Shopaholic to the Stars (7 page)

‘I agree!’ says Luke with sudden eagerness. ‘I didn’t want to say so before – but do you really want to commit yourself to a job when we’re only here for such a short time? This is a wonderful place to explore. I’d just enjoy the healthy outdoor lifestyle with Minnie. Go hiking in the hills, play on the beach …’

That is so Luke. First the work ethic, now the
healthy outdoor lifestyle
? What’s he on about? I haven’t come to LA for the ‘healthy outdoor lifestyle’, I’ve come for the ‘celebrity-big-sunglasses-red-carpet lifestyle’.

‘No, you don’t understand. I’ve got an even better idea. I’m going to become a Hollywood stylist!’

As I look up for Luke’s reaction, I’m taken aback. OK, so maybe I didn’t expect him to shout, ‘Go girl!’ but nor did I expect
this
. His eyebrows are raised and furrowed at the same time. His mouth is turning down at the edges. I’ve been married to Luke so long, I know his expressions off by heart, and this one is number 3:
How do I break it to Becky that I hate this idea?
It’s exactly the same expression he had when I suggested painting our bedroom purple. (I still say it would have been sexy.)

‘What?’ I demand. ‘What?’

‘It’s a great idea …’ he begins carefully.

‘Stop it,’ I say impatiently. ‘What do you really think?’

‘Becky, you know Sage only hired me as a consultant on a short-term basis. If this whole venture works out, maybe Brandon Communications will open a media arm here and maybe I’ll fly back and forth. But I can’t imagine we’ll relocate permanently.’

‘So?’

‘So, what will you do if you establish a whole new career here?’

‘I dunno,’ I say impatiently. ‘Work it out.’

This is just typical. Luke always lets practical plans get in the way of creative inspiration.

‘It’ll be a lot of hard graft,’ he’s saying now, ‘a lot of banging on doors, a lot of disappointment …’

‘You think I can’t do it?’ I say, affronted.

‘My darling, I think you can do pretty much anything you put your mind to,’ says Luke. ‘However, I think to get into the world of Hollywood styling in three months will be, let’s say, a challenge. But if you really want to—’

‘I don’t just want to, I’m
going
to.’

Luke sighs. ‘Well then, of course I’ll help. I’ll ask around for some contacts, see what I can fix up—’

‘I don’t need your help!’ I retort.

‘Becky, don’t be silly.’

‘I’m not being silly,’ I shoot back, feeling outraged. ‘I don’t want to rely on my husband. I’m an independent woman, you know.’

‘But—’

‘What, you think I can’t break into Hollywood on my own? You just watch. Katharine Hepburn,’ I add.

We walk on for a while in silence, not even bothering to say the names any more, and gradually I simmer down. Actually, Luke’s help would have been quite useful. In fact, really useful. But it’s too late now, I’ve said it. I’ll have to find a way to do it on my own and show him.

My mind starts working hard. Sage is still my most obvious way in. I’m bound to meet her soon. And meanwhile, I can plan a few outfits for her. Maybe I’ll even buy her an accessory or two, just like a personal stylist would. Yes. Brilliant. And if Sage doesn’t work out … well, I have other contacts, don’t I?

‘You know, Luke, I do have my own resources,’ I say grandly. ‘I have worked at Barneys, remember. I am a bit connected, remember. In fact, I think you’ll find I’m even better connected than you.’

And it’s true! I met loads of Hollywood people when I worked at Barneys. At least three producers, and a music consultant, and a casting director. I’ll contact all of them, and
someone
will be able to give me an entrée, and then—

Ooh, Lassie!

From: Laird, Nick

To: Brandon, Rebecca

Subject: Re: Hi Melanie, how are you?!

Dear Mrs Brandon

I am replying to your email to Melanie Young. I’m sure that Melanie does remember you from her shopping appointments at Barneys and am glad you still recall ‘how fab she looked in that Moschino pencil skirt’.

Unfortunately Melanie has recently given up producing, moved to a commune in Arkansas and, according to her farewell speech, ‘never wants to hear the word “movie” again’. She will therefore be unable to help you launch yourself as a celebrity stylist, nor introduce you to Sarah Jessica Parker.

I wish you every luck with your endeavors in Hollywood.

Nick Laird

Head of Development
ABJ Pictures

From: Quinn, Sandi

To: Brandon, Rebecca

Subject: Re: Hi Rosaline, how are you?!

Dear Mrs Brandon

I am replying to your email on behalf of Rosaline DuFoy, in my role as Rosaline’s counsellor.

Rosaline does indeed remember you from her shopping appointments at Barneys and recalls well the ‘amazingly slimming pant suit’ you found for her sister’s wedding.

Unfortunately, during the toast at that wedding, her husband came out as gay. Rosaline has always – rightly or wrongly – blamed her ‘androgynous clothes’ for his switch in sexuality and is currently penning an autobiography entitled ‘If only I’d worn a f***ing dress’. As the memories are still raw and painful, she would rather not meet with you.

However, I wish you every success in Hollywood.

Best,

Sandi Quinn
Director
Quinn Clinic for Marital Therapy

How can Hollywood people all be so flaky? How?

As soon as I got back to the UK, I looked up all my old contacts and sent off a stack of emails. But I haven’t got anything out of it: not a lunch, not a meeting, not a phone number. Every single one of my former customers who worked in film seems to have moved jobs or had a nervous breakdown or something. The only one left was Genna Douglas, who was a customer of mine at Barneys and had the hugest collection of backless dresses. But after getting no reply, I Googled her, and it turns out she left her job at Universal a year ago to start a beauty salon. She’s invented some treatment involving electric currents and honey and has been sued twice by disgruntled patients but is ‘actively seeking investors’. Hmm. Don’t think I’ll be pursuing that one.

I’m so disappointed. I thought I’d be
swimming
in contacts. I thought I’d be fixing up lunches at Spago and meetings with producers, and saying to Luke casually, ‘Oh, are you going to be on the Paramount lot this afternoon? I’ll see you there.’

Anyway. On the plus side, I still have Sage. A genuine, copper-bottomed, A-list contact. And I haven’t been sitting around doing nothing. I’ve started working on some looks for her, and I really feel I’m tuning into her personality. Her
world
.

‘So, look.’ I spread a pale-blue brocade coat out on the bed for Suze to see. ‘Isn’t this fab?’

Suze is my oldest friend in the world, and we’re lolling on her bed in Hampshire with gossip magazines, just like we used to in the old days when we shared a flat in Fulham. Except that in those days, it meant lolling on an old Indian bedspread covered in cigarette burns and smelling of joss sticks. Whereas today we’re lolling on a massive, ancient four-poster bed, with silk drapes and tapestry and wooden panelling that apparently Charles I carved his name in once. Or do I mean Charles II? Some Charles or other, anyway.

Suze is eye-wateringly posh. She lives in a stately home and ever since her grandfather-in-law died she’s called Lady Cleath-Stuart, which sounds quite terrifyingly grown-up to me.
Lady Cleath-Stuart
sounds like a ninety-year-old battle-axe swishing at people with a riding crop and barking, ‘What? What?’ Not that I would ever tell Suze this. Anyway, she’s pretty much the opposite of that. She’s tall and leggy with long blonde hair, which she’s now chewing in an absent kind of way.

‘Lovely!’ she says, fingering the coat. ‘Really gorgeous.’

‘It’s a great lightweight coat that Sage can just shrug on over jeans or whatever. It’ll really suit the LA climate. And then she can wear flats or those boots I showed you before …’

‘Amazing collar.’ She touches the grey frayed velvet.

‘I know,’ I say triumphantly. ‘I found it in this tiny boutique. The label’s new. It’s Danish. Now, look at this skirt.’

I produce a minute denim skirt with ribbon edging, but Suze is still surveying the coat, her brow crumpled.

‘So you’ve bought this coat for Sage? And all these other things?’

‘Exactly! That’s the point of being a stylist. I found the skirt in a vintage shop in Santa Monica,’ I add. ‘The owner customizes all the clothes herself. Look at the buttons!’

Suze doesn’t even seem to see the buttons. She reaches for a T-shirt, which would be perfect for Sage to wear when she’s hanging out at a coffee shop with Jennifer Garner or somebody.

‘But, Bex, isn’t all this shopping costing you a lot of money?’

‘Shopping?’ I echo incredulously. ‘Suze, it’s not
shopping
. It’s investing in my job. And I usually get a discount. Sometimes I even get things for free. I just have to tell them that I’m shopping for Sage Seymour, and bingo!’

It’s amazing how excited shop owners get when you mention Sage Seymour. They practically throw clothes at you!

‘But you’re not shopping for Sage Seymour,’ says Suze flatly.

I stare at her, perplexed. Hasn’t she been following what I’m saying?

‘Yes I am! Of course I am! These things aren’t even my size!’

‘But she hasn’t asked you to. She doesn’t even know who you are.’

I feel a twinge of resentment. Suze doesn’t have to remind me. It’s not my fault I have the crappest husband in the world who refuses to introduce me to his celebrity clients.

‘She
will
know who I am, as soon as Luke introduces us,’ I explain patiently. ‘And then we’ll get chatting, and I’ll have all these looks ready for her and become her personal stylist. Suze, I’m building a whole new career!’ I can see Suze is about to raise another objection, so I carry on hurriedly. ‘And anyway, I’m going to get double the use out of these clothes, because you’re going to wear them and I’m going to take your picture and I’m going to build up a portfolio.’

‘Ooh.’ Suze perks up. ‘You want me to be your model?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Cool!’ Suze starts looking at the clothes with more interest and reaches for the coat again. ‘Let’s start with this.’ She puts on the coat and I start adjusting the collar. Suze is so beautiful and willowy, she looks great in anything, and I feel a fizz of excitement at the thought of building up a library of amazing pictures.

I’ve been totally inspired by reading about Nenita Dietz on the internet. When she moved to Hollywood twenty years ago, she didn’t know anyone. But she wangled her way on to the set of
Love’s Breezing
, and marched into the office of the Head of Wardrobe, and wouldn’t leave until he’d looked at her portfolio. He was so impressed, he employed her immediately. And then the star, Mary-Jane Cheney, hired her as a personal stylist, and it all snowballed from there.

Well, I can do that, too. I just need to put together a portfolio, and get on a film set somehow.

Suze is now wearing the brocade coat, a beret and a pair of sunglasses and posing in front of the mirror.

‘You look fab,’ I say. ‘Tomorrow I’ll do your hair and makeup and we’ll have a proper shoot.’

Suze comes back to the bed and starts rifling through a bag of skirts. ‘These are nice, too.’ She holds one up against herself and looks at the label. ‘Oh, they’re by Danny.’

‘I phoned his office and they sent a whole bunch over,’ I explain. ‘They’re from the new collection. You know, Sarah Jessica Parker’s assistant asked especially to see a sneak preview?’ I add. ‘Danny told me himself.’

‘Ooh, SJP!’ Suze’s head pops up. ‘Is she in LA? Have you met her?’

‘No,’ I say, and Suze sighs.

‘Haven’t you met
anyone
famous?’

This is what everyone has been asking me since I got back. Mum, Dad, our neighbours Janice and Martin,
everyone
. I’m tired of saying, ‘No, I haven’t met anyone famous.’ And the truth is, I did meet someone famous, didn’t I? I mean, I know I promised to keep it a secret. But Suze is my best friend. Telling a best friend doesn’t count.

‘Suze,’ I say, lowering my voice. ‘If I tell you something, you can’t tell a soul. Not Tarkie, not anyone. I’m serious.’

‘I promise,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘What is it?’

‘I met Lois Kellerton.’

‘Lois
Kellerton
?’ She sits straight up. ‘Oh my God! You never told me that!’

‘I’m telling you now! But I didn’t just meet her …’

Suze is the best person to share stuff with. As I tell her about seeing Lois Kellerton shoplifting, and about chasing her down the street, she gasps and puts her hand to her mouth and says ‘No
way
’ several times.

‘… and I promised not to tell anyone,’ I conclude.

‘Well, I won’t blab,’ says Suze at once. ‘Anyway, who would I tell? The children? The sheep? Tarkie?’

We both start giggling. Tarkie probably has no idea who Lois Kellerton is, even.

‘But it’s so weird,’ Suze adds, her brow creased in thought. ‘I can’t believe it. Why would a big movie star like that steal socks?’