“I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to look up that old friend of mine?”
Damn. Damn. I totally meant to do that. This is the second time he’s had to remind me. I feel terrible.
“Dad, I’m really sorry,” I say. “It just slipped my mind. But I will, I promise.…”
“Darling, please don’t worry! You’re very busy. I know that.”
He’s so understanding, I feel worse than ever.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “I absolutely promise.”
As I put the phone down, I’m thinking hard. I can see another news van pulling up outside the gates, and Aran’s words are running through my brain: Don’t leave it too long. The heat won’t last forever.
“Your parents OK?” says Luke, coming back into the hall. “Yes, fine. Except my mother gave an interview to the Daily World. It’s OK,” I add quickly at his appalled expression. “I’ve told her not to say any more.”
“Right, well.” He sighs. “Can’t be helped. Now, I’ve drafted a statement, which I think we should release in an hour or two. I’ll send it over to Aran’s legal team, check for any holes. If you don’t want to watch a movie, why don’t you go and have a nice bath?” he adds. “Take your mind off things.”
“Actually, I have to go out,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“Out?” Luke stares at me as though I’m insane. “What do you mean, out?”
“I have to do something for my father. I have to look up his old friend Brent Lewis. Remember, he asked me to?”
“Well, yes, I do, but … now?”
“Why not now?” I say, a little defiantly.
“Because, look at that rabble!” expostulates Luke, gesturing at the window. “If you set foot outside the gates, they’ll descend on you!”
“Well, maybe I don’t care! Maybe it’s more important to me to do this favor for my father. Why should the press stop me leading my normal life?” I’m getting quite stirred up here. “Why should I be trapped in my own home? What am I, a prisoner?”
“Hardly a prisoner,” says Luke impatiently. “I simply think that, just for today—”
“I made my father a promise, Luke!” I say, in an impassioned voice. “I’m going to see that promise through, whatever it takes. And no one’s going to stop me, not the press, not you, not anyone!”
“Fine,” says Luke at last. “Whatever. If you really insist on doing this, then just get straight in the car and drive out. Don’t talk to the press.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“Even if they try to get a rise out of you, ignore them.” He shakes his head. “Becky, I still think you should stay inside.”
“Luke,” I say, my voice quivering a little. “You don’t understand. I have to do this. For my father. For myself. And for all of us.”
Before he can ask what I mean by that (I have no idea), I head up the stairs, feeling all noble, like a prince about to go into battle. Which, actually, this kind of is. And the point is: I have to win. This is my chance. My big, Hollywood, one-in-a-million, photo-opportunity chance.
Oh my God. What am I going to wear?
OK. It took me an hour and three mirrors and about two hundred pictures on my phone, but I’ve finally worked out the perfect, casual-but-cool outfit for facing the press. My most flattering white Stella McCartney cropped trousers with the little zips. Killer heels by D&G and a bright pink shell top from J.Crew, which will really stand out. And the pièce de résistance: these stunning oversize sunglasses, which I found in the same shop where I bought the diamanté clutch bag. They’re vintage Missoni, and the frames are pink and green swirls. You can’t miss them. They’ll definitely be a talking point.
What I must do is make sure I stand in a flattering way as I’m opening the car door. Yes. And say things like, Please leave me alone; no press, please; I’m just going about my day.
I take out my Velcro rollers, give my lips a final touch-up, and examine my reflection. OK. Good. I must get out there quickly, before the press get bored and decide to leave. Luke has already gone out with Aran to see Sage, and I heard the journalists all shouting as they drove away. And now it’s my turn! I feel like a gladiator about to go into the ring.
I tracked down an address for Brent Lewis after about six phone calls. Of course his family doesn’t live at the address Dad gave me. But someone there had a number for his mother, and someone at that number said she’d moved to Pasadena, and there they said she’d gone to Florida, and so it went on, till I discovered that she actually died seven years ago. But by then I’d also been given a number for a sister called Leah, and through her I finally got an address for Brent—somewhere called the Shining Hill Home Estate, off San Fernando Road. I’ve looked on the map, and it’s in an area of L.A. I’ve never been to before. But that’s fine. I’ve got satnav.
Minnie is playing some very disorganized ball game with the Cleath-Stuarts in the basement. I put my head round the door and say casually, “I’m just running an errand. See you later.”
“Mine sunglasses,” says Minnie at once, clocking the vintage Missonis. “Miiiiiiine.”
“Minnie!” I say sternly. “We don’t say ‘Mine’!”
“Please,” she amends at once. “Pleeeeeeease!”
“No, darling.” I give her a kiss. “They’re Mummy’s.”