“Lady, you’re gonna miss the whole thing,” says the waterstand guy. He gestures at the road. “That’s the last bunch.”
It’s true: The race is thinning out by now. Only the last few stragglers are left. The spectators are drifting away too. The whole atmosphere is kind of melting away. I can’t put it off anymore.
“Right.” I try to sound positive. “Well, I’ll quickly run those last four miles, then. Shouldn’t take long. Great.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll just get going, then.”
“Or …” says Luke, and my head jerks up.
“Or what?”
“I was wondering, Becky, if you didn’t mind slowing your pace to mine, maybe we could walk it? Together?”
“Walk it?”
He puts his hand over the barricade and clasps mine. By now we’re practically the only people around. Behind us, workmen are beginning to dismantle the barricades and pick up litter with special sticks.
“Not often we get a chance to walk in L.A.,” he adds. “And we’ve got the street to ourselves.”
I want to expire with relief.
“Well, OK,” I say after a pause. “I don’t mind walking. Although obviously I would very much have preferred to run.”
“Obviously.” He shoots me an amused little grin, which I ignore. “Shall we?”
We start to walk along, picking our way through the paper cups and energy-bar wrappers left everywhere. I tighten my fingers around his and he squeezes my hand back.
“Come this way.” Luke leads me to the right, off the street and onto the pavement—or sidewalk, as I must start calling it. “You know where we are?”
“Hollywood? Los Angeles?” I look at him suspiciously. “Is this a trick question?”
Luke makes no answer, just nods at the sidewalk. And suddenly I get it.
“Oh!” I look down with a beam. “Oh my God!”
“I know.”
We’re standing on the stars. The Hollywood Walk of Fame, which I’ve seen a million times on TV but never for real. I feel as though Luke has put it there especially as a present for me, all shiny and pink.
“Edward Arnold!” I exclaim, reading a name and trying to sound reverent. “Wow! Um …”
“No idea,” says Luke. “Someone famous. Clearly.”
“Clearly.” I giggle. “And who’s Red Foley?”
“Bette Davis,” says Luke, pointing at another star. “Will that do you?”
“Ooh! Bette Davis! Let me see!”
For a while I do nothing but dart backward and forward, looking for famous names. This is the most Hollywood-y thing we’ve done yet, and I don’t care that we’re being total saddo tourists.
At last, we resume walking along, checking off famous names every now and again.
“I’m sorry about your job.” Luke squeezes my hand. “That’s bad luck.”
“Thanks.” I shrug. “But, you know, I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe actually it’s for the best. Bob Hope,” I add, pointing at his star.
“I agree!” says Luke with sudden eagerness. “I didn’t want to say so before—but do you really want to commit yourself to a job when we’re only here for such a short time? This is a wonderful place to explore. I’d just enjoy the healthy outdoor lifestyle with Minnie. Go hiking in the hills, play on the beach …”
That is so Luke. First the work ethic, now the “healthy outdoor lifestyle”? What’s he on about? I haven’t come to L.A. for the “healthy outdoor lifestyle,” I’ve come for the “celebrity-big-sunglasses-red-carpet lifestyle.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’ve got an even better idea. I’m going to become a Hollywood stylist!”
As I look up for Luke’s reaction, I’m taken aback. OK, so maybe I didn’t expect him to shout Go, girl!, but neither did I expect this. His eyebrows are raised and furrowed at the same time. His mouth is turning down at the edges. I’ve been married to Luke so long, I know his expressions off by heart, and this one is Number 3: How do I break it to Becky that I hate this idea? It’s exactly the same expression he had when I suggested painting our bedroom purple. (I still say it would have been sexy.)
“What?” I demand. “What?”
“It’s a great idea …” he begins carefully.
“Stop it,” I say impatiently. “What do you really think?”
“Becky, you know Sage only hired me as a consultant on a short-term basis. If this whole venture works out, maybe Brandon Communications will open a media arm here and maybe I’ll fly back and forth. But I can’t imagine we’ll relocate permanently.”
“So?”
“So, what will you do if you establish a whole new career here?”
“I dunno,” I say impatiently. “Figure it out.”
This is typical. Luke always lets practical plans get in the way of creative inspiration.
“It’ll be a lot of hard work,” he’s saying now, “a lot of banging on doors, a lot of disappointment.…”
“You think I can’t do it?” I say, affronted.
“My darling, I think you can do pretty much anything you put your mind to,” says Luke. “However, I think to get into the world of Hollywood styling in three months will be, let’s say, a challenge. But if you really want to—”
“I don’t just want to, I’m going to.”