Shopaholic to the Stars

FOURTEEN

I suppose in the old days, we would have waited for the first editions to come out. We might even have got some sleep. But this is the 24-hour internet age. The news was right there, instantly.

It’s 6 a.m. now, and none of us has been to bed. I’ve read about two hundred different pieces online. I can’t stop. The headlines have been changing every hour, as more bits of news filter in:

Lois is ‘Shoplifter’!!!

ASAs ceremony disrupted

Sage accuses Lois of theft, interrupts awards

Store assistant confirms shoplifting, police ‘pressing no charges as yet’

Sage: I feel betrayed by former friend

And there’s a whole load, just about me.

Witness Becky ‘saw everything’

Becky ‘may testify in court’

Stars fight over bag from stylist Becky

They just go on and on. The most extraordinary one is this one I found on a gossip site:

Becky ‘drank cocktails’ before row, bartender reports

I mean, for God’s sake. What does that have to do with anything? They might as well write, ‘Lois and Sage visited bathroom on day of row.’ They probably will write that.

We’ve all given up saying how bizarre it is. Suze and Tarkie are on the sofa with all the children, eating cornflakes and watching the coverage on E!, which is basically a loop of Sage screaming at Lois and a shot of me looking bewildered. I’ve seen it about forty-seven times. I don’t need to see it any more.

Luke and Aran are in the kitchen, talking grimly. Somehow they persuaded Sage to stop giving interviews, go home and promise to go to bed. Aran delivered her personally into the care of her housekeeper, handed over a huge tip and said, ‘This girl needs to sleep.’ But I bet she’s stayed up all night, too. I bet she loves it.

As for Lois, I have no idea. Her people surrounded her and hustled her out of the place almost instantly. It was like seeing a caged animal again. Every time I think of it my insides squirm with guilt.

‘Want watch Barney!’ Minnie barges into me, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Want watch Barney, not Mummy. Not Mummy,’ she repeats disparagingly.

I suppose it is a bit boring, watching your mother on a loop on the TV when you were hoping for a big purple dinosaur.

‘Come on.’ I lift her up, all cosy in her rabbit dressing gown and slippers. ‘Let’s find you Barney.’

I settle her upstairs, watching Barney on our bed with a bowl of sugar-free spelt puffs. (Totally tasteless but, unbelievably, her favourite snack. She really is becoming a child of LA.) Then I pull back the curtains and do a double-take. There’s a camera crew outside our gates. An actual camera crew! The next minute I hear the entrance buzzer sounding. Someone’s pressing it, over and over. I bolt along the landing and start running down the stairs, but Luke is at the bottom, waiting for me.

‘Don’t answer it!’ he says. ‘Aran will take care of it.’

He shepherds me away from the door, into the kitchen. ‘You’re going to have to keep a very low profile over the next few days,’ he says. ‘Which is boring, but that’s how these things go. We’ll draft a statement and release it mid-morning.’

‘Becky!’ I can hear a man’s faint voice from outside. ‘Becky, we want to offer you an exclusive!’

‘Should I maybe give an interview?’ I turn to Luke. ‘Like, make things clear?’

‘No!’ says Luke, as though the idea is anathema. ‘A statement is enough. We don’t want to feed the frenzy. The more you give them, the more they’ll want. Coffee?’

‘Thanks. I just need to … get my lip gloss …’

I dart into the hall again and run halfway up the stairs. There’s a window from where I can see out to the front, and I peer through the glass. Aran is at the gates, talking to the camera crew. He’s laughing and looks relaxed and even high-fives one of them. I can’t imagine Luke behaving like that.

‘Sorry, guys,’ I hear him say, and then he turns back towards the house. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as.’

‘Aran!’ I say, as the front door opens. ‘What’s going on?’ I walk back down the stairs to talk to him.

‘Oh, nothing much.’ He smiles easily. ‘World’s press descending: same old same old.’

‘And they want to interview me?’

‘They sure do.’

‘What did you say to them?’

‘I said don’t scratch the gates, you miserable bloodsucking low-life.’

I can’t help smiling. Aran seems so relaxed about things. The buzzer sounds again and he peers out of a side window.

‘What do you know,’ he observes. ‘ABC just turned up. This story is going mainstream.’

‘Luke says I should stay inside and ignore them,’ I venture. ‘And we’ll just give out a statement later.’

‘If you want this to go away, that’s the best thing you can do,’ he says, in neutral tones. ‘Totally. Keep your head down and they’ll get bored.’

I can sense a ‘But’ hovering in the air. I look at him questioningly and he shrugs noncommittally.

He’s not going to say a single word more unless I press him, is he? I walk a little way off, in the opposite direction from the kitchen, and wait for Aran to follow me.

‘But?’ I say, and Aran sighs.

‘Becky, you’re Luke’s wife. I’m not here to advise you.’

‘But?’

‘It all depends on what you want. And what Luke wants.’

‘I don’t know what I want,’ I say, confused. ‘I don’t even know what you mean.’

‘OK. Let me explain.’ He seems to marshal his thoughts. ‘I’ve watched you trying to make it in Hollywood as a stylist. Without a whole lot of success, right?’

‘Right,’ I say reluctantly.

‘You know what people need to make it in Hollywood? They need heat. Right now, you have heat. All that attention, that buzz …’ He gestures out to the front. ‘That’s heat. And call me an environmentalist, but I don’t like to see heat go to waste.’

‘Right,’ I nod uncertainly. ‘Me neither.’

‘Whether you like it or not, getting ahead in this place isn’t about talent or hard work. OK, maybe ten per cent is talent.’ He spreads his hands. ‘The other ninety per cent is catching a lucky break. So here’s your choice. You can see last night as a weird little moment to hush up and move on from … or you can see it as the luckiest break you ever caught.’ He focuses on me, his eyes suddenly intense. ‘Becky, last night was Providence giving you a fastpass. You can jump to the head of the line if you want to. You can go the distance. Do you want to?’

I stare back, utterly mesmerized by his words. I can jump to the head of the line? Go the distance? Why on earth wouldn’t I want to do that?

‘Yes!’ I stutter. ‘Of course I do! But— but what do you mean, exactly? What should I do?’

‘We can make a plan. We can use this heat. But you have to know what you’re getting into. You have to be prepared to see it through.’

‘You mean, use the media?’ I say hesitantly. ‘Do interviews?’

‘Channel the energy, is all I’m saying. Your profile just went through the roof, but the world knows you as Becky Brandon, Witness to a Shoplifting. How about if you transformed that into Becky Brandon, Celebrity Stylist? Becky Brandon, Hollywood’s fashion maven. Becky Brandon, the go-to girl for a great look. We can brand you any way we like.’

I stare back at him, too dazzled to speak. Brand? Celebrity stylist? Me?

‘You know that bag you picked out is all over the internet?’ he adds. ‘Do you realize how hot you are right now? And if it goes to court, they’ll be all over you. You’ll be the star witness and, believe me, the world will be watching.’

I feel a fresh tingle of excitement. Star witness! I’ll have to have a whole new wardrobe! I’ll wear little Jackie O suits every day. And I’ll straighten my hair. No, I’ll put my hair up. Yes! Maybe I could have a different style every day, and people will call me The Girl with the Amazing Up-dos, and—

‘Are you starting to realize what you have here?’ Aran interrupts my thoughts. ‘People would kill for this exposure.’

‘Yes, but …’ I try to calm my whirling thoughts. ‘What do I do? Now? Today?’

‘Well.’ Aran sounds suddenly more businesslike. ‘We sit down and we make a plan. I can pull in some colleagues, you’ll need an agent …’

‘Stop!’ I say, as reality suddenly swoops in. ‘This is all too fast.’ I lower my voice a little. ‘Don’t you understand, everything you’re saying, it’s the exact opposite of what Luke was saying. He wants it all to go away.’

‘Sure.’ Aran nods. ‘Becky, what you have to remember is, Luke doesn’t see you as a client. He sees you as his wife. He’s very protective of you and Minnie. Of course he is. Me? I see everyone as a client. Or potential client.’ He grins. ‘We can discuss that later.’

The buzzer sounds again and I jump.

‘Leave it,’ says Aran. ‘Let them wait.’

‘So, what will all this mean for Sage?’

‘Sage!’ He gives a short bark of a laugh. ‘If that girl goes any further off the rails she’ll find herself in the ravine. She’ll be OK. We’ll haul her back on track, Luke and I. She’ll kick and scream and it won’t be pretty. But then, nothing about Sage is. Except her face. When she’s been in make-up,’ he adds. ‘You don’t want to see her before that.’ He grimaces. ‘Brutal.’

‘Rubbish!’ I give a shocked giggle. ‘She’s beautiful!’

‘If you say so.’ He raises his slanty eyebrows comically.

He’s so irreverent and so unruffled. It’s like he’s enjoying all of this. I gaze at him, trying to work him out.

‘You don’t seem as angry about all this as Luke. Hasn’t Sage messed up your strategy?’

‘Quite possibly. But I like a challenge.’ He shrugs. ‘Stars are like any other investment. May go up, may go down.’

‘And Lois? Do you think this will …’ I can hardly bear to say it. ‘Ruin her?’ I feel a fresh clench of guilt in my stomach. If I’d just kept my mouth closed. If I’d just kept my promise. I’m haunted by the sight of Lois swaying in shock on the stage. She looked so desperate. And it was all my fault.

‘Depends how she plays it,’ says Aran cheerily. ‘She’s a bright one, Lois. I wouldn’t put it past her to come out on top.’

I can’t believe he’s so heartless.

‘Didn’t you see her?’ I exclaim. ‘She looked like she was about to collapse! I thought she was going to faint right there on the stage!’

‘Probably didn’t eat enough at dinner.’ Aran’s phone buzzes. ‘I must go. But we’ll talk. And Becky …’ He gives me a significant look. ‘Don’t leave it too long. Remember, if you want to capitalize on this moment, you need the heat. And the heat won’t last for ever. Hi,’ he says into the phone.

‘Wait! Aran.’ I lower my voice and glance towards the kitchen. ‘If you were going to give me some advice on how to play it today … what would it be?’

‘Hold on a moment,’ says Aran into the phone and comes back towards me. ‘I’m not advising you officially, you understand, Becky.’ He glances towards the kitchen.

‘I understand,’ I practically whisper.

‘But if I had a client in your situation who wished to make the most of her exposure, I’d advise her to be seen. Get out there. Don’t say anything. Stay dignified, pleasant, going about your daily business. But be seen. Be photographed. And think about what you wear,’ he adds. ‘Be casual but cool. Make your outfit a talking point.’

‘OK,’ I say breathlessly. ‘Thanks.’

While Aran takes his call, I head to the window on the stairs again and peep out. There are more press gathered outside the gates. Waiting for me. I’m hot! Aran’s words keep going round my head. I mean, he’s right. All this time, I’ve been trying to make it in Hollywood and now, here’s a golden opportunity, right in my lap, and if I don’t take advantage of it I may never have the chance again …

‘Becky?’

Luke’s voice makes me jump. ‘Made you that cup of coffee.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, and smile nervously at him as I take it. ‘This is all a bit weird, isn’t it?’ I gesture to the crowd of journalists.

‘Don’t worry. It’ll all die down.’ Luke gives me a quick hug. ‘Why don’t you and Minnie and the others watch movies in the basement? Then you don’t even have to see them.’

‘Right,’ I say after a pause. ‘Yes. We could do that.’ I glance out of the window again. I can see a camera with NBC on it. NBC!

My mobile rings yet again, and I pull it out, expecting to see ‘Unknown Number’. I’ve already had about six journalists leaving messages on the phone today; God knows where they got my number from—

But it’s not a journalist, it’s Mum.

‘It’s Mum!’ I exclaim as Luke walks away to take another call. ‘At last! Hi, Mum. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night! Where are you?’

‘I’m in the car! I told you about our mini-break with Janice and Martin, didn’t I? The Lake District. No signal. But lovely views, although the hotel was a little chilly. We had to ask for extra blankets, but they couldn’t have been more charming about it—’

‘Right.’ I try to get a word in. ‘Er, Mum, something’s happened—’

‘I know!’ says Mum triumphantly. ‘We’d just got on to the M1 when I had a call from someone at the Daily World. She said, “Do you know your daughter has been causing a sensation in Hollywood?” Well! I said I had no idea, but it didn’t surprise me. I always knew you’d be a sensation. Janice has just found a picture of you on her smartphone. We’ve all had a look. Lovely frock. Where did you get that, love?’

‘Mum, you didn’t talk to them, did you? Only Luke says not to speak to the press. Just ring off.’

‘I wasn’t going to ring off!’ says Mum indignantly. ‘I wanted to hear all about it, for a start. Such a pleasant girl. She gave me every detail.’

‘How long did you talk for?’

‘Ooh, I’d say … How long was I on the phone, Janice? About forty minutes?’

‘Forty minutes?’ I echo, aghast.

There’s Luke saying ‘Don’t speak to the press’ and even Aran advising me ‘Don’t say anything’, and now Mum has given an in-depth interview to the Daily World.

‘Well, don’t say any more!’ I instruct her. ‘Not till you speak to Luke, anyway.’

‘She wanted to know if you’d ever shoplifted yourself,’ says Mum. ‘The idea! I said absolutely never, unless you count the time you came home from Hamleys with six pairs of dollies’ shoes in your pockets. But you were only three, bless you. We sent them back in an envelope, remember?’

‘You didn’t tell her that!’ I wail. God knows what they’ll write now. ‘Mum, can I speak to Dad? Is he driving?’

‘No, Martin’s doing this stretch. I’ll put you on.’

There’s a scuffling noise, then I hear my father’s voice, deep and reassuring.

‘How’s my little Becky? Plunged into another kerfuffle, I see! Are the media stationed outside your house as we speak?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Ah. Well, you know the only thing worse than being talked about, don’t you?’

‘Not being talked about,’ I answer, with a smile. Dad always has some little saying for each occasion.

‘If you need us to fly over and give you our support, I’m sure your mother will be only too happy to buy a new outfit for the occasion.’

‘Dad!’ I can’t help laughing.

‘Seriously, Becky.’ His voice changes. ‘Are you all right? And Minnie?’

‘We’re fine.’

‘Because we will come, if you need us. The next flight we can.’

‘I know,’ I say, touched. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. But can you stop Mum talking to the press?’

‘I’ll do my best,’ he says. ‘Now, apart from foiling shoplifters and becoming a global media sensation, is life all right in Hollywood? Sun not too warm? Sky not too blue?’

‘It’s all fine.’ I laugh again.

‘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 for ever.

‘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 favour 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 no one!’

‘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 oversized sunglasses which I found in the same shop 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 outside 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 the San Fernando Road. I’ve looked on the map and it’s in an area of LA I’ve never been to before. But that’s fine. I’ve got sat nav.

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.’

‘Pleeeeease!’ She makes a determined swipe for them.

‘You have … er …’ I cast around and find a toy handbag, which I hand to her. ‘This.’

Minnie looks at it disdainfully. ‘So over,’ she enunciates carefully and throws it on the floor.

Oh my God. Did Minnie just say ‘So over’? I meet Suze’s eyes and we both give shocked giggles.

‘I didn’t teach her that,’ I say.

‘Nor did I!’ says Suze.

I glance at Clemmie – but she’s happily playing in a vest with one of Minnie’s skirts on her head. The Cleath-Stuart children wouldn’t have the first idea what ‘So over’ meant.

‘It was Ora,’ I say with sudden conviction. ‘She’s a bad influence on Minnie. I knew it!’

‘You don’t know it!’ objects Suze. ‘It could have been anyone.’

‘I bet it was her. Minnie, this bag is not over.’ I pick the bag up and hand it back to Minnie. ‘It’s a timeless classic. And we don’t throw our bags on the floor, even if they are over.’

‘Where are you going?’ Suze is looking me up and down. ‘Nice shoes.’

‘Just looking up this guy for my dad.’

‘You know the place is still crawling with journalists?’

‘Yes.’ I try to sound nonchalant. ‘Never mind. I’ll just have to … er … ignore them.’

Suze gives me a sharp look. ‘Bex, have you curled your hair?’

‘No!’ I say defensively. ‘I mean … a bit. Just to put some body in. Is there anything wrong with that?’

Her eyes focus on my face. ‘Are you wearing false eyelashes?’

‘Just a couple,’ I say, flustered. ‘What is this, the third degree? Anyway, I have to go and run this errand. See you!’

I turn and rush up the stairs. At the front door I take three deep breaths, then push it open. Here we go. Celebrityville, here I come.

At once a barrage of voices hits me.

‘Becky! Beckeee! This way!’

‘Becky, have you been in touch with Lois?’

‘Have you spoken to the police?’

‘Becky! This way!’

Oh my God. There are twice as many journalists as there were before. The gates are about twenty metres away from the front door – tall, with iron bars and swirls – and there are camera lenses pointing at me through every gap. Just for an instant I want to duck back inside the house – but it’s too late now. I’m out.

The thing about having lots of photographers pointing their cameras at you, is they might take a picture at any time. I have to do everything in a flattering way. Sucking in my stomach and throwing my shoulders back, I make my way slowly towards the car, trying to ignore all the shouts.

‘Becky, can we have an interview?’ one man keeps yelling.

‘I’m just going about my daily life,’ I call, tossing my hair back. ‘Thank you.’

My car keys are in my pocket and I manage to get them out in a seamless move. I open the car door – making sure that my legs are crossed over in a Victoria Beckham-type pose – then get in. I close the door, and exhale. There. Done.

Except … What if none of them got a good shot?

Should I have gone closer to the gates? Should I have walked more slowly?

This is my one chance to be photographed by the world’s press in an iconic, defining picture that will be a talking point and launch my career as a Hollywood stylist. I think I need to get out of the car and do it again.

I ponder hard for a few seconds, then open the door and get out, as elegantly as I can. Trying to look as though I’m ignoring the photographers, I stroll right to the front of the drive and start to examine a hedge intently.

‘Becky! Beckee! This way!’

‘No press,’ I say, smoothing down my hair. ‘No press, thank you. I’m just going about my daily business.’

Casually, I take off my sunglasses and do my best sucked-in-cheeks, pouty expression. I swivel this way and that a few times, swinging my arms. Maybe I should open the gates, so they get a better view of my shoes. I zap the gates, and they slowly start to swing open.

‘Becky!’ A woman is waving a microphone in my direction. ‘Sharon Townsend, NBC. Tell us about seeing Lois shoplifting!’

‘Please respect my privacy,’ I say. ‘I’m just going about my daily business.’

A brilliant new idea hits me and I head over to the car. I heave myself up on to the bonnet, adopt a casual pose and get out my phone – I can be having a phone call in my own drive, while sitting on my car! What could be more natural than that?

‘Hi,’ I say into the phone. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’ I cross my legs at a more flattering angle and gesticulate animatedly with my sunglasses. ‘I know. Awful.’

The sound of cameras snapping is getting more and more frantic. I can’t help beaming with exhilaration. It’s really happening! I’m famous!

‘Becky, who are your shoes by?’ someone yells.

‘Please don’t intrude on my life,’ I reply graciously. ‘I’m just going about my daily business.’ I lift up my feet so everyone can see the cool silver heels, and turn them from side to side.

‘They’re by Yves Saint Laurent,’ I hear a woman say.

‘No they’re not!’ I forget my plan to say nothing, and hurry towards the open gates. ‘They’re Dolce and Gabbana. My top is J Crew and my trousers are Stella McCartney. And my sunglasses are vintage Missoni.’ Should I add ‘I’m available for styling at reasonable prices, please enquire within, no job too small’?

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 towards 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 curtsey, keep my back dead straight and manage to hoik 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 sat nav is telling me to keep going straight on. Which is handy as I’m not in the correct lane to turn off anyway. 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, there’s 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.’

‘You happened to sit on the car?’ says Luke disbelievingly. ‘How does one happen to sit on a car?’

‘I was going about my daily life,’ I insist. ‘It’s not my fault if I’m being stalked and harassed by the press.’

‘Becky.’ Luke exhales. ‘What kind of game are you trying to play here? Because it’s a dangerous one. Once you invite these people into your life, it’s very difficult to shut them out again.

I don’t want to shut them out, I think mutinously. I want to grab my chance while I’m hot.

But Luke wouldn’t understand, because he’s totally warped by his job. I’ve heard his personal views before, when he’s had a couple of glasses of wine. He thinks fame is overrated and privacy is the greatest luxury of the modern world and the tsunami of social media is going to lead to the permanent disintegration of human interaction. (Or something. I sometimes stop listening, to be honest.)

‘I’m not playing any game,’ I say, trying to sound righteously indignant. ‘I’m just dealing with a situation, the best way I know how. And what you could do, Luke, is support me.’

‘I am supporting you! I’m advising you! I told you to stay indoors! Now you’re all over the papers—’

‘It’s for my career!’ I say defensively.

There’s silence down the phone and suddenly I realize my sat nav is talking to me.

‘Right turn not taken,’ she’s saying sternly. ‘Make a U-turn as soon as possible.’

Damn. I missed my exit. It’s all Luke’s fault.

‘Look, I have to go,’ I say. ‘I need to concentrate on the road. We’ll talk about it later.’

I ring off, feeling all cross and prickly. Any other husband would be proud of his wife. I want to talk to Aran. He’ll understand.

‘Make a U-turn as soon as possible,’ the sat nav persists.

‘All right! Shut up!’

I really have to focus on the road. I have no idea where I am, except that I’m going in the wrong direction. Truthfully, I’m still a bit hazy about most of LA. I mean, how on earth are you supposed to get to know the whole city? LA is so big. It’s about the size of France.

OK, maybe not France. Maybe Belgium.

Anyway, I need to step on it. Finally I reach a point where I can U-turn. I swing the car round, ignoring the hoots from some other totally unreasonable drivers who shouldn’t have been driving so fast, and set off, this time in the right direction. Shining Hill Home Estate, here we come!

As I get near my destination, I’m looking out for some beautiful shining hill, but I can’t see one. All I can see is a great big road with motels either side and lorries thundering past, and billboards. This isn’t at all what I was expecting.

After a while, my sat nav takes me off the main road and up an even less inspiring side road, and I peer around warily. There aren’t any mansions. There aren’t any expensive cars. There’s a crummy-looking gas station and a motel offering rooms for $39. Is this really where Dad’s friend lives?

‘Destination two hundred yards ahead on the right-hand side,’ my sat nav is saying. ‘Destination one hundred yards ahead … You have arrived at your destination.’

I pull up at the side of the road and stare out of the window, my jaw slack with disbelief. The sat nav is right: I’ve arrived at the Shining Hill Home Estate. But it’s not a mansion. It’s a trailer park. There’s a faded sign chained to a galvanized pair of gates and beyond it I can see rows of mobile homes stretching into the distance. I check my piece of paper again: 431 Shining Hill Home Estate. Brent Lewis must live in trailer no. 431.

Part of me wants to phone Dad instantly and tell him how wrong he’s got it about his friend, but I decide to investigate first, so I lock the car and proceed cautiously into the trailer park. No one stops me, and I soon work out where number 431 is from a map on a board. As I make my way down a line of trailers, I get stares from some people sitting outside their mobile homes, and I can’t help glancing around curiously myself. Some of the trailers are really nice-looking and well kept, with plants and pretty curtains, but some are awful. One has broken patio furniture piled high outside it, almost blocking the door. Another has the sound of screaming coming from it. Another has all its windows broken in.

I arrive at no. 431 and approach it. It’s a very plain trailer – not run-down but not very appealing, either. The door is shut and the blinds are down and there are no signs of life. There’s a piece of paper taped to the door and I glance at it as I knock. It says: Notice of Eviction.

I scan the notice, which is all about Mr Brent Lewis of 431 Shining Hill Home Estate and his failure to pay six months’ overdue rent, and the steps which must therefore be taken, signed Herb Leggett, Manager.

‘You a friend of Brent?’ A voice hails me and I turn to see a skinny woman standing on the steps of the trailer opposite. She’s wearing black jeans with her hair thrust into a ponytail and holding a small boy on her hip.

‘Is Brent around?’ I say. ‘I’m not a friend exactly, but I’d like to see him.’

‘You a social worker?’ Her eyes narrow. ‘Police?’

‘No!’ I say, shocked. ‘Nothing like that. I’m just … my dad knew him years ago.’

‘You British?’

‘Yes. My dad is too.’

The woman sniffs and nods. ‘Well, you just missed him. He took off yesterday.’

He took off? Oh God. What’s Dad going to say?

‘Do you have a forwarding address?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘Said his daughter was stopping by next week, clear things out. I can ask her.’

‘Could you?’ I say, eagerly. ‘I’m Becky Brandon, this is my number …’ I get out one of my business cards and hand it to her. ‘If she could ring me, that would be great, or maybe you could ring me. Or …’

The woman shrugs again, and tucks the card into her jeans. Immediately the small boy pulls it out and throws it on the ground.

‘No!’ I leap forward. ‘I mean … let’s not lose that. Shall I put it somewhere safe for you?’

The woman shrugs yet again. I really don’t have high hopes that she’s going to talk to Brent’s daughter. All the same, I tuck the card safely into the window frame of her door.

‘So, I’ll look forward to hearing from Brent’s daughter,’ I say as brightly as I can. ‘Or you. Whichever. I’d be really grateful. Anyway … er … lovely to meet you. I’m Becky, by the way.’

‘You said.’ She nods, but doesn’t volunteer her own name.

I can’t keep babbling on at this woman, so I give her one last friendly smile and turn on my heel to leave. I still can’t believe this is where Dad’s friend has ended up. It’s such a shame.

As soon as I’m on the road again, I dial Dad’s number.

‘Dad!’

‘Darling! Did you see him?’

‘Not exactly.’ I wince. ‘Dad, I’m afraid you were wrong. Brent Lewis has been living in a trailer park, and now he’s just been evicted because he didn’t pay his rent. I couldn’t get an address.’

‘No. No!’ Dad gives a short laugh. ‘Darling, that’s not right. It can’t be the same Brent Lewis. I’m sorry you wasted your time, but—’

‘Well, it was the address I got from his sister. It must be him.’

There’s a longish silence.

‘He lives in a trailer park?’ says Dad at last.

‘Yes. I mean, his trailer’s quite nice,’ I say hastily. ‘Not broken or anything. But now he’s been evicted.’

‘This can’t be right.’ Dad sounds almost angry. ‘You must have got it wrong, Becky.’

‘I haven’t got it wrong!’ I say, nettled. What does he think I am, an idiot? ‘I saw the eviction notice myself. Brent C. Lewis. It didn’t say what the C was for.’

‘Constantine. He had a Greek mother.’

‘Well, there you are.’

‘But …’ He exhales. ‘This is impossible.’

‘Look, Dad,’ I say kindly. ‘It’s been a long time. Who knows what happened in Brent Lewis’s life? He could have gone into business, he could have had six divorces, he could have turned into a criminal—’

‘Becky, you don’t understand,’ he says hotly. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. This shouldn’t have happened.’

‘You’re right, I don’t understand!’ I exclaim. ‘If he was such a close friend of yours, why didn’t you stay in touch?’

There’s silence, and I sense I’ve touched a nerve. I feel a bit mean, confronting Dad like that, but honestly, he drives me mad. First he won’t use Skype or Facebook or anything normal. Then he sends me off on a wild goose chase to see his friend, and then, when I report back, he doesn’t believe me.

‘I’ll text you his sister’s number, if you like,’ I say. ‘But honestly, I’d just forget about it if I were you.’

My screen starts flashing with the word Aran and I realize I’ve got a call waiting.

‘Dad, I have to go,’ I say. ‘We’ll talk later, OK? I’m sure Brent Lewis is fine,’ I add, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I wouldn’t worry about him any more.’ I ring off and press Answer. ‘Aran! Hi!’

‘Becky.’ His easy voice comes down the phone. ‘How’re you doing? You shaken off the paparazzi yet?’

‘Just about!’ I laugh.

‘So, that was quite the photocall you had this morning. Cute outfit. Great sunglasses. You made a splash. Good work.’

‘Thanks!’ I beam. I knew Aran would appreciate my efforts.

‘As a result, the phone has been ringing off the hook.’

‘Really?’ I feel a tweak of excitement. ‘What, like, journalists? Fashion editors?’

‘Journalists, producers, all kinds of people. Like I said, you’re hot. And I have a great offer for you. I took the liberty of dealing with it myself, although if you like, I can hand over everything to Luke—’

‘No.’ I answer a bit too quickly. ‘I mean … he’s my husband. He’s a bit too close, don’t you think?’

‘I agree. So, the offer is, a segment on Breakfast Show USA. The producer just called, and she’s very anxious to have you on the show. I told her you’re a stylist and she said great. They’re very happy for you to film a styling segment. New trends, new looks, whatever. We’ll work out the details.’

‘Oh my God.’ I feel breathless. A styling segment on Breakfast Show USA. This is huge. This is mammoth!

‘Now, you’re going to need an agent,’ Aran is saying. ‘I’m going to set up a meeting with our friends at CAA. My assistant will call you with the details, OK?’

CAA! Even I know that CAA is the biggest name in Hollywood. They represent Tom Hanks. They represent Sting! I feel giddy. Never in a million years did I expect to be catapulted into all of this.

A sudden thought strikes me. ‘Does Luke know everything?’

‘Sure, of course.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said it’s your decision.’

‘Right.’

I feel a bit hurt. It’s my decision. What kind of lame response is that? Why didn’t he say, ‘My God, this is amazing, I always knew my wife would be a star’? Why isn’t he on the phone telling me my whole life is going to change here and he’ll be with me every step of the way?

‘So, what’s your decision?’ prompts Aran.

Does he even need to ask?

‘It’s yes, of course!’ I say joyfully. ‘It’s yes! It’s a great big yes!’