent were desperate for something to write on. Your dad had a big sketchbook. He said, ‘Well, if I give you my sketchbook, I want in on this,’ and Corey said, ‘You got it, Graham. You’ve got one percent.’ I mean, we were all joking. I helped them sketch out their ideas. It passed a few evenings.” Raymond takes another glug of iced tea. “But then they made the spring. The money started pouring in. And as far as I know, Corey stuck to his word. Sent your dad a dividend every year.”
I’m dumbstruck. My dad has a stake in a spring? OK, I take it back. This is a pretty good story.
“I had an inheritance around that time,” Raymond adds, “so I put some real money in. Set me up for life.”
“But how can a spring make so much money?” says Suze skeptically. “It’s just a piece of curly wire.”
That’s exactly what I was thinking, only I didn’t want to say it.
“It’s a kind of folding spring.” Raymond shrugs. “Useful thing. You’ll find it in firearms, computer keyboards…you name it. Corey and Brent were smart. Corey had a gun; he did some hunting. They’d take it apart in the evenings, play around with the spring-loading mechanism. It gave them ideas. You know how it is.”
No, I don’t know how it is. I’ve sat around loads of times with Suze, and we’ve taken plenty of things apart, like makeup kits. But I’ve never invented a new spring.
I suddenly understand why Dad was always so interested in my physics report. And why he used to say, “Becky love, why not go into engineering?” and “Science is not boring, young lady!”
Hmm. Maybe he had a point. Now I half-wish I’d listened.
Ooh, maybe we can train up Minnie in science and she’ll invent an even more advanced spring and we’ll all be squillionaires. (When she’s not winning the Olympics at show jumping, of course.)
“When they got back from the trip,” Raymond is saying, “they hired a lab and developed it properly. Four years later they launched it. At least, Corey launched it.”
“Only Corey? Why not Brent?”
Raymond’s face kind of closes up. “Brent bowed out after three years,” he says shortly.
“Three years? What do you mean, before it launched? So he didn’t make any money?”
“Not to speak of. He pretty much just signed away his rights.”
“But why on earth would he do that?” I demand in horror. “He must have known it had huge potential.”
“I guess Corey told him—” Raymond breaks off, then says with sudden heat, “It’s in the past. It’s between the two of them.”
“Corey told him what?” I narrow my eyes. “What, Raymond?”
“What?” echoes Suze, and Raymond makes an angry, huffing sound.
“Corey had taken over the business side. Maybe he gave Brent the wrong impression. Told him the investors weren’t coming forward, told him it wasn’t developing commercially, told him it was going to be expensive to take it to the next level. So Brent sold out for…well. Pretty much nothing.”
I stare at Raymond in utter dismay.
“Corey conned Brent? He should go to prison!”
Into my head flashes an image of Corey’s Las Vegas palace, followed by Brent’s trailer. It’s so unfair. I can’t bear it.
“Corey didn’t break any law as far as I know,” Raymond replies stolidly. “He was right in some of what he said—it wasn’t a sure thing. It did need investment. Brent should have looked into it. Shoulda been smarter.”
“You know Brent’s been living in a trailer?” I say accusingly. “You know he’s been evicted from a trailer?”
“If Brent was fool enough to fall for Corey’s patter, that’s his problem,” returns Raymond aggressively. “I believe he attempted legal action, but the facts didn’t stack up strongly enough. Corey’s word against Brent’s, see.”
“But that’s so wrong! Brent helped invent it! It’s made millions!”
“Whatever.” Raymond’s face closes up even further, and I feel a surge of contempt for him.
“You just don’t want to know, do you?” I say scathingly. “No wonder you hide yourself away from the world.”
“If Brent’s so talented,” puts in Suze, “why didn’t he make something of himself anyway?”
“Brent was never the strongest character,” says Raymond. “I think it ate him up, seeing Corey succeed. He drank, married too many times—that’ll burn through your money.”
“No wonder it ate him up!” I almost yell. “It would eat anyone up! So, you think this is OK, do you? One of your friends conned the other and you don’t want to do anything about it?”
“I don’t get involved,” says Raymond, his face expressionless. “We lost touch.”
“But you still take the money,” I say pointedly.
“So does your dad,” returns Raymond, equally pointedly. “He still gets his dividend, as far as I know.”
My racing thoughts are brought up short. My dad. The money. The dividend. Why did he never tell us about this? He told us everything else about that holiday, over and over. Why did he leave out the best bit?
I’m sure Mum doesn’t know any of this. She would have said. Which means…He’s been keeping it secret, all these years?
I feel a bit hot. My dad is the most open, straightforward person in the world. Why would he keep a massive great secret like this?
“Bex, didn’t you know anything about it?” says Suze in a low voice.
“Nothing.”
“Why would your dad hide something like that?”
“I have no idea. It’s weird.”
“Is your dad secretly a billionaire?” Her eyes widen.
“No! No. He can’t be!”
“I don’t think Corey sends your dad much,” says Raymond, who’s blatantly listening in. “It’s more of a token between friends. A few thousand dollars, maybe.”
A few thousand dollars…every year…And, like a flash, it hits me. The BB. Dad’s Big Bonus.
He’s had these bonuses my whole life. He’s always told us they come from consultancy work and has taken us out for treats, and we’ve all raised a glass to him. Do the big bonuses come…from Corey?
I look at Suze, and I can see she’s had the same idea.
“The BB,” she says.
One year Suze was staying with us when Dad got it, and he bought her a Lulu Guinness bag, even though she kept saying, “Mr. Bloomwood, you mustn’t!”
“The BB.” I nod. “I think that’s it. It’s not consultancy. It’s this spring.”
My head is spinning. I need to talk this out. My dad has a whole secret thing going on. Why didn’t he tell us?
“Does Corey know Brent was evicted?” Suze is asking Raymond.
There’s a pause. Raymond shifts around a little in his chair and stares out the window. “I believe your dad told him. I believe your dad was appealing to Corey for a financial settlement for Brent.”
“So that’s what he’s been trying to ‘put right.’ ” I glance at Suze. Now it’s all starting to make sense. “And what did Corey say?”
“I believe Corey refused.”
“But you didn’t get involved?”
Raymond gazes steadily back at me. “Not my life.”
I can’t believe how much I loathe this man. He’s just bowed out. Looked the other way. It’s all right for him, living off his lucky investment, with his pottery and his ranch and his messy house. What about Brent? Brent who probably doesn’t even have a house?
Tears have started in my eyes. I feel so proud of my dad, standing up for his old friend, trying to right this wrong.
“Doesn’t Corey feel guilty?” persists Suze. “Weren’t you all supposed to be friends?”
“Well. It’s more complicated than that with Brent and Corey.” Raymond steeples his fingers. “It all goes back, you see.”
“To what?”
“Well, I guess you could say it goes back to Rebecca.”
Both Suze and I inhale sharply. I feel my skin prickling all over. Rebecca.
“Who…what…” My voice isn’t working properly.
“We need to know who Rebecca is,” chimes in Suze firmly. “We need to know what this is all about. Start from the beginning and don’t leave out a single detail.”
She sounds just a teensy bit bossy, and I see irritation sweep over Raymond’s face.
“I’m not starting anywhere,” he lashes back. “I’m tired of rehashing the past. If you want to know about Rebecca, ask your dad.”
“But you have to tell us!” protests Suze.
“I don’t have to do anything. I’ve told you enough. Interview over.” He gets up, and before I know what’s happening, he’s grabbed Twice out of my hands. “Now, put down my piece,” he says, glowering at Suze. “And leave my property before I call the police.”
He looks quite menacing, and I gulp. Actually, it might be time to go. But as I get up from the sofa, I can’t help shooting him my most scornful look.
“Well, thanks for filling us in on the story. I’m glad you can sleep at night.”
“You’re welcome. Goodbye.” He jerks a thumb at the door. “Hey, Maria!” he adds in a yell.
“Wait! One more thing. Do yo
u have any idea where my dad might be?”
There’s silence, and I can see in Raymond’s eyes the thoughts passing through his mind.
“You tried Rebecca?” he says at last—and again I feel a weird little zing at hearing my own name.
“No! Don’t you understand? We don’t know anything about Rebecca. Not her surname or where she lives—”
“Rebecca Miades,” he cuts me off shortly. “Lives in Sedona, about two hundred and fifty miles north of here. Your dad was talking about contacting her. She was there that night, see? She saw how the idea was born.”
She was there? Why didn’t he mention that before? I’m about to ask more—but before I can draw breath, the housekeeper arrives.
“Maria, show these girls out,” says Raymond. “Don’t let them take anything.”
Honestly. We’re not thieves.
And then, without another word, he opens the far door and stalks out of the studio into the yard. I can see him taking out a pipe and lighting it. I meet Suze’s eyes and I can tell we’re both thinking the same thing: What an awful, awful man.
—
My phone’s been on the whole time in my pocket. Which means, assuming that the signal was OK, Mum must have heard at least some of the conversation. I can’t quite face seeing her yet, so as soon as we’ve got through Raymond’s gates, I find a bare patch of ground and flop down. I text Luke: All fine, on way, and then sink back on the scrubby earth and look up at the huge blue sky.
I feel a bit overwhelmed, to be honest. I’m proud of my dad, trying to help out his old friend—but I’m kind of perplexed too. Why wouldn’t he tell us the truth? Why would he invent some “bonus”? Why the mystery, for God’s sake?
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” says Suze, echoing my thoughts. “We have to go to Sedona now.”
“I suppose so,” I say after a pause. Although the truth is, I’m a teeny bit over chasing my dad round the country.
I have a pang of longing for simple family life at home in Oxshott. Watching the telly and praising Mum for some Marks & Spencer ready meal and arguing over whether Princess Anne should cut her hair.
“I get that Dad wanted to make things right for Brent,” I say, still gazing at the blueness. “But why didn’t he tell us?”
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