“Thanks, Luke,” says Suze gratefully. As the children all pile out of the kitchen with Luke, Suze gives the most almighty sigh. She’s staring out of the window, and I can see a little frown between her brows that wasn’t there before.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m tired of L.A.,” she says. “It’s not good for us.”
I stare at her in astonishment. “Yes, it is! Look at you! You’re working as an extra, and Tarquin’s a total VIP, and you’re all thin and tanned, and—”
“It’s not good for us as a family.” She cuts me off. “In England, yes, we had loads of headaches, but we dealt with them together. I feel like I’m losing Tarkie.” Her voice suddenly wobbles. “Bex, I don’t know him anymore.”
To my horror, her eyes are welling up with tears.
“Suze!” I rush over and give her a hug. “You mustn’t worry! He’s just going through a funny patch. He’s finding himself.”
“But he doesn’t talk to me! He looks at me as though I’m the enemy!” Suze gives a shaky sigh. “Bex, when the children are at school, d’you feel like going for a walk and just chatting? We could go to Runyon Canyon, maybe have lunch.…”
“Suze, I would,” I say regretfully. “But I’ve got to go shopping for Sage’s outfit.”
An odd flicker passes over Suze’s face. “Right.” She breathes out. “Of course. You have to go shopping.”
“It’s not shopping for me!” I say, stung. “I have my TV segment coming up! I have to source pieces for Sage! I have to go to vintage shops and build up some relationships! It’s a massive job. Suze, this is my big chance. This is it!”
“Of course it is,” she says, in a tone I can’t quite read.
“Another time?”
“Another time.” She nods and gets up from the table.
I’m left alone in the kitchen with Jeff, and I glance over at him. He’s sitting in silence, staring implacably ahead, but even so, I feel judged.
“I do have to go shopping,” I say defensively. “This is my big chance to be a Hollywood stylist.”
Jeff says nothing. But I know he’s judging me. They’re all judging me.
This is what it’s like to be a celebrity. Your family doesn’t understand. No one understands. No wonder they say it’s lonely at the top.
On the plus side, it turns out that shopping for a movie star is the perfect way to shop. I just wish I’d known a movie star before.
There’s the most fab vintage shop on Melrose Avenue, and the owner, Marnie, is absolutely on my wavelength. By midmorning I’ve been on the fastest, most efficient shopping spree of my life. I’ve bought three new clutch bags, two stoles, and a vintage diamanté headdress. I’ve got three evening coats on hold, and five dresses, and this fantastic velvet cloak, which, if Sage doesn’t want, I am totally getting for myself.
I’ve also bought myself a couple of tiny things—just a sequined evening dress and a few pairs of shoes, because I’ll need them for my new lifestyle. I even used my notebook from Golden Peace, just to make sure I wasn’t shopping in an unhealthy way. In answer to the question Why am I shopping? I wrote Because I am a celebrity stylist now. I mean, you can’t argue with that.
When I head out of the shop, the blacked-out SUV is waiting by the curb. Mitchell is standing at attention, his shades glinting in the sun, and Jeff escorts me to the SUV door. I can see some shoppers looking at me curiously, and I put my hand up to shield my face, just like a proper A-lister.
As I get into the SUV, surrounded by bags, I feel elated. I’m totally on track with my new career! The only slight worry I have is that my Breakfast Show USA segment is tomorrow, and I still haven’t heard from them what sort of styling they want. How can I prepare a fashion piece if I don’t have a brief? I’ve left a zillion messages for Aran about this already, but I decide to try him again anyway, and this time he picks up.
“Oh, hi, Aran,” I say. “Listen, did you ever hear back from Breakfast Show USA about what sort of clothes I should prepare? Because it’s tomorrow! I need to get some pieces together!”
“Oh!” Aran laughs. “My bad. Yes, I meant to tell you. They say don’t worry about the clothes. They’ll take care of all that. Your job is just to go on the show and talk.”
Don’t worry about the clothes? I stare blankly at the phone. How can I not worry about the clothes when I’m the stylist?
“But how will that work? How will I prepare?”
“Becky, you’ll be great,” says Aran. “You can comment on the clothes, engage in some general chat, get your personality across.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, OK. Thanks.”
I ring off, still puzzled. This is all very weird. But maybe they do things differently in the States. In fact, maybe I should do some research. I zap on the TV to see if there are any fashion items I can watch, flicking through the channels until an image suddenly stops me. For a moment I can’t even make sense of what I’m seeing.
It’s a fuzzy picture of Lois’s house in the dark. There’s an ambulance flashing in her driveway and paramedics wheeling a hospital gurney, and the headline is: BREAKING NEWS: LOIS IN SUICIDE BID?
Suicide?
Suicide bid?
Oh God, oh God, oh God …
My heart thumping, I turn the volume up and lean forward anxiously to hear the voice-over.
“There are unconfirmed reports that Lois Kellerton was rushed to the hospital last night, in what one commentator described as ‘the desperate act of a desperate star.’ Over to our reporter Faye Ireland.”