‘Darling, are you all right?’ I turn to see him with Aran and two women I don’t recognize, and Sage, who is wearing a silver dress and matching shoes and her hair in a sixties beehive.
‘If that bitch gets it,’ she’s saying furiously. ‘If that crazy bitch gets it …’
‘Sage, calm down,’ Aran murmurs.
‘Having fun?’ says Luke.
‘Yes!’ I say, still glowing. ‘We’re having a great time! Hi, Aran; hi, Sage …’
While I’m introduced to the two women, Sage flops down on a chair, furiously tapping at her phone.
‘What’s up?’ I say quietly to Luke.
‘Lois Kellerton,’ he murmurs back. ‘Florence Nightingale. I have a feeling Lois’s going to get the role. Just don’t mention it, OK?’
‘Oh.’ I feel an uncomfortable twinge. ‘All right.’
I can feel Suze’s eyes burning into me, and I know what she’s trying to say: I should tell Luke that I’m going to start working with Lois Kellerton. She’s right. I should. Only I’m not quite sure how to do it in front of Sage.
Could I text him?
I get out my phone, open a text and start typing:
Luke. I have a new client. It’s Lois Kellerton.
No. Too blunt. I delete the whole thing and try again:
Luke, I have an amazing new opportunity which I don’t want to mention out loud. And I hope you’ll be pleased for me. I THINK you’ll be pleased for me. There may be a very slight conflict of interest, but we can always build Chinese walls, and
Damn. I’ve run out of room. I’m just backspacing again, when Sage looks up from her own phone.
‘Cute purse,’ she says, spying the Art Deco bag and pulling it towards her. ‘Is that yours, Becky?’
Shit. Shit.
‘Oh. Um …’ As I’m working out how to answer, Luke plunges in.
‘That’s one of Becky’s work purchases,’ he says. ‘You know she’s a stylist, Sage? She’s worked at Barneys and at a major store in London. Remember, I was telling you about her work yesterday.’
‘I do,’ says Aran, looking up from his phone. ‘We couldn’t get you to shut up about it.’ He winks at me, then resumes tapping at his phone.
I can’t help feeling touched. I had no idea Luke was bigging up my work.
Sage’s brow has wrinkled as though she’s recalling a distant memory from a past life.
‘Sure,’ she says vaguely. ‘You told me. So who is this purse for?’
‘I think it might, in fact, be for you!’ Luke’s eyes twinkle. ‘Am I right, Becky?’
No. Nooooooo!
Disaster. Total disaster. Why didn’t I hide it under the table?
‘Um …’ I clear my throat. ‘Actually—’
‘For me?’ Sage’s face lights up. ‘How cool. It matches my dress.’
Is she crazy? It’s totally the wrong silver.
‘The thing is— It’s not—’ I reach for the bag, but it’s too late. Sage has stood up and is trying it out, posing as though she’s on the red carpet. I meet Suze’s eyes – and she looks as horrified as I feel.
‘I think you’ve scored a hit, Becky,’ says Luke, looking delighted. ‘Bravo.’
‘The thing is, it’s for a client,’ I say awkwardly. ‘I’ve promised it to her. Sorry. I can try to get you another one like it.’
‘Which client?’ Sage looks put out.
‘Just a … um … this girl …’ I’m knotting my fingers. ‘You wouldn’t know her …’
‘Well, tell her you lost it.’ Sage pouts winsomely. ‘It’s too cute. I have to have it.’
‘But I’ve promised it to her …’ I try to swipe it, but she dances away.
‘Mine, now!’
Before I can stop her, she’s moving into a cluster of guys in black tie. The next moment she’s gone.
‘Luke!’ I let out all my stress by banging the table. ‘How could you? You’ve ruined everything! That clutch wasn’t for her!’
‘Well, I’m very sorry, but I thought I was helping you!’ he replies hotly. ‘You’ve been telling me for weeks how you want to be Sage’s stylist.’
‘I do! But I’ve got this other client—’
‘Who is this other client?’ He doesn’t look convinced. ‘Does she even exist?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, who is it?’ He turns to Suze. ‘Do you know this client?’
‘I think Becky needs to tell you herself,’ says Suze in disapproving tones.
‘Er … Luke,’ I say with a small gulp. ‘Let’s go to the bar.’
As we make our way to the bar, I’m lurching between two feelings. Glee that I’ve finally got a client, and dread at having to tell Luke. Glee–dread–glee–dread … My head is spinning and my hands are clenched and my legs are shaking, and altogether I’m glad when we reach the bar.
‘Luke, I have something to tell you,’ I blurt out. ‘It’s good but it’s not good. Or it may not be good. Or …’ I’ve run out of possibilities. ‘I need to tell you,’ I finish lamely.
Luke eyes me for a moment without saying anything.
‘Is this a stiff drink kind of a something?’ he says at last.
‘It could be.’
‘Two gimlets,’ he instructs the barman. ‘Straight up.’
Luke quite often orders for me, which is because I can never decide what to have. (Mum’s the same. Phoning for a Chinese honestly takes about an hour in our house.)
‘So, the good news is, I’ve got a client.’
‘So you said.’ Luke raises his eyebrows. ‘Well done! And the bad news?’
‘The bad news is …’ I screw up my face. ‘My client is Lois Kellerton.’
I’m bracing myself for Luke to explode, or frown, or maybe bang his fist on the bar and say, ‘Of all the movie stars in all the towns …’ and stare murderously into the middle distance. But instead he looks puzzled.
‘So?’
I feel a little indignant. How can he look so calm when I’m tying myself up in knots?
‘So! Sage will be livid! I’ll be on Team Lois and you’ll be on Team Sage and it’ll all kick off and—’
‘It will not kick off.’ Finally, Luke does sound angry. ‘I’m not having this any more! The so-called feud is over. Sage is a grown woman and she needs to start acting with a little dignity and maturity.’ He glowers at me, as though it’s my fault.
‘It’s not just her,’ I say, to be fair. ‘It’s both of them. Lois wore the same dress as Sage to an event, and then Sage bailed out of this charity thing—’
‘Whatever.’ Luke cuts me off. ‘It’s over. And as for your career, you are an independent woman, and if Sage has any problem at all with you working for Lois Kellerton, she can answer to me. OK?’
He sounds so forthright I feel a glow of pleasure. I knew all along he’d support me. (Well, I kind of knew.) Our drinks arrive, and Luke lifts his up to clink mine.
‘To you, Becky. First client in Hollywood. Bravo. I hope for your sake she’s not as nutty as my client.’
I can’t help giggling. It’s so unlike Luke to diss his clients – he’s usually far too discreet.
‘So, is Sage difficult to work with?’
Luke closes his eyes briefly, and takes a swig of his drink. As he opens them, he’s smiling wryly.
‘Trapped inside that gorgeous, curvaceous body is a spoiled teenage girl with arrested development and the biggest sense of entitlement I’ve ever come across. And I’ve worked with bankers,’ he adds, rolling his eyes.
‘She’s worse than bankers?’ I say, playing along.
‘She thinks she should be able to do exactly as she likes. All the time.’
‘Can’t movie stars do what they like?’
‘Some can. When they reach a certain level.’ Luke takes another gulp. ‘Sage thinks she’s Hollywood royalty. But she’s not. Not yet. Her trouble is, she had very easy, very early success and nothing since has quite matched up to it.’
‘So how can she get t
hat success again?’
‘That’s what we’re working on. But it’s a work in progress.’ Luke gives that wry smile again. ‘Believe me, even the most obnoxious hedge-fund types in London are less of a pain in the butt than Sage Seymour. When I speak to boards of directors, they listen. We agree an action plan. We put it in motion. When I speak to Sage … who knows if she’s even listening?’
‘Well, Aran thinks you’re brilliant,’ I say. ‘He told me so the other day.’
‘Aran’s great.’ Luke nods. ‘We see eye to eye, at any rate.’ He lifts his glass up again. ‘And that’s why, my darling, I hope for your sake that your client is less nutty than mine.’
I grin at him as I sip my drink. It’s nice to have a proper chat, the two of us. These last few weeks have been such a whirlwind, I’ve barely seen Luke, let alone spent time together as a couple. I’m about to share this thought with Luke, when a guy in a tuxedo with long, glossy dark hair passes by. He must surely have used hair straighteners and about a whole bottle of product. I glance at Luke and see that he’s noticed the guy, too.
‘Shall I grow my hair like that?’ he says, his mouth barely twitching.
‘Yes!’ I say with emphasis. ‘Definitely! I loved it when you had long hair.’ I lean over to stroke his hair. ‘I adore your hair. The more of it, the better.’
When we went on honeymoon, Luke let his hair grow and even had little plaits. But as soon as we got back to London he whipped it all off again. I’ve always thought that Long-hair Luke was slightly different from Short-hair Luke. More relaxed.
‘You should wear long hair and flip-flops to work,’ I suggest. ‘That’s the LA way.’
‘British men don’t wear flip-flops to work,’ he says firmly.
‘You’re an Angeleno now,’ I retort.
‘Hardly!’ says Luke, laughing.
‘Well, nearly. And Minnie’s definitely a mini-Angeleno. She loves coconut water. And you know she has lessons in yoga at pre-school? She’s two and she’s doing Kundalini yoga. They start by studying Sanskrit and they waft saffron scent through the air and then the teacher asks each of them to vocalize what the session means to them.’
‘What does Minnie say?’ asks Luke, with interest.
‘I’ve only sat in on one session,’ I admit. ‘She said, “Bum bum bum”.’
‘Bum bum bum!’ Luke splutters into his drink. ‘Our articulate child.’
‘It was pretty accurate!’ I’m starting to laugh myself. ‘They were doing Downward Dog. You should do Kundalini yoga, too, you know,’ I add to Luke teasingly. ‘When you’ve grown your hair down to your waist and bought a pair of baggy trousers you’ll fit in perfectly.’
‘D’you want to fit in perfectly, Becky?’ As Luke holds my gaze, he seems to be asking me a bigger question.
‘I … don’t know,’ I say. ‘Yes. Of course. Don’t you?’
‘Maybe,’ says Luke, after a pause. ‘Strange place, this. Some bits I relate to. Others, not so much.’
‘Well, everywhere’s like that,’ I point out. ‘Remember when you did that job with those designers in Hoxton? You kept telling me how different they were from City people.’
‘Touché.’ He grins, and finishes his gimlet. ‘Had you better go and see to your client?’
‘She won’t be my client if I can’t get that clutch bag back off Sage,’ I say, anxiously scanning the crowds of people. ‘Can you somehow distract Sage and I’ll grab it?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Come on.’
As we start back across the ballroom, there’s a booming fanfare over the loudspeaker system and a deep voice says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen! The Actors’ Society Awards are about to start. Please take your seats.’
I’m searching all around for a flash of silver, but without any joy. People are pressing back into the ballroom from outside, and it’s getting pretty chock-full. And now there’s a crush of photographers as some major celeb enters the room.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ comes the boomy voice again. ‘Please take your seats for tonight’s awards!’
I feel a tap on my shoulder and wheel round sharply, hoping it’s Sage. But it’s Lois.
‘Becky, I was looking for you,’ she says in that soft voice. ‘We were interrupted.’
I can’t reply. I’m staring in shock. She’s holding the Art Deco clutch. How did that happen?
‘Where did you get that?’ I blurt out.
‘It was lying on a table. You know, there was a champagne glass balanced on top of it.’ She smiles in mock reproof. ‘You should take better care of such a lovely thing. I have to go present an award, but I’ll see you later, OK?’ She twinkles at me, then hurries off.
In a slight daze, I return to our table and sink into my seat.
‘What happened?’ demands Suze. ‘You’ve been ages!’
‘It’s OK. Luke’s fine with everything and Lois’s got the clutch.’
‘Nicely done,’ applauds Luke.
‘Thanks.’ I beam at him, finally relaxing. ‘So, what are these awards all about?’ I reach for the programme and flip through it. ‘Best Debut. Suze, you could win that!’
‘They should have Best Background Artist,’ says Suze, looking up from her programme in dissatisfaction. ‘We’re the backbone of the film industry. Why don’t we have our own Oscar? Tarkie!’ she exclaims as he sits down. ‘I want you to sponsor a new awards ceremony. For background actors.’
‘Ahm …’ Tarquin looks wary. ‘Maybe.’
‘The big corporations don’t care about us. But where would they be without the talent and commitment of the background artist?’ Suze sounds like she’s about to organize a rally. ‘Where would their blockbusters be then? We need recognition. We need respect!’
‘And you want to win a prize,’ I put in.
‘It’s not about that,’ she says severely. ‘I’m simply speaking out on behalf of my community.’
‘But you would win a prize.’
‘I might do.’ She preens herself. ‘We could have statues like the Oscars, but silver.’
‘And call them “Suzes”.’
‘Shut up!’ She pokes me. ‘Although, actually … why not?’
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ The deep boomy voice is back, and spotlights start circling the whole room. ‘Welcome to this year’s Actors’ Society Awards. Please welcome your host, Billy Griffiss!’
Applause breaks out as music erupts from the loudspeakers, and Billy Griffiss comes running down a set of lit-up steps, on to the stage. (I’m not exactly sure who he is. Maybe a comedian.) He starts his speech, but I’m only half listening.
‘Sage!’ says Aran, as she approaches the table, all glittery under the circling spotlights. ‘We lost you there. You need a drink, honey?’
‘I’ve been looking for my purse,’ says Sage, looking cross. ‘I just had it. I put it down, and it was gone.’
‘Never mind,’ says Suze quickly. ‘I don’t think it went with your dress, actually.’
‘And now, to present our first award, may I introduce a young lady who has done more for the share price of Kleenex than any other actor. We’ve seen her on the scaffold, we’ve seen her marooned in space, and now we’re going to see her right here. The queen of the weepie … Miss Lois Kellerton!’
The theme tune to Tess blasts through the loudspeakers, and Lois appears at the top of the lit-up steps. She looks slim and ethereal and beautiful … and she’s holding the Art Deco bag.
Shit.
OK. Think. Quickly. The important thing is that Sage doesn’t look at the stage and see the clutch.
‘Sage!’ I say wildly. ‘I need to speak to you. Now.’
I can see Suze clocking the silver bag in Lois’s hand, and her eyes widen in comprehension.
‘Ow!’ She rubs at her chest vigorously. ‘I don’t feel great. Sage, have I got a rash? Could you look at my skin?’
Puzzled, Sage peers at Suze’s chest.
‘You’re good,’ she says, and turns back to the s
tage.
‘Sage!’ I hurry over to her chair and kneel down, forcing her to look away from the stage. ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea for a dress! With a fishtail and a kind of … bodice …’
‘Sounds great.’ Sage turns away. ‘We’ll talk about it later. I want to watch Lois mess this up.’
‘And the nominations are …’ Lois is saying. She’s standing at the lectern by now, and the clutch is resting on top of it in plain view.
‘She’s so skinny,’ Sage is saying pityingly, plumping up her own cleavage. ‘She has such a sad little body. She’s—’ Her eyes suddenly narrow. ‘Wait. Is that my purse?’ She gasps so loudly, heads turn at the next table. ‘Is that my purse? Did that witch steal my purse?’
‘No!’ I say hastily. ‘It was just a mix-up, I’m sure …’
‘Mix-up? She stole it!’ To my horror, Sage leaps to her feet. ‘Give me back my purse, Lois!’ she yells.
‘Oh Jesus,’ says Aran, and meets Luke’s eyes.
‘What is she doing?’ Luke looks absolutely appalled.
Lois pauses in the reading, and peers uncertainly out into the audience. Sage is striding to the stage, her eyes flashing. To my disbelief she mounts the podium, her dress sparkling under the spotlights.
‘That’s my purse,’ she says, grabbing it off the lectern. ‘You’re a thief, Lois. A common little thief.’
‘No.’ Aran bangs his head down on the table, as all the photographers rush forward and start snapping.
‘I didn’t steal anything.’ Lois looks flabbergasted. ‘This was given to me by my stylist, Rebecca.’
‘She gave it to me,’ Sage retorts, opening it up. ‘Oh, look. My phone. My lipstick. My lucky charm. Now are you going to tell me this is your purse?’
Lois stares in bewilderment at Sage’s stuff. Then she glances up, her eyes huge and anxious.
‘I was given it,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’
My legs trembling, I rise to my feet and call out, ‘It’s my fault! I promised it to both of you! I’m really sorry …’
But no one takes any notice, even though I’m waving my arms, trying to get their attention.
‘Now, ladies, I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding,’ Billy Griffiss is saying. ‘It reminds me of the calendar thief. Did you hear about him? He got twelve months and they say his days are numbered.’ He laughs loudly at his own joke, but if he’s hoping for anyone to join in, he’s out of luck. Everyone is watching Sage, riveted. Two guys in headsets have approached her, but she keeps batting them off.