‘Right.’ My head is whirling. ‘OK. Well … thanks!’
‘It’s a pleasure.’ Jodie-or-Marsha pushes back her chair. ‘Exciting, huh?’
As I’m walking along one of the museum-style corridors with an assistant called Tori (dressed head to toe in Chloé), I hear a little shriek behind me. I turn and see Sage skittering along the corridor, her arms outstretched.
‘Beckeeeeee! I’ve missed youuuuuu!’
I blink in astonishment. Sage is wearing the skimpiest outfit I’ve ever seen. Her bright-blue polka-dot top is basically a bikini top, and her tiny frayed hot pants are more like knickers.
Plus, what does she mean, she’s missed me?
As she throws her arms around me, I inhale the smell of Marc Jacobs Grapefruit and cigarettes.
‘It’s been so long! We have so much to talk about! Are you done here? Where are you going now?’
‘Just home,’ I say. ‘I think they’re organizing me a car.’
‘Noooo! Ride with me!’ She takes out her phone and punches something into it. ‘My driver will take you home, and we can chat.’
‘Becky, are you OK with Sage?’ says Tori. ‘You don’t need a car?’
‘I guess not,’ I say. ‘But thanks.’
‘We’re good now,’ says Sage to the girl who was accompanying her. ‘We’ll see ourselves out. We have to talk!’ Sage hits the button for the lift and links arms with me. ‘You are
so
hot right now. We’re both hot,’ she adds with satisfaction, as we get in. ‘You know they’re begging me to do Florence Nightingale? Your husband thinks I should take it. But you know, I have a lot of propositions right now.
Playboy
offered me a
gazillion
.’ She takes out some gum and offers it to me.
‘Playboy?’
‘I know, right?’ She shrieks with laughter. ‘I need to hit the gym if I’m doing that.’
I blink in surprise. She’s doing it? I can’t believe Luke or Aran want Sage to do
Playboy
.
‘Cute shades,’ she adds, looking at my Missonis, which are propped up on my head. ‘You were wearing them on Saturday, right? The press was all over them.’
She’s right. There were pictures of me in my Missonis in all the tabloids, and on millions of websites. It’s all so surreal. When I look at the photos, it doesn’t feel like me. It feels like some other person out there, posing as ‘Becky Brandon’.
But that
is
me. Isn’t it?
Oh God, it’s too confusing. Do celebrities ever get used to being two people, one private and one public? Or do they just forget about the private one? I’d ask Sage, only I’m not sure she’s ever had a private life.
‘They’re so unique.’ Sage is still fixated on my shades. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘They’re vintage. You can have them, if you like,’ I add eagerly, and hand them over.
‘Cool!’ Sage grabs them and puts them on, admiring her reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift. ‘How do I look?’
‘Really good.’ I tweak her hair a bit. ‘There. Lovely.’
At last! I’m styling a Hollywood film star, just like I wanted to in the first place.
‘You’re smart, Becky,’ Sage says. ‘This is a
great
fashion story. I’m wearing the shades you had on two days ago. The press will love it. This will be everywhere.’
That’s not why I gave them to her, but I suppose she’s right. I suppose she thinks about everything in terms of the press. Is that how I have to start thinking, too?
We emerge on the ground floor, and Sage leads me straight to a big guy in a blue blazer, who is sitting on a chair in a corner. He has Slavic features and huge shoulders and doesn’t smile. ‘This is Yuri, my new bodyguard,’ says Sage blithely. ‘Do you have security, Becky?’
‘Me?’
I laugh. ‘No!’
‘You should totally think about it,’ she says. ‘I had to hire Yuri after I got mobbed at home. You can’t be too careful.’ She glances at her watch. ‘OK, shall we go?’
As we head out of the building, I feel a jolt of shock. A cluster of waiting photographers immediately start calling out, ‘Sage! This way, Sage!’ They weren’t there earlier.
‘How did they know you’d be here?’ I say in bewilderment.
‘You give them your schedule,’ Sage explains in an undertone. ‘You’ll get into it.’ She hooks her arm more firmly around mine, and dimples in a smile. Her long, golden legs look amazing, and the Missoni shades clash brilliantly with her polka-dot top.
‘Becky!’ I hear a shout. ‘Becky, over here, please!’ Oh my God, I’ve been recognized! ‘Beckeee!’
The shouts are growing into a chorus. All I can hear is, ‘Becky! Sage! Here!’ Sage is playfully adopting pose after pose, most with her arm around me. A couple of tourists approach, and with a charming smile, Sage scribbles autographs for them. It takes me a moment to realize they want mine, too.
After a while, a blacked-out SUV appears, and Sage skips along to it, accompanied by Yuri. We get in, the photographers still clustering around us, and the driver manoeuvres away.
‘Oh my God.’ I sink back into the leather seat.
‘You should hire security,’ says Sage again. ‘You’re not a civilian any more.’
This is unreal. I’m not a civilian any more! I’m one of them!
Sage is flipping through channels on the in-car TV, and she pauses as her own face comes into view, with the headline,
Sage speaks out
.
‘Hey! Check it out!’ She cracks open a Diet Coke, offers one to me and turns up the volume.
‘I feel personally betrayed by Lois,’ the on-screen Sage is saying. ‘I feel she’s let me down, not just as a fellow actor but as a woman and as a human being. If she has problems, then I feel for her, but she should deal with those in an appropriate manner, not inflict them on others. You know, we were once friends. But never again. She’s let down the entire profession.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ I say uncomfortably.
‘She stole my purse,’ says Sage, unmoved. ‘She’s a psycho.’
‘She didn’t steal it. It was a
mistake
.’
‘Tough talk there from Sage Seymour,’ a TV presenter is saying on-screen. ‘With us in the studio to discuss the scandal is Hollywood commentator Ross Halcomb, film critic Joanne Seldana, and …’
‘Sage,’ I try again. ‘You do know it was a mistake, don’t you?’
‘Sssh!’ says Sage, waving a hand impatiently. We sit in silence as a whole bunch of people in a studio discuss whether Sage Seymour’s career will now go stellar, and then as soon as they’ve finished, Sage flicks to another news piece about herself. I feel more and more uncomfortable, but Sage won’t let me speak. The TV airways seem to be filled with coverage of her, on every channel – until she clicks on to a new channel and Lois’s face suddenly appears.
‘Lois!’ Sage leans forward animatedly.
The camera pans away and I see that Lois is being filmed outside her house, which is a huge, Spanish-style mansion. She’s wearing a billowy white nightshirt and has bare feet, and seems to be shouting at someone, but there’s no sound.
‘What is she
doing?
’ Sage is gazing at the screen.
‘Why isn’t she inside?’ I wince. ‘She doesn’t look well.’
Lois looks terrible. I mean,
terrible
. Her skin is pale, her eyes are hollow, her hair is lank and she’s twisting it between her fingers.
I wonder if she’s heard from the police. No one knows if they’re going to press charges; no one knows anything yet. I keep expecting to be summoned to a police station, but so far, nothing. When I mentioned it to Aran, he said, ‘Becky, don’t worry. Your profile is up there, even without a court case.’
But that’s not what I meant. I was thinking about Lois.
‘Leave me alone.’ Her voice suddenly becomes audible. ‘Please leave me alone.’
And now we can hear the shouts from the photographers and journalists outside the gate.
‘Are you a thief, Lois?’
‘Did you take Sage’s bag?’
‘Have you been charged?’
‘Do you have a message for the American people?’
Lois’s eyes are dark and despairing and she’s biting her lip so hard I can see specks of blood appearing. She looks totally on the edge – just like she did when I first caught hold of her in the street. She goes back inside, the front door slams and the picture flashes back to a studio, where a woman in a tailored red jacket is watching a screen seriously.
‘And there we can see the first shots of Lois Kellerton since this scandal,’ she says. ‘Dr Nora Vitale, you’re an expert on mental health. Would you say Lois Kellerton is experiencing a breakdown?’
‘Well, now.’ Dr Nora Vitale is a thin woman in a surprisingly frivolous pink dress, with a serious expression. ‘We don’t use the word “breakdown” these days …’
‘Jeez.’ Sage switches off the TV. ‘
That’ll
be all over Hollywood in twenty seconds. You know what they’re saying?’
‘What?’
‘They’re saying this goes back years. She’s been stealing all her life.’
‘What?’ I say in horror. ‘No! I’m sure it was just a one-off. She was under great strain, she made a mistake … anyone can make a mistake!’
‘Well.’ Sage shrugs comfortably. ‘Whatever you think, people are coming forward. People she’s worked with. Makeup artists, assistants, saying she stole from them, too. She’s going to drown in lawsuits.’
‘Oh God.’
Guilt is squeezing me inside. I’m going hot and cold with remorse. This is all my fault.
‘So, when am I going to
see
you again?’ To my surprise, Sage throws her arms around me when we stop outside my house. ‘I want you to style me for my next appearance. Head to foot.’
‘Wow,’ I say, taken aback. ‘I’d love to!’
‘And we have to have lunch. Spago, maybe. Sound good?’
‘Yes! Fab.’
‘We’re in this together, Becky.’ She squeezes me again, as the back doors magically slide open.
There’s a cluster of photographers outside my gates. I’m almost getting used to them. I check my reflection in my compact, then carefully slide out of the SUV. I zap open the gates with my remote control, and wave goodbye to Sage. The next minute, Minnie is running down the drive towards me. She’s wearing her gorgeous little yellow dress and clutching a painting she must have just done. I’ve kept her off pre-school today, because she was complaining of earache this morning. (Although it could just have been that her Alice band was too tight.)
‘Mummy!’ She’s brandishing the painting triumphantly at me as I sweep her into a hug. ‘Schlowers!’
Minnie is obsessed with flowers at the moment, which she calls ‘schlowers’. She weeps if Luke won’t wear his one-and-only ‘schlowers’ tie, so he puts it on every morning and then takes it off again in the car. Her painting doesn’t look very much like flowers to be honest, just big red splodges, but I gasp admiringly, and say, ‘What beautiful red flowers!’
Minnie regards the red splodges stonily. ‘Dat not de schlowers.
Dat
de schlowers.’ She jabs her finger at a tiny blue stripe which I hadn’t even noticed. ‘
Dat
de schlowers.’ Her brows are lowered and she’s giving me an imperious frown. ‘DAT DE SCHLOWERS!’ she suddenly yells, sounding like a commandant ordering an execution.
‘Right,’ I say hastily. ‘Silly me. Of course that’s the schlowers. Lovely!’
‘Is that your daughter?’ To my surprise, Sage has got out of the SUV after me. ‘I have to say hello. Too cute! Listen to her little British accent! Come here, sweetie.’ She lifts Minnie up and swings her around till Minnie starts squealing with delight. The photographers are all clicking away so fast, it sounds like an insect infestation.
‘Sage,’ I say. ‘We don’t want Minnie to be photographed.’
But Sage doesn’t hear me. She’s running around the drive with Minnie, the two of them in fits of laughter.
‘Pleeeeease!’ Minnie is reaching out for the swirly Missoni sunglasses. ‘Pleeeeease!’
‘No, these are mine! But you can have some.’ Sage rummages in her bag and produces another pair of sunglasses. She gives Minnie a kiss on the nose, then puts the sunglasses on her. ‘Adorable!’
‘Sage!’ I try again. ‘Stop it! I need to get Minnie inside!’
My phone suddenly bleeps with a text, and feeling hassled, I pull it out. It’s from Mum.
Becky. Very urgent. Mum
What? What’s very urgent? I feel a spasm of alarm, mixed with frustration. What kind of message is ‘Very urgent’? I speed-dial her number and wait impatiently for the connection.
‘Mum!’ I say as soon as she answers. ‘What is it?’
‘Oh, Becky.’ Her voice is wobbling. ‘It’s Dad. He’s gone!’
‘Gone?’ I say stupidly. ‘What do you mean, gone?’
‘He’s gone to LA! He left a note! A
note
! After all these years of marriage, a
note
! I’ve been to Bicester Village with Janice for the day – I got a lovely bag at the Cath Kidston outlet shop – and when I came back he’d gone! To America!’
I stare at the phone, flabbergasted. ‘But what – I mean, where—’
‘In the note, he said he needed to track down his friend. Brent Lewis? The one you looked up?’
Oh, for God’s sake. Not this again.
‘But why?’
‘He didn’t say!’ Mum’s voice rises hysterically. ‘I have no idea who this friend is, even!’
There’s a slight edge of panic to her voice, which I can understand. The thing about my Dad is, he seems like this very straight-down-the-line, normal family man. But there’s a bit more to him than that. A few years ago we all discovered that he had another daughter – my half-sister Jess – about whom nobody had known a thing.
I mean, to be fair to Dad, he hadn’t known either. It’s not like he’d been keeping a massive secret. But I can see why Mum might be a bit paranoid.
‘He said he had something he needed to “put right”,’ Mum is continuing. ‘“Put right”! What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say helplessly. ‘Except he was very shocked when I told him Brent Lewis lives in a trailer.’
‘Why shouldn’t he live in a trailer?’ Mum’s voice is shrill again. ‘What business is it of Dad’s where this man lives?’
‘He kept saying, “It shouldn’t have happened,”’ I say, remembering. ‘But I have no idea what that meant.’
‘I don’t know what flight he’s on, or where he’s staying … Do I follow him? Do I stay here? It’s Becky,’ I hear her saying in a muffled voice. ‘The sherry’s on the second shelf, Janice.’ She returns to the line. ‘Becky, I don’t know what to do. Janice said it’s his mid-life crisis, but I said, “Janice, we already
had
that with the guitar lessons. So what’s this?”’