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.