Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7) Page 104

There’s still no word from Dad, beyond a text he sent Mum late yesterday, saying,

Landed fine in L.A. Have some things to take care of. Remember to water the roses. Graham xxx

Remember to water the roses. I mean, honestly. Mum nearly had a fit. I’ve already spoken to her today on the phone, and I’ve got lots of messages to pass on to Dad, should I see him. (Most would result in instant divorce, so I think I might forget about those.) I just hope he’s OK. I mean, I know he’s a grown man, but I can’t help worrying. What “things” is he taking care of? Why hasn’t he told Mum? What’s the big secret?

I pour myself some coffee and offer the coffeepot to Tarquin, but he doesn’t notice. He’s munching a piece of toast and listening to his iPod, which is his new thing. He says he has to start the day with an hour of guided meditation, and it drives Suze mad.

“Tarkie!” She pokes him. “I said, I might meet my agent this afternoon. Can you pick the children up?”

Tarkie gives her a blank look and takes another bite of toast. He looks so different these days. He’s tanned, and his hair is cropped really close to his head (Suze hates that too), and he’s wearing a soft gray T-shirt with a logo of the sun on it. I’ve seen them in the gift shop at Golden Peace. There’s a special course called Turn to the Sun and lots of merchandise to go with it, only I don’t know what it’s all about, because I never did it.

It has to be said, I’m just a tad less into Golden Peace than I was. I think I’ve grown out of it. It’s a natural process: You gain everything you can from a place and then you move on. I mean, I’m totally cured of shopping now, so what’s the point of going back? (Plus the gift shop is online, so if I need anything from it I can just log on.)

“Tarkie!” Suze rips an earbud out of Tarkie’s ear, and he flinches in irritation.

“Suze, I need to concentrate,” he says, and pushes his chair back with a scraping sound.

“You don’t! What does that thing say anyway? Stop listening to your wife? Stop engaging in the real world?”

Tarkie glares at her. “It’s a tailor-made meditation recorded by Bryce. He says my psyche is battered by the world and I need to retreat.”

“I’ll batter him,” mutters Suze.

“Why are you so negative?” Tarkie clutches his head. “Suze, you’re toxic. Finally I’m getting my head together and you have to … to … to sabotage me.”

“I’m not sabotaging you!” Suze yells. “Don’t you dare call me toxic! Who brought you to L.A. in the first place? Who said you needed a break? Me!”

Tarkie isn’t paying any attention to her, I realize. He’s focusing on a far corner of the kitchen, breathing deeply.

“Tarkie?” Suze waves a hand in front of his face. “Tarquin.”

“Bryce said this would happen,” he says, as though to himself. “People outside the method are afraid of it.”

“What method?” expostulates Suze.

“You need to strip yourself bare to build yourself back up again,” says Tarquin, as though the very fact of having to explain it pains him. “You need to strip away every level. Do you know how many levels we all have?” He rounds on Suze. “Do you realize how much work I still have to do?”

“You’ve done enough work,” says Suze savagely.

“No, I haven’t! You’re obstructing me!” He sweeps the whole kitchen with his gaze. “You’re all obstructing me!” He shoves his earbud back in his ear, swivels on his heel, and stalks out of the room.

I’m openmouthed in astonishment. I’ve never seen Tarkie so antagonistic. He was practically snarling at Suze. I mean, in some ways it’s great, because for a long time I’ve felt he was too timid. On the other hand, Suze looks like she wants to murder him. No, correction: She now looks like she wants to murder me.

“This is all your fault.” She turns on me.

“My fault?”

“You introduced him to that place! You introduced him to Bryce! Now he’s calling me toxic! His own wife! He won’t talk to me, he won’t listen; he just moons around with that wretched iPod—God knows what it’s saying to him.…”

“It’s probably saying really positive, helpful stuff,” I say defensively. “I mean, I went to zillions of classes at Golden Peace and I’m fine.”

“You’re not vulnerable like Tarkie!” snaps Suze. “Honestly, Bex, I could kill you!”

Instantly, Jeff is on his feet.

“Are we having some trouble here?” He advances on Suze, reaching for his holster thing. (It’s not a gun. It’s a baton.)