Shopaholic to the Stars

SIX

It’s two weeks later. And I live in Hollywood. I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, live in Hollywood. I live in Hollywood! I keep saying it out loud to myself, to see if it feels any more real. But it still feels like I’m saying, ‘I live in fairyland.’

The house that we’re renting in the Hollywood Hills is made mostly of glass, and has so many bathrooms, I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with all of them. And there’s a walk-in wardrobe, and an outdoor kitchen. And a pool! And a pool guy! (He comes with the house and he’s fifty-three with a paunch, sadly.)

The most amazing thing is the views. Every night we sit on our balcony and look at all the twinkling lights of Hollywood, and I feel as if we’re in a dream. It’s a weird place, LA. I can’t quite get a grip on it. It’s not like European cities, where you get to the centre and think, Ah yes, here I am in Milan/Amsterdam/Rome. In LA you drive around endless great big roads and you peer out of the windows and think, ‘Are we there yet?’

Also, the neighbours are not very neighbourly. You don’t see anyone. People don’t peep over their fences and chat. They just drive in and out of their electronic gates, and by the time you’ve chased after them, shouting, ‘Hi! My name’s Becky! D’you want a cup of—’ they’ve gone.

We have met one neighbour, who’s a plastic surgeon called Eli. He seemed very friendly, and we had a nice chat about rental prices and how he specializes in ‘micro-lifts’. But all the while, he was eyeing me up with this critical stare. I’m sure he was working out what he’d do to me if he had me on the operating table. And apart from him, I haven’t met anyone else in the street yet.

Anyway. Never mind. I will meet people. Of course I will.

I step into a pair of raffia wedges, toss my hair back and survey my reflection in our massive hall mirror. It rests on top of a huge carved chest, and there are two monster armchairs opposite on the Mexican-tiled floor. Everything in this house is massive: the squashy L-shaped sofa in the living room, which seats about ten; the four-poster bed in the master bedroom which Luke and I practically get lost in; the vast, separate kitchen with its three ovens and vaulted brick ceiling. Even all the doors are huge, studded, Mediterranean-looking affairs, made of reclaimed wood and with working locks. I’ve removed all the keys, though they’re picturesque. (Minnie and keys really don’t mix.) It is a gorgeous house, I have to say.

But today my priority is not the house, it’s my outfit. I focus on it intently, searching for flaws. I haven’t felt so jittery about my look for ages. OK, let’s do a rundown. Top: Alice + Olivia. Jeans: J Brand. Tassled bag: Danny Kovitz. Cool hair-slidey thing: found at vintage market. I try a few poses, walking back and forth. I think I look good, but do I look good for LA? I reach for a pair of Oakleys and try them on. Then I try a pair of oversized Tom Ford sunglasses instead. Hmm. Not sure. Fabulous statement … or too much?

My stomach is swooping with nerves, and the reason is, today is a huge day: I’m taking Minnie to her pre-school. It’s called the Little Leaf Pre-School, and we’re very lucky to have got a place. Apparently several celebrity kids go there, so I’m definitely volunteering for the PTA. Imagine if I got in with the in-crowd. Imagine if I got to organize the school fête with Courtney Cox or someone! I mean, it’s possible, isn’t it? And then she’d introduce me to all the Friends cast … maybe we’d go out on a boat or something amazing—

‘Becky?’ Luke’s voice breaks into my thoughts and he comes striding into the hall. ‘I was just looking under the bed—’

‘Oh, hi,’ I interrupt him urgently. ‘Which sunglasses shall I wear?’

Luke looks blank as I demonstrate first the Oakleys, then the Tom Fords, and then a pair of tortoiseshell Top Shop ones which are totally fab and only cost £15, so I bought three pairs.

‘It hardly matters,’ he says. ‘It’s just the school run.’

I blink at him in astonishment. Just the school run? Just the school run? Doesn’t he read US Weekly? Everyone knows the school run is the thing! It’s where the paparazzi snap celebrities acting like normal parents. It’s where people rock their casual looks. Even in London, all the mothers look one another up and down and dandle their bags on their arms in a showy-offy way. So how much more pressured will it be in LA, where they all have perfect teeth and abs, and half of them are genuine celebs?

I’m going for the Oakleys, I decide, and slide them on. Minnie comes running into the hall, and I take her hand to survey our reflection in the mirror. She’s in a cute little yellow sundress and white sunglasses and her ponytail is held back with an adorable bumble-bee. I think we’ll pass. We look like an LA mother and daughter.

‘All set?’ I say to Minnie. ‘You’re going to have such a lovely time at pre-school! You’ll play games, and maybe make lovely cupcakes with sprinkles on …’

‘Becky.’ Luke tries again. ‘I was just looking under the bed and I found this.’ He holds up a garment carrier. ‘Is it yours? What’s it doing there?’

‘Oh.’

I adjust Minnie’s ponytail, playing for time. Damn. Why is he looking under the bed? He’s a busy LA mover and shaker. How does he have time to look under beds?

‘It’s for Sage,’ I say at last.

‘For Sage? You’ve bought Sage a full-length fake-fur coat?’ He stares at me in astonishment.

Honestly, he hasn’t even looked at it properly. It’s not full-length, it’s to mid-thigh.

‘I think it’ll suit her,’ I explain. ‘It’ll go with her hair colour. It’s a really different look for her.’

Luke appears absolutely baffled. ‘But why are you buying her clothes? You don’t even know her.’

‘I don’t know her yet,’ I correct him. ‘But you are going to introduce us, aren’t you?’

‘Well, yes, at some point.’

‘So! You know I want to get into styling, and Sage would be the perfect client. So I’ve been putting some looks together for her. That’s all.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Luke’s face changes. ‘There were some other bags under the bed, too. Don’t tell me—’

I curse myself silently. I should never, ever put anything under the bed.

‘Is that all shopping for Sage?’

He looks so aghast, I feel defensive. First Suze, now Luke. Don’t they understand anything about setting up a business? Don’t they understand that to be a clothes stylist you need clothes? They wouldn’t expect me to be a tennis player and not have a tennis racket.

‘It’s not “shopping”! It’s essential business expenses. It’s like you buying paperclips. Or photocopiers. Anyway, I’ve used all those clothes for my portfolio, too,’ I add robustly. ‘I took some brilliant pictures of Suze. So actually, I’ve saved money.’

Luke doesn’t seem convinced. ‘How much have you spent?’ he demands.

‘I don’t think we should talk about money in front of Minnie,’ I say primly, and take her hand.

‘Becky …’ Luke gives me a long, sort of sighing look. His mouth is tucked in at one side and his eyebrows are in a ‘V’ shape. This is another of Luke’s expressions I’m familiar with. It means: ‘How am I going to break this to Becky without her overreacting?’

(Which is very unfair, because I never overreact.)

‘What?’ I say. ‘What is it?’

Luke doesn’t answer straight away. He walks over to one of the monster armchairs and fiddles with a striped Mexican throw. You might almost say that he’s putting the armchair between himself and me.

‘Becky, don’t get offended.’

OK, this is a rubbish way to start any conversation. I’m already offended that he thinks I’m someone who could get offended. And anyway, why would I be offended? What’s he going to say?

‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘Of course I won’t.’

‘It’s just that I’ve been hearing some really good stuff about a place called …’ He hesitates. ‘Golden Peace. Have you heard of it?’

Have I heard of it? Anyone who’s ever read People magazine has heard of Golden Peace. It’s the place where they wear bracelets and do yoga, and where celebrities dry out and then pretend they were just a little tired.

‘Of course I have. The rehab place.’

‘Not just rehab,’ says Luke. ‘They do a lot of programmes and deal with all kinds of … disorders. The guy I was talking to has a girlfriend who was a terrible hoarder. It was ruining her life. She went to Golden Peace and they really sorted out her issues. And I wondered if somewhere like that could be helpful. For you.’

It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying.

‘Me? But I’m not a hoarder. Or an alcoholic.’

‘No, but you do …’ He rubs his nose. ‘You have had a history of spending issues, wouldn’t you agree?’

I inhale sharply. That’s below the belt. Waaay below the belt. So I’ve had a few minor problems in my time. So I’ve had a couple of teeny financial blips. If I were a FTSE company you’d call them ‘corrections’ and just shove them at the back of the annual report and forget about them. Not drag them up at every opportunity. Not suggest rehab.

‘So, what, I’m an addict now? Thanks a lot, Luke!’

‘No! But—’

‘I can’t believe you’re making these accusations in front of our child.’ I clasp Minnie to me dramatically. ‘What, you think I’m an unfit mother?’

‘No!’ Luke rubs his head. ‘It was just an idea. Nanny Sue suggested the same, remember?’

I glare at him balefully. I don’t want to be reminded of Nanny Sue. I’m never hiring a so-called ‘expert’ again. Her brief was to help us with Minnie’s behaviour, and what did she do? Turn the spotlight on me. Start talking about my behaviour, as if that’s got anything to do with anything.

‘Anyway, Golden Peace is an American place.’ I suddenly think of a winning argument. ‘I’m British. So.’

Luke looks perplexed. ‘So what?’

‘So, it wouldn’t work,’ I say patiently. ‘If I had issues, which I don’t, they’d be British issues. Totally different.’

‘But—’

‘Want Grana,’ chimes in Minnie. ‘Want Grana make cupcakes. Please. Pleeease.’

Both Luke and I stop mid-flow and turn in surprise. Minnie has sunk down cross-legged on to the floor and looks up, her bottom lip trembling. ‘Want Grana make cupcakes,’ she insists, and a tear balances on her lashes.

Grana is what Minnie calls my mum. Oh God, she’s homesick.

‘Darling!’ I put my arms around Minnie and hug her tight. ‘Sweetheart, lovely girl. We all want to see Grana, and we’ll see her very soon, but right now we’re in a different place and we’re going to make lots of new friends. Lots of new friends,’ I repeat, almost to convince myself.

‘Where’s this come from?’ murmurs Luke above Minnie’s head.

‘Dunno.’ I shrug. ‘I suppose because I mentioned making cupcakes with sprinkles, and she often makes cupcakes with Mum …’

‘Minnie, my love.’ Luke comes down on to the floor too, and sits Minnie on his knee. ‘Let’s look at Grana and say hello, shall we?’ He’s taken my phone from the carved chest, and summons up my photos. ‘Let’s see … there she is! Grana and Grandpa!’ He shows Minnie a picture of Mum and Dad dressed up for a Flamenco night at their bridge club. ‘And there’s Wilfie …’ He scrolls to another picture. ‘And Auntie Suze …’

At the sight of Suze’s cheerful face beaming out of my phone, I feel a tiny pang myself. The truth is, although I keep denying it to Luke, I am feeling a bit lonely here in LA. Everyone seems so far away, there aren’t any neighbours to speak of, and I don’t have a job …

‘Say, “Hello, Grana!”’ Luke is cajoling Minnie, and after a moment she gives a little wave at the phone, her tears gone. ‘And you know what, darling? It may seem a bit scary here to begin with. But soon we’ll know lots of people in Los Angeles.’ He taps the screen. ‘Soon this phone will be full of pictures of all our new friends. It’s always hard at first, but we’ll settle in, I’m sure we will.’

Is he talking to me or Minnie?

‘We’d better go.’ I smile gratefully at him. ‘Minnie has toys to play with and I have new friends to make.’

‘Attagirls.’ He hugs Minnie, then stands up to kiss me. ‘You knock ’em dead.’

Minnie’s pre-school is somewhere off Franklin Avenue, and although I’ve driven there before, I arrive a bit flustered. God, driving in LA is stressy. I haven’t got used to our rental car yet, at all. All the controls seem to be in weird places and I keep hooting the horn by mistake. And as for driving on the right-hand side, well, that’s just wrong. It’s unnatural. Plus, the roads in LA are far too big. They have too many lanes. London is far cosier. You know where you are.

At last I manage to park the car, which is a Chrysler and also far too big. Why couldn’t we have rented a Mini? I exhale, my heart still thumping, and turn to face Minnie, strapped into her car seat.

‘We’re here! Pre-school time! Are you excited, darling?’

‘Idiot American driver,’ replies Minnie equably.

I stare at her, aghast. Where did she get that from? I did not say that. Did I?

‘Minnie, don’t say that! That’s not a nice word. Mummy didn’t mean to say it. Mummy meant to say … lovely American cars!’

‘Idiot,’ says Minnie ignoring me. ‘Idiot American driver, Idiot American driver …’ She’s singing it to the tune of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. ‘Idiot American dri-ver …’

I cannot arrive at our first day at LA pre-school with Minnie singing ‘Idiot American driver’.

‘Idiot American dri-ver …’ She’s getting louder and louder. ‘Idiot American driiiiii-ver …’

Could I pretend it’s a quaint old British nursery rhyme?

No.

But I can’t sit here all day, either. Other mothers with small children are getting out of their massive SUVs, all along the street. And we were supposed to arrive early today.

‘Minnie, while we’re walking to pre-school, you can have a biscuit!’ I say, raising my voice. ‘But we have to be very, very quiet, like mice. No singing,’ I add for emphasis.

Minnie stops singing and eyes me suspiciously. ‘Biscuit?’

Result. Phew.

(And OK, I know it’s bad to bribe your children, so I’ll just feed her some extra green beans later, which will cancel it out.)

Hastily I jump out of the car and unstrap her. I hand her a chocolate-chip cookie from my emergency stash and we start walking along the pavement.

I mean, sidewalk. I must get used to that.

As we near the pre-school, I’m looking all around for paparazzi, but I can’t see any. But then, they’re probably all hiding in bushes. There are a few mothers leading small children in through the gates, and I subtly scan their faces as we walk in with them.

Hmm. I don’t think any of them are celebs, although they’re all toned and tanned with shiny hair. Most of them are in workout gear, and I make a mental note to wear that tomorrow. I so want to fit in. I want Minnie to fit in, and for both of us to make lots of friends.

‘Rebecca!’

Erica is greeting us and I smile in relief to see a familiar face. Erica is about fifty, with straight red hair and very colourful clothes, like a character from a children’s film. She’s leader of the Toddler Program and has already sent me lots of emails about Transition and Separation, and the Joy of Learning and Self-Discovery, which I think means dressing up, only I don’t quite dare ask.

‘Welcome to your first day at Little Leaf, Minnie!’ she adds, and escorts us into the Toddlers’ Learning Center, which is basically a room full of toys like any playgroup in England, only here they call them ‘developmental aids’. ‘Did you manage to park all right?’ she adds, as she hangs Minnie’s water bottle on her peg. ‘I know some folks have had issues this morning.’

‘Oh, we were fine, thanks,’ I say. ‘No problems.’

‘Where’s the brake?’ says Minnie suddenly, and beams at Erica. ‘Where’s the bloody brake in this bloody stupid car?’

My face flushes bright red.

‘Minnie!’ I say sharply. ‘Stop that! Where on earth did you— Gosh, I’ve got no idea—’

‘Idiot American dri-vers,’ Minnie starts singing to ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ again. ‘Idiot American dri-vers …’

‘Minnie!’ I practically yell. ‘Stop! No singing!’

I want to die. I can see Erica hiding a smile, and a couple of assistants looking over. Great.

‘Minnie’s obviously a very receptive child,’ says Erica politely.

Yes. Far too bloody receptive. I am never saying anything in front of Minnie, ever again.

‘Absolutely.’ I try to regain my cool. ‘Gosh, what a lovely sandpit. Go on, Minnie! Play with the sand!’

‘Now, as I explained to you, we at Little Leaf follow a transitional separation programme,’ says Erica, watching as Minnie plunges her hands joyfully into the sandpit. ‘This is the start of Minnie’s great journey of independence as a human in this world. These are her first steps away from you. They need to be at her own pace.’

‘Absolutely.’ I’m slightly mesmerized by Erica. She sounds like she’s describing an epic trip around the world, not just a toddler going to playgroup.

‘So I ask you, Rebecca, to stay by Minnie’s side this first morning. Shadow her. Reassure her. Identify the exciting new discoveries she’s making; see the world at her level. Minnie will be wary to begin with. Introduce her slowly to the concept of life away from Mommy. Watch her gradually blossom. You’ll be amazed by her progress!’

‘Right. Fantastic.’ I nod earnestly.

I can see another mother nearby, sitting with her blond, curly-headed boy. The mother is pin-thin and dressed in several layers of T-shirts (I happen to know that each one of those T-shirts costs a hundred dollars, something that Mum would never understand in a million years) and she’s watching intently as the little boy daubs paint on a sheet of paper.

‘Interesting colours, Isaac,’ she’s saying seriously. ‘I like the world you’ve made.’ As he smears paint on his face, she doesn’t flicker. ‘You’re expressing yourself on your own body,’ she says. ‘You made that choice, Isaac. We can make choices.’

Blimey. They do take everything seriously here. But if I’m going to fit in, I’ll have to be like that too.

‘I’ll be around if you need me.’ Erica smiles. ‘Enjoy this first morning of simultaneous discovery!’

As she heads over to another child, I turn my phone off. I’m feeling quite inspired by Erica. I’m going to be totally focused on Minnie and her morning.

OK. Here’s the thing. It’s all very well Erica saying ‘stay with Minnie’. I honestly want to. I want to be like a mother dolphin and its young, gliding along together in a beautiful duo, simultaneously discovering the world.

But the thing about mother dolphins is, they don’t have Lego to trip over, or playhouses to get in their way, or toddlers who can’t make up their mind which direction to go in. It took about three seconds for Minnie to get bored with the sandpit and rush outside to the yard, to play on a trike. I’d just about got outside, stumbling over a box of blocks, when she changed her mind, dashed back in and grabbed a dolly. Then she ran outside to hurl the dolly down the slide. She’s been in and out about ten times. I’m puffed out, just keeping up with her.

All the time, I’ve tried to keep up a stream of encouraging, reassuring chatter, but Minnie could not be less interested. All her anxiety from this morning seems to have disappeared, and when I tried to hug her tight just now, she wriggled away, exclaiming, ‘No hug, Mummy! Toys!’

‘So, you’re discovering … er … gravity!’ I say, as she drops a toy bear on the floor. ‘Brilliant, darling! Now, are you going to express yourself through water?’ Minnie has headed over to the water tray and is swishing it around with abandon. ‘You’ve made the choice to splash yourself … Argh!’ I cry out as Minnie sloshes water into my face. ‘You’ve made the choice to get me wet, too. Wow. That was an … interesting choice.’

Minnie isn’t even listening. She’s run over to the playhouse, which is quite adorable, like a little gingerbread cottage. Hastily I follow her, almost tripping on the squidgy colourful alphabet matting.

‘Now you’re in the house!’ I say, racking my brains for something to say. ‘You’re discovering … er … windows. Shall I come in, too?’

‘No,’ says Minnie, and slams the door in my face. She looks out of the window and scowls. ‘No Mummy! Minnie house!’ She bangs the shutters closed, and I sink on to my heels. I’m exhausted. I can’t think of any other discoveries to identify to Minnie. I want a cup of coffee.

I pick up a toy with wooden beads strung along coloured wires and idly start to fiddle with it. It’s quite a good game, actually. You have to get the different coloured beads into the four corners, which is harder than it sounds …

‘Rebecca?’

Guiltily I jump up, dropping the game on to the playmat. ‘Oh, hi, Erica!’

‘How’s Minnie doing?’ Erica beams. ‘Is she learning to take those gradual steps away from you?’

‘She’s playing in the house,’ I say with a smile, and open the shutters – but the house is empty. Shit. ‘Well, she was in the house …’ I cast my eyes around wildly. ‘Oh, there she is.’

Minnie has linked arms with another little girl and is marching her round the room, singing ‘My Old Man’s A Dustman’, which my dad taught her. I try to follow them, but it’s not easy, what with toddler trucks and jumbo foam blocks all over the place.

‘Well done, darling!’ I call. ‘You’re expressing yourself through song! Er … do you want to tell Mummy how you feel about that?’

‘No,’ says Minnie, and before I can catch her, she runs out into the yard, climbs to the top of the slide and gazes down triumphantly.

I glance at Erica, who looks lost for words.

‘Minnie’s a very … self-assured child,’ she says at last. ‘Very independent.’

‘Er … yes.’

We both watch as Minnie whirls a skipping rope around her head like a lasso. Soon all the other children on the slide are copying her, and shouting, ‘My old man’s a dustman! My old man’s a dustman!’ even though they probably don’t even know what a dustman is. They probably call it a ‘garbage collector’ or ‘refuse sanitator’ or something.

‘Minnie seems to be transitioning with great confidence,’ says Erica at last. ‘Maybe you’d like to sit in the parents’ lounge, Rebecca. This is a facility for our parents of children who are at the latter stages of the transition programme. It provides proximity yet independence, and helps the child attain a sense of self, while feeling secure.’

I didn’t follow a word of that. All I heard was ‘sit in the parents’ lounge’, which has got to be better than ‘chase after my daughter, tripping over toy trucks and feeling like a moron’.

‘I’d love to.’

‘We also find it a useful forum for parents to exchange views on parenting issues. I’m sure you’re burning with questions on curriculum … socialization …’

‘Yes!’ I perk up. ‘Actually, I was wondering, do the mothers have lots of coffee mornings, parties, that kind of thing?’

Erica shoots me an odd look. ‘I meant socialization of the children.’

‘Right.’ I clear my throat. ‘The children. Of course.’

As we near the pale wooden door marked Parents’ Lounge, I feel suddenly excited. At last! A chance to make some friends. What I need to do is launch myself whole-heartedly into school life and volunteer for everything and then I’m bound to meet some nice people.

‘Here we are.’ Erica swings open the door to reveal a room furnished with brightly coloured foam chairs, on which are sitting three women, all dressed in workout gear. They’re chatting avidly, but stop and turn with friendly smiles. I beam back, noticing already that one of them has that cool embroidered bag I was looking at in Fred Segal.

‘Let me introduce Rebecca,’ Erica is saying. ‘Rebecca is new to LA, and her daughter Minnie is joining our Toddler Program.’

‘Hi!’ I wave around the room. ‘Lovely to meet you all.’

‘I’m Erin.’

‘Sydney.’

‘Carola. Welcome to LA!’ Carola, who has dark curly hair and lots of interesting-looking silver jewellery, leans forward as Erica leaves the room. ‘How long have you been living here?’

‘Not long. We’re here temporarily for my husband’s work.’

‘And you got a place at Little Leaf?’

‘I know!’ I say brightly. ‘We were so lucky!’

Carola stares at me blankly for a moment, then starts shaking her head. ‘No. You don’t understand. No one just gets a place at Little Leaf. No one.’

The others are nodding their heads emphatically. ‘No one,’ echoes Erin.

‘It just doesn’t happen,’ chimes in Sydney.

I want to point out that if no one gets a place at Little Leaf, what are all their children doing here? But they all look too intense. Clearly this is a serious subject.

‘We didn’t just “get a place”,’ I explain. ‘Minnie had to do a pre-test. And I think my husband made a donation,’ I add a little awkwardly.

Carola is staring at me as though I understand nothing.

‘We all do the pre-test,’ she says. ‘We all make donations. What else did you do?’

‘We wrote five letters,’ says Erin with grim satisfaction. ‘Five.’

‘We’ve pledged to build a rooftop garden for the school,’ says Sydney. ‘My husband and I have already engaged the architect.’

‘We coached Alexa in Karate,’ adds Carola. ‘She’s here on a sports scholarship.’

I stare at them all, open-mouthed. Are these people nuts? I mean, I’m sure it’s a good pre-school and everything. But at the end of the day, it’s still just children hitting each other with Play-Doh.

‘Well, we just turned up,’ I say apologetically. ‘Sorry.’

The door swings open and a woman with chestnut hair bounces in. She has merry dark eyes and is wearing a stylish blue swingy top over jeans, covering the teeniest little pregnancy bump.

‘Hi!’ she says, coming straight up to me. ‘I’m Faith. You’re Rebecca, right? Erica just told me we had a newcomer in our midst.’

She has a gorgeous lilting Southern accent which to my ear sounds as though it’s from Charleston. Or Texas. Or maybe … Wyoming? Is that Southern?

Do I mean Wisconsin?

No. No. That’s the cheese state. Whereas Wyoming is …

OK, the truth is, I have no idea where Wyoming is. I must do Minnie’s United States jigsaw puzzle and actually look at the names.

‘Hi, Faith.’ I smile back and shake her hand. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

‘Are these girls looking after y’all?’

Y’all. I just love that. Y’all. Maybe I’ll start saying ‘y’all’.

‘They sure are!’ I say, putting a little twang in my voice. ‘They surely are!’

‘What we want to know is, how did she get a place?’ Carola appeals to Faith. ‘She walks in here off the street, writes the cheque and she’s in. I mean, who does that?’

‘Didn’t Queenie put in a good word for her?’ says Faith. ‘Because she was British? I think Erica said something about it.’

‘Ohhhh.’ Carola exhales like a deflating balloon. ‘That’s it. OK, now I understand. You were lucky.’ She turns to me. ‘That wouldn’t happen to everybody. You need to thank Queenie. She did you a big favour.’

‘Sorry, who’s Queenie?’ I say, trying to keep up.

‘Our President of the PTA,’ explains Sydney. ‘She has a daughter in the Toddler Program, too. You’ll love her. She’s so sweet.’

‘She’s super-fun,’ agrees Faith. ‘She’s British, too! We call her Queenie because she talks like the Queen of England.’

‘She organizes awesome social events,’ says Carola.

‘And she runs a moms’ yoga class on Wednesday mornings. Knocks us all into shape.’

‘It sounds amazing!’ I say enthusiastically. ‘I’ll definitely come!’

My spirits are higher than they’ve been since we arrived in LA. At last I’ve found some friends! They’re all so welcoming and fun. And this Queenie sounds fab. Maybe she and I will really hit it off. We can compare notes on living in LA and share pots of Marmite.

‘How long has Queenie lived in LA?’ I ask.

‘Not too long. A couple of years, maybe?’

‘She had quite the whirlwind romance,’ puts in Faith. ‘She and her husband met on a Tuesday and were married by the Friday.’

‘No way!’

‘Oh yes.’ Faith laughs. ‘It’s a great story. You’ll have to ask her about it.’ She glances out of the window into the car park. ‘Oh, here she comes now.’ She waves and beckons at someone, and I sit up expectantly.

‘Queenie!’ exclaims Carola as the door opens. ‘Come meet Rebecca.’

‘Thank you so much for helping us—’ I begin, as the door swings further open. And then my words dry up on my lips and I feel my entire body shrivel. No. No.

A little whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it and Carola shoots me an odd glance. ‘Rebecca, meet Queenie. Alicia, I should say.’

It’s Alicia Bitch Long-legs.

Here. In LA. In Minnie’s school.

I feel pinioned with shock. If I weren’t sitting down I think my legs would collapse.

‘Hello, Rebecca,’ she says softly, and I give a little shudder. I haven’t heard that voice for years.

She’s as tall and skinny and blonde as ever, but her style has changed. She’s wearing drapey yoga pants and a grey top and Keds. I’ve never seen Alicia in anything other than heels. And her hair is caught in a low ponytail, which is also very different. As I run my eyes over her, I notice a white and gold twisted bracelet on one wrist. Isn’t that the bracelet they wear at Golden Peace?

‘Do you two know each other?’ says Sydney, with interest.

I want to break into hysterical laughter. Do we know each other? Well, let’s just see now. Over the last few years, Alicia has tried to ruin my career, my reputation, my husband’s business and my wedding. She’s undermined me and looked down on me at every turn. Just seeing her is making my heart race with stress.

‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘Yes, we do.’

‘So that’s why you recommended Rebecca!’ Carola still seems obsessed by this. ‘I was just saying, how on earth did she get a place at such short notice?’

‘I had a word with Erica,’ says Alicia.

Her voice is different, I realize. It’s lower and calmer. In fact, her whole demeanour is calmer. It’s creepy. It’s like she’s had Botox of the soul.

‘Well, aren’t you a sweetie-pie?’ Faith puts an arm fondly around Alicia’s shoulders. ‘Lucky Rebecca to have such a pal!’

‘We were telling Rebecca all about you,’ puts in Carola. ‘Turns out we didn’t need to!’

‘I’ve changed a lot since I saw you last, Rebecca.’ Alicia gives a soft laugh. ‘When was that?’

I’m so shocked, I actually gasp. When was that? How can she ask that? Isn’t it etched into her brain for ever like it is into mine?

‘At my wedding,’ I manage to gulp. When you were being escorted out, kicking and screaming, having tried to ruin the whole thing.

I’m waiting for a flash of understanding, remorse, acknowledgement, something. But her eyes have a weird, bland quality to them.

‘Yes,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘Rebecca, I know we have some issues which we should try to put behind us.’ She puts a hand gently on my shoulder and I immediately recoil. ‘Maybe we could have a cup of mint tea together and talk it through, just the two of us?’

What? All those terrible things she did boil down to ‘issues’?

‘I don’t … You can’t just—’ I break off, my throat dry, my heart thumping, my thoughts all over the place. I don’t know what to say.

No, is what I want to say. You must be joking, is what I want to say. We can’t just put all that behind us.

But I can’t. I’m not on home turf. I’m standing in the parents’ lounge at a pre-school in LA, surrounded by strangers who think that Alicia is a sweetie-pie who’s just done me the most massive favour in the world. And now a new feeling creeps over me. A horrible, cold realization. These women are all Alicia’s friends. Not my friends, Alicia’s friends. It’s her crowd.

The thing about Alicia is, she’s always managed to make me feel about three inches tall. And even now, even though I know I’m in the right and she’s in the wrong, I feel like I’m diminishing by the second. She’s in the cool gang. And if I want to join it I’m going to have to be friendly to her. But I can’t. I just can’t. I can barely even look at her, let alone go to her ‘moms’ yoga class’.

How can they all be fooled by her? How can they call her ‘sweet’ and ‘super-fun’? An overwhelming feeling of disappointment engulfs me. For a moment I was so excited. I thought I’d found a way in. And now I find Alicia Bitch Long-legs is standing at the entrance, barring the way.

The door swings open and Erica comes in, her colourful shawl trailing behind her like a sail.

‘Rebecca!’ she exclaims. ‘I’m glad to say that Minnie is doing extremely well. She’s acclimatized remarkably quickly and seems to be making friends already. In fact, she’s a natural leader.’ Erica beams at me. ‘I’m sure she’ll have a little tribe following her in no time.’

‘Brilliant.’ I manage a wide smile. ‘Thank you so much. That’s fantastic news.’

And it is. It’s a massive relief to think that Minnie feels at home in LA already and is happy and is making friends. I mean, I’m not surprised. Minnie’s so confident and charms everyone she meets, it’s no wonder she’s fallen on her feet.

But as I look around at Alicia and all her disciples, I can’t help thinking … what about me?