No. Too much.
“What’s your message to Lois?” A cluster of microphones arrives right in front of my nose.
“Who did the clutch bag really belong to, Becky?”
“Were there drugs in the bag? Is Lois an addict?”
OK, this is getting out of hand.
“Thank you so much,” I say, a little shrilly. “I’m just going about my daily business. I have an important errand to run. Thank you for respecting my privacy.” Suddenly I remember about posture. I adjust my legs so they’ll look thinner and put one hand on my hip like a supermodel.
“What about your phone call?” says a sardonic-looking guy in jeans.
Oh yes. The phone call. I’d forgotten about that.
“Er … bye, then!” I say into the phone, and hastily put it away. “Thank you,” I add to the journalists. “Thank you so much. No press, please.” Feeling a little hassled, I head toward the car, get out my keys, and immediately drop them on the ground. Damn.
No way am I stooping down in front of a bank of cameras, so I cautiously bend my knees as though in a curtsy, keep my back dead straight, and manage to hoick the keys up. I sink into the car, start the engine, and carefully drive forward. The mob of journalists parts to let the car out, but the flashes and shouts keep coming, and someone even bangs on the roof.
As I finally escape, I sink back and exhale. That was only five minutes and I’m exhausted. How do celebrities do it?
Anyway. The point is, I did it. Ten minutes later, my heart has stopped thumping and I’m feeling rather pleased with myself. I’m driving along the Hollywood Freeway, saying aloud, “Drive on the right. Drive on the right,” and my satnav is telling me to keep going straight on. Which is handy, as I’m not in the correct lane to turn off. The whizzy no-hands car phone suddenly buzzes with Luke’s number, and I press green for ANSWER.
“Sweetheart. Hi. Did you get out OK?”
“Yes, all good,” I say. “I’m on the road.”
“The press weren’t too aggressive?”
“Er … no! They were fine.”
“And you just got straight in the car and drove away?”
“Pretty much.” I clear my throat. “I mean, they might have got a few shots of me.…”
“I’m sure you did brilliantly, darling. It’s not easy, keeping your cool when you’re surrounded by cameras.”
“How’s Sage?”
“Manic,” says Luke. “She’s had lots of offers already, and she wants to say yes to all of them.”
“Offers of what?”
“You name it. Interviews, film roles, nude magazine spreads, endorsement campaigns. All what you might call low rent. Very much not what our strategy was all about. Not that she can see that.”
He sounds so exasperated, I want to giggle. I should imagine Sage Seymour is a bit of a change, after he’s been used to dealing with sensible businessmen in suits.
“Well, good luck!”
“You too. See you later.”
I ring off and then dial Dad’s number.
“Becky?”
“Hi, Dad! Listen, I’m going to see your friend Brent. I’m in the car right now.”
“Darling!” Dad sounds surprised. “That was quick. I didn’t mean for you to drop everything.”
“It’s no trouble,” I say. “He’s based somewhere called the Shining Hill Home Estate; does that sound right?”
“Sounds rather grand!” says Dad. “That’ll be right. I’m sure he’s done very well for himself. He probably lives in a mansion.”
“Really?” I say, my interest piqued a little. “What does he do?”
“I’m not sure. Back then, he was a postgraduate student.”
“So how do you know he lives in a mansion?” I object.
“Oh, I’m certain he’s done all right for himself.” Dad chuckles. “Let’s say he was on the right path already— Oh, Becky!” Dad interrupts himself. “Mum says she found a new picture of you on her phone, on the Internet! Standing outside your house. Is that you this morning, darling?”
“Yes!” I say in excitement. “Have they uploaded them already? What does it say?”
“Witness Becky is pretty in pink,” reads Dad carefully. “Brit set to testify in court.” That’s on the National Enquirer website.
National Enquirer! Pretty in pink! I feel a jolt of excitement. Although what’s this about testifying in court? I never said anything about that.
“Do I look all right?” I demand. That’s the main point.
“You look wonderful! Ah, now Mum’s found another one: Becky steps out in YSL shoes.”
For God’s sake. I told them my shoes weren’t Yves Saint Laurent.
“Darling, you’re quite the celebrity!” says Dad. “Don’t forget us, will you?”
“I won’t!” I laugh, then jump as I see Luke flash up on the screen.
“I’d better go, Dad. Talk to you later.” I punch ANSWER. “Hi, Luke.”
“Becky, my darling,” he says, in that deadpan, patient tone he uses when he’s actually quite pissed off. “I thought you said you walked straight to the car and got in?”
“Er … yes. Kind of.”
“So why am I looking at a picture of you on the Daily World website, sitting on the car bonnet, brandishing your sunglasses, and beaming at the camera?”
“I was making a phone call,” I say defensively. “I just happened to sit on the car. They must have snapped me.”