Shopaholic to the Stars

  ‘I thought I’d come along to support you.’ He eyes me in amazement as I stagger towards him. ‘You’re making incredibly good time. I didn’t realize you were so fit!’

  ‘Oh.’ I wipe my sweaty face. ‘Right.’ I hadn’t even thought about how quickly I was going. The whole race has been a blur of chasing turquoise baseball caps.

  ‘Did you get my text?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘About Sage pulling out.’

  I stare up at him blankly, the blood still pumping in my ears. Did he just say …

  ‘She sends her apologies,’ he adds.

  ‘You mean … she’s not in the race?’ I manage. ‘At all?’

  I’ve been chasing all those turquoise baseball caps for nothing?

  ‘A friend of hers decided to take a bunch of pals on a trip to Mexico,’ says Luke. ‘She and her whole team are on a plane as we speak.’

  ‘The whole team have pulled out?’ I’m trying to make sense of this. ‘But they trained! They went to Arizona!’

  ‘Maybe they did. But they pretty much move in a pack,’ he says dryly. ‘If Sage says, “Let’s go to Mexico,” they go to Mexico. Becky, I’m sorry. You must be disappointed.’ He touches my shoulder. ‘I know you only ran the race to meet Sage.’

  His sympathy hits a nerve in me. Is that what he thinks? I mean, I know it’s the truth, but it shouldn’t be what he thinks. Husbands should think the best of their wives, as a matter of principle.

  ‘I didn’t “only run the race to meet Sage”!’ I say, drawing myself up tall with an affronted expression. ‘I did it because I love running and I wanted to support the charity. I hadn’t even thought about whether Sage was in the race or not.’

  ‘Ah.’ Luke’s face flickers. ‘Well, then, bravo. Not much longer to go.’

  As it hits me, my heart plummets. I haven’t finished. Oh God. I can’t run any more. I just can’t do it.

  ‘It’s four miles more.’ Luke is consulting a race map. ‘You’ll do that in no time!’ he adds cheerfully.

  Four miles? Four whole miles?

  As I look at the road ahead, my legs feel wobbly. My feet are aching. Runners are still pounding by, but the thought of getting back into the fray fills me with dread. A guy in a turquoise baseball cap powers by, and I scowl at him. I’ll be happy if I never see a turquoise baseball cap again.

  ‘I’d better limber up before I start again,’ I say, playing for time. ‘My muscles are cold.’

  I lift up my foot to do a quad stretch. I count very slowly up to thirty, and then do the other side. Then I flop down and let my head dangle in front of my knees for a couple of minutes. Mmm. This is nice. Maybe I’ll stay here for a while.

  ‘Becky?’ Luke’s voice penetrates my consciousness. ‘Sweetheart, are you OK?’

  ‘I’m stretching,’ I inform him. I raise my head, stretch out my triceps, and then do a few yoga-type poses I’ve seen Suze do. ‘Now I’d better hydrate,’ I add. ‘It’s really important.’

  I reach for a cup of water and sip it slowly, then fill another and hand it to a passing runner. I might as well be helpful, while I’m here. I fill a few more cups with water, ready to hand out, and straighten a stack of energy bars. There are empty wrappers everywhere, so I begin to gather them up and put them in the bin. Then I re-tie a couple of balloons which have come loose and adjust some streamers. Might as well make the stand look tidy.

  I suddenly notice that the guy behind the water stand is staring at me as though I’m insane.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he says. ‘Shouldn’t you be running?’

  I feel a bit indignant at his tone. I’m helping him. He could be more grateful.

  ‘I’m on a stretch break,’ I explain, and look up to see that Luke is surveying me quizzically.

  ‘You must be pretty well stretched out,’ he says. ‘Are you going to start running again now?’

  Honestly. All this pressure to run the whole time.

  ‘I just need to …’ I interlace my fingers and stretch them out. ‘Mmm. I have a lot of tension there.’

  ‘Lady, you’re gonna miss the whole thing,’ says the waterstand guy. He gestures at the road. ‘That’s the last bunch.’

  It’s true: the race is thinning out by now. Only the last few stragglers are left. The spectators are drifting away, too. The whole atmosphere is kind of melting away. I can’t put it off any more.

  ‘Right.’ I try to sound positive. ‘Well, I’ll just quickly run those last four miles, then. Shouldn’t take long. Great.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll just get going, then.’

  ‘Or …’ says Luke, and my head jerks up.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘I was wondering, Becky. If you didn’t mind slowing your pace to mine, maybe we could walk it? Together?’

  ‘Walk it?’

  He puts his hand over the barrier and clasps mine. By now, we’re practically the only people around. Behind us, workmen are beginning to dismantle the barricades and pick up litter with special sticks.

  ‘Not often we get a chance to walk in LA,’ he adds. ‘And we’ve got the street to ourselves.’

  I want to expire with relief.

  ‘Well, OK,’ I say after a pause. ‘I don’t mind walking. Although obviously I would very much have preferred to run.’

  ‘Obviously.’ He shoots me an amused little grin, which I ignore. ‘Shall we?’

  We start to walk along, picking our way through the paper cups and energy-bar wrappers left everywhere. I tighten my fingers around his and he squeezes my hand back.

  ‘Come this way.’ Luke leads me to the right, off the street and on to the pavement, or sidewalk, as I must start calling it. ‘You know where we are?’

  ‘Hollywood? Los Angeles?’ I look at him suspiciously. ‘Is this a trick question?’

  Luke makes no answer, just nods down at the ‘sidewalk’. And suddenly I get it.

  ‘Oh!’ I look down with a beam. ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘I know.’

  We’re standing on the stars. The Hollywood Walk of Fame, which I’ve seen a million times on TV, but never for real. I feel as though Luke has put it there especially as a present for me, all shiny and pink.

  ‘Edward Arnold!’ I exclaim, reading a name and trying to sound reverent. ‘Wow! Um …’

  ‘No idea,’ says Luke. ‘Someone famous. Clearly.’

  ‘Clearly.’ I giggle. ‘And who’s Red Foley?’

  ‘Bette Davis,’ says Luke, pointing at another star. ‘Will that do you?’

  ‘Ooh! Bette Davis! Let me see!’

  For a while I do nothing but dart backwards and forwards, looking for famous names. This is the most Hollywoody thing we’ve done yet, and I don’t care that we’re being total saddo tourists.

  At last, we resume walking along, checking off famous names every now and again.

  ‘I’m sorry about your job.’ Luke squeezes my hand. ‘That’s bad luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I shrug. ‘But, you know, I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe actually it’s for the best. Bob Hope,’ I add, pointing at his star.

  ‘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

  FIVE

  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 sh
e’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.