But there’s no other option, so I bend down and start squeezing myself through the gap. I can feel the wood scraping my back, and my hair gets caught a few times, and for one awful moment I think I’ll be stuck there for ever. But at last I manage to pop through. (Simultaneously breaking another two slats. In fact, I’ve kind of wrecked this little area of fence. I expect Lois will sue me for that.)
The pool house is about the size of my parents’ house in Oxshott. The pool is pretty huge, too. Then there’s a kind of ornamental hanging garden which looks very weird and out of place and a lawn and a great big terrace with sofas and chairs and then, finally, the house. Which is vast, needless to say.
OK. What do I do now? I suddenly remember Jeff mentioning CCTV and it occurs to me that I’m probably being filmed right now. Argh. I need to move fast, before the attack dogs reach me. I hurry to one side of the plot and make my way cautiously towards the house. My heart is beating fast and I’m expecting to be stopped at any moment. But the way I see it, if I can just get to speak to Lois – even for a second – she’ll know I tried. She’ll know I was thinking of her.
Panting, I reach the terrace and crouch down behind a massive pot containing a fern. Five yards away are the French windows. They’re open. Do I just walk in? What if I freak her out?
Or maybe I should just write a note. Yes. Much better. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. I’ll write a note and leave it on the terrace and creep away, and then she can read it in her own time. I rummage in my bag for my notebook and pen, which I’ve been using to make styling notes. I carefully tear out a page and write the date at the top.
Dear Lois
Oh God. What do I write? How do I put it?
I’m so, so sorry for everything that’s happened. But you must know, I was as shocked as you when Sage exposed you. I told her IN CONFIDENCE.
I underline the last two words several times, and am sitting back on my heels to take stock, when something attracts my attention. It’s a pair of sunglasses, lying on a chair. A pair of Missoni sunglasses. They’re pink and green and swirly and they look exactly like the ones I gave Sage yesterday morning.
They can’t be the same ones. Obviously they can’t be. But—
I stare at the sunglasses, totally baffled. One part of my brain is saying, ‘It’s a coincidence,’ and the other part is saying, ‘It can’t be a coincidence.’ At last I can’t bear it any longer. I have to see. I edge forward and grab the sunglasses off the chair – and there’s no doubt about it. They’re the ones I bought. They have the same rubbed-away bit on the gilt ‘M’ and a tiny chip on one arm.
What are they doing here? Did Sage send them to Lois? But why? And wouldn’t she have mentioned it on the phone earlier? And why would she send sunglasses to Lois, anyway?
My head spinning, I creep forward to put them back – and then freeze. Through the glass of the French windows I can see straight into Lois’s living room. There’s Lois, sitting on a sofa, laughing. And there’s Sage, sitting next to her, passing her a bowl of nachos.
My whole body feels paralysed with shock. Sage? In Lois’s house? But— but— but—
I mean—
That’s just—
I’ve leaned so far forward, trying to see, I suddenly lose my balance, and the sunglasses go clattering on to a glass table. Shit. Shit.
‘Who’s there?’ says Sage sharply, and comes to the French windows. ‘Oh my God, Becky?’
I stare helplessly up at her, unable to reply. I feel as though the world has turned upside down. A few minutes ago, Sage was telling me she didn’t want to see Lois. But she must have been in Lois’s house even while she was talking to me. What is going on? What?
‘Get in here,’ says Sage, glancing around. ‘There aren’t any press following you, are there? What did you do, break in?’
‘Yes,’ I say, getting to my feet, still dazed. ‘I made a bit of a mess of the fence. Maybe someone should see to that. Sorry,’ I add to Lois, who has followed Sage to the French windows. Lois doesn’t look the dishevelled mess I was expecting. She’s wearing long, pale-green wide-legged trousers and a black halter top and her hair is smoothed into a side ponytail. She’s also smoking, which is a bit of a shock. Lois Kellerton doesn’t smoke. I’ve read it in magazines a million times.
‘You look so freaked!’ Sage bursts into laughter as she closes the French windows behind me.
Finally I find my voice. ‘I am freaked! What do you expect?’
‘Poor Becky,’ Sage says kindly.
‘What … I mean …’ I don’t even know where to begin. ‘Don’t you …’
‘You thought we hated each other, right?’ says Sage.
‘Everyone thinks you hate each other!’ I expostulate. ‘Everyone in the world!’
‘Well, we kinda do.’ Sage pushes Lois, whose mouth turns up in a little smile.
‘Everything’s a game,’ she says. ‘We’re playing the game. The long game,’ she adds.
‘Lois’s really smart,’ chimes in Sage.
They’re both nodding, as though that explains everything.
‘I don’t get it,’ I say, feeling more bewildered than ever. ‘I just don’t. You have to start from the beginning.’
‘Oh well, the beginning.’ Lois leads me into the kitchen, where a huge oak table is covered in laptops, magazines, coffee cups and take-out boxes. I even see a box of Krispy Kremes, which makes me double-take. I thought Lois hated white sugar? ‘That would be when we were … what, ten?’
‘We were on Save the Kids together,’ Sage nods.
‘Then we had a big fight.’
‘But we made up.’
I’m totally lost. ‘Was that recently?’
‘No! We were, like, sixteen,’ says Sage. ‘I was so mad at Lois, I trashed her car. Remember?’
Lois shakes her head ruefully. She’s a lot more composed than Sage. In fact, I can’t stop staring at her. Her nails are perfect. Her hands aren’t shaking one little bit as she makes coffee. She doesn’t look anything like a suicidal head-case.
‘Did you really try to commit suicide?’ I blurt out, and she gives another secretive little smile.
‘Becky, none of this is real!’ says Sage. ‘Don’t you realize that? You’re in on it too now.’ She gives me a squeeze. ‘Lois will tell you what to do. She has the whole thing planned.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say in bewilderment. ‘What whole thing?’
‘Redemption,’ says Lois. ‘Reconciliation … forgiveness … Camberly.’ She pauses, then says it again with relish, ‘Camberly.’
‘Camberly.’ Sage nods. ‘We just heard. We’re doing it, the two of us. A special. It’s gonna be huge.’
‘Huge.’ Lois agrees.
‘They’re gonna plug it everywhere. The big truce. Sage and Lois confront each other.’ Sage’s eyes are sparkling. ‘Who’s not going to watch that? Lois has this whole remorseful-sinner thing going on, too. You’re going to wear white, yes?’ she adds to Lois.
‘White shift and flats.’ Lois confirms. ‘Penitent angel. They may get the store owner on, apparently. So I can apologize to him.’
‘That would be good TV,’ says Sage. ‘I’m gonna offer Lois help,’ she tells me. ‘And we’re both gonna cry. I need to talk to you about a dress,’ she adds. ‘Something innocent-looking. Maybe Marc Jacobs? Maybe, like, a soft pink?’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s like they’ve practically written a script. They probably will write a script.
‘Do the Camberly people know about this?’ I stutter. ‘That it’s all fake?’
‘No!’ Sage seems shocked. ‘Nobody knows. Lois even fired her media team to keep them out of the way, so they have no idea.’
‘I knew we had a big chance,’ says Lois. ‘But my people would never have gone along with it. They’re so conventional.’ She shakes her head impatiently.
‘So …’ I rub my head, trying to get things clear. ‘So you’re not really a shoplifter? But
I caught you red-handed!’
‘That was an experiment,’ says Lois. She sits down at the table, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. ‘I wasn’t expecting to get caught. But it all worked out.’
‘Lois’s really imaginative,’ says Sage admiringly. ‘The feud was her idea. She came up with the cancer-victim line. She came up with the two green dresses. I mean, those were just tiny little ideas between ourselves. They didn’t get us huge attention. But now this suicide thing is on a whole new level. Genius. It’s put us right back on the front pages.’
As I look at Lois’s calm face, I feel revulsion. She actually faked a suicide attempt?
‘But how could you do that? People have been really worried about you!’
‘I know,’ says Lois. ‘That’s the point. The farther you fall, the more they love you when you bounce back.’ She sighs at my expression. ‘Look. It’s a competitive world. We need exposure. All the public craves is a good story. Don’t you love a good story? Don’t you read US Weekly?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘Do you think every word is true?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘So what’s the difference?’
‘Well, some of it has to be true!’ I say hotly. ‘Otherwise what’s the point?’
‘Why? Does it matter? As long as we entertain our audience?’
I’m silenced for a while, thinking about all the stories Suze and I have read in the gossip magazines. Does it matter if they’re true or not? Like, I’ve always taken it as gospel truth that the cast of Our Time all hate one another. What if they don’t? What if Selma Diavo isn’t really a bitch? I’ve read about the stars for so long, I feel like I know them. I feel familiar with their worlds and their friends and their ups and their downs. I could probably write a thesis on Jennifer Aniston’s love life.
But the truth is, all I really know is images and headlines and ‘quotes’ from ‘sources’. Nothing real.
‘Wait a minute,’ I say, as something occurs to me. ‘If everyone thinks you’re a suicidal wreck, how will you get any work?’
‘Oh, I’ll get work,’ says Lois. ‘The offers are already coming in. Lots of shoplifting roles.’ She gives a sudden burst of laughter. ‘I’ll be punished and then I’ll be forgiven. That’s how Hollywood operates.’
She looks so relaxed, I feel a spurt of anger. Does she realize how worried I’ve been about her? And I don’t even know her! What about her friends? What about her parents?
Oh, actually, her parents are dead. And she doesn’t have any friends. (At least, that’s what National Enquirer said. But who can I believe any more?)
‘I thought you were about to have a breakdown,’ I say accusingly. ‘You were shaking … you were collapsing … you couldn’t even breathe …’
‘I’m an actor,’ says Lois with a shrug.
‘We’re actors.’ Sage nods. ‘We act.’
I cast my mind back to the Lois I caught shoplifting all those weeks ago – the timid wraith in the hoody. The trembling hands, the whispering voice, the flinching expression … That was acting? I mean, OK, I know I shouldn’t be surprised. Lois is one of the top actors in the world. But still. She looked so real. I almost want to ask her to do it again.
‘What about Luke?’ I turn to Sage. ‘Does he have any idea?’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Sage, after a pause. ‘Although he’s smart. He asked me straight out, was any of this fabricated? Of course I told him no. Has he said anything to you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He mustn’t know,’ says Lois. ‘He mustn’t know anything. Every attempt to fool the American public needs a level of plausible deniability.’
‘The President’s Woman,’ chimes in Sage, and high-fives Lois.
I knew I’d heard Lois say that somewhere before. It was when she played the Vice-President and wore all those pinstripe suits.
‘Luke is our level of plausible deniability,’ she’s saying now. ‘He and Aran both. They’re credible, they’re trustworthy …’
‘Luke’s great,’ says Sage, turning to Lois. ‘When this has simmered down, you should totally hire him. He has, like, all these ideas for strategy. And he’s such a gentleman.’
‘But Sage …’ I don’t quite know how to put it. ‘Inventing a feud with Lois can’t be part of Luke’s strategy, surely?’
‘So I had to go a little off the path.’ She tosses her hair back. ‘It worked, didn’t it? You mustn’t tell him,’ she adds. ‘You know what he thinks I should be doing? Charity work. Like, some trip to Darfur.’ She makes a disparaging face. ‘I told him I was researching landmines today. In fact, you can back me up!’ Her face brightens. ‘Tell him you called me and I was totally on the internet looking at charity websites.’
‘I can’t lie to Luke!’ I say in horror.
‘Well, you can’t tell Luke,’ retorts Sage.
‘Becky, you’re in this now,’ says Lois sternly. ‘And if you’re in it, you’re in it.’
That’s a quote from one of her movies, too, but I can’t remember which one. The Mafia one, maybe?
‘We’ll give you a break in styling,’ she continues. ‘You can dress us both for events. You’ll make contacts, it’ll be the real deal. But you cannot tell anyone.’ Her eyes are flashing at me. She’s got up from her chair and looks suddenly quite intimidating, like she did when she played that partner in a law firm who was also a serial killer. ‘You cannot tell anyone,’ she repeats.
‘Right.’ I swallow.
‘If you do, we’ll trash you.’
I have no idea what she means by ‘trash’ but it can’t be good.
‘Right,’ I say again, nervously.
Lois has already turned away and is tapping at a laptop. ‘Lois and Sage to appear on Camberly,’ she reads aloud. ‘It’s up! You should go, Becky,’ she adds to me. ‘Call your driver. The guard will let him in and he can back the SUV right up to the door. The press won’t see you. That’s what Sage did yesterday. And if your driver asks, tell him I wasn’t available. I was too ill. That’ll get around.’
‘Drivers know everything,’ chimes in Sage. ‘Hey, look, we made Fox News!’
The two of them are totally engrossed in the laptop. There’s no point me sticking around.
‘Well … bye then,’ I say, and reach for my phone. A few minutes later Mitchell and Jeff arrive at the front door in the blacked-out SUV and I slide in seamlessly, just as Lois described. It’s like the house was designed for discreet exits. As we make our way out of the gates, journalists start banging on the sides of the SUV and flashing cameras, shouting ‘Lois! Lois!’ until we manage to break free and drive off.
They thought I was her. The world has gone nuts. My head is still spinning and the blood is pulsing in my ears. What just happened there? What?
From: Kovitz, Danny
To: Kovitz, Danny
Subject: i’m so collld
* * *
so coooooooooollllld. can’ttt tyyype fingers agonynnn this issssn’t howexxpcteted
dddanananyyyy
SEVENTEEN
By the time Luke gets home that evening, I’m feeling calmer. The thing is, this is what Hollywood is like and you just have to get used to it. Yes, it seems completely freaky and messed up at first, but gradually it starts to feel more normal. They’re right. It is all a game. Everyone’s playing it, the stars, the journalists, the public, everyone. And if you don’t want to play, maybe you shouldn’t come to Hollywood.
On the plus side, Sage has been texting me all afternoon, and I’ve been texting back, and it’s like we’re best friends. I’m totally in the gang! Lois even texted me too, a few times. The forthcoming Camberly interview is already huge news, just as they said it would be. It’s been featured on every news website, and it’s all over the TV too, and the Sage-and-Lois soap opera is Topic A again.
They’ve been really clever. (At least, Lois has been really clever.) And now I’m part of it too! The best bit was this afternoo
n, when I was picking up the children from school. I’d already made quite an impression, what with Jeff and Mitchell and the blacked-out SUV. But then, when I was waiting at the pre-school door to get Minnie, Sage rang and I said, ‘Oh, hi Sage, how are you?’ just a bit more loudly than usual, and everyone turned to stare.
The only not-so-A-list thing is, all the photographers have disappeared from our gates, which is a bit disloyal of them. At least, not all. There’s one geeky Asian guy who is still hanging around. He has bleached-blond hair and today he was wearing a pink bomber jacket with tight black jeans and rubber ankle boots. I started to pose and he took a few snaps, then he beckoned me over and said excitedly, ‘You’re a friend of Danny Kovitz, right? The designer? Could you get me his autograph?’ It turns out his name is Lon and he’s a fashion-design student and he worships Danny. And now he worships me too because I’m a friend of Danny.
And OK, maybe I did play up to it a bit. Maybe I did promise to come out tomorrow morning wearing a vintage Danny Kovitz outfit (i.e. two years old) which never even hit the catwalks, and let him take a picture of it. The thing is, I like having photographers outside the house. It’s boring not to have any around.
I’m in the kitchen preparing an A-lister-type supper when Luke comes in. Dad must have come back at some point and he and Tarquin have gone out sightseeing – they left a note – and Suze is nowhere to be seen, so I guess she’s with them too. All the children are in bed and I’ve sent Jeff and Mitchell out for supper, so it’s just me and Luke, which is nice.
Now that I’m a rising Hollywood celebrity, I have to cook appropriately. We’ll probably need to get a chef or private juice-maker or something, but for now I’m making a very of-the-moment dish. Grain soup. It’s the latest thing. All the A-listers have it, plus I need to look thin for all my forthcoming appearances, and apparently it’s got some magic combination that boosts the metabolism.
Shopaholic to the Stars Page 29
