Shopaholic to the Stars

TWO

OK, I officially have the coolest running shoes in the world. They’re silver with orange stripes and they have gel bits and mesh bits and I want to wear them all day long.

This sports shop is incredible! You don’t just buy a pair of trainers here. You don’t just put them on and walk around and say, ‘I’ll take them,’ and then throw six pairs of sports socks into your basket as well, because they’re on sale. Oh no. It’s all very technical. You do a special running test on a treadmill, and they take a video and tell you all about your ‘gait’, and find the perfect solution for your athletic needs.

Why don’t they do this at Jimmy Choo? They should have a little catwalk where you walk along to cool music and maybe strobe lighting, and they take a video. And then the expert would say, ‘We feel the black and white stiletto perfectly suits your awesome supermodel gait.’ And then you’d take the video home to show all your friends. I am so suggesting it, next time I’m in there.

‘So here’s the heart monitor I was telling you about …’ The sales assistant, Kai, reappears holding a little metal and rubber bracelet. ‘Like I said, it’s our most discreet model, new to the market. I’m excited to hear your opinion.’

‘Cool!’ I beam at him, and put it on my wrist.

Kai has asked if I’d like to join in a customer study of this new heart monitor, and why not? The only sticky moment was when he asked what heart monitor I was using currently and I didn’t like to say ‘none’, so I said ‘The Curve’ and then realized that’s Luke’s new BlackBerry.

‘Would you like some more coconut water before you start?’

More coconut water. That’s so LA. Everything in this shop is so LA. Kai himself is ripped and tanned and has exactly the optimum amount of stubble and bright turquoise eyes which I’m sure are lenses. He looks so like Jared Leto I wonder whether he went to a surgeon with a picture torn out of US Weekly and said, ‘This one, please.’

He’s already dropped into conversation that: 1. He’s modelled for Sports Illustrated; 2. He’s working on a script about a sportswear consultant who becomes a movie star; 3. He won Ohio’s Best Pecs three years running and has had his pecs specially insured. He asked me within about thirty seconds whether I worked in the film industry and when I said no, but my husband did, he gave me a card and said, ‘I’d love to meet with him to discuss a venture he might be interested in.’ The idea of Kai and Luke sitting at a table discussing his pecs nearly made me snort out my coconut water.

‘So if you’ll kindly step up here.’ Kai ushers me on to the treadmill. ‘I’ll be taking a record of your heart rate, so we’ll raise it with some aerobic activity and then lower it with rest periods. Just follow the treadmill and you’ll be fine.’

‘Great!’ As I step up, I notice a massive rack of exercise clothes being wheeled on to the shop floor by two sales assistants. Wow. They look amazing – all different shades of purples and greys, with abstract logos and really interesting shapes.

‘What’s that?’ I ask Kai as the treadmill starts to move gently along.

‘Oh.’ He looks at it without interest. ‘That’s from our clearance fashion floor.’

Clearance fashion floor? No one mentioned a clearance fashion floor. Why didn’t I know about the clearance fashion floor?

‘Weird.’ He peers at his computer screen. ‘Your heart rate just spiked and we didn’t even start the intense activity yet. Oh well.’ He shrugs. ‘Let’s get going.’

The treadmill starts to move along more briskly, and I up my walking pace to match. But I’m distracted by the rack of clothes, because an assistant is putting sale tickets on every garment! I spot a ‘90 % off’ sign and crane my neck to see what it’s attached to. Is that a T-shirt? Or a mini-dress? Or—

Oh my God, look at that cardigan. I can’t help gasping aloud. That is stunning. It’s longline, in what seems to be grey cashmere, with an oversized, neon-pink zipper, all the way up the front and the back. It’s gorgeous.

‘So now we’ll rest for a moment …’ Kai is concentrating on his screen. ‘You’re doing great so far.’

The treadmill slows, but I barely notice. I’m feeling stabs of alarm. A pair of passing girls has seen the rail and fallen on it in delight. I can hear them exclaiming with glee, showing clothes to each other and dumping them in their baskets. They’re taking everything! I don’t believe it. The sale of the century is going on, ten yards away, and I’m stuck on this stupid treadmill. As long as they don’t see the cardigan. I will them silently: Don’t look at the cardigan …

‘OK, this is strange.’ Kai is frowning at his screen again. ‘Let’s pause the test.’

‘Actually, I need to leave,’ I say breathlessly, grabbing my handbag and shopping basket. ‘Thanks. If I need a heart monitor I’ll definitely get this one, but I must go …’

‘Rebecca, have you ever been diagnosed with arrhythmia? Heart disorder? Anything like that?’

‘No.’ I’m stopped in my tracks. ‘Why? Have you picked something up?’

Is he joking? No. His face is serious. He isn’t joking. I’m gripped with fright. What have I got? Oh my God, I’ll be in the Daily Mail health pages. My one-in-a-million heart condition was picked up in a simple store exercise test. Shopping saved my life, says Rebecca Brandon—

‘Your heart response wasn’t typical. It spiked, but not at the moments I was expecting. For example, it spiked just now when you were resting.’

‘Oh,’ I say anxiously. ‘Is that bad?’

‘Not necessarily. It would depend on a lot of things. Your general heart health, your cardio fitness …’

As he’s talking, my eye wanders over to the sale rack again, and to my horror I see that one of the girls has picked up my cardigan. No! Noooo! Put it down!

‘It’s happened again!’ says Kai in sudden animation, and points at the screen. ‘Do you see? Your heart rate rocketed!’

I look at Kai, and at the screen, and then at the cardigan with the neon-pink zip, and it all falls into place. Oh God, is that why my heart rate zoomed up?

This is so embarrassing. Stupid dumb heart. I can feel myself blushing bright red and I hastily look away from Kai.

‘Well!’ I say in flustered tones. ‘I have no idea why that happened. None! Just one of those mysteries. Mysteries of the heart. Ha ha!’

‘Oh. OK.’ Kai’s expression snaps as though in recognition. ‘Ooo-kay. I think I get it. I’ve seen this a couple times.’

‘Seen what?’

‘OK, this is a little awkward …’ He flashes me a perfect smile. ‘It was physical attraction to me, right? You don’t need to be uncomfortable. It’s normal. It’s why I had to give up personal training. The clients became … I don’t know, would you say “infatuated”?’ He glances complacently at himself in the mirror. ‘You looked at me and your response was beyond your control. Am I right?’

‘Not really,’ I say, honestly.

‘Rebecca.’ Kai sighs. ‘I know it’s embarrassing to admit, but believe me, you’re not the only lady to become attracted to me—’

‘But I wasn’t looking at you,’ I explain. ‘I was looking at a cardigan.’

‘A cardigan?’ Kai plucks at his T-shirt, confused. ‘I’m not wearing one.’

‘I know. It’s over there. It’s on sale.’ I point it out. ‘That’s what I was looking at, not you. I’ll show you.’ I take the opportunity to dash over and grab the cardigan, which, thank God, the girl has replaced on the rack. It’s super-soft to the touch and the zip is amazing, and it’s reduced by 70 per cent! I’m sure my heart is racing again, just from holding it.

‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’ I enthuse, heading back towards Kai. ‘Isn’t it fab?’ Suddenly I realize I’m not being very tactful. ‘I mean, you’re very good-looking too,’ I add encouragingly. ‘I’m sure I’d be attracted to you if it weren’t for the cardigan.’

There’s a pause. Kai looks slightly stunned, to be honest. Even his turquoise contact lenses seem a bit less sparkly.

‘You’d be attracted to me “if it weren’t for the cardigan”,’ he echoes at last.

‘Of course!’ I say, reassuringly. ‘I’d probably get infatuated, just like those clients of yours. Unless there were any other amazing clothes to compete with,’ I add, for honesty’s sake. ‘I mean, like a Chanel suit with ninety-nine per cent off. I don’t think any man could beat that!’ I give a little laugh, but Kai’s face has gone a bit rigid.

‘I never had to compete with clothes before,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘Clothes.’

I’m noticing that the atmosphere isn’t quite as easy and fun as it was before. I think I might just go and pay for my trainers.

‘Thanks for the heart test, anyway!’ I say brightly, and take off the bracelet. ‘Good luck with the pecs!’

Honestly. What a big-head that Kai is. I know he has stunning turquoise eyes and a great body, but he doesn’t have a neon zip, does he? Lots of men have stunning blue eyes, but only one cardigan has a cool oversized neon-pink zip. And if he thinks he’s never competed with clothes before, then his girlfriends have been lying to him. Every woman in the world sometimes thinks about shoes in the middle of sex. It’s a well-known fact.

Anyway. Don’t think about stupid Kai. On the positive front, I’ve got the best, most whizzy trainers in the world. And OK, they cost $400, which is a lot, but I’ll just have to think of this as an investment in my career. In my life.

‘So, I’ll box those for you,’ says the sales assistant, and I nod absently. I’m imagining standing at the start of the race with Sage, and her glancing down at my feet and saying, ‘Cool shoes.’

I’ll give her a friendly smile and reply carelessly, ‘Thanks.’

Then she’ll say, ‘Luke never told me you were such a serious athlete, Becky.’

And I’ll say, ‘Are you kidding? I love running.’ (Which isn’t quite true yet, but I’m sure it will be. Once I start this race, the endorphins will kick in and I’ll probably become addicted.)

Then Sage will say, ‘Hey, we should train together! Let’s meet up every morning.’

And I’ll say, ‘Sure,’ very nonchalantly.

Then she’ll say, ‘I train with some friends, but you’ll love them. Do you know Kate Hudson and Drew Barrymore and Cameron Diaz and—’

‘Will you be paying by credit or cash, ma’am?’

I blink at the assistant and fumble for my card. ‘Oh. Right. Credit.’

‘And did you choose your water bottle?’ the sales assistant adds.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘We’re offering a free bottle with every shoe purchase.’ He gestures at a nearby poster.

Well. This $400 seems more and more of a bargain.

‘I’ll just have a look. Thanks!’ I beam at him and head towards the display of bottles. Maybe if I’m carrying a cool bottle, Sage will notice that, too! There’s a whole wall of them – chrome, matt black, and all sorts of silicon colours. As my eye travels upwards, I spot a label: Limited-edition print. I squint, trying to see – but they’re on the fifth shelf. Honestly. Why would you put the limited-edition-print bottles on the fifth shelf?

There’s a stepladder nearby, so I drag it over and climb to the top. Now I can see the bottles properly, and they’re amazing: all with gorgeous retro prints. I can hardly bear to choose – but in the end I narrow it down to three: one with red stripes, one with amber swirls, and one with black and white flowers. I’ll pay for the extra ones, I decide, because I can give one each to Minnie and Suze as souvenirs.

I carefully put the bottles down on the top step of the ladder and turn to survey the shop. I have an amazing view from up here. I can see all the aisles, and I can see that the woman at the cash register needs her roots touching up, and I can see …

What?

Wait a minute.

I stiffen in disbelief and peer more closely.

In the far corner there’s a girl I hadn’t noticed before. She’s incredibly thin, wearing pale skinny jeans, a grey hoody up over her head, and dark glasses that hide her face. And no wonder she’s dressed so furtively. Because she’s stealing.

I stare in utter shock as I see her putting a pair of socks into her oversized handbag (Balenciaga, this season), and then another. Then a third. Then she looks around, kind of shrinks down into herself and walks swiftly towards the exit.

I’ve never seen a shoplifter in action before, and for an instant I just feel stunned. But next moment a boiling outrage is rising through me. She took them! She shoplifted! She shouldn’t do that! People shouldn’t do that!

What if we all did that? I mean, I bet we’d all like to have free socks, but we don’t just take them, do we? We pay. Even if we can’t really afford it, we pay.

My stomach is churning as I watch her leave. I feel really angry. It’s not fair. And suddenly I know I can’t just let her go. I have to do something. I’m not sure what – but something.

Leaving the bottles behind, I bound down the ladder and out of the shop door. I can see the shoplifter ahead of me, and increase my pace to a run, dodging pedestrians as I go. As I get near, my heart is thumping with apprehension. What if she threatens me? What if she’s got a gun? Oh God, of course she’s got a gun. This is LA. Everyone has guns.

Well, too bad. Maybe I will get shot, but I can’t wimp out now. I reach out a hand and tap her on her bony shoulder.

‘Excuse me?’

The girl whips round and I tense in fright, waiting for the gun. But it doesn’t come. Her sunglasses are so huge I can barely see her face, but I make out a thin, pale chin and a scrawny, almost malnourished neck. I feel a sudden stab of guilt. Maybe she’s on the streets. Maybe this is her only source of income. Maybe she’s going to sell the socks to buy food for her crack-addict baby.

Part of me is thinking, ‘Just turn away, Becky. Let it go.’ But the other part won’t let me. Because even if there’s a crack-addict baby, it’s just wrong. It’s wrong.

‘I saw you, OK?’ I say. ‘I saw you taking those socks.’

The girl immediately stiffens, and makes to run away, but I instinctively grab her arm.

‘You shouldn’t steal stuff!’ I say, struggling to keep hold of her. ‘You just shouldn’t! You probably think, “So what? No one got hurt.” But you know, shop assistants get in trouble when people shoplift. Sometimes they have to pay for the goods from their wages. Is that fair?’

The girl is wriggling desperately to get away, but I’m gripping on to her arm with both hands. Being the mother of a two-year-old, you learn a lot of immobilization skills.

‘And then all the prices go up,’ I add, panting. ‘And everyone suffers! I know you might think it’s your only option, but it’s not. You can turn your life around. There are places you can go for help. Do you have a pimp?’ I add, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘Because I know they can be a real pain. But you could go to a safe house. I saw a documentary about it, and they’re brilliant.’ I’m about to elaborate when the girl’s sunglasses slip to one side. And I glimpse the side of her face.

And suddenly I feel faint. I can’t breathe. That’s—

No. It can’t be.

It is. It is.

It’s Lois Kellerton.

All thoughts of crack addicts and safe houses disappear from my head. This is surreal. It can’t be happening. It has to be a dream. I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, am clutching the arm of top Hollywood actress Lois Kellerton. As I peer at her unmistakable jawline, my legs start to shake. I mean, Lois Kellerton. I’ve seen all her films and I’ve watched her on the red carpet and I’ve—

But what—

I mean, what on earth—

Lois Kellerton shoplifted three pairs of socks? Is this some kind of candid-camera show?

For what seems like the longest moment, we’re both motionless, staring at each other. I’m remembering her as Tess in that brilliant adaptation of Tess of the d’Urbervilles. God, she made me cry. And there was that sci-fi one where she got deliberately stranded on Mars at the end, in order to save her half-alien children. I cried buckets, and so did Suze.

I clear my throat, trying to gather my thoughts. ‘I … I know who you—’

‘Please,’ she cuts me off in that familiar husky voice. ‘Please.’ She takes off her dark glasses and I stare at her in fresh shock. She looks terrible. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her skin is all flaky. ‘Please,’ she says a third time. ‘I’m … I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you employed by the shop?’

‘No. I’m a customer. I was up a ladder.’

‘Did they see me?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

With a trembling hand she grabs the three pairs of socks from her bag and offers them to me.

‘I don’t know what I was doing. I haven’t slept for two nights. I think I went a little crazy. I never did anything like this before. I never will again. Please,’ she whispers again, shrinking inside her hoody. ‘Take the socks. Take them back.’

‘Me?’

‘Please.’ She sounds desperate. At last, awkwardly, I take the socks from her.

‘Here.’ She’s scrabbling in her bag again and produces a fifty-dollar note. ‘Give this to the employees.’

‘You look quite … um … stressed,’ I venture. ‘Are you OK?’

Lois Kellerton raises her head and meets my eyes, and I’m suddenly reminded of a leopard I once saw in a Spanish zoo. That looked desperate, too.

‘Are you going to tell the police?’ she breathes, so quietly I can barely hear her. ‘Are you going to tell anyone?’

Oh God. Oh God. What do I do?

I put the socks in my bag, playing for time. I should tell the police. Of course I should. What difference does it make if she’s a movie star? She stole the socks and that’s a crime and I should perform a citizen’s arrest right now and march her off for justice.

But … I can’t. I just can’t. She looks so fragile. Like a moth or a paper flower. And after all, she’s giving the socks back, and she’s making a donation, and it sounds like she just had a moment of madness …

Lois Kellerton’s head is bowed. Her face is hidden inside the grey hood. She looks as though she’s waiting for an execution.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ I say at last. ‘I promise. I’ll give the socks back and I won’t tell anyone.’

As I release my grip on her, her thin hand squeezes mine. Her dark glasses are already back on her face. She looks like an anonymous skinny girl in a hoody.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘Thank you. What’s your name?’

‘Becky,’ I reply eagerly. ‘Becky Bloomwood. I mean, Brandon. I was Bloomwood but I got married, so my name changed …’ Argh, stop gabbling. ‘Um, Becky,’ I finish lamely. ‘My name is Becky.’

‘Thank you, Becky.’

And before I can say anything, she’s turned and gone.