Shopaholic to the Stars

ELEVEN

Suze can talk about shopping. She can talk about shopping!

Not only has she bought a new dress for the benefit, she’s bought new shoes, a new necklace and new hair. New hair. She didn’t even tell me she was doing it. One moment she was ‘popping out to the hairdresser’, and the next she was walking back in the door with the most luscious, glossy extensions I’ve ever seen. They stream down to her waist in a blonde river, and what with that and the tanned legs she looks like a movie star herself.

‘You look fantastic,’ I say honestly, as we stand in front of my mirror. She’s in a beaded shift, the colour of a glassy sea, and her necklace has a mermaid on it. I’ve never seen a mermaid necklace before, but now I’m desperate for one, too.

‘Well, so do you!’ says Suze at once.

‘Really?’ I pluck at my dress, which is Zac Posen and very flattering around the waist, though I say so myself. I’ve styled it with my Alexis Bittar necklace and my hair is in a really complicated up-do, all little plaits and waves. Plus, I’ve been practising how to stand on the red carpet. I found a guide on the internet, and printed it out for both of us. Legs crossed, elbow out, chin tucked in. I take up my pose, and Suze copies me.

‘I look like I’ve got a double chin,’ she says fretfully. ‘Are you sure this is right?’

‘Maybe we’re tucking our chins in too much.’

I lift my chin, and immediately look like a soldier. Suze, meanwhile, is doing a perfect Posh Spice pose. She has the expression and everything.

‘That’s it!’ I say excitedly. ‘Only, smile.’

‘I can’t stand like this and smile,’ says Suze, sounding strained. ‘I think you have to be double-jointed to get it right. Tarkie!’ she calls as he passes the open door. ‘Come and practise being photographed!’

Tarquin has looked shell-shocked ever since Suze appeared with extensions. Now he looks like a condemned man. Suze has forced him into a tailored Prada DJ, complete with narrow black tie and dapper shoes. I mean, he looks very good, for Tarkie. He’s tall and strapping, and his hair has been artfully mussed by Suze. He just looks so … different.

‘You should wear Prada all the time, Tarkie!’ I say, and he blanches.

‘Stand here,’ Suze is saying. ‘Now, when you have your picture taken, you need to tilt your face at an angle. And look kind of moody.’

‘Darling, I don’t think I’ll be in the photos,’ says Tarkie, backing away. ‘If it’s all right.’

‘You have to be! They photograph everyone.’ She glances uncertainly at me. ‘They do photograph everyone, don’t they?’

‘Of course they do,’ I say confidently. ‘We’re guests, aren’t we? So we’ll be photographed.’

I feel a fizz of excitement. I can’t wait! I’ve always wanted to be photographed on a red carpet in Hollywood. My phone bleeps with a text and I pull it out of my clutch bag.

‘The car’s here! Let’s go!’

‘What about Luke?’ says Tarquin, who is obviously desperate for some moral support.

‘We’re meeting him there.’ I spray a final cloud of scent over me and grin at Suze. ‘Ready for your close-up, Lady Cleath-Stuart?’

‘Don’t call me that!’ she says at once. ‘It makes me sound ancient!’

I head into the children’s bedroom, where our babysitter, Teri, is presiding over a massive game of Twister. Minnie doesn’t understand Twister, but she understands rolling around on the mat, getting in everyone’s way, so that’s what she’s doing.

‘Night night!’ I plant a kiss on her little cheek. ‘See you later!’

‘Mummy.’ Wilfrid stares at Suze in awe. ‘You look like a fish.’

‘Thank you, darling!’ Suze hugs him. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to look like.’

Tarquin has edged over and is fiddling with Wilfrid’s toy train.

‘Maybe I’ll stay here and help look after the children,’ he says. ‘I’d be very happy to—’

‘No!’ Suze and I shout in unison.

‘You’ll love it,’ says Suze, chivvying him out of the room.

‘You might meet Angelina Jolie,’ I chime in.

‘Or Renée Zellweger.’

‘Or Nick Park,’ I say craftily. ‘You know? The Wallace and Gromit man?’

‘Ah!’ says Tarkie, suddenly perking up. ‘The Wrong Trousers. Now, that was a jolly good film.’

The Beverly Hilton is where they hold the Golden Globes. We’re going to the same place they hold the Golden Globes! As our car edges along in early evening traffic, I can barely keep still.

‘Hey, Suze!’ I say suddenly. ‘D’you think it’ll be the exact same red carpet as at the Golden Globes?’

‘Maybe!’

I can tell Suze is as gripped by this idea as I am. She starts rearranging her hair extensions on her shoulders, and I check my lipstick for the millionth time.

I’m not going to waste this opportunity. There are going to be some A-list celebrities at this party, and if I keep my wits about me I can do some major networking. I’ve got my cards in my bag, printed with Rebecca Brandon, Stylist, and I’m planning to work every single conversation I can round to fashion. I just need one influential person to hire me, and then word will spread, and my reputation will grow, and … well, the sky’s the limit.

It’s just finding that one influential person which is the tricky bit.

The car pulls up outside the hotel and I give a little squeak of excitement. There aren’t crowds, like at the Golden Globes, but there are barricades, and banks of photographers, and a red carpet! An actual red carpet! There are big screens with E.Q.U.A.L. printed all over, which is the name of the charity. (It stands for something, but I have no idea what. I don’t think anyone does.) In front of them, an elegant blonde woman in a nude dress is posing for the cameras, along with a bearded man in black tie.

‘Who’s that?’ I say, nudging Suze. ‘Is that Glenn Close?’

‘No, it’s the one out of … you know. That show.’ Suze wrinkles her nose. ‘Oh God, what’s her name …’

‘Look!’ I point ahead at a young guy with spiky hair and a DJ getting out of his limo. Photographers are clustered around the car, clicking away and calling out, but he’s ignoring them, in a totally cool way.

‘Are you ladies ready?’ The limo driver turns to face us.

‘Right. Yes.’ I take a deep breath, calming my nerves.

Suze and I practised all afternoon in her hire car, getting out and taking pictures of each other, and we’ve totally nailed it. We won’t be flashing our underwear, or tripping over our heels. Nor will we wave at the camera, which Suze always wants to do.

‘Ready?’ Suze is grinning tremulously.

‘Ready!’

The limo driver has opened the door on my side. I give my hair a last-minute pat and take my most elegant step out, waiting for the flash of bulbs, the shouts, the clamour …

Oh. What?

Where did all the cameras go? They were here a minute ago. I turn round, discomfited, and see them all clustered around another limo, behind us. Some red-haired girl in blue is getting out of it and smiling prettily around. I don’t even recognize her. Is she a real celebrity?

Suze emerges from the limo beside me, and looks around, bewildered.

‘Where are the photographers?’

‘There.’ I point. ‘With her.’

‘Oh.’ She looks as disconsolate as me. ‘What about us?’

‘I suppose we’re not celebrities,’ I say reluctantly.

‘Well, never mind.’ Suze brightens. ‘We’ve still got the red carpet. Come on!’ Tarquin has got out of the limo too, and she grabs him by the arm. ‘Red-carpet time!’

As we get close to the hotel, there are loads of people milling about in black tie, but we manage to push our way through to the entrance to the red carpet. I’m fizzing with anticipation. This is it!

‘Hi!’ I beam at the security guard. ‘We’re guests.’ I proffer our invitations, and he scans them dispassionately.

‘This way, ma’am.’ He points away from the celebs, to some kind of side route which a crowd of people in evening dress are filing down.

‘No, we’re going to the benefit,’ I explain.

‘That’s the way to the benefit.’ He nods, and opens a rope barrier. ‘Have a good evening.’

He doesn’t get it. Maybe he’s a bit slow.

‘We need to go this way.’ I gesture clearly to the bank of photographers.

‘On the red carpet,’ puts in Suze. She points at our invitation. ‘It says, “Red Carpet Entrance”.’

‘This is the red carpet, ma’am.’ He points at the side route again, and Suze and I exchange looks of dismay.

OK, I suppose strictly speaking there is a carpet. And it is a kind of dull red. But don’t tell me that’s where we’re supposed to go.

‘It’s not red,’ objects Suze. ‘It’s maroon.’

‘And there aren’t any photographers or anything. We want to walk on that red carpet.’ I point behind him.

‘Only Gold List Guests will be walking that red carpet, ma’am.’

Gold List Guests? Why aren’t we Gold List Guests?

‘Come on,’ says Tarkie, clearly bored. ‘Shall we go in, have a titchy?’

‘But the red carpet’s the whole point! Hey, look, there’s Sage Seymour!’ Sage is talking earnestly to a TV camera. ‘She’s my friend,’ I say to the security guard. ‘She wants to say hello.’

‘There’ll be a chance to greet her inside the benefit,’ says the security guard implacably. ‘Could you move along, ma’am? People are waiting behind you.’

We don’t have any choice. Morosely, we all move through the barrier and start down the Non-Gold List, Totally Inferior Sub-Red Carpet. I don’t believe it. I thought we’d be on the red carpet with Sage and all the famous people. Not filing along like cattle down some dimly lit maroon carpet that has stains on it.

‘Hey, Suze,’ I whisper suddenly. ‘Let’s go round again. See if we can get on the proper red carpet.’

‘Definitely,’ says Suze. ‘Hey, Tarkie,’ she says more loudly. ‘I need to adjust my bra. I’ll see you in there, OK? Get us a titchy.’

She hands him his invitation, then we swing round and begin to hurry back up the non-red carpet. There are so many people piling down by now, in evening dress and jewels and clouds of scent, it feels as if we’re like fish swimming against a very sparkly, glamorous tide.

‘Sorry,’ I keep saying. ‘Just forgot something … Excuse me …’

At last we reach the top of the carpet, and pause for a breather. The security guard is still standing at his post, directing people down the maroon carpet. He hasn’t spotted us yet, but that’s because we’re hidden behind a screen.

‘What now?’ says Suze.

‘We cause a diversion.’ I think for a moment, then squeal, ‘Oh my God! My Harry Winston earring! Please, everyone! I lost my Harry Winston earring!’

Every woman in the vicinity stops dead in shock. I can see blood draining from faces. You don’t joke about Harry Winston in LA.

‘Oh my God.’

‘Harry Winston?’

‘How many carats?’

‘Please!’ I say, almost tearfully. ‘Help me look!’

About ten women bend down and start patting the carpet.

‘What does it look like?’

‘Frank, help! She lost her earring!’

‘I lost my Harry Winston ring once, we had to empty the whole pool …’

It’s complete mayhem. There are women on their hands and knees, and people trying to get on to the maroon carpet, and men trying to chivvy their wives along, and the security guard keeps calling, ‘Move along, folks! Please move along!’

At last he drops his rope barrier and comes striding on to the carpet.

‘Folks, we need to keep moving along.’

‘Ow! You trod on my hand!’ cries out a woman.

‘Don’t step on the earring!’ exclaims another.

‘Did someone find the earring?’

‘What earring?’ He looks at the end of his tether. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘Now,’ I whisper in Suze’s ear. ‘Run!’

Before I can think twice, we’re both careering up the maroon carpet, past the unattended velvet-rope check-point and on to the red carpet … I can’t help laughing out loud with glee. We’re there! On the actual, proper, red carpet! Suze looks pretty exhilarated, too.

‘We did it!’ she says. ‘Now, that’s what I call red.’

I look around, getting my bearings, whilst trying to stand properly and smile. The carpet’s definitely red. It also feels quite big and empty, which is maybe because all the photographers have turned away. As Suze and I move slowly along we’re doing our best Hollywood poses, elbows out and everything. But not one cameraman is taking a picture. Some of them are still clustered around the young guy with spiky hair, and the others are chatting or on the phone.

I mean, I know we’re not exactly famous, but still. I feel quite aggrieved on behalf of Suze, who looks absolutely gorgeous.

‘Suze, do that bendy-back pose where you look over your shoulder,’ I say, and then hurry over to a photographer with dark hair and a denim jacket who’s leaning on the barrier, yawning. Yawning!

‘Hey, take her photo,’ I say, pointing at Suze. ‘She looks gorgeous!’

‘Who is she?’ he retorts.

‘Don’t you recognize her?’ I try to sound incredulous. ‘You’re going to lose your job! She’s the latest thing.’

‘The photographer seems unimpressed. ‘Who is she?’ he repeats.

‘Suze Cleath-Stuart. She’s British. Really, really hot.’

‘Who?’ He leafs through a printed crib sheet, with faces and names of celebrities. ‘Nope. Don’t think so.’ He puts the crib sheet away, then takes out his phone and starts sending a text.

‘Oh, take her photo,’ I beg, all pretence gone. ‘Go on! Just for fun.’

The photographer looks at me as though for the first time. ‘How did you get on the red carpet?’

‘We sneaked on,’ I admit. ‘We’re visitors to LA. And if I was a Hollywood photographer, I’d take pictures of normal people as well as celebrities.’

A tiny, reluctant smile tweaks at the photographer’s mouth.

‘Oh, you would?’

‘Yes!’

He sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘Go on then.’ He lifts his camera and focuses it on Suze. Yessss!

‘Me too!’ I squeak, and skitter over the red carpet to join her. OK, quick. Elbow out. Legs crossed. It’s actually happening! We’re actually having our photo taken, in Hollywood, on the red carpet! I smile at the lens, trying to look natural, waiting for the flash …

‘Meryl! Meryl! MERYL!’

In a blink, the lens vanishes from sight. Like stampeding wildebeest, every single photographer, including our guy in the denim jacket, has charged to the far side of the red carpet. I don’t think he took a single shot of us, and now he’s in the thick of the paparazzi, yelling and screaming.

‘OVER HERE, MERYL! MERYL! HERE!’

The flashes are like strobe lighting. The clamour is extraordinary. And all because Meryl Streep has arrived.

Well, OK. Fair enough. No one can compete with Meryl Streep.

We both watch in awe and fascination as she makes her way graciously along the red carpet, surrounded by several flunkeys.

‘Meryl!’ calls Suze boldly as she comes near. ‘Love your work!’

‘Me too!’ I chime in.

Meryl Streep turns her head and gives us a slightly bewildered smile.

Yes! We networked with Meryl Streep on the red carpet! Wait till I tell Mum.

As we enter the ballroom where the benefit is happening, I’m still on a high. Never mind if no one took our picture, this is exactly what I imagined Hollywood would be like. Lots of people in amazing dresses, and Meryl Streep, and a band playing smooth jazz, and delicious citrussy cocktails.

The whole place is decorated in pale grey and pink, and there’s a stage on which some dancers are already performing, and a dance floor and loads of circular tables. And I can already see a goodie bag on each chair! My head is swivelling around as I try to catch sight of all the celebs, and Suze is doing the same.

I notice Luke by the bar, and Suze, Tarkie and I hurry over. He’s standing with Aran and a couple I don’t recognize. He introduces them as Ken and Davina Kerrow, and I remember him telling me about them last week. They’re both producers, and they’re making a film about the Crimean War. Luke and Aran are jockeying to get Sage considered for the part of Florence Nightingale. Apparently, Sage needs a ‘change of direction’ and ‘rebranding’ and being Florence Nightingale will achieve that.

Personally, I don’t think she’s at all suited to being Florence Nightingale, but I’m not going to say that to Luke.

‘Sage is very interested in the role,’ he’s saying now to Ken, who is bearded and intense and frowns a lot. ‘I would say she’s passionate about it.’

Davina is also fairly intense. She’s dressed in a black tuxedo suit and keeps checking her BlackBerry and saying ‘Uh-huh?’ when Luke is in the middle of a sentence.

‘Sage feels this is a story that must be told,’ Luke presses on. ‘She really felt the role spoke to her … Ah, here she is! Just talking about you, Sage.’

Ooh! There’s Sage, approaching in a swishy red dress that sets off her treacly hair perfectly. I feel a small thrill of excitement at the idea of introducing her to Suze and Tarkie.

‘I’d hope you are talking about me,’ says Sage to Luke. ‘Why else do I pay you?’ She gives a roar of laughter and Luke smiles politely.

‘Just talking about Florence,’ he says. ‘I was saying how passionate you are about the role.’

‘Oh totally.’ Sage nods. ‘Did you see my new tattoo?’ She holds out her wrist, waving her fingers playfully, and Luke flinches.

‘Sage, sweetie,’ says Aran evenly. ‘I thought we said no more tattoos.’

‘I had to have it,’ says Sage, looking hurt. ‘It’s a swallow. It means peace.’

‘That would be a dove,’ says Aran, and I see him exchange a look with Luke.

‘Hi Sage,’ I say casually. ‘You look lovely.’

‘You’re so kind.’ Sage sweeps a dazzling smile over me, Suze and Tarkie. ‘Welcome to the benefit. Would you like a photo? Aran, these people would like a photo, could you …?’ I stare at her, confused. She thinks I’m some random fan.

‘It’s me, Becky,’ I say, turning red with embarrassment. ‘Luke’s wife? We met at the house?’

‘Oh, Becky!’ She bursts into laughter again, and presses a hand on my arm. ‘Of course. My bad.’

‘Sage, I’d like you to meet my friends, Suze and Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Suze and Tarkie, may I present Sage …’ I trail off mid-introduction. Sage has turned away from us and is enthusiastically greeting some guy in a midnight-blue tuxedo.

There’s a moment of awkward silence. I can’t believe Sage has been so rude.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble at last.

‘Bex, it’s not your fault!’ says Suze. ‘She’s quite … um …’ She stops, and I can tell she’s trying to be diplomatic.

‘I know.’

Sage looks hyper to me. Is she high? Now she’s talking loudly about Ben Galligan, who is her ex-boyfriend from about three years ago. He cheated on her while he was making Hour of Terror 5, and he dumped Sage at the premiere, and now his new girlfriend is pregnant. And Sage has never got over it.

It was all in People magazine and Luke says most of it is true. But then, annoyingly, when I asked him to tell me exactly which bits were true and which bits weren’t, he said I should stop reading that trash and remember that celebrities are human beings.

‘Is the rat here?’ Sage is looking wildly around. ‘Because I swear, I will tear his eyes out.’

‘Sage, we talked about this!’ says Aran in a low voice. ‘Tonight you’re an ambassador for world equality and justice, OK? You can be a pissed-off ex-girlfriend in your own time.’

Sage doesn’t seem to be listening. Her eyes are darting wildly about. ‘Suppose I throw a bottle of wine over him. Think of the exposure. It’ll go viral.’

‘That’s not the kind of viral we want. Sage, we have a strategy, remember?’

‘I really couldn’t tell you who else is in the running,’ I can hear Davina Kerrow saying to Luke. ‘Although you can probably guess …’

‘It’s Lois,’ says Sage, who has overheard this, too, and is scowling. ‘She’s up for Florence, I know she is. Can you see Lois as a nurse? A nurse? This is the girl who said, “You don’t get any acting awards for shaving off your hair,” remember?’

‘Not this again.’ Aran closes his eyes.

‘She could play a psycho-freak nurse. That would work. Or maybe a kleptomaniac nurse, right, Becky?’ she says, flashing me a wild grin.

I feel a thud of alarm at the word kleptomaniac. Sage is talking really loudly, and the place is crowded. Anyone could overhear.

‘Um, Sage.’ I move close to her and drop my voice right down. ‘I told you that about Lois in confidence.’

‘Sure, sure,’ says Sage. ‘I’m only having some fun, right? Right?’ She flashes me her smile again.

God, Sage is exhausting. She flips this way and that like an eel. I don’t know how Luke does business with her.

I turn to make sure that Suze and Tarkie are OK, and see that Tarkie is in conversation with Ken Kerrow. OK, this could be interesting.

‘We’re calling the movie Florence in Love,’ Ken Kerrow is saying animatedly. ‘Like Shakespeare in Love, only more authentic. We’re recasting Florence as an American but we’re keeping the essence of Florence. Her conflict. Her growth. Her sexual awakening. We think she would have dressed as a boy to get on to the battlefield. We think she would have been in a passionate love triangle. Think The Age of Innocence meets Saving Private Ryan meets Yentl.’

‘Right.’ Tarkie looks none the wiser. ‘Well, I’m afraid I haven’t seen any of those films, but I’m sure they’re jolly good.’

Ken Kerrow looks profoundly shocked. ‘You haven’t seen Yentl?’

‘Ahm …’ Tarkie looks trapped. ‘Sorry … did you say “Lentil”?’

‘Yentl!’ Ken Kerrow almost shouts. ‘Streisand!’

Poor Tarkie. He clearly doesn’t understand a word Ken is saying.

‘I watch a lot of wildlife documentaries,’ he says desperately. ‘David Attenborough. Marvellous man.’

Ken Kerrow just shakes his head pityingly, but before he can say anything else, Suze swoops in.

‘Darling, let’s go and watch the dancers.’ She gives Ken Kerrow a charming smile. ‘I’m so sorry to drag my husband away. Bex, shall we go and watch the dancers?’

As we’re heading towards the stage, I’m distracted by a sign on one of the tables: Silent Auction Prizes.

‘I’m just going to have a quick look,’ I say to Suze. ‘I’ll catch up with you in a sec.’

There’s an amazing necklace on a stand, which is up for auction, and as I draw near I feel the tugging of lust. God, it’s beautiful, all pale-pink crystals and a hammered-silver heart, I wonder how much …

Oh my God. I’ve suddenly seen the printed label below it: Reserve price $10,000. I hastily back away, in case anyone thinks I’m bidding for it. Ten thousand? Seriously? I mean, it’s a nice necklace and everything, but … $10,000? Just for some pink crystals? I don’t even dare go near the pair of watches at the end of the table. Or that voucher for a Malibu villa. Maybe I’ll go and watch the dancers with Suze instead. I’m about to turn away, when I see a doddery old man making his way slowly along the prizes. He looks quite frail, and is keeping his balance by clutching at the table.

Not a single person has noticed him, which makes me feel quite incensed. I mean, what’s the point of coming to a benefit to help people, and then ignoring a poor old man who needs help right in front of your eyes?

‘Are you all right, sir?’ I hurry forward, but he bats me away.

‘Fine, fine!’

He’s very tanned, with perfect teeth and what looks suspiciously like a white toupee, but his hands are gnarled and his eyes are a bit rheumy. Honestly, someone should be looking after him.

‘It’s a lovely event,’ I say politely.

‘Oh yes.’ He nods. ‘Wonderful cause. Discrimination is the blight of our lives. I myself am gay, and let me tell you, the world is not an open place. Not yet.’

‘No,’ I agree.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t encountered discrimination yourself. As a woman. And in other ways. Because in my opinion, no human on this earth is free from discrimination in some way or other.’

He’s so full of fervour, I don’t like to contradict him.

‘Definitely,’ I nod. ‘I’ve been discriminated against in lots of ways. Heaps. All the time.’

‘Tell me some examples of this shocking behaviour.’ His rheumy eyes fix eagerly on me.

My mind is blank. Come on, quick. Discrimination.

‘Well, obviously as a woman … and …’ I cast my mind around. ‘I once had to take out my earrings to work in a café, so that was discriminating against jewellery … and … er … hobbies can be discriminated against and … pets …’ I have no idea what I’m saying. ‘It’s terrible,’ I end lamely. ‘We need to fight it.’

‘And we will.’ He clutches my hand. ‘Together.’

‘I’m Rebecca, by the way,’ I add. ‘Rebecca Brandon.’

‘And I’m Dix.’ He flashes me a white smile. ‘Dix Donahue.’

Hang on. Dix Donahue. That sounds familiar. I glance at a nearby poster and sure enough, it’s printed in big grey letters: HOST: DIX DONAHUE.

This is the host? He looks about a hundred.

‘Dix!’ A plump man with a neat black moustache bears down on us and pumps his hand. ‘Victor Jamison from E.Q.U.A.L. I’m a big fan. All set for your introductory speech?’

‘Gathering inspiration all the time.’ Dix flashes his smile at me, and I beam back. He must be famous in some sort of way. I wonder how. Luke will know.

The two men head off, and I drain my glass. I really must find Luke and Suze, but the trouble is, everyone’s started clustering around the stage area and it’s hard to see. The dancers have stopped their routine and the band has fallen silent and there’s an expectant air. Then suddenly, the band strikes up again with some tune that everyone seems to recognize, going by their nods and smiles at each other. Dix Donahue mounts the steps with a hop and a jump – and it’s obvious he’s an entertainer. He seems to sparkle under the lights, even if he is a zillion years old.

As he starts to tell jokes, I edge my way round the corner of the throng, and suddenly see Luke. I’m about to join him, when the room goes dark and a spotlight moves around the crowd, and Dix Donahue takes on a grave manner.

‘But seriously, folks,’ he says. ‘We’re here for a very fine cause tonight. Discrimination is an evil and it takes place in all shapes and forms, often in the place you’d expect the least. Later we’ll be hearing from Pia Stafford, who battled workplace discrimination regarding her disability after a car accident.’

The spotlight falls on a lady in black, who lifts a hand and nods soberly.

‘But you know, I was talking to a young lady just now, who had maybe the most unusual tale of discrimination I’ve heard …’ Dix Donahue shades his eyes and squints into the audience. ‘Rebecca, where are you? Ah, there!’

Does he mean me? I stare up at him in horror. A moment later the spotlight is glaring into my face.

‘Rebecca was discriminated against because of – of all things’ – he shakes his head sombrely – ‘her pet.’

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. He can’t have taken me seriously. I only said ‘pets’ because I ran out of other things to say.

They should never have hired a hundred-year-old host. He’s batty.

‘Rebecca, let’s hear your story,’ says Dix Donahue in a soft, coaxing voice. ‘What was your pet?’

I stare at him, transfixed.

‘A … a hamster,’ I hear myself saying.

‘A hamster, ladies and gentlemen.’ Dix Donahue starts clapping, and a half-hearted round of applause breaks out. I can see people whispering to each other, looking puzzled, as well they might.

‘And what form did the discrimination take?’

‘Um … well … People wouldn’t accept it,’ I say cautiously. ‘I was ostracized by my community. Friends turned against me and my career suffered. My health, too. I think it’s up to the government and society to change attitudes. Because all humans are the same.’ I’m rather warming to my speech now. ‘All of us, whatever religion we practise or colour skin we have, or, you know, whether we have a hamster or not … we’re the same!’

I make a sweeping gesture and catch Luke’s eye. He’s staring at me from a few yards away, his mouth open.

‘That’s it,’ I finish hastily.

‘Wonderful!’ Dix Donahue leads another round of applause, and this time it feels really genuine. A lady even pats me on the back.

‘One more question before we move on.’ Dix Donahue twinkles at me. ‘What was your hamster’s name, Rebecca?’

‘Er …’ Shit. My mind has gone totally blank. ‘It was … er … called …’

‘Ermintrude,’ comes Luke’s deep voice. ‘She was like family.’

Oh, ha, ha. Very funny.

‘Yes, Ermintrude.’ I muster a smile. ‘Ermintrude the hamster.’

The spotlight finally moves off me and Dix Donahue comes to the end of his speech, and I look up to see Luke giving me a little wink as he approaches through the crowd.

‘I’ll get you a new hamster this Christmas, darling,’ he says over the sound of applause. ‘We’ll fight the discrimination together. If you can be brave enough, so can I.’

‘Shhh!’ I can’t help giggling. ‘Come on, it’s time to eat.’

That’s the last time I make conversation with some random old man just to be kind. As we move back to our table, I’m totally mortified, especially as people keep stopping me to congratulate me and ask about the hamster and tell me about how their kids have a rabbit and they wouldn’t stand for discrimination, it’s shocking in this day and age.

But at last we’re able to sit down, and on the plus side, the food is delicious. I’m so engrossed in my fillet of beef that I don’t pay much attention to the conversation, which doesn’t matter, because it only consists of both Kerrows droning on to the entire table about this Florence Nightingale film they want to make. They talk like some sort of song duet, overlapping every phrase, and no one else can get a word in. This is another lesson I’m learning in Hollywood. You’d think hearing about a film would be exciting – but it’s deathly. I can tell Suze is just as fed up as me, because her eyes are glassy, and also she keeps mouthing ‘Booooriiiing’ at me.

‘… locations are the challenge …’

‘… wonderful director …’

‘… problems with the third act …’

‘… he really gets Florence’s arc …’

‘… talked to the studio about budget …’

‘… finances lined up. We’re waiting on the last investor, but it depends on some British guy with a crazy name. John John Saint John. Kind of a name is that?’ Kerrow spears a mangetout and eats it ferociously.

‘D’you mean John St John John?’ says Suze, suddenly tuning into the conversation. ‘How on earth do you know him? That’s Pucky,’ she adds to me. ‘Have you met Pucky?’

God knows if I’ve met Pucky. All Suze’s childhood friends are called things like Pucky and Binky and Minky. They basically blend into one braying, cheery human Labrador.

‘Er … maybe.’

‘You’ve met Pucky.’ She turns to Luke. ‘I know you’ve met him.’

‘Tarquin’s investment manager,’ says Luke thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I did. Runs the media arm of your business interests?’

‘Something like that,’ says Suze vaguely, then beams at Tarkie, who’s returning from the Gents. ‘Darling, they know Pucky.’

‘Good Lord.’ Tarkie’s face brightens. ‘Extraordinary coincidence.’

‘Pucky?’ Ken Kerrow looks perplexed.

‘Called him that ever since prep school,’ Tarkie explains. ‘Marvellous chap. He’s worked with me, what, ten years now?’

‘Worked with you?’ Ken Kerrow’s eyes focus on Tarquin anew. ‘You in film?’

‘Film?’ Tarkie looks horrified at the idea. ‘Good Lord, no. I’m a farmer. You were saying something earlier about an “ark”? Do you mean Noah’s Ark?’

‘Tarquin, can I ask you a question?’ says Luke. His mouth is twitching and he looks highly amused at something. ‘I know you have a few media interests among your investments. Has Pucky ever backed any films for you?’

‘Oh!’ Tarquin’s expression clears. ‘Ahm. Well. As a matter of fact, yes, he has. Perhaps that’s the connection.’

‘Films?’ Suze stares at him. ‘You never told me!’

‘This is your investor,’ says Luke to Ken Kerrow, and jerks a thumb at Tarquin. ‘Lord Cleath-Stuart.’

‘Please,’ says Tarkie, flushing red. ‘Tarquin.’

Ken Kerrow looks as though he’s choked on his fillet steak. ‘That’s you?’

‘Lord?’ Sage looks up from her phone for the first time.

‘Lord Cleath-Stuart.’ Ken Kerrow is gesticulating at his wife. ‘This is the Brit backer. You backed Fiddler’s Game,’ he adds to Tarquin, in sudden realization. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘Ahm … yes.’ Tarquin looks a little hunted. ‘That sounds right.’

‘It made thirty million its opening weekend. You picked a winner.’

‘Well, it was Pucky,’ says Tarkie modestly. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t know one film from another.’

‘Excuse me,’ says Ken Kerrow. ‘I’m going to find my co-producer. I’d love for you to meet him.’ He leaps up and practically sprints to a nearby table, where I can see him whispering frantically to another guy in a tux.

‘Tarkie!’ exclaims Suze, and bangs the table. ‘Since when do we invest in films? You should have told me!’

‘But, darling,’ says Tarkie anxiously. ‘You said you weren’t interested in our investments.’

‘I meant boring things like stocks and shares! Not films—’ Suze breaks off and fixes Tarkie with an accusing gaze. ‘Tell me the truth. Have we been invited to premieres?’

‘Ahm …’ Tarkie’s eyes slide around nervously. ‘You’d have to ask Pucky. I probably told him we weren’t interested.’

‘Weren’t interested?’ Suze’s voice rises to a screech.

‘Your Lordship!’ Ken Kerrow is back at the table. ‘It is my honour to present my co-producer, Alvie Hill.’

A broad man pumps Tarkie’s hand with a meaty handshake. ‘Your Lordship. What a pleasure to welcome you to Los Angeles. If there is anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant …’

He continues talking for about five minutes, complimenting Tarkie, complimenting Suze, suggesting restaurants and offering to drive them out to the canyons for a hike.

‘Ahm, thank you.’ Tarkie gives him an embarrassed smile. ‘You’re very kind. I’m so sorry,’ he says to the table, as Alvie finally leaves. ‘What a fuss. Let’s get back to our dinner.’

But that’s just the beginning. An hour later, it seems as if every single person in the room has dropped by our table to introduce themselves to Tarkie. Several have pitched movies, several have invited him to screenings, several have tried to set up meetings, and one has suggested flying the whole family to his ranch in Texas. Tarkie is totally an LA player. I can’t quite believe it.

In fact, no one can believe it. Luke has been bursting into laughter a lot – especially when some studio executive asked Tarkie what was his view of the American Pie franchise and Tarkie said, Gosh, he wasn’t sure – was it similar to Starbucks? Meanwhile Tarkie himself looks rather shell-shocked again. I feel a bit sorry for him, actually. He came here to get away from everything, not to be besieged by people after his money.

I can understand why he spends so much time wandering around moors on his own. At least the deer don’t keep running up saying they’ve got a fabulous concept which they’d love to share with him over breakfast. Now, some guy in a shiny grey suit is asking Tarkie if he wants to visit a film set.

‘We’re shooting this great drama; it’s set on the high seas. Bring your kids, they’ll love it …’

‘You’re very kind.’ Tarkie is starting to sound robotic. ‘But I’m here for a holiday …’

‘I’ll come!’ Suze interrupts.

‘Terrific!’ The grey-suited guy smiles at her. ‘We’d be delighted to welcome you, give you the tour, you can watch some scenes being shot—’

‘Can I be an extra?’ Suze says boldly.

The grey-suited man stares at her, apparently baffled.

‘You want to—’

‘Be an extra in the film. And so does my friend Bex.’ She grabs my arm. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Yes! Definitely!’

I have always wanted to be an extra on a film! I beam delightedly at Suze and she grins back.

‘Your Ladyship.’ The grey-suited man seems totally perplexed. ‘You won’t be comfortable being an extra. The day is long, it’s tiring, the scenes are shot again and again … Why don’t you watch the scene, and then you can meet the cast, we’ll have lunch someplace nice …’

‘I want to be an extra,’ says Suze obstinately. ‘And so does Bex.’

‘But—’

‘We don’t want to watch it, we want to be in it.’

‘We want to be in it,’ I echo emphatically.

‘Well.’ The man seems to admit defeat. ‘OK. No problem at all. My people will fix it up for you.’

‘Bex, we’re going to be extras!’ Suze clutches me in excitement.

‘We’re going to be in a film!’

‘We can go and watch ourselves at the cinema! Everyone will see us— Ooh, what’s the film about?’ says Suze as an afterthought, and the man looks up from where he’s writing his mobile number on a card.

‘Pirates.’

Pirates? I look at Suze with renewed glee. We’re going to be in a film about pirates!