Vanity (38 page)

‘If you ever show those to anybody, I'll kill you.'

‘They're all going on Facebook tomorrow.'

‘Don't you bloody dare! Pleeeease, Pops? Can you imagine the piss-taking I'd get from Mark? Or just about everybody we know, for that matter!'

‘Oh, all right then. Just as you've been the best friend ever, coming over here for me, I'll delete them all. But can we just have one more look?'

‘And I, also?' Lars enquired mildly.

They looked at all the photos again, laughing their tits off, until Poppy, true to her word, pressed delete.

‘I'll have you know that a woman in Paris told me I was
très, très jolie
,' said Bella haughtily.

‘You obviously weren't wearing your glasses then. Or maybe she wasn't!' Poppy giggled.

‘You are such a fucking bitch.' Bella laughed.

‘I know. But you know you love me really.'

So that had been a good night. But then there was the interminable drive through Kansas.

‘It says here that Dalhart, in the panhandle of Texas, was the centre of the dustbowl of the Great Recession of the 1930s, and still suffers from both poverty and dust storms,' said Poppy from the passenger seat.

‘Oh, fabulous, another uplifting location,' said Bella.

‘Hey
,
hey, we made it through Kansas without encountering a tornado.' Lars laughed. ‘You should count yourselves lucky, ladies.'

‘D'you mind if I have a look at your phone, to see if Damian's moved again?' Poppy asked Lars for the second time that hour. Lars caught Bella's eye in the rear-view mirror.

‘Sure, help yourself.'

According to Lars's phone tracker, Damian had now been in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for two days. The tracker was proving absolutely invaluable. (Of course, it only showed the places where he had actually switched his phone on, which had read, pretty much consistently: road, motel, bar, motel, road, bar. The reason he had been switching it on had been to update Simon Snell, his best man, about his road trip; there was no love lost between Simon and Poppy, so he knew he was on safe ground there.)

There had been some movement around Albuquerque, so Poppy was reassured that he was still alive, but he didn't appear to be in any hurry to get back on the road, which was great as far as she was concerned. Even though they had been gaining ground on him daily, he still remained that one elusive step ahead of them. Traffic permitting, Albuquerque was only a four-hour drive from Dalhart – if he'd only stay put, they could be with him by tomorrow lunchtime.

‘Oooh, he switched his phone on twenty-seven minutes ago, and he's still there,' Poppy said a minute or so later. ‘Yippee!'

‘Same bar?' asked Bella.

‘Yup, looks like it – silly drunken sod.'

‘So he will not be going anywhere tonight. I do not blame him for staying in Albuquerque,' said Lars. ‘It's a helluva lot nicer than anywhere we've passed through the last few days …'

‘How on earth do you know these things? Is there anywhere you haven't been?' Bella laughed. ‘Whatever – I'm all for experiencing some nicer places!'

‘But first, my friend, there is Dalhart.'

The reason Damian hadn't yet left Albuquerque was that he was having too much fun being drunk and maudlin every waking hour to want to hit the road again. He'd found a bar, imaginatively called La Hacienda, with a particularly chatty and accommodating barman, and had made several new friends in the other old soaks who frequented the place.

He had to admit that he had probably got it wrong, route-wise – the only two stretches of open road that had fired his imagination had been New York to Washington, DC, and Dalhart to Albuquerque – but he had drowned his sorrows pretty much every night in a new bar, in a new town, before hitting the road again the following morning, feeling like shit. It had then occurred to him that there was nothing stopping him from staying in Albuquerque for a few more days. It was a pleasant enough, New Agey kind of place, with a relaxed vibe and mild climate, even at the beginning of November. Apart from anything else, he was nearly at the end of his journey, and wasn't sure what he was going to do once it had finished.

He was a stubborn bugger, as Poppy put it, and didn't relish going back to New York with his tail between his legs, but he was starting to think that maybe he'd acted a little rashly, storming off the way he had. The hours of driving along monotonous Midwestern roads had given him rather more time for introspection than he'd have liked – which was ironic, considering the purpose of the journey had been to ‘find himself'.

Far more pleasant to hang out in this friendly, accommodating bar, with its friendly, accommodating barman, a little while longer.

La Hacienda
was what might kindly be termed a dive. But as dives went it was pretty jolly, with a mixed Hispanic and Irish clientele, plastic cacti lined up on the windowsills, sawdust on the floor and a slightly unnerving combination of jaunty mariachi music and equally jaunty Irish jigs playing from an ancient CD player behind the bar. It also boasted an impressive array of bourbons and tequilas (through which Damian was steadily working his way). It was open twenty-four hours a day, but all the windows were blacked out, so unwelcome daylight never intruded.

A couple of local drunks staggered through the door, letting their eyes become accustomed to the gloom. One of them, a Hispanic chap called Pablo, had a fearsome black moustache and a serious tequila problem; the other, whom everybody called Paddy (he'd forgotten his real name years ago), had three missing teeth and a penchant for flowery whimsy.

‘Sheet, man,' whispered Pablo as he spotted Damian still propping up the bar. ‘The Eenglishman is steel here. If I have to leesten to him talk about his broken heart again, I weel keel myself!'

‘Duck!' Paddy whispered back, with impressive presence of mind, considering how few brain cells he had left.

But too late; just as they were attempting to duck behind a couple of chairs that afforded them no cover whatsoever, Damian looked up from his conversation with – no, make that
monologue
at
– the barman. With enormous relief, the barman went to serve another (imaginary) customer.

‘My friends,' Damian shouted, slurring and opening his arms. ‘What are you doing down there? Come and have a drink! Whiskey and tequila, yeah?'

Never ones to refuse a free drink, Paddy and Pablo answered in the affirmative.

After several toasts, Damian, inevitably, went all misty eyed.

‘Guys, guys, you are the best friends I've ever had. Have I told you about my wife?'

‘Eeees she blonde and beautiful and successful?' asked Pablo, grinning. He was happier to indulge the loser, now that he was being bought tequila.

‘Wow! How did you guess?' said Damian, gesturing to the barman for more drinks.

‘A floating little faerie from the Emerald Isle, a leprechaun looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,' said Paddy. ‘She dances with flowers, that's what she does. A faerie queen indeed.'

Damian wasn't sure if Paddy was actually referring to Poppy, but he smiled soppily nonetheless. He hadn't shaved for over a week, and the effect, combined with the soppy smile and seriously bloodshot eyes, was faintly disturbing. Even in this company.

Poppy, Bella and Lars, 270 miles away in a bar called the Texas Tavern, weren't quite as drunk as Damian, but they were giving it their best shot.

After the tedium of Kansas
,
they had all needed to let their hair down a bit, and Poppy had started to panic, now that they were, apparently, so close to her husband.

‘I mean, what if I'm completely wrong and he really doesn't ever want to see me again?' she had asked, through a mouthful of incredibly hot chili con carne. It was served by the bowl, pint, quart or gallon. Both girls had gone for the bowl, while Lars, bravely, had attempted a quart. But even he had been unable to finish it, though it had been delicious, in a revolting kind of way.

‘Really, what level of lunatic would you have to be to eat a gallon of it?' Poppy had asked, sotto voce.

Their stomachs had been too full to finish the beers they'd initially ordered, so Bella, in a moment of divine inspiration, had said with glee, ‘Margaritas! That's what we need!'

‘YESSS! MARGARITAS!' Lars had shouted, and they had all laughed with a certain degree of manic anticipation.

And so it was that, four margaritas each later, they were all talking much more loudly than they'd intended.

Somebody approached their table, and the room fell silent.

Fuck
, thought Bella, looking up at the Hell's Angel looming over them (he was even bigger than Lars, if that were possible). His black leather trousers squeaked and his Guns 'N Roses T-shirt rode up over his vast, hairy belly. Tattoos covered every last inch of flesh, from fingertip to throat, and his long, bushy beard still bore traces of the chili he'd consumed earlier.

‘Did you just say,
Damian
?'

‘Uh – yeah,' babbled Poppy, who was looking cute as ever in skinny jeans and a blue-and-white-checked shirt, in a nod to the cowboy territory in which they found themselves, her hair hanging just above her delicate shoulders in silky blonde pigtails. ‘We're not talking about the devil or anything like that …' (Did Hell's Angels believe in the devil?) she panicked ‘… it's just that he's my husband … I mean, Damian's my husband, not that the devil is my husband … and we're looking for him – Damian, I mean, not the devil …' she trailed off, flushed.

The Hell's Angel smiled slowly, giving her the once-over. He held out his hand.

‘You must be Poppy. Yeah, he described you well enough.'

‘What? You mean he was here? In this bar?' The tracker hadn't picked that up – Damian clearly hadn't switched his phone on in the Texas Tavern.

‘Hell, yeah! Your husband won the annual Roadkill and Rolaids Chili Cook-Off just a couple days ago …'

‘What?' Poppy repeated, her usual eloquence deserting her completely now. ‘
Roadkill?'
How fucking insane had Damian actually become since she'd last seen him?

The Hell's Angel laughed. ‘It's only a name, honey bunch. Us Americans can do “irony” too, you know.' He settled his huge frame into the last chair left at their table. ‘Your Damian …' he drawled the word out … ‘sat here, right at this very table. And man, did he talk about you. He was so goddamn boring that we asked him to take part in our annual chili cook-off, just to shut him up. Man, his spices were good … We didn't think you English guys knew how to cook …'

Poppy, Bella and Lars looked at one another for a few seconds before collapsing in hysterical giggles. Poppy and Bella were holding their sides, gasping and spluttering; Lars was thumping the table.

‘That's because he's half Indian,' Bella spluttered eventually, wiping her eyes, and Poppy and Lars both cracked up again.

‘Roadkill Chili Cook-Off,' Lars gasped. ‘Oh, Damian – oh, man …'

‘So what did he say about me?' asked Poppy, once she could get her breath back, her heart overflowing with love
at the idea of Damian beating all these chili-obsessed freaks
at their own game with his wonderful spices.

‘It would make your ears burn, beautiful. He loves you. Man, does he love you. But
we
,
the whole Dalhart community
, we love that guy. Tell me you didn't do it with his old friend Ben?'

Suddenly the Hell's Angel looked at Lars, menacingly. ‘You ain't Ben, are ya? Don't look much like him, from what my friend Damian say-ed.'

‘No, no, my name is Lars. Damian is my good friend. I am from Sweden.' Lars got out of his seat, drawing himself up to his full 6 foot 7, and proffered his hand.

‘Sweden? My wife is from Sweden,' said the Hell's Angel, shaking Lars's hand in his equally enormous, but somewhat more calloused one. ‘Hey, Gunilla,' he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Got one of your countrymen round front here.'

A ridiculously pretty blonde woman, also in full leathers, appeared from behind the bar. Smiling, she started to talk to Lars in Swedish. Poppy and Bella stared at them, trying (with unsurprisingly minimal success) to follow what they were saying.

Eventually, the gorgeous Swedish Hell's Angel smiled sweetly at them and said, in the deepest US hick accent that one could possibly imagine:

‘Sorry 'bout that, ladies. I don't have many opportunities to talk to people from the ol' country. How's about I get some schnapps for y'all?'

Riding along in their automobile, the three Musketeers sang along to Chuck Berry at the tops of their voices. Despite their schnapps hangovers, they were enjoying the route to Albuquerque from Dalhart more than they had enjoyed any of the roads so far. Truth be told, they were probably all still pissed, but Poppy and Bella had absolute confidence in Lars to drive them safely to their destination.

‘Look!' Poppy squawked, pointing at Lars's phone. ‘He's still there! Still in that bar! I love the fact that my husband's such a bloody drunk!'

‘Can't blame him for staying there,' Bella shouted over the music, cracking open the third beer of the afternoon. ‘This is a bit more bloody like it!'

And it was.

The Texas-to-New Mexico highway was proving an awful lot more satisfactory than the Midwest one, road trip-wise. All around them was scrubby desert dotted with proper, multi-pronged cacti, some of them even taller than Lars. Bella half expected Clint Eastwood to leap out from behind one and start shooting at them. In a good way. The rugged Sandia Mountains glowed terracotta in the distance as the sun started to set.

Ah, yes, the sunset. They had ended up getting so drunk with the Hell's Angel and his Swedish wife that none of them had surfaced until midday. Poppy had been furious with herself, until she'd seen that Damian was still in his motel room in Albuquerque.