Shopaholic To The Stars - Shopaholic to the Stars Part 38
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Shopaholic to the Stars Part 38

'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.

GREENLAND ENDEAVORS.

... where challenge and adventure meet inspiration ...

OFFICIAL REPORT.

Client: Danny Kovitz Subject: Medical Emergency/Airlift The client began to exhibit signs of distress early on Monday. Despite encouragement from the Team Leader and other team members, he finally stopped skiing, threw down his pack, and began sobbing. The client was airlifted at 15.00 hours, and taken to Base Camp on Kulusuk.

A full medical examination was undertaken and the client was found to be in good health, with no signs of frostbite or respiratory disorder. However, the client was in significant mental distress. Nurse Gill Johnson observed him for three hours, during which time she noted down the following remarks: 'My toes have gone'; 'My fingers will have to be amputated'; 'My lungs have frozen'; 'I have snowblindness'; 'Why me?'; 'I'm ebbing away'; 'Tell the world I was brave at the end'. Despite her reassurances, he remained convinced for several hours that he was about to die.

The client subsequently enjoyed a substantial meal, viewed several episodes of America's Next Top Model on the sanatorium TV, and slept a comfortable night before being transported the following day to Reykjavik and thence to New York.

Team Leader

From: Kovitz, Danny To: Kovitz, Danny Subject: don't know how i survived