'I can't; I have to look for my cousin Morag.'

'Yeah, what is all this shit about her?  Your grandaddy gone soft on her or somethin'?  What's goin' on up there anyway?  They seemed real frosty to me when I was there.  You done something wrong?  They angry with you?'

'What?  Eh?' I said, turning to frown up at her.

'No shittin', honey,' she said. 'I didn't get to see the Dear Leader but I talked to your brother Allan and Erin; they acted like Salvador was angry with you or somethin'.'

'Angry with me?' I gasped, wiping my fingers on a starched white napkin and sitting up on the couch with my grandmother.  I was so shocked it was some minutes before I realised I hadn't used my Sitting Board.  I think the carpet had been so soft there was little sensation of change. 'What are they angry about?'

'Beats me,' Yolanda said. 'I asked but I wasn't told.'

'There must be some mistake,' I said, feeling funny in my insides all of a sudden. 'I haven't done anything wrong.  My mission was going fine until yesterday; I was very pleased with it…'

'Well, hey, maybe I picked them up wrong,' Yolanda said, drawing her feet up underneath her, turning to me and starting to towel my hair again. 'Don't you listen to your crazy old grandma.'

I stared towards the window. 'But what can have happened?' I could hear my own voice faltering.

'Maybe nuthin'.  Don't worry about it.  Hey, come on; what's happenin' with Morag?'

I explained about my cousin's importance to the Community's missionary work and her letter informing us she was leaving our Faith and would not be returning to us for the Festival.

'Okay, so you haven't been able to find her,' Yolanda said. 'We'll hire a detective.'

'I'm not sure that would really be appropriate, Grandmother,' I said, sighing.  'I was personally charged with the task.'

'Does it matter, as long as you find her?'

'I suspect so, yes.'

Yolanda shook her head. 'Boy, you people,' she breathed.

'There is another problem,' I said.

'Yeah?'

I explained about the video and my discovery Morag worked under the name Fusillada DeBauch as a pornographic film artiste.

'What?' Yolanda yelled. 'You're shittin' me!' She slapped both her designer-jeaned thighs at once.  I think that had she been wearing a Stetson or a ten-gallon hat or something she'd have thrown it in the air. 'Whoo; that girl!  Oh boy.' She laughed towards the ceiling.

'You don't think Salvador could have found out about Morag being Fusillada from Zeb or somebody, do you?' I asked, wondering if that might account for his displeasure.

'No,' Yolanda said. 'It didn't seem like it was anything to do with her.'

'Hmm.  Oh dear,' I said, frowning and putting my hands to my lips.

'Don't worry about it, honey,' my grandmother said. 'You going to keep looking for Morag?'

'Yes, of course,' I said.

'Okay.  So, am I allowed to help you?'

'Oh, I'd think so,' I said.

'Good.  We'll see what we can do together.  Maybe Morag will turn up yet.' She sat forward, reaching for the telephone on the coffee table. 'Let's have a margarita.'

'Yes,' I said absently, still troubled by what might be wrong at High Easter Offerance. 'God has a way of providing when one most needs.'

'Yeah, hi; I need a pitcher of margarita and two glasses.  And don't forget the salt, okay?  In a saucer, or whatever.  That's right.  And a fresh, repeat, fresh lime and a sharp knife.  That's all.  Thank you.' She put down the telephone.

'You really didn't get any idea what might be wrong at the Community?' I asked my grandmother.

'None at all, honey.  I just thought they seemed a bit pissed at you.' She held my hand. 'But I could have been wrong.'

'Oh dear,' I said, biting my lip.

Yolanda hugged me. 'Don't you worry now.  Hey, come on; what do you want to do?  Want me to call this health farm place and get… Fusillada?' she said, grinning and wiggling her head from side to side.

'I don't know,' I said, playing with the cord of my dressing-gown. 'I got the impression she might be trying to avoid me.  Maybe… oh, goodness knows!' I threw up my hands and then stuffed them under my armpits.

'Well, let's just head on down there, what do you say?'

'What, now?'

'Soon as we've had our margaritas; and soon as we can find some clothes for you; suppose it'll take the hotel laundry at least overnight to clean that stuff of yours.'

I had already used my one change of clothes - things seem to get dirty very fast in London - and had not managed to get the others washed, I thought there was still a couple of days' wear in what I'd been wearing but my grandmother disagreed, and is not the sort of person to argue with in such circumstances.  So I needed new clothes.  Yolanda's method of shopping was to bring the shop to us; she rang a clothes boutique in town and ordered them to bring the articles I'd asked for; socks, undergarments, white shirts, black trousers and black jackets (my hat, though battered, would do as it was).  As I wasn't sure what size I was, she made them bring a selection.

An hour or two later, my head buzzing slightly from the three margaritas I'd had, I was dressed.  I don't think either of us were really happy; I felt the clothes were too fine and dressy while my grandmother thought they were far too severe on the grounds of colour alone.

'The boots, then,' she said, tramping through the piles of discarded clothes, boxes and voluminous wrapping material strewn about the floor as she looked me up and down.  The shop assistant she'd had come out to us kneeled on the floor looking tired. 'Don't you think those boots are just awful, Sam?' Yolanda asked the assistant.

'They are a bit sort of…'

'Agricultural,' Yolanda supplied.

'Yah.  Agricultural.  Yah.'

'I count that as praise,' I said.

'Ain't meant as such, honey,' Yolanda said, shaking her head. 'Why don't we find somewhere that does proper boots; like these!' She lifted up one foot to show me her alligator hides.

'Cowboy boots?' I exclaimed. (Even Sam looked shocked, I thought.)

'Well, sure!' Yolanda said. 'Real boots; with a heel.  I don't know how you can wear those things; must feel like you're walking uphill all the time.'

'Excuse me,' I said primly. 'These boots are fine.  These boots and I are used to each other.  I will not part with them.'

'Stubborn child.  Sure you won't try on the red velvet jacket?'

'Positive.'

'The black skirt?'

'Certainly not.'

'The Gaultier dress.'

'It's horrible.'

'It's black.'

'It's black and horrible.'

'It's black and beautiful.'

'Nonsense.'

'It is too, and he's a lovely guy.  I've met him; Jean-Paul; a cuddly bear.  You'd like him.  Wears a kilt.'

'I don't care.'

'The leather trousers then.'

'Oh… !' I said, exasperated.

'Go on; just try them.  They're you, honey; really.'

'Well…'

'These trousers creak,' I said, shifting my bottom on the Sitting Board.  We were in Yolanda's latest hire car, heading south for Dudgeon Magna at high speed.

'They're fine; you look great in them.  Hell, you smell great in them, honey!'

We hurtled round a corner.  The car lurched and I had a strange sense that it was pivoting.  Yolanda swore and chuckled at the same time and did something fancy with the steering wheel.

'What was that?' I asked, glancing at her.

'Bad camber, tightening bend,' she said tersely. 'When will you people learn to build roads properly?'

'At least,' I said, 'these trousers don't let me slip around so much on the Sitting Board when you go round corners.'

'Yeah,' my grandmother chuckled, sounding like she was enjoying herself, 'keep those buns well anchored.  Haw haw haw.'