Shopaholic to the Stars

SEVENTEEN

By the time Luke gets home that evening, I’m feeling calmer. The thing is, this is what Hollywood is like and you just have to get used to it. Yes, it seems completely freaky and messed up at first, but gradually it starts to feel more normal. They’re right. It is all a game. Everyone’s playing it, the stars, the journalists, the public, everyone. And if you don’t want to play, maybe you shouldn’t come to Hollywood.

On the plus side, Sage has been texting me all afternoon, and I’ve been texting back, and it’s like we’re best friends. I’m totally in the gang! Lois even texted me too, a few times. The forthcoming Camberly interview is already huge news, just as they said it would be. It’s been featured on every news website, and it’s all over the TV too, and the Sage-and-Lois soap opera is Topic A again.

They’ve been really clever. (At least, Lois has been really clever.) And now I’m part of it too! The best bit was this afternoon, when I was picking up the children from school. I’d already made quite an impression, what with Jeff and Mitchell and the blacked-out SUV. But then, when I was waiting at the pre-school door to get Minnie, Sage rang and I said, ‘Oh, hi Sage, how are you?’ just a bit more loudly than usual, and everyone turned to stare.

The only not-so-A-list thing is, all the photographers have disappeared from our gates, which is a bit disloyal of them. At least, not all. There’s one geeky Asian guy who is still hanging around. He has bleached-blond hair and today he was wearing a pink bomber jacket with tight black jeans and rubber ankle boots. I started to pose and he took a few snaps, then he beckoned me over and said excitedly, ‘You’re a friend of Danny Kovitz, right? The designer? Could you get me his autograph?’ It turns out his name is Lon and he’s a fashion-design student and he worships Danny. And now he worships me too because I’m a friend of Danny.

And OK, maybe I did play up to it a bit. Maybe I did promise to come out tomorrow morning wearing a vintage Danny Kovitz outfit (i.e. two years old) which never even hit the catwalks, and let him take a picture of it. The thing is, I like having photographers outside the house. It’s boring not to have any around.

I’m in the kitchen preparing an A-lister-type supper when Luke comes in. Dad must have come back at some point and he and Tarquin have gone out sightseeing – they left a note – and Suze is nowhere to be seen, so I guess she’s with them too. All the children are in bed and I’ve sent Jeff and Mitchell out for supper, so it’s just me and Luke, which is nice.

Now that I’m a rising Hollywood celebrity, I have to cook appropriately. We’ll probably need to get a chef or private juice-maker or something, but for now I’m making a very of-the-moment dish. Grain soup. It’s the latest thing. All the A-listers have it, plus I need to look thin for all my forthcoming appearances, and apparently it’s got some magic combination that boosts the metabolism.

‘Hi!’ I greet Luke with a kiss and a wheatgrass smoothie, which is also very healthy and A-list.

‘What’s that?’ He sniffs it and recoils. ‘I’m having a glass of wine. Want one?’

‘No thanks,’ I say, self-righteously. ‘I’m trying to follow a clean diet.’ I ladle grain soup into two bowls and put it on the table. ‘This is totally organic and macrobiotic. It has chia,’ I add.

Luke looks dubiously at it and pokes it with his spoon.

‘OK,’ he says slowly. ‘What are we having with it?’

‘This is it! It has protein and sprouty things and everything. It’s a meal in a bowl.’ I’m about to take a spoonful, when I remember something. I push my chair back and start doing squats.

Luke stares at me in alarm. ‘Becky, are you all right?

‘I’m fine!’ I say breathlessly. ‘You should do squats before you eat. It boosts the metabolism. All the stars do it. Nine … ten.’ I take my seat again, panting slightly. Luke surveys me silently for a moment, then takes a spoonful. He munches it, but doesn’t say anything.

‘Isn’t it great?’ I say cheerily, and take a massive spoonful myself.

Argh. Blurgh. Akk.

Seriously? This is what the film stars eat?

It’s really watery, and what little taste it has is like a mix of mushrooms and sawdust and earth. I force myself to swallow it down, and take another spoonful. I don’t dare look at Luke. A bowl of this won’t fill him up. Nor me. It wouldn’t even fill up Minnie.

How do the A-listers stay so cheery when they have to eat grain soup the whole time? It must be mind over matter. They must sit there grimly, telling themselves, ‘I’m ravenous … but I’m in a movie! My stomach is rumbling and I feel faint … but I’m friends with Leonardo DiCaprio!’

I take another mouthful and try to chew it a hundred times, as recommended in the blog I read. But honestly. How can this be good for you? My jaws are aching and all I can taste is sprouty things. I would kill for a KitKat—

No, stop it. A-listers don’t eat KitKats. If I’m going to be in their crowd I need to learn to love grain soup.

‘Luke, maybe we should buy a yacht,’ I say, to take my mind off the grain soup.

‘What?’ He looks flabbergasted.

‘Just a little one. And then we could hang out with other people on yachts. Like Ben and Jennifer,’ I add casually. ‘Those kinds of people.’

Sage was talking about Ben today as though they’re best friends. Well, if she can be friends with him, why not me, too?

‘Ben?’

‘Ben Affleck.’

‘Ben Affleck?’ Luke puts his spoon down. ‘Why on earth would we hang out with Ben Affleck?’

‘We might!’ I say defensively. ‘Why shouldn’t we? We live in LA now, we’re in the movies … you’re bound to meet Ben Affleck at a party or something …’

‘I doubt it,’ says Luke, dryly.

‘Well, I will, then! Maybe Sage will introduce us. Or maybe I’ll style him or one of his friends.’

And I’ll become best friends with Jennifer Garner, I think secretly. I’ve always thought I would hit it off with her.

‘Becky, this conversation makes no sense.’ Luke is shaking his head and I look at him impatiently. He’s so slow sometimes.

‘Don’t you realize everything’s changed? I’m in the public eye now. I’m in a whole new zone.’

‘You’re hardly an A-lister,’ he snorts, and I feel a dart of indignation.

‘Well, I will be! I have paparazzi outside the house … Sage Seymour calls me all the time …’

‘The paparazzi have gone,’ says Luke, unmoved. ‘And Sage calls me all the time, too. That doesn’t make me an A-lister.’

‘Aran believes in me,’ I say pointedly. ‘He says I’m going to be huge. He says I could have my own network show by next year.’

Luke sighs. ‘Darling, I don’t want to rain on your parade – but don’t believe every word Aran says. He’s a great guy, but he just says whatever the conversation of the moment seems to require. Maybe he believes it, maybe he doesn’t. It’s the Hollywood way.’ He sips his wine. ‘And another thing: we need to get rid of those goons. We can’t live with them lurking around the place all day.’

‘Mitchell and Jeff?’ I put down my spoon in dismay. ‘I couldn’t live without Mitchell and Jeff.’

Luke peers at me incredulously for a moment, then throws back his head in laughter. ‘Darling, you’ve only had bodyguards for a day. You can’t be dependent on them already. And if you are, I’m afraid you need a reality check.’ He gets up from the table. ‘I’m making myself a sandwich. Sorry.’ He starts slathering mayonnaise on to bread, and I watch in secret envy. ‘Since you’re talking to your best friend Sage non-stop,’ he adds, ‘you can tell me something. I’m convinced she’s up to some lunatic plan or other. What has she said to you?’

I feel a tweak of alarm. I wasn’t expecting him to ask me straight out.

‘What do you mean?’ I say, playing for time.

‘She’s hiding something.’ He sits down with his monster sandwich and takes a bite. ‘Truthfully, Becky, I’m nearly at the end of the line with Sage. I thought we could work together, but …’ He wipes a blob of mayonnaise off his chin and takes another huge bite.

‘But what?’

‘If she can’t play straight with me, then it’s not going to work.’

‘You mean …’ I feel a sudden foreboding. ‘Luke, what do you mean?’

‘I don’t know yet.’ He opens a bag of crisps, which he must have bought himself. I certainly didn’t buy them. ‘Here’s the thing, Becky. A lot of issues are up in the air.’

‘What kind of issues?’

‘I spoke with the London office today and there’s some intriguing stuff going on back there. We’ve just had a call from the Treasury. I’m going to have to fly back to take a meeting. And if we progress with that association, then I’ll need to be on board.’

‘In London?’ I can’t hide my dismay.

‘Well, it makes sense. This LA jaunt was always temporary. It’s been fun and interesting, but frankly, I’d take ten bolshie Treasury officials over one obstreperous movie star any day.’ Luke laughs but I don’t join in. I’m feeling a rising rage. He’s talking about moving back to London? Without even consulting me?

‘We can’t move back to London!’ I blurt out. ‘What about me? What about my new career?’

Luke looks taken aback. ‘Well, you can be a stylist in London, surely? It’s the home of style.’

‘I can’t be a Hollywood stylist in London.’

‘Darling, there’s a film industry in Britain. I’m sure you can get some contacts together, talk to the right people …’

How can he be so dense?

‘But it isn’t Hollywood!’ I cry out. ‘I want to live in Hollywood and be famous!’

As soon as the words are out, I feel a bit stupid. But even so, I don’t want to take them back. I mean them. I’ve only had the teeniest taste of being famous. How can I give it up?

Luke is looking at me, an odd expression on his face.

‘Are you sure about that?’ he says at last.

This is the final straw. How can he even ask that?

‘I want it more than anything!’ I cry out. ‘You know what my dream is? To be standing on the red carpet in my own right! Not shuffled along like a second-class citizen, just filling up the space … but there as me. Becky.’

‘I didn’t realize it was so important to you,’ says Luke, in a toneless way which infuriates me.

‘Well, it is. It’s always been my dream.’

‘No it hasn’t!’ Luke gives a short laugh. ‘Are you trying to pretend this is the fulfilment of a childhood ambition?’

‘Well …’ I flounder briefly. ‘OK … maybe it’s a new dream. Does it matter? The point is, if you respected me, Luke, you wouldn’t drag us all out to LA, then drag us back to London without any warning. I know you’re the big-shot Luke Brandon, but I have a career too! I’m my own person! I’m not only “Mrs Brandon”! Or would you like me to turn into some corporate wifey-wifey? Maybe that’s what you secretly wanted, all along! I’ll go and learn how to make profiteroles, shall I?’

I break off, slightly shocked at myself. I didn’t mean to say all that: it just came out. I can tell I’ve hurt Luke by the way his eyes are flickering. I want to say, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it,’ and give him a hug – but that wouldn’t feel quite right, either.

The truth is, I meant some of it. I’m just not sure which bit.

For a while there’s silence in the kitchen. Neither of us is looking at the other, and the only sound is coming from the sprinklers in the garden outside.

‘I’m not dragging anyone anywhere,’ Luke says at last, his voice tight. ‘This is a marriage and we do things by agreement. And if after all these years together you think I don’t respect you, then …’ He breaks off and shakes his head. ‘Look, Becky, if you really feel that your career path lies in LA and can’t be anywhere else, then fine. We’ll work it out. I want you to have what makes you happy. Whatever that might be.’

Everything he’s saying is positive and supportive. I should feel pleased. But his face is so distant, it unnerves me. Usually my intuition tells me exactly what Luke is thinking – but right now, I’m not at all sure.

‘Luke …’ To my horror my voice is a bit wobbly. ‘It’s not that I don’t want us to be together. I just— I need—’

‘It’s fine.’ He cuts me off. ‘I get it, Becky. I have to make some calls.’

Without giving me another glance, he picks up his sandwich and strides out of the kitchen, his steps resounding down the corridor. Slowly, I stir my grain soup, feeling a slight shock. One minute we were talking normally, and the next, we were … what? I don’t even know how things have been left.

I don’t see Luke for the rest of the evening. He’s talking on the phone in his office and I don’t want to disturb him, so I sit in the kitchen flicking through TV channels, my head full of dark, circular thoughts. This is the biggest chance of my life. Luke should be excited. I mean, Aran is more excited than he is. How can that be right? And anyway, why did he give me that look? Just because he thinks fame is overrated.

And the Treasury. The Treasury. Who would choose the Treasury over Hollywood? Is he insane? I’ve been to the Treasury, and believe me, it has nothing to recommend it. I bet if you asked all the Treasury officials, ‘Would you rather be in Hollywood?’ they’d all march out in an instant.

And why did he have to make me feel guilty? I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. I don’t even know why I feel guilty. I’ve done nothing wrong except become the celebrity of the moment and want to take advantage of that. If Luke can’t see that, then maybe he shouldn’t work in the media. He should be excited.

I’m just summoning up my name on Google for the billionth time, when the door opens and in walk Dad and Tarkie. No, in lurch Dad and Tarkie. They’re arm in arm, and Dad bumps into the table and Tarkie bursts out laughing, and then he trips up on a chair.

I goggle at them in astonishment. They’re drunk? My father and Tarquin have gone out and got drunk? Why didn’t Suze stop them?

‘Where’s Suze?’ I demand. ‘Dad, what happened today? Did you meet Brent?’

‘I have no idea where my wife is,’ says Tarkie, talking with elaborate carefulness. ‘I have my friends and that is all I need.’ He claps Dad on the back. ‘Your father is a very, very, very …’ He seems to run out of steam for a moment. ‘Very interesting man,’ he resumes. ‘Wise. He understands. Nobody else understands.’

Dad lifts a finger as though he’s about to make a speech. ‘“The time has come,” the walrus said, “to talk of many things.”’

‘But Dad, where did you go? Is everything OK?’

‘“Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax” …’ continues Dad, totally ignoring me.

Oh God, surely he’s not going to recite the whole of Alice in Wonderland, or whatever it is.

‘Fab!’ I say brightly. ‘Good idea. Would you like some coffee, Dad?’

‘“Of cabbages – and kings”.’ Tarkie nods gravely.

‘We know where the secrets are buried.’ Dad abandons Lewis Carroll and suddenly looks serious.

‘We know where the bodies are buried,’ chimes in Tarkie.

‘And the secrets.’ Dad turns to face Tarkie and taps his nose with his finger.

‘And the bodies.’ Tarkie is nodding earnestly.

Honestly, I can’t follow a word they’re saying. Dad gives a sudden gurgle of laughter, and Tarkie joins in. They look like two small boys playing truant from school.

‘Coffee,’ I say briskly. ‘Sit down.’ I head over to the kettle, and reach for our strongest espresso blend. I can’t believe I’m trying to sober up my dad. What is going on? Mum would be livid.

As I’m pouring hot water into the French press, I can hear Dad and Tarkie murmuring to each other behind me. I turn sharply, but they don’t even notice me. I hear Tarkie saying, ‘Bryce,’ and Dad saying, ‘Yes, yes. Yes. He’s the man. Bryce’s the man.’

‘Here you are!’ I put the cups down sharply, trying to shock them into sense.

‘Oh, Becky.’ As Dad looks up, his face is wreathed in fondness. ‘My little girl, a star in Hollywood. I’m so proud of you, Becky, my love.’

‘You’re famous,’ chimes in Tarkie. ‘Famous! We were in a bar and you came on the TV. We said, “We know her!” Your father said, “That’s my daughter!”’

‘I did.’ Dad nods drunkenly.

‘He did.’ Tarkie regards me solemnly. ‘What does it feel like, being famous, Becky? Fame!’ he suddenly sings loudly. For a dreadful moment I think he’s going to start singing the Fame song and dancing on the table, but he clearly doesn’t know the rest, so he just sings ‘Fame!’ again.

‘Drink your coffee,’ I say, but less sternly than before. I feel quite mollified by their interest. You see? They get it. They realize I’m famous. ‘It feels … well, I suppose I’ve got used to it now.’ I shrug carelessly. ‘I mean, obviously life will never be the same …’

‘You’re one of them.’ Dad nods sagely. ‘She’s one of them.’ He turns to Tarkie, who nods back. ‘She mingles with the famous people. Tell me who you’ve met, darling.’

‘Heaps of people,’ I say, basking in their admiration. ‘I hang out loads with Sage, and I met Lois, obviously, and … er …’ Who was that ancient guy at the benefit? ‘I met Dix Donahue, and I’ve got April Tremont’s phone number, she’s in that sitcom One of Them, and—’

‘Dix Donahue!’ Dad’s face has crinkled up with delight. ‘Now, he’s a big name. One of the greats. Your mother and I used to watch him every week.’

‘We got on really well,’ I boast. ‘We chatted for ages. He was such a nice man.’

‘Did you get his autograph for me?’ Dad’s face is all lit up with excitement. ‘Show me the book, love. It must be full by now!’

It’s as if something cold trickles down my back. Dad’s autograph book. Shit. Dad’s autograph book. I’d forgotten all about that. I don’t even know where it is. Still in a suitcase somewhere? I haven’t given it one single thought since I arrived in LA.

‘I … um …’ I rub my nose. ‘Actually, I didn’t get his autograph, Dad. It … it wasn’t the right time to ask. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh.’ Dad looks crestfallen. ‘Well, you know best, Becky. Whose autographs have you got?’

‘I haven’t … actually … got any.’ I swallow. ‘I thought I’d get to know the place first.’ I make the mistake of looking at Dad, and I can see from his face that he knows I’m lying. ‘But I will!’ I add hastily. ‘I’ll get loads! I promise.’

I get to my feet and start stacking plates from the dishwasher, trying to fill the silence in the kitchen. Dad doesn’t speak. At last I dart another look at him, and he’s just sitting there, his face craggy with disappointment. Tarquin seems to have fallen asleep with his head on the table, so it’s only me and Dad, not saying anything.

I feel all prickly with guilt and resentment and frustration as I crash the plates into their piles. Why does everyone keep making me feel bad about stuff? At last Dad draws in breath and looks up at me.

‘Becky, love, there’s something I’d like to say—’

‘Sorry, Dad,’ I cut him off. ‘I need to go and check on the children. I’ll be back in a while, OK?’

I cannot face one of Dad’s Little Talks. Not right now. I head upstairs and tuck all the children in, then lurk in Minnie’s darkened room for a long while, sitting with my head against her cot bars, listening to her twirly-ballerina music box.

I don’t want to see Dad. I don’t want to see Luke, either. Where’s Suze? I try her number, but her phone’s switched off. In the cot, Minnie gives one of her sleepy snuffles and turns over, sucking her rabbit, all cosy under the covers. I eye her enviously. Life is so simple for her.

Maybe I can fake some autographs in Dad’s book. Yes! Genius idea. I’ll pretend I bumped into a load of famous people at the filming. Maybe I could even forge Dix Donahue’s signature. I mean, Dad will never know the difference, will he? I’ll fill his books with autographs and he’ll be happy and it’ll all be good.

Feeling better, I switch on Minnie’s night light and reach for Each Peach Pear Plum. It’s one of my favourite books. I’ll read this, and perhaps Guess How Much I Love You too, and then I’ll go and check on my notes for the filming tomorrow. It’s a 6 a.m. call, so I need to get an early night.

And on the plus side, I’m totally prepared for the show. I’ve made about twenty pages of notes, with pictures and mood boards and everything. I’ve worked on every single fashion story I can think of, so I’ll be able to talk, whatever pieces they’ve chosen. Just thinking about it makes my stomach flutter. I mean, it’s Breakfast Show USA! It’s going to be huge! My career will be launched! And then everyone will see.