Shopaholic to the Stars

FIFTEEN

I’ve never been anywhere like CAA in my life. The building is like some sort of spaceship in which all the men are from Men in Black and all the girls are from Vogue and all the sofas are from Architectural Digest. Just sitting in the lobby for five minutes was a better Hollywood experience than the entire Sedgewood Studios tour. I saw three girls from Gossip Girl, and a cool rapper guy feeding his tiny puppy with a milk dropper, and two famous TV comedians having a huge, sotto voce row about something called ‘back end’, while continuing to smile at a very pretty girl on reception. (I’m not sure of their names. I think maybe they’re both called Steve Something.)

And now I’m sitting in this very smart boardroom-type place, at a smooth, pale wooden table, and listening to two women talk to me. One’s called Jodie and the other’s called Marsha and they’re both ‘talent’ agents. Apparently I’m the ‘talent’. Me! ‘Talent’! Wait till I tell Luke that.

They’re very smart and very intense. They’re both dressed immaculately in a sleek-navy-Prada-ish-high-maintenance sort of style. One has got a vast diamond on one finger and I’m so mesmerized by it, I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying. Except I keep being jerked back to attention by words like ‘fanbase’ and ‘global appeal’.

‘Reality,’ says the dark-haired woman, who is either Jodie or Marsha. ‘What’s your opinion on that?’

‘Er …’

I want to reply, ‘I’ve totally lost my grip on it,’ but I sense that’s not the right answer. I sip my iced water, which is so freezing it gives me an instant headache. Why do Americans like their drinks so cold? Are they descended from Eskimos or something? Ooh, maybe they are. Maybe they migrated down from Alaska, millions of years ago. It makes total sense. Have I hit on a whole new theory of human evolution?

‘Becky?’

‘Yes!’ I come back to the room. ‘Definitely! Um, what exactly do you mean by “reality”?’

‘A reality show,’ says Jodie-or-Marsha, patiently. ‘We think we could package a great show as a vehicle for you, your family, your quirky British friends …’

‘You mean, cameras would be following us around the whole time?’

‘It would be semi-scripted. It’s less intrusive than you might think.’

‘Right.’

I try to imagine sitting in the kitchen with Luke, acting out a semi-scripted scene for the cameras. Hmm.

‘I’m not totally sure my husband would like that,’ I say at last. ‘But I can ask him.’

‘Another format we have available is “BFFs in Hollywood”,’ says Marsha-or-Jodie. ‘You would be working with a young actress named Willa Tilton. The concept is, two best friends making it in Hollywood, confiding in each other, shopping for clothes, appearing on the red carpet, getting into scrapes. You would be the married one and Willa would be the single one. I think it would have a lot of appeal.’

‘I think they’d work well together as best friends,’ Jodie-or-Marsha agrees.

‘But Willa Tilton isn’t my best friend,’ I say, confused. ‘I’ve never met her. My best friend is called Suze.’

‘She would be your best friend for the camera,’ says Marsha-or-Jodie, as though I’m slightly subnormal. ‘It’s a reality show.’

‘OK,’ I say, still confused. ‘Well, I’ll think about it.’

I take another sip of water, trying to get my head together. Somehow I can’t take any of this seriously. Me? On a reality show? But as I look from Jodie to Marsha (or the other way round), I realize they’re genuine. They wouldn’t give me the time of day unless they meant it.

‘In the meantime, we have the Breakfast Show USA segment,’ says Jodie-or-Marsha, ‘which will be very high profile. Now, do you have an assistant?’

‘No,’ I say, and the two women exchange looks.

‘You might think about getting yourself one,’ says Marsha-or-Jodie.

‘Your life is going to start feeling a little different,’ adds Jodie-or-Marsha.

‘Make sure you have some camera-ready outfits.’

‘Consider getting your teeth whitened.’

‘And you could lose a pound or two.’ Marsha-or-Jodie smiles kindly. ‘Just a thought.’

‘Right.’ My head is whirling. ‘OK. Well … thanks!’

‘It’s a pleasure.’ Jodie-or-Marsha pushes back her chair. ‘Exciting, huh?’

As I’m walking along one of the museum-style corridors with an assistant called Tori (dressed head to toe in Chloé), I hear a little shriek behind me. I turn and see Sage skittering along the corridor, her arms outstretched.

‘Beckeeeeee! I’ve missed youuuuuu!’

I blink in astonishment. Sage is wearing the skimpiest outfit I’ve ever seen. Her bright-blue polka-dot top is basically a bikini top, and her tiny frayed hot pants are more like knickers.

Plus, what does she mean, she’s missed me?

As she throws her arms around me, I inhale the smell of Marc Jacobs Grapefruit and cigarettes.

‘It’s been so long! We have so much to talk about! Are you done here? Where are you going now?’

‘Just home,’ I say. ‘I think they’re organizing me a car.’

‘Noooo! Ride with me!’ She takes out her phone and punches something into it. ‘My driver will take you home, and we can chat.’

‘Becky, are you OK with Sage?’ says Tori. ‘You don’t need a car?’

‘I guess not,’ I say. ‘But thanks.’

‘We’re good now,’ says Sage to the girl who was accompanying her. ‘We’ll see ourselves out. We have to talk!’ Sage hits the button for the lift and links arms with me. ‘You are so hot right now. We’re both hot,’ she adds with satisfaction, as we get in. ‘You know they’re begging me to do Florence Nightingale? Your husband thinks I should take it. But you know, I have a lot of propositions right now. Playboy offered me a gazillion.’ She takes out some gum and offers it to me.

‘Playboy?’

‘I know, right?’ She shrieks with laughter. ‘I need to hit the gym if I’m doing that.’

I blink in surprise. She’s doing it? I can’t believe Luke or Aran want Sage to do Playboy.

‘Cute shades,’ she adds, looking at my Missonis, which are propped up on my head. ‘You were wearing them on Saturday, right? The press was all over them.’

She’s right. There were pictures of me in my Missonis in all the tabloids, and on millions of websites. It’s all so surreal. When I look at the photos, it doesn’t feel like me. It feels like some other person out there, posing as ‘Becky Brandon’.

But that is me. Isn’t it?

Oh God, it’s too confusing. Do celebrities ever get used to being two people, one private and one public? Or do they just forget about the private one? I’d ask Sage, only I’m not sure she’s ever had a private life.

‘They’re so unique.’ Sage is still fixated on my shades. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘They’re vintage. You can have them, if you like,’ I add eagerly, and hand them over.

‘Cool!’ Sage grabs them and puts them on, admiring her reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift. ‘How do I look?’

‘Really good.’ I tweak her hair a bit. ‘There. Lovely.’

At last! I’m styling a Hollywood film star, just like I wanted to in the first place.

‘You’re smart, Becky,’ Sage says. ‘This is a great fashion story. I’m wearing the shades you had on two days ago. The press will love it. This will be everywhere.’

That’s not why I gave them to her, but I suppose she’s right. I suppose she thinks about everything in terms of the press. Is that how I have to start thinking, too?

We emerge on the ground floor, and Sage leads me straight to a big guy in a blue blazer, who is sitting on a chair in a corner. He has Slavic features and huge shoulders and doesn’t smile. ‘This is Yuri, my new bodyguard,’ says Sage blithely. ‘Do you have security, Becky?’

‘Me?’ I laugh. ‘No!’

‘You should totally think about it,’ she says. ‘I had to hire Yuri after I got mobbed at home. You can’t be too careful.’ She glances at her watch. ‘OK, shall we go?’

As we head out of the building, I feel a jolt of shock. A cluster of waiting photographers immediately start calling out, ‘Sage! This way, Sage!’ They weren’t there earlier.

‘How did they know you’d be here?’ I say in bewilderment.

‘You give them your schedule,’ Sage explains in an undertone. ‘You’ll get into it.’ She hooks her arm more firmly around mine, and dimples in a smile. Her long, golden legs look amazing, and the Missoni shades clash brilliantly with her polka-dot top.

‘Becky!’ I hear a shout. ‘Becky, over here, please!’ Oh my God, I’ve been recognized! ‘Beckeee!’

The shouts are growing into a chorus. All I can hear is, ‘Becky! Sage! Here!’ Sage is playfully adopting pose after pose, most with her arm around me. A couple of tourists approach, and with a charming smile, Sage scribbles autographs for them. It takes me a moment to realize they want mine, too.

After a while, a blacked-out SUV appears, and Sage skips along to it, accompanied by Yuri. We get in, the photographers still clustering around us, and the driver manoeuvres away.

‘Oh my God.’ I sink back into the leather seat.

‘You should hire security,’ says Sage again. ‘You’re not a civilian any more.’

This is unreal. I’m not a civilian any more! I’m one of them!

Sage is flipping through channels on the in-car TV, and she pauses as her own face comes into view, with the headline, Sage speaks out.

‘Hey! Check it out!’ She cracks open a Diet Coke, offers one to me and turns up the volume.

‘I feel personally betrayed by Lois,’ the on-screen Sage is saying. ‘I feel she’s let me down, not just as a fellow actor but as a woman and as a human being. If she has problems, then I feel for her, but she should deal with those in an appropriate manner, not inflict them on others. You know, we were once friends. But never again. She’s let down the entire profession.’

‘That’s a bit harsh,’ I say uncomfortably.

‘She stole my purse,’ says Sage, unmoved. ‘She’s a psycho.’

‘She didn’t steal it. It was a mistake.’

‘Tough talk there from Sage Seymour,’ a TV presenter is saying on-screen. ‘With us in the studio to discuss the scandal is Hollywood commentator Ross Halcomb, film critic Joanne Seldana, and …’

‘Sage,’ I try again. ‘You do know it was a mistake, don’t you?’

‘Sssh!’ says Sage, waving a hand impatiently. We sit in silence as a whole bunch of people in a studio discuss whether Sage Seymour’s career will now go stellar, and then as soon as they’ve finished, Sage flicks to another news piece about herself. I feel more and more uncomfortable, but Sage won’t let me speak. The TV airways seem to be filled with coverage of her, on every channel – until she clicks on to a new channel and Lois’s face suddenly appears.

‘Lois!’ Sage leans forward animatedly.

The camera pans away and I see that Lois is being filmed outside her house, which is a huge, Spanish-style mansion. She’s wearing a billowy white nightshirt and has bare feet, and seems to be shouting at someone, but there’s no sound.

‘What is she doing?’ Sage is gazing at the screen.

‘Why isn’t she inside?’ I wince. ‘She doesn’t look well.’

Lois looks terrible. I mean, terrible. Her skin is pale, her eyes are hollow, her hair is lank and she’s twisting it between her fingers.

I wonder if she’s heard from the police. No one knows if they’re going to press charges; no one knows anything yet. I keep expecting to be summoned to a police station, but so far, nothing. When I mentioned it to Aran, he said, ‘Becky, don’t worry. Your profile is up there, even without a court case.’

But that’s not what I meant. I was thinking about Lois.

‘Leave me alone.’ Her voice suddenly becomes audible. ‘Please leave me alone.’

And now we can hear the shouts from the photographers and journalists outside the gate.

‘Are you a thief, Lois?’

‘Did you take Sage’s bag?’

‘Have you been charged?’

‘Do you have a message for the American people?’

Lois’s eyes are dark and despairing and she’s biting her lip so hard I can see specks of blood appearing. She looks totally on the edge – just like she did when I first caught hold of her in the street. She goes back inside, the front door slams and the picture flashes back to a studio, where a woman in a tailored red jacket is watching a screen seriously.

‘And there we can see the first shots of Lois Kellerton since this scandal,’ she says. ‘Dr Nora Vitale, you’re an expert on mental health. Would you say Lois Kellerton is experiencing a breakdown?’

‘Well, now.’ Dr Nora Vitale is a thin woman in a surprisingly frivolous pink dress, with a serious expression. ‘We don’t use the word “breakdown” these days …’

‘Jeez.’ Sage switches off the TV. ‘That’ll be all over Hollywood in twenty seconds. You know what they’re saying?’

‘What?’

‘They’re saying this goes back years. She’s been stealing all her life.’

‘What?’ I say in horror. ‘No! I’m sure it was just a one-off. She was under great strain, she made a mistake … anyone can make a mistake!’

‘Well.’ Sage shrugs comfortably. ‘Whatever you think, people are coming forward. People she’s worked with. Makeup artists, assistants, saying she stole from them, too. She’s going to drown in lawsuits.’

‘Oh God.’

Guilt is squeezing me inside. I’m going hot and cold with remorse. This is all my fault.

‘So, when am I going to see you again?’ To my surprise, Sage throws her arms around me when we stop outside my house. ‘I want you to style me for my next appearance. Head to foot.’

‘Wow,’ I say, taken aback. ‘I’d love to!’

‘And we have to have lunch. Spago, maybe. Sound good?’

‘Yes! Fab.’

‘We’re in this together, Becky.’ She squeezes me again, as the back doors magically slide open.

There’s a cluster of photographers outside my gates. I’m almost getting used to them. I check my reflection in my compact, then carefully slide out of the SUV. I zap open the gates with my remote control, and wave goodbye to Sage. The next minute, Minnie is running down the drive towards me. She’s wearing her gorgeous little yellow dress and clutching a painting she must have just done. I’ve kept her off pre-school today, because she was complaining of earache this morning. (Although it could just have been that her Alice band was too tight.)

‘Mummy!’ She’s brandishing the painting triumphantly at me as I sweep her into a hug. ‘Schlowers!’

Minnie is obsessed with flowers at the moment, which she calls ‘schlowers’. She weeps if Luke won’t wear his one-and-only ‘schlowers’ tie, so he puts it on every morning and then takes it off again in the car. Her painting doesn’t look very much like flowers to be honest, just big red splodges, but I gasp admiringly, and say, ‘What beautiful red flowers!’

Minnie regards the red splodges stonily. ‘Dat not de schlowers. Dat de schlowers.’ She jabs her finger at a tiny blue stripe which I hadn’t even noticed. ‘Dat de schlowers.’ Her brows are lowered and she’s giving me an imperious frown. ‘DAT DE SCHLOWERS!’ she suddenly yells, sounding like a commandant ordering an execution.

‘Right,’ I say hastily. ‘Silly me. Of course that’s the schlowers. Lovely!’

‘Is that your daughter?’ To my surprise, Sage has got out of the SUV after me. ‘I have to say hello. Too cute! Listen to her little British accent! Come here, sweetie.’ She lifts Minnie up and swings her around till Minnie starts squealing with delight. The photographers are all clicking away so fast, it sounds like an insect infestation.

‘Sage,’ I say. ‘We don’t want Minnie to be photographed.’

But Sage doesn’t hear me. She’s running around the drive with Minnie, the two of them in fits of laughter.

‘Pleeeeease!’ Minnie is reaching out for the swirly Missoni sunglasses. ‘Pleeeeease!’

‘No, these are mine! But you can have some.’ Sage rummages in her bag and produces another pair of sunglasses. She gives Minnie a kiss on the nose, then puts the sunglasses on her. ‘Adorable!’

‘Sage!’ I try again. ‘Stop it! I need to get Minnie inside!’

My phone suddenly bleeps with a text, and feeling hassled, I pull it out. It’s from Mum.

Becky. Very urgent. Mum

What? What’s very urgent? I feel a spasm of alarm, mixed with frustration. What kind of message is ‘Very urgent’? I speed-dial her number and wait impatiently for the connection.

‘Mum!’ I say as soon as she answers. ‘What is it?’

‘Oh, Becky.’ Her voice is wobbling. ‘It’s Dad. He’s gone!’

‘Gone?’ I say stupidly. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘He’s gone to LA! He left a note! A note! After all these years of marriage, a note! I’ve been to Bicester Village with Janice for the day – I got a lovely bag at the Cath Kidston outlet shop – and when I came back he’d gone! To America!’

I stare at the phone, flabbergasted. ‘But what – I mean, where—’

‘In the note, he said he needed to track down his friend. Brent Lewis? The one you looked up?’

Oh, for God’s sake. Not this again.

‘But why?’

‘He didn’t say!’ Mum’s voice rises hysterically. ‘I have no idea who this friend is, even!’

There’s a slight edge of panic to her voice, which I can understand. The thing about my Dad is, he seems like this very straight-down-the-line, normal family man. But there’s a bit more to him than that. A few years ago we all discovered that he had another daughter – my half-sister Jess – about whom nobody had known a thing.

I mean, to be fair to Dad, he hadn’t known either. It’s not like he’d been keeping a massive secret. But I can see why Mum might be a bit paranoid.

‘He said he had something he needed to “put right”,’ Mum is continuing. ‘“Put right”! What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say helplessly. ‘Except he was very shocked when I told him Brent Lewis lives in a trailer.’

‘Why shouldn’t he live in a trailer?’ Mum’s voice is shrill again. ‘What business is it of Dad’s where this man lives?’

‘He kept saying, “It shouldn’t have happened,”’ I say, remembering. ‘But I have no idea what that meant.’

‘I don’t know what flight he’s on, or where he’s staying … Do I follow him? Do I stay here? It’s Becky,’ I hear her saying in a muffled voice. ‘The sherry’s on the second shelf, Janice.’ She returns to the line. ‘Becky, I don’t know what to do. Janice said it’s his mid-life crisis, but I said, “Janice, we already had that with the guitar lessons. So what’s this?”’

‘Mum, calm down. It’ll be fine.’

‘He’s bound to come to you, Becky. Keep an eye on him, love. Please.’

‘I will. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.’

I ring off and instantly start texting Dad.

Dad. Where are you? Call me!!! Becky xxx

God, what a drama. What is Dad doing? I send the text and turn round, wondering why I can hear laughter. At once my heart plunges in horror.

Sage is posing for the cameras in an exaggerated starlet way, and Minnie is copying her perfectly. Her hand is on her hip, her head is cocked at an angle and she’s tilting her shoulders back and forth, just like Sage. Everyone is roaring and the cameras are snapping.

‘Stop!’ I say furiously. I scoop Minnie up, and press her head against my chest, out of sight. ‘Please don’t use those pictures!’ I say to the photographers. ‘She’s only a little girl.’

‘Want do waving!’ Minnie struggles to escape from my grasp. ‘Want do WAVING!’

‘No more waving, darling,’ I say, kissing her head. ‘I don’t want you waving at those people.’

‘Becky, relax!’ says Sage. ‘She better get used to it, right? Anyhow, she loves the limelight, don’t you, cupcake?’ She ruffles Minnie’s hair. ‘We need to get you an agent, munchkin. Aren’t you launching your own family reality show, Becky?’ she adds to me. ‘That’s what Aran said. Smart move.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, feeling harassed. ‘I need to talk it over with Luke. Look, I’d better take Minnie inside.’

‘Sure,’ says Sage gaily. ‘We’ll talk soon, OK?’

As Sage disappears off in her SUV, I hurry into the house and shut the huge front door. My heart is thumping, and my thoughts are all confused. I don’t know what to focus on first; my brain is skittering about so madly. Dad. Reality show. Minnie. Press. Sage. Lois. Dad.

I can’t believe Dad is coming to LA. It’s insane. Dad doesn’t belong in LA, he belongs at home. In the garden. At his golf club.

‘Bex!’ Suze comes into the hall and eyes me in surprise. ‘Are you OK?’

I realize I’m backed up against the front door as though I’m sheltering from attack.

‘My dad’s coming to LA.’

‘Oh, brilliant!’ Her face lights up. ‘And your mum?’

‘It’s not brilliant. He’s run off, and only left a note for Mum.’

‘What?’ She stares at me, incredulously. ‘Your dad ran off?’

‘There’s something going on.’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t know what. It’s all to do with this trip he went on when he was much younger. He’s trying to track down one of his friends from it.’

‘What trip? Where did they go?’

‘I dunno.’ I shrug. ‘Round California and Arizona. They had this map. They went to LA … Las Vegas … maybe Utah too. Death Valley!’ I suddenly remember. ‘I’ve seen pictures of them in Death Valley.’

I wish I’d listened a bit harder now. Every Christmas Dad used to tell me about his trip and pull out his old map, with the red dotted line showing where they’d been.

‘Well, I expect he’ll turn up,’ says Suze reassuringly. ‘He’s probably just having a mid-life crisis.’

I shake my head. ‘He’s had that. He took guitar lessons.’

‘Oh.’ Suze thinks for a moment. ‘Is there such a thing as a later-life crisis?’

‘God knows. Probably.’

We head into the kitchen and I open the fridge to pour us each a glass of white wine. I don’t care what time it is, I need it.

‘Juice,’ says Minnie at once. ‘Juuuuuuice! Juuuuuuuice!’

‘OK!’ I say, and pour her a cup of Organic Carrot and Beetroot Juice Mix. They got her into it at the pre-school. It’s the most revolting thing I’ve ever tasted, and it costs $10.99 for a tiny carton, but apparently it’s ‘detoxing and low sugar’, so we’ve been asked to provide it instead of fruit juice. And the worst thing is, Minnie loves it. If I’m not careful, she’s going to turn into some junior Juicing Nazi and I’ll have to hide all my KitKats from her and pretend that chocolate oranges are macrobiotic.

‘So, where’s Tarkie?’ I ask as I hand Minnie her juice.

‘Do you have to ask?’ Suze’s jaw tightens. ‘You know he’s started going out at six a.m. every day for a Personal Validation session with Bryce? I barely see him any more.’

‘Wow. What’s Personal Validation?’

‘I don’t know!’ Suze erupts. ‘How would I know? I’m only his wife!’

‘Have some wine,’ I say hurriedly, and hand her a glass. ‘I’m sure it’s good for Tarkie to be doing all this. I mean, it’s got to be positive, hasn’t it? Personal validation? It’s better than impersonal validation, anyway.’

‘What is validation?’ counters Suze.

‘It’s … er … being yourself. Kind of thing.’ I try to sound knowledgeable. ‘You have to let go. And … be happy.’

‘It’s bollocks.’ Suze’s eyes flash at me.

‘Well … anyway. Cheers.’ I lift my wine glass and take a swig.

Suze takes a massive gulp, then another, then exhales, seeming a bit calmer. ‘So, how was the agent?’ she asks, and my spirits instantly rise. At least something is going well.

‘It was amazing!’ I say. ‘They said we need to plan my future carefully, and they’ll help me juggle all my offers. And I need to hire security,’ I add, importantly.

‘Hire security?’ Suze stares at me. ‘You mean, like, a bodyguard?’

‘Yes.’ I try to sound casual. ‘It makes sense now I’m famous.’

‘You’re not that famous.’

‘Yes I am! Haven’t you seen the photographers outside the gate?’

‘They’ll get bored soon enough. Honestly, Bex, you’re only going to be famous for, like, five minutes. I wouldn’t waste money on a bodyguard.’

‘Five minutes?’ I say, offended. ‘Is that what you think? If you want to know, I’ve been offered a reality show. I’m going to be a global brand. This is only the beginning.’

‘You’re doing a reality show?’ She seems gobsmacked. ‘Has Luke agreed to that?’

‘He … well, it’s under discussion,’ I prevaricate.

‘Does Luke know about the bodyguard?’

‘He doesn’t need to know!’ I’m feeling more and more scratchy. At CAA, everything seemed so shiny and exciting, and now Suze is putting a damper on it all. ‘I’m the celebrity, not Luke.’

‘You’re not a celebrity!’ says Suze scoffingly.

‘Yes I am!’

‘Not a proper one. Not like Sage.’

‘Yes I am!’ I say furiously. ‘They all said I was at CAA. Even Sage said so. And I need a bodyguard. In fact, I’m going to sort it out right now.’ And I head out of the kitchen, full of indignation. I’ll show Suze. I’m going to phone Aran’s assistant and get the name of the top Hollywood security company and hire a bodyguard. I don’t care what she thinks.