‘She wanted to know if you’d ever shoplifted yourself,’ says Mum. ‘The idea! I said absolutely never, unless you count the time you came home from Hamleys with six pairs of dollies’ shoes in your pockets. But you were only three, bless you. We sent them back in an envelope, remember?’
‘You didn’t tell her that!’ I wail. God knows what they’ll write now. ‘Mum, can I speak to Dad? Is he driving?’
‘No, Martin’s doing this stretch. I’ll put you on.’
There’s a scuffling noise, then I hear my father’s voice, deep and reassuring.
‘How’s my little Becky? Plunged into another kerfuffle, I see! Are the media stationed outside your house as we speak?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Ah. Well, you know the only thing worse than being talked about, don’t you?’
‘Not being talked about,’ I answer, with a smile. Dad always has some little saying for each occasion.
‘If you need us to fly over and give you our support, I’m sure your mother will be only too happy to buy a new outfit for the occasion.’
‘Dad!’ I can’t help laughing.
‘Seriously, Becky.’ His voice changes. ‘Are you all right? And Minnie?’
‘We’re fine.’
‘Because we will come, if you need us. The next flight we can.’
‘I know,’ I say, touched. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. But can you stop Mum talking to the press?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ he says. ‘Now, apart from foiling shoplifters and becoming a global media sensation, is life all right in Hollywood? Sun not too warm? Sky not too blue?’
‘It’s all fine.’ I laugh again.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to look up that old friend of mine?’
Damn. Damn. I totally meant to do that. This is the second time he’s had to remind me. I feel terrible.
‘Dad, I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘It just slipped my mind. But I will, I promise …’
‘Darling, please don’t worry! You’re very busy. I know that.’
He’s so understanding, I feel worse than ever.
‘I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘I absolutely promise.’
As I put the phone down, I’m thinking hard. I can see another news van pulling up outside the gates and Aran’s words are running through my brain: Don’t leave it too long. The heat won’t last for ever.
‘Your parents OK?’ says Luke, coming back into the hall.
‘Yes, fine. Except my mother gave an interview to the Daily World. It’s OK,’ I add quickly at his appalled expression. ‘I’ve told her not to say any more.’
‘Right, well.’ He sighs. ‘Can’t be helped. Now, I’ve drafted a statement which I think we should release in an hour or two. I’ll send it over to Aran’s legal team, check for any holes. If you don’t want to watch a movie why don’t you go and have a nice bath?’ he adds. ‘Take your mind off things.’
‘Actually, I have to go out,’ I say, trying to sound casual.
‘Out?’ Luke stares at me as though I’m insane. ‘What do you mean, out?’
‘I have to do something for my father. I have to look up his old friend Brent Lewis. Remember, he asked me to?’
‘Well, yes, I do, but … now?’
‘Why not now?’ I say, a little defiantly.
‘Because, look at that rabble!’ expostulates Luke, gesturing at the window. ‘If you set foot outside the gates, they’ll descend on you!’
‘Well, maybe I don’t care! Maybe it’s more important to me to do this favour for my father. Why should the press stop me leading my normal life?’ I’m getting quite stirred up here. ‘Why should I be trapped in my own home? What am I, a prisoner?’
‘Hardly a prisoner,’ says Luke impatiently. ‘I simply think that, just for today—’
‘I made my father a promise, Luke!’ I say, in an impassioned voice. ‘I’m going to see that promise through, whatever it takes. And no one’s going to stop me, not the press, not you, not no one!’
‘Fine,’ says Luke at last. ‘Whatever. If you really insist on doing this, then just get straight in the car and drive out. Don’t talk to the press.’
‘I won’t,’ I say.
‘Even if they try to get a rise out of you, ignore them.’ He shakes his head. ‘Becky, I still think you should stay inside.’
‘Luke,’ I say, my voice quivering a little. ‘You don’t understand. I have to do this. For my father. For myself. And for all of us.’
Before he can ask what I mean by that (I have no idea), I head up the stairs, feeling all noble, like a prince about to go into battle. Which, actually, this kind of is. And the point is: I have to win. This is my chance. My big, Hollywood, one-in-a-million, photo-opportunity chance.
Oh my God. What am I going to wear?
OK. It took me an hour and three mirrors and about two hundred pictures on my phone, but I’ve finally worked out the perfect, casual-but-cool outfit for facing the press. My most flattering white Stella McCartney cropped trousers with the little zips. Killer heels by D&G, and a bright-pink shell top from J Crew which will really stand out. And the pièce de résistance: these stunning oversized sunglasses which I found in the same shop I bought the diamanté clutch bag. They’re vintage Missoni and the frames are pink and green swirls. You can’t miss them. They’ll definitely be a talking point.
What I must do is make sure I stand in a flattering way as I’m opening the car door. Yes. And say things like, ‘Please leave me alone, no press, please, I’m just going about my day.’
I take out my Velcro rollers, give my lips a final touch-up, and examine my reflection. OK. Good. I must get outside quickly, before the press get bored and decide to leave. Luke has already gone out with Aran, to see Sage, and I heard the journalists all shouting as they drove away. And now it’s my turn! I feel like a gladiator about to go into the ring.
I tracked down an address for Brent Lewis after about six phone calls. Of course, his family doesn’t live at the address Dad gave me. But someone there had a number for his mother, and someone at that number said she’d moved to Pasadena, and there they said she’d gone to Florida, and so it went on, till I discovered that she actually died seven years ago. But by then I’d also been given a number for a sister called Leah, and through her I finally got an address for Brent – somewhere called the Shining Hill Home Estate, off the San Fernando Road. I’ve looked on the map and it’s in an area of LA I’ve never been to before. But that’s fine. I’ve got sat nav.
Minnie is playing some very disorganized ball game with the Cleath-Stuarts in the basement. I put my head round the door and say casually, ‘I’m just running an errand. See you later.’
‘Mine sunglasses,’ says Minnie at once, clocking the vintage Missonis. ‘Miiiiiiine.’
‘Minnie!’ I say sternly. ‘We don’t say “Mine”!’
‘Please,’ she amends at once. ‘Pleeeeeeease!’
‘No, darling.’ I give her a kiss. ‘They’re Mummy’s.’
‘Pleeeeease!’ She makes a determined swipe for them.
‘You have … er …’ I cast around and find a toy handbag, which I hand to her. ‘This.’
Minnie looks at it disdainfully. ‘So over,’ she enunciates carefully and throws it on the floor.
Oh my God. Did Minnie just say ‘So over’? I meet Suze’s eyes and we both give shocked giggles.
‘I didn’t teach her that,’ I say.
‘Nor did I!’ says Suze.
I glance at Clemmie – but she’s happily playing in a vest with one of Minnie’s skirts on her head. The Cleath-Stuart children wouldn’t have the first idea what ‘So over’ meant.
‘It was Ora,’ I say with sudden conviction. ‘She’s a bad influence on Minnie. I knew it!’
‘You don’t know it!’ objects Suze. ‘It could have been anyone.’
‘I bet it was her. Minnie, this bag is not over.’ I pick the bag up and hand it back to Minnie. ‘It’s a timeless classic. And we don’t th
row our bags on the floor, even if they are over.’
‘Where are you going?’ Suze is looking me up and down. ‘Nice shoes.’
‘Just looking up this guy for my dad.’
‘You know the place is still crawling with journalists?’
‘Yes.’ I try to sound nonchalant. ‘Never mind. I’ll just have to … er … ignore them.’
Suze gives me a sharp look. ‘Bex, have you curled your hair?’
‘No!’ I say defensively. ‘I mean … a bit. Just to put some body in. Is there anything wrong with that?’
Her eyes focus on my face. ‘Are you wearing false eyelashes?’
‘Just a couple,’ I say, flustered. ‘What is this, the third degree? Anyway, I have to go and run this errand. See you!’
I turn and rush up the stairs. At the front door I take three deep breaths, then push it open. Here we go. Celebrityville, here I come.
At once a barrage of voices hits me.
‘Becky! Beckeee! This way!’
‘Becky, have you been in touch with Lois?’
‘Have you spoken to the police?’
‘Becky! This way!’
Oh my God. There are twice as many journalists as there were before. The gates are about twenty metres away from the front door – tall, with iron bars and swirls – and there are camera lenses pointing at me through every gap. Just for an instant I want to duck back inside the house – but it’s too late now. I’m out.
The thing about having lots of photographers pointing their cameras at you, is they might take a picture at any time. I have to do everything in a flattering way. Sucking in my stomach and throwing my shoulders back, I make my way slowly towards the car, trying to ignore all the shouts.
‘Becky, can we have an interview?’ one man keeps yelling.
‘I’m just going about my daily life,’ I call, tossing my hair back. ‘Thank you.’
My car keys are in my pocket and I manage to get them out in a seamless move. I open the car door – making sure that my legs are crossed over in a Victoria Beckham-type pose – then get in. I close the door, and exhale. There. Done.
Except … What if none of them got a good shot?
Should I have gone closer to the gates? Should I have walked more slowly?
This is my one chance to be photographed by the world’s press in an iconic, defining picture that will be a talking point and launch my career as a Hollywood stylist. I think I need to get out of the car and do it again.
I ponder hard for a few seconds, then open the door and get out, as elegantly as I can. Trying to look as though I’m ignoring the photographers, I stroll right to the front of the drive and start to examine a hedge intently.
‘Becky! Beckee! This way!’
‘No press,’ I say, smoothing down my hair. ‘No press, thank you. I’m just going about my daily business.’
Casually, I take off my sunglasses and do my best sucked-in-cheeks, pouty expression. I swivel this way and that a few times, swinging my arms. Maybe I should open the gates, so they get a better view of my shoes. I zap the gates, and they slowly start to swing open.
‘Becky!’ A woman is waving a microphone in my direction. ‘Sharon Townsend, NBC. Tell us about seeing Lois shoplifting!’
‘Please respect my privacy,’ I say. ‘I’m just going about my daily business.’
A brilliant new idea hits me and I head over to the car. I heave myself up on to the bonnet, adopt a casual pose and get out my phone – I can be having a phone call in my own drive, while sitting on my car! What could be more natural than that?
‘Hi,’ I say into the phone. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’ I cross my legs at a more flattering angle and gesticulate animatedly with my sunglasses. ‘I know. Awful.’
The sound of cameras snapping is getting more and more frantic. I can’t help beaming with exhilaration. It’s really happening! I’m famous!
‘Becky, who are your shoes by?’ someone yells.
‘Please don’t intrude on my life,’ I reply graciously. ‘I’m just going about my daily business.’ I lift up my feet so everyone can see the cool silver heels, and turn them from side to side.
‘They’re by Yves Saint Laurent,’ I hear a woman say.
‘No they’re not!’ I forget my plan to say nothing, and hurry towards the open gates. ‘They’re Dolce and Gabbana. My top is J Crew and my trousers are Stella McCartney. And my sunglasses are vintage Missoni.’ Should I add ‘I’m available for styling at reasonable prices, please enquire within, no job too small’?
No. Too much.
‘What’s your message to Lois?’ A cluster of microphones arrives right in front of my nose.
‘Who did the clutch bag really belong to, Becky?’
‘Were there drugs in the bag? Is Lois an addict?’
OK, this is getting out of hand.
‘Thank you so much,’ I say, a little shrilly. ‘I’m just going about my daily business. I have an important errand to run. Thank you for respecting my privacy.’ Suddenly I remember about posture. I adjust my legs so they’ll look thinner, and put one hand on my hip like a supermodel.
‘What about your phone call?’ says a sardonic-looking guy in jeans.
Oh yes. The phone call. I’d forgotten about that.
‘Er … bye, then!’ I say into the phone, and hastily put it away. ‘Thank you,’ I add to the journalists. ‘Thank you so much. No press, please.’ Feeling a little hassled, I head towards the car, get out my keys and immediately drop them on the ground. Damn.
No way am I stooping down in front of a bank of cameras, so I cautiously bend my knees as though in a curtsey, keep my back dead straight and manage to hoik the keys up. I sink into the car, start the engine and carefully drive forward. The mob of journalists parts to let the car out, but the flashes and shouts keep coming, and someone even bangs on the roof.
As I finally escape, I sink back and exhale. That was only five minutes – and I’m exhausted. How do celebrities do it?
Anyway. The point is, I did it. Ten minutes later, my heart has stopped thumping and I’m feeling rather pleased with myself. I’m driving along the Hollywood Freeway, saying aloud, ‘Drive on the right. Drive on the right,’ and my sat nav is telling me to keep going straight on. Which is handy as I’m not in the correct lane to turn off anyway. The whizzy no-hands car phone suddenly buzzes with Luke’s number, and I press green for Answer.
‘Sweetheart. Hi. Did you get out OK?’
‘Yes, all good,’ I say. ‘I’m on the road.’
‘The press weren’t too aggressive?’
‘Er … no! They were fine.’
‘And you just got straight in the car and drove away?’
‘Pretty much.’ I clear my throat. ‘I mean, they might have got a few shots of me …’
‘I’m sure you did brilliantly, darling. It’s not easy, keeping your cool when you’re surrounded by cameras.’
‘How’s Sage?’
‘Manic,’ says Luke. ‘She’s had lots of offers already, and she wants to say yes to all of them.’
‘Offers of what?’
‘You name it. Interviews, film roles, nude magazine spreads, endorsement campaigns. All what you might call low-rent. Very much not what our strategy was all about. Not that she can see that.’
He sounds so exasperated, I want to giggle. I should imagine Sage Seymour is a bit of a change, after he’s been used to dealing with sensible businessmen in suits.
‘Well, good luck!’
‘You too. See you later.’
I ring off, and then dial Dad’s number.
‘Becky?’
‘Hi, Dad! Listen, I’m going to see your friend Brent. I’m in the car right now.’
‘Darling!’ Dad sounds surprised. ‘That was quick. I didn’t mean for you to drop everything.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ I say. ‘He’s based somewhere called the Shining Hill Home Estate, does that sound right?’
‘Sounds rather grand!’ says Dad. ‘That?
??ll be right. I’m sure he’s done very well for himself. He probably lives in a mansion.’
‘Really?’ I say, my interest piqued a little. ‘What does he do?’
‘I’m not sure. Back then, he was a postgraduate student.’
‘So how do you know he lives in a mansion?’ I object.
‘Oh, I’m certain he’s done all right for himself.’ Dad chuckles. ‘Let’s say, he was on the right path already— Oh, Becky!’ Dad interrupts himself. ‘Mum says, there’s a new picture of you on her phone on the internet! Standing outside your house. Is that you this morning, darling?’
‘Yes!’ I say in excitement. ‘Have they uploaded them already? What does it say?’
‘Witness Becky is pretty in pink,’ reads Dad carefully. ‘Brit set to testify in court. That’s on the National Enquirer website.’
National Enquirer! Pretty in pink! I feel a jolt of excitement. Although what’s this about testifying in court? I never said anything about that.
‘Do I look all right?’ I demand. That’s the main point.
‘You look wonderful! Ah now, Mum’s found another one: Becky steps out in YSL shoes.’
For God’s sake. I told them my shoes weren’t Yves Saint Laurent.
‘Darling, you’re quite the celebrity!’ says Dad. ‘Don’t forget us, will you?’
‘I won’t!’ I laugh, then jump as I see Luke flash up on the screen.
‘I’d better go, Dad. Talk to you later.’ I punch Answer. ‘Hi, Luke.’
‘Becky, my darling,’ he says, in that deadpan, patient tone he uses when he’s actually quite pissed off. ‘I thought you said you walked straight to the car and got in?’
‘Er … yes. Kind of.’
‘So why am I looking at a picture of you on the Daily World website, sitting on the car bonnet, brandishing your sunglasses and beaming at the camera?’
‘I was making a phone call,’ I say defensively. ‘I just happened to sit on the car. They must have snapped me.’
‘You happened to sit on the car?’ says Luke disbelievingly. ‘How does one happen to sit on a car?’
‘I was going about my daily life,’ I insist. ‘It’s not my fault if I’m being stalked and harassed by the press.’
‘Becky.’ Luke exhales. ‘What kind of game are you trying to play here? Because it’s a dangerous one. Once you invite these people into your life, it’s very difficult to shut them out again.