Shopaholic to the Stars

  ‘It hardly matters,’ he says. ‘It’s just the school run.’

  I blink at him in astonishment. Just the school run? Just the school run? Doesn’t he read US Weekly? Everyone knows the school run is the thing! It’s where the paparazzi snap celebrities acting like normal parents. It’s where people rock their casual looks. Even in London, all the mothers look one another up and down and dandle their bags on their arms in a showy-offy way. So how much more pressured will it be in LA, where they all have perfect teeth and abs, and half of them are genuine celebs?

  I’m going for the Oakleys, I decide, and slide them on. Minnie comes running into the hall, and I take her hand to survey our reflection in the mirror. She’s in a cute little yellow sundress and white sunglasses and her ponytail is held back with an adorable bumble-bee. I think we’ll pass. We look like an LA mother and daughter.

  ‘All set?’ I say to Minnie. ‘You’re going to have such a lovely time at pre-school! You’ll play games, and maybe make lovely cupcakes with sprinkles on …’

  ‘Becky.’ Luke tries again. ‘I was just looking under the bed and I found this.’ He holds up a garment carrier. ‘Is it yours? What’s it doing there?’

  ‘Oh.’

  I adjust Minnie’s ponytail, playing for time. Damn. Why is he looking under the bed? He’s a busy LA mover and shaker. How does he have time to look under beds?

  ‘It’s for Sage,’ I say at last.

  ‘For Sage? You’ve bought Sage a full-length fake-fur coat?’ He stares at me in astonishment.

  Honestly, he hasn’t even looked at it properly. It’s not full-length, it’s to mid-thigh.

  ‘I think it’ll suit her,’ I explain. ‘It’ll go with her hair colour. It’s a really different look for her.’

  Luke appears absolutely baffled. ‘But why are you buying her clothes? You don’t even know her.’

  ‘I don’t know her yet,’ I correct him. ‘But you are going to introduce us, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, at some point.’

  ‘So! You know I want to get into styling, and Sage would be the perfect client. So I’ve been putting some looks together for her. That’s all.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Luke’s face changes. ‘There were some other bags under the bed, too. Don’t tell me—’

  I curse myself silently. I should never, ever put anything under the bed.

  ‘Is that all shopping for Sage?’

  He looks so aghast, I feel defensive. First Suze, now Luke. Don’t they understand anything about setting up a business? Don’t they understand that to be a clothes stylist you need clothes? They wouldn’t expect me to be a tennis player and not have a tennis racket.

  ‘It’s not “shopping”! It’s essential business expenses. It’s like you buying paperclips. Or photocopiers. Anyway, I’ve used all those clothes for my portfolio, too,’ I add robustly. ‘I took some brilliant pictures of Suze. So actually, I’ve saved money.’

  Luke doesn’t seem convinced. ‘How much have you spent?’ he demands.

  ‘I don’t think we should talk about money in front of Minnie,’ I say primly, and take her hand.

  ‘Becky …’ Luke gives me a long, sort of sighing look. His mouth is tucked in at one side and his eyebrows are in a ‘V’ shape. This is another of Luke’s expressions I’m familiar with. It means: ‘How am I going to break this to Becky without her overreacting?’

  (Which is very unfair, because I never overreact.)

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘What is it?’

  Luke doesn’t answer straight away. He walks over to one of the monster armchairs and fiddles with a striped Mexican throw. You might almost say that he’s putting the armchair between himself and me.

  ‘Becky, don’t get offended.’

  OK, this is a rubbish way to start any conversation. I’m already offended that he thinks I’m someone who could get offended. And anyway, why would I be offended? What’s he going to say?

  ‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve been hearing some really good stuff about a place called …’ He hesitates. ‘Golden Peace. Have you heard of it?’

  Have I heard of it? Anyone who’s ever read People magazine has heard of Golden Peace. It’s the place where they wear bracelets and do yoga, and where celebrities dry out and then pretend they were just a little tired.

  ‘Of course I have. The rehab place.’

  ‘Not just rehab,’ says Luke. ‘They do a lot of programmes and deal with all kinds of … disorders. The guy I was talking to has a girlfriend who was a terrible hoarder. It was ruining her life. She went to Golden Peace and they really sorted out her issues. And I wondered if somewhere like that could be helpful. For you.’

  It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying.

  ‘Me? But I’m not a hoarder. Or an alcoholic.’

  ‘No, but you do …’ He rubs his nose. ‘You have had a history of spending issues, wouldn’t you agree?’

  I inhale sharply. That’s below the belt. Waaay below the belt. So I’ve had a few minor problems in my time. So I’ve had a couple of teeny financial blips. If I were a FTSE company you’d call them ‘corrections’ and just shove them at the back of the annual report and forget about them. Not drag them up at every opportunity. Not suggest rehab.

  ‘So, what, I’m an addict now? Thanks a lot, Luke!’

  ‘No! But—’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re making these accusations in front of our child.’ I clasp Minnie to me dramatically. ‘What, you think I’m an unfit mother?’

  ‘No!’ Luke rubs his head. ‘It was just an idea. Nanny Sue suggested the same, remember?’

  I glare at him balefully. I don’t want to be reminded of Nanny Sue. I’m never hiring a so-called ‘expert’ again. Her brief was to help us with Minnie’s behaviour, and what did she do? Turn the spotlight on me. Start talking about my behaviour, as if that’s got anything to do with anything.

  ‘Anyway, Golden Peace is an American place.’ I suddenly think of a winning argument. ‘I’m British. So.’

  Luke looks perplexed. ‘So what?’

  ‘So, it wouldn’t work,’ I say patiently. ‘If I had issues, which I don’t, they’d be British issues. Totally different.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Want Grana,’ chimes in Minnie. ‘Want Grana make cupcakes. Please. Pleeease.’

  Both Luke and I stop mid-flow and turn in surprise. Minnie has sunk down cross-legged on to the floor and looks up, her bottom lip trembling. ‘Want Grana make cupcakes,’ she insists, and a tear balances on her lashes.

  Grana is what Minnie calls my mum. Oh God, she’s homesick.

  ‘Darling!’ I put my arms around Minnie and hug her tight. ‘Sweetheart, lovely girl. We all want to see Grana, and we’ll see her very soon, but right now we’re in a different place and we’re going to make lots of new friends. Lots of new friends,’ I repeat, almost to convince myself.

  ‘Where’s this come from?’ murmurs Luke above Minnie’s head.

  ‘Dunno.’ I shrug. ‘I suppose because I mentioned making cupcakes with sprinkles, and she often makes cupcakes with Mum …’

  ‘Minnie, my love.’ Luke comes down on to the floor too, and sits Minnie on his knee. ‘Let’s look at Grana and say hello, shall we?’ He’s taken my phone from the carved chest, and summons up my photos. ‘Let’s see … there she is! Grana and Grandpa!’ He shows Minnie a picture of Mum and Dad dressed up for a Flamenco night at their bridge club. ‘And there’s Wilfie …’ He scrolls to another picture. ‘And Auntie Suze …’

  At the sight of Suze’s cheerful face beaming out of my phone, I feel a tiny pang myself. The truth is, although I keep denying it to Luke, I am feeling a bit lonely here in LA. Everyone seems so far away, there aren’t any neighbours to speak of, and I don’t have a job …

  ‘Say, “Hello, Grana!”’ Luke is cajoling Minnie, and after a moment she gives a little wave at the phone, her tears gone. ‘And you know what, da
rling? It may seem a bit scary here to begin with. But soon we’ll know lots of people in Los Angeles.’ He taps the screen. ‘Soon this phone will be full of pictures of all our new friends. It’s always hard at first, but we’ll settle in, I’m sure we will.’

  Is he talking to me or Minnie?

  ‘We’d better go.’ I smile gratefully at him. ‘Minnie has toys to play with and I have new friends to make.’

  ‘Attagirls.’ He hugs Minnie, then stands up to kiss me. ‘You knock ’em dead.’

  Minnie’s pre-school is somewhere off Franklin Avenue, and although I’ve driven there before, I arrive a bit flustered. God, driving in LA is stressy. I haven’t got used to our rental car yet, at all. All the controls seem to be in weird places and I keep hooting the horn by mistake. And as for driving on the right-hand side, well, that’s just wrong. It’s unnatural. Plus, the roads in LA are far too big. They have too many lanes. London is far cosier. You know where you are.

  At last I manage to park the car, which is a Chrysler and also far too big. Why couldn’t we have rented a Mini? I exhale, my heart still thumping, and turn to face Minnie, strapped into her car seat.

  ‘We’re here! Pre-school time! Are you excited, darling?’

  ‘Idiot American driver,’ replies Minnie equably.

  I stare at her, aghast. Where did she get that from? I did not say that. Did I?

  ‘Minnie, don’t say that! That’s not a nice word. Mummy didn’t mean to say it. Mummy meant to say … lovely American cars!’

  ‘Idiot,’ says Minnie ignoring me. ‘Idiot American driver, Idiot American driver …’ She’s singing it to the tune of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. ‘Idiot American dri-ver …’

  I cannot arrive at our first day at LA pre-school with Minnie singing ‘Idiot American driver’.

  ‘Idiot American dri-ver …’ She’s getting louder and louder. ‘Idiot American driiiiii-ver …’

  Could I pretend it’s a quaint old British nursery rhyme?

  No.

  But I can’t sit here all day, either. Other mothers with small children are getting out of their massive SUVs, all along the street. And we were supposed to arrive early today.

  ‘Minnie, while we’re walking to pre-school, you can have a biscuit!’ I say, raising my voice. ‘But we have to be very, very quiet, like mice. No singing,’ I add for emphasis.

  Minnie stops singing and eyes me suspiciously. ‘Biscuit?’

  Result. Phew.

  (And OK, I know it’s bad to bribe your children, so I’ll just feed her some extra green beans later, which will cancel it out.)

  Hastily I jump out of the car and unstrap her. I hand her a chocolate-chip cookie from my emergency stash and we start walking along the pavement.

  I mean, sidewalk. I must get used to that.

  As we near the pre-school, I’m looking all around for paparazzi, but I can’t see any. But then, they’re probably all hiding in bushes. There are a few mothers leading small children in through the gates, and I subtly scan their faces as we walk in with them.

  Hmm. I don’t think any of them are celebs, although they’re all toned and tanned with shiny hair. Most of them are in workout gear, and I make a mental note to wear that tomorrow. I so want to fit in. I want Minnie to fit in, and for both of us to make lots of friends.

  ‘Rebecca!’

  Erica is greeting us and I smile in relief to see a familiar face. Erica is about fifty, with straight red hair and very colourful clothes, like a character from a children’s film. She’s leader of the Toddler Program and has already sent me lots of emails about Transition and Separation, and the Joy of Learning and Self-Discovery, which I think means dressing up, only I don’t quite dare ask.

  ‘Welcome to your first day at Little Leaf, Minnie!’ she adds, and escorts us into the Toddlers’ Learning Center, which is basically a room full of toys like any playgroup in England, only here they call them ‘developmental aids’. ‘Did you manage to park all right?’ she adds, as she hangs Minnie’s water bottle on her peg. ‘I know some folks have had issues this morning.’

  ‘Oh, we were fine, thanks,’ I say. ‘No problems.’

  ‘Where’s the brake?’ says Minnie suddenly, and beams at Erica. ‘Where’s the bloody brake in this bloody stupid car?’

  My face flushes bright red.

  ‘Minnie!’ I say sharply. ‘Stop that! Where on earth did you— Gosh, I’ve got no idea—’

  ‘Idiot American dri-vers,’ Minnie starts singing to ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ again. ‘Idiot American dri-vers …’

  ‘Minnie!’ I practically yell. ‘Stop! No singing!’

  I want to die. I can see Erica hiding a smile, and a couple of assistants looking over. Great.

  ‘Minnie’s obviously a very receptive child,’ says Erica politely.

  Yes. Far too bloody receptive. I am never saying anything in front of Minnie, ever again.

  ‘Absolutely.’ I try to regain my cool. ‘Gosh, what a lovely sandpit. Go on, Minnie! Play with the sand!’

  ‘Now, as I explained to you, we at Little Leaf follow a transitional separation programme,’ says Erica, watching as Minnie plunges her hands joyfully into the sandpit. ‘This is the start of Minnie’s great journey of independence as a human in this world. These are her first steps away from you. They need to be at her own pace.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I’m slightly mesmerized by Erica. She sounds like she’s describing an epic trip around the world, not just a toddler going to playgroup.

  ‘So I ask you, Rebecca, to stay by Minnie’s side this first morning. Shadow her. Reassure her. Identify the exciting new discoveries she’s making; see the world at her level. Minnie will be wary to begin with. Introduce her slowly to the concept of life away from Mommy. Watch her gradually blossom. You’ll be amazed by her progress!’

  ‘Right. Fantastic.’ I nod earnestly.

  I can see another mother nearby, sitting with her blond, curly-headed boy. The mother is pin-thin and dressed in several layers of T-shirts (I happen to know that each one of those T-shirts costs a hundred dollars, something that Mum would never understand in a million years) and she’s watching intently as the little boy daubs paint on a sheet of paper.

  ‘Interesting colours, Isaac,’ she’s saying seriously. ‘I like the world you’ve made.’ As he smears paint on his face, she doesn’t flicker. ‘You’re expressing yourself on your own body,’ she says. ‘You made that choice, Isaac. We can make choices.’

  Blimey. They do take everything seriously here. But if I’m going to fit in, I’ll have to be like that too.

  ‘I’ll be around if you need me.’ Erica smiles. ‘Enjoy this first morning of simultaneous discovery!’

  As she heads over to another child, I turn my phone off. I’m feeling quite inspired by Erica. I’m going to be totally focused on Minnie and her morning.

  OK. Here’s the thing. It’s all very well Erica saying ‘stay with Minnie’. I honestly want to. I want to be like a mother dolphin and its young, gliding along together in a beautiful duo, simultaneously discovering the world.

  But the thing about mother dolphins is, they don’t have Lego to trip over, or playhouses to get in their way, or toddlers who can’t make up their mind which direction to go in. It took about three seconds for Minnie to get bored with the sandpit and rush outside to the yard, to play on a trike. I’d just about got outside, stumbling over a box of blocks, when she changed her mind, dashed back in and grabbed a dolly. Then she ran outside to hurl the dolly down the slide. She’s been in and out about ten times. I’m puffed out, just keeping up with her.

  All the time, I’ve tried to keep up a stream of encouraging, reassuring chatter, but Minnie could not be less interested. All her anxiety from this morning seems to have disappeared, and when I tried to hug her tight just now, she wriggled away, exclaiming, ‘No hug, Mummy! Toys!’

  ‘So, you’re discovering … er … gravity!’ I say, as she drops a toy bear on the floor. ‘Brilliant, darling! Now, a
re you going to express yourself through water?’ Minnie has headed over to the water tray and is swishing it around with abandon. ‘You’ve made the choice to splash yourself … Argh!’ I cry out as Minnie sloshes water into my face. ‘You’ve made the choice to get me wet, too. Wow. That was an … interesting choice.’

  Minnie isn’t even listening. She’s run over to the playhouse, which is quite adorable, like a little gingerbread cottage. Hastily I follow her, almost tripping on the squidgy colourful alphabet matting.

  ‘Now you’re in the house!’ I say, racking my brains for something to say. ‘You’re discovering … er … windows. Shall I come in, too?’

  ‘No,’ says Minnie, and slams the door in my face. She looks out of the window and scowls. ‘No Mummy! Minnie house!’ She bangs the shutters closed, and I sink on to my heels. I’m exhausted. I can’t think of any other discoveries to identify to Minnie. I want a cup of coffee.

  I pick up a toy with wooden beads strung along coloured wires and idly start to fiddle with it. It’s quite a good game, actually. You have to get the different coloured beads into the four corners, which is harder than it sounds …

  ‘Rebecca?’

  Guiltily I jump up, dropping the game on to the playmat. ‘Oh, hi, Erica!’

  ‘How’s Minnie doing?’ Erica beams. ‘Is she learning to take those gradual steps away from you?’

  ‘She’s playing in the house,’ I say with a smile, and open the shutters – but the house is empty. Shit. ‘Well, she was in the house …’ I cast my eyes around wildly. ‘Oh, there she is.’

  Minnie has linked arms with another little girl and is marching her round the room, singing ‘My Old Man’s A Dustman’, which my dad taught her. I try to follow them, but it’s not easy, what with toddler trucks and jumbo foam blocks all over the place.

  ‘Well done, darling!’ I call. ‘You’re expressing yourself through song! Er … do you want to tell Mummy how you feel about that?’

  ‘No,’ says Minnie, and before I can catch her, she runs out into the yard, climbs to the top of the slide and gazes down triumphantly.