Shopaholic to the Stars

by Sophie Kinsella

  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!’

  FIFTEEN

  I’ve never been anywhere like CAA in my life. The building is like some sort of spaceship in which all the men are from Men in Black and all the girls are from Vogue and all the sofas are from Architectural Digest. Just sitting in the lobby for five minutes was a better Hollywood experience than the entire Sedgewood Studios tour. I saw three girls from Gossip Girl, and a cool rapper guy feeding his tiny puppy with a milk dropper, and two famous TV comedians having a huge, sotto voce row about something called ‘back end’, while continuing to smile at a very pretty girl on reception. (I’m not sure of their names. I think maybe they’re both called Steve Something.)

  And now I’m sitting in this very smart boardroom-type place, at a smooth, pale wooden table, and listening to two women talk to me. One’s called Jodie and the other’s called Marsha and they’re both ‘talent’ agents. Apparently I’m the ‘talent’. Me! ‘Talent’! Wait till I tell Luke that.

  They’re very smart and very intense. They’re both dressed immaculately in a sleek-navy-Prada-ish-high-maintenance sort of style. One has got a vast diamond on one finger and I’m so mesmerized by it, I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying. Except I keep being jerked back to attention by words like ‘fanbase’ and ‘global appeal’.

  ‘Reality,’ says the dark-haired woman, who is either Jodie or Marsha. ‘What’s your opinion on that?’

  ‘Er …’

  I want to reply, ‘I’ve totally lost my grip on it,’ but I sense that’s not the right answer. I sip my iced water, which is so freezing it gives me an instant headache. Why do Americans like their drinks so cold? Are they descended from Eskimos or something? Ooh, maybe they are. Maybe they migrated down from Alaska, millions of years ago. It makes total sense. Have I hit on a whole new theory of human evolution?

  ‘Becky?’

  ‘Yes!’ I come back to the room. ‘Definitely! Um, what exactly do you mean by “reality”?’

  ‘A reality show,’ says Jodie-or-Marsha, patiently. ‘We think we could package a great show as a vehicle for you, your family, your quirky British friends …’

  ‘You mean, cameras would be following us around the whole time?’

  ‘It would be semi-scripted. It’s less intrusive than you might think.’

  ‘Right.’

  I try to imagine sitting in the kitchen with Luke, acting out a semi-scripted scene for the cameras. Hmm.

  ‘I’m not totally sure my husband would like that,’ I say at last. ‘But I can ask him.’

  ‘Another format we have available is “BFFs in Hollywood”,’ says Marsha-or-Jodie. ‘You would be working with a young actress named Willa Tilton. The concept is, two best friends making it in Hollywood, confiding in each other, shopping for clothes, appearing on the red carpet, getting into scrapes. You would be the married one and Willa would be the single one. I think it would have a lot of appeal.’

  ‘I think they’d work well together as best friends,’ Jodie-or-Marsha agrees.

  ‘But Willa Tilton isn’t my best friend,’ I say, confused. ‘I’ve never met her. My best friend is called Suze.’

  ‘She would be your best friend for the camera,’ says Marsha-or-Jodie, as though I’m slightly subnormal. ‘It’s a reality show.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, still confused. ‘Well, I’ll think about it.’

  I take another sip of water, trying to get my head together. Somehow I can’t take any of this seriously. Me? On a reality show? But as I look from Jodie to Marsha (or the other way round), I realize they’re genuine. They wouldn’t give me the time of day unless they meant it.

  ‘In the meantime, we have the Breakfast Show USA segment,’ says Jodie-or-Marsha, ‘which will be very high profile. Now, do you have an assistant?’

  ‘No,’ I say, and the two women exchange looks.

  ‘You might think about getting yourself one,’ says Marsha-or-Jodie.

  ‘Your life is going to start feeling a little different,’ adds Jodie-or-Marsha.

  ‘Make sure you have some camera-ready outfits.’

  ‘Consider getting your teeth whitened.’

  ‘And you could lose a pound or two.’ Marsha-or-Jodie smiles kindly. ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘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.
r />   ‘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?’