Shopaholic to the Stars (17 page)

‘The straps. Good. Perhaps you could share your meditation with us. Just … give us a stream of consciousness. Take us where your thoughts are going.’

‘OK.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m thinking that those straps look really comfortable but it depends how wide your shoulders are, doesn’t it? So then I’m wondering if I could try it after the class. And I’d prefer it in slate grey because I’ve already got a teal leather bag, but actually, I might give that to my friend Suze because she’s always liked it, and she’s coming out to visit me. In fact, she’s arriving today! And then I’m wondering if they stock them in Barneys because I’ve got a gift voucher for there, although I have also seen this
really
nice jacket for my daughter Minnie in the children’s department which I also want to get—’

‘Rebecca, stop!’ Mona holds up a hand, and I come to a halt in surprise. ‘Stop there!’

What’s wrong? I thought I was doing really well. I was much more interesting than Brian with his boring old grainy wood.

‘Yes?’ I say politely.

‘Rebecca … Let’s remind ourselves of what mindfulness means. It means we bring our attention to the present experience on a moment-to-moment basis.’

‘I know.’ I nod. ‘My present experience is thinking about that bag,’ I explain. ‘Is it by Alexander Wang?’

‘No, it’s 3.1 Phillip Lim,’ says the girl. ‘I got it online.’

‘Oh, right!’ I say eagerly. ‘Which site?’

‘I don’t think you understand.’ Mona cuts across me. ‘Rebecca, try to focus on just one aspect of the bag. As soon as you notice your mind wandering off, gently bring it back to the object of attention. OK?’

‘But my mind didn’t wander off,’ I protest. ‘I was thinking about the bag the whole time.’

‘I can send you the link,’ chimes in the dark-haired girl. ‘It’s a really great backpack. You can fit an iPad in it.’

‘Oh, can I try it on?’

‘Sure.’ The girl reaches for the bag.

‘People!’ Mona’s voice sounds a little sharp, and she immediately smiles as though to compensate. ‘Put the bag down! OK! Let’s … focus. Rebecca, I’m going to recommend that you leave the bag meditation for now. Instead, try to concentrate on your breathing. Just become aware of your breath, going in and out of your body. Don’t judge it … don’t judge yourself … just observe your breath. Can you do that?’

I shrug. ‘OK.’

‘Great! We’ll take five minutes’ meditation, all of us. Close your eyes if you’d like.’

The room lapses into silence, and I dutifully try to focus on my breath. In. Out. In. Out. In.

God, this is boring. What is there to think about breathing?

I know I’m not an expert on mindfulness, but surely meditation is supposed to make you feel good? Well, I’d feel
much
better if I was meditating on a lovely bag than on my breathing.

My eyes open and drift to the backpack. No one can tell what I’m meditating on. I’ll say it was my breath. They’ll never know.

Oh, I really do love it. The zips are so cool. And the point is, I should get it because backpacks are good for your posture. Suze will be delighted if I give her my Marc Jacobs. Surreptitiously I glance at my watch. I wonder where she is. At the airport, hopefully. Her plane should have landed by now and I’ve told her to come straight here for lunch. Thank God it isn’t all coconut water; they serve a decent decaf cappuccino and some really quite yummy carob brownies, and Suze said she’d bring me out some Lion bars …

‘And gradually bring your thoughts back to the group.’ Mona’s voice interrupts my meditation. Around the room, people open their eyes and stretch their legs and a couple yawn. Mona smiles at me. ‘How was that? Did you manage to keep your mind focused, Rebecca?’

‘Er … yes!’ I say brightly.

Which is sort of true. My thoughts
were
focused, just not on my breathing.

We end with a minute’s silent contemplation, and then file out of the room, into the grounds, blinking as we re-enter the bright sunlight. At once, everyone who was in the class switches their phones back on, and stares at them intently.
That’s
mindfulness, if you ask me. We should meditate on our phones. In fact, I might suggest it next week—

Yessss! A text bleeps in my phone, and I nearly whoop. It’s from Suze! She’s here!

OK, here’s the thing about Suze. She’s one of the most beautiful people I know, and I’m not being biased. She’s tall and slim and she has amazing clothes. She can totally shop for Britain and she once nearly modelled for
Vogue
. But she
does
tend to spend quite a lot of time in jodhpurs or jeans or some ancient old Barbour, especially now that she lives in the country all the time. So that’s what I’m expecting to see as I hurry towards the entrance gates. Suze in skinny jeans and ballet pumps, with maybe a nice linen jacket, and the children in their usual bumpy corduroy pinafores and shorts, handmade by Nanny.

What I’m not expecting to see is the vision before me. I have to blink to make sure it’s the Cleath-Stuarts. They look like some celebrity LA family. What’s
happened
?

Suze looks so spectacular I barely recognize her. For a start, she’s wearing teeny denim shorts. I mean, really, really teeny. Her legs are long and brown and her pedicured feet are in Havaianas. Her long hair is blonder than usual (has she bleached it?) and she’s wearing the most amazing pair of Pucci sunglasses. The children look super-cool, too. The two boys are wearing bomber jackets and gel in their hair and Clementine is rocking teeny little skinny jeans with a vest top.

For a moment I can’t do anything except blink in astonishment. Then Suze sees me and starts waving frantically, and I come to life again and rush forward.

‘Suze!’

‘Bex!’

‘You made it!’ I fling my arms around her, then hug all the children in turn. ‘Suze, your
clothes
!’

‘Are they OK?’ Suze says at once, anxiously, and brushes at her micro-shorts. ‘I wanted to fit in. Do I look all right?’

‘You look phenomenal! Did you spray that tan on?’ I spot an inked dolphin on her ankle and gasp. ‘Suze, you
haven’t
gone and got yourself a tattoo!’

‘God, no!’ She laughs. ‘It’s temporary. Everyone’s got tattoos in LA, so I thought I’d better have one for the trip. And some friendship bracelets.’ She waves her arm at me, and I see a stack of about twenty friendship bracelets on her wrist, where normally she has an antique Cartier watch.

‘You’ve been very thorough!’ I say, impressed. ‘You look totally LA. Has Tarkie done the same? Where is he, anyway?’

‘Coming. He stopped to look at some special tree variety in the grounds. And no, he hasn’t done the same.’ She looks suddenly disconsolate. ‘He won’t join in. I bought him this really cool ripped T-shirt and cut-offs, but he won’t wear them. I can’t get him out of his shooting coat.’

‘His shooting coat? In LA?’ I stifle a giggle. Tarquin’s shooting coat is an institution. It’s made of the family tweed and has about ninety-five pockets and smells of wet dog all year round.

‘Exactly! I wanted him to wear a leather bomber jacket, but he refused. He thinks friendship bracelets are stupid and my tattoo is ghastly.’ She looks indignant. ‘It isn’t ghastly. It’s cool!’

‘It’s lovely,’ I say reassuringly.

‘I just thought it would be a chance for him to break away, you know?’ Suze’s indignation fades to a familiar anxiety. ‘He needs to stop moping. He needs to forget about his father, and the LHA, and all of them.’

‘The LHA?’ I say. ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh.’ She grimaces. ‘Didn’t I tell you? It’s the Letherby Hall Association. They’re members of the public who support Letherby Hall. They’ve started a petition against the fountain.’

‘No!’ I exclaim in dismay.

‘I know. And then another lot of them have started a petition
for
the fountain. They hate each other. They’re all nuts.’ She shudders. ‘Anyway, forget about that. Are there any celebs here?’ Her eyes dart all around as we walk along the path towards the leisure area. ‘I can’t
believe
you’ve started coming to Golden Peace.’

‘Isn’t it great?’ I say enthusiastically. ‘There are brilliant groups, and yoga, and they serve brownies …’ I pause at a paved area with bronze bells set into small stone pillars all around. ‘These are Paths of Serenity, by the way,’ I add. ‘You can ring the bells if you need clarity.’

‘Clarity?’ Suze raises an eyebrow.

‘Yes. You know. Clarity in your life.’

‘You get clarity in your life from ringing a bell?’ She snorts with laughter as she pings one of the bells.

‘Yes!’ I say defensively. ‘You need to keep an open mind, Suze. It’s like, a vibration thing. The chiming of the bell changes the rhythm of your inner ear, promoting understanding and resolution and … er …’ Oh God, I’ve forgotten the rest. ‘Anyway, they sound nice,’ I finish lamely.

It was Bryce, the Personal Growth Leader, who explained to me about vibrations and clarity, during my induction session, and I totally understood at the time. I’ll have to ask him to explain again.

There’s a sudden violent clanging all around us. Suze’s children have decided to have a go at bashing the bells. Ernest, who is my godson, is actually kick-boxing his, and it’s nearly coming off its pillar.

‘Stop!’ Suze says, dragging them away. ‘Too much clarity! Can we get a cup of—’ She stops herself. ‘A smoothie?’

Ha. She was going to say ‘cup of tea’. I know she was.

‘D’you want a cup of tea, Suze?’ I say, to tease her. ‘And a nice digestive biscuit?’

‘No thanks,’ she says at once. ‘I’d far rather have a fresh juice. With a wheatgrass shot.’

‘No you wouldn’t.’

‘I would,’ she says obstinately.

She so wants a cup of tea. But I won’t wind her up any more. She can have one when we get home. I’ve bought English tea bags especially,
and
Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade
and
Branston Pickle.

I lead them all to the leisure area, where there’s a café and a children’s playground. Nearby some guys are playing volleyball and about a hundred yards away there’s a t’ai chi class going on under the trees.

‘How come they have a playground?’ says Suze, as the children all run off to the swings and we sit down at a café table. ‘They don’t have children here, do they?’

‘Oh no,’ I say knowledgeably. ‘But the residents often have their families to visit.’

‘Residents?’

‘You know. The burnt-out drug-addict rehab ones. They live over there.’ I gesture at a gated enclosure within the resort. ‘Apparently there’s some major,
major
A-list star in residence at the moment. But no one will say who.’

‘Damn!’

‘I know.’

‘Shall we walk past and casually peek?’

‘I’ve tried,’ I say regretfully. ‘The security people shoo you away.’

‘But there are other celebs here, aren’t there?’

‘Yes! Loads!’ I’m about to elaborate when I notice a staff member walking nearby. ‘But of course that’s all really hush-hush so I can’t tell you anything,’ I add hastily.

Actually the truth is, I’ve only seen a couple of celebs in groups, and they weren’t much to speak of. One was a Victoria’s Secret model, and held up our entire self-esteem group by making us sign individual confidentiality agreements. Then she’d spelled her name wrong and we all had to change ‘Brandie’ to ‘Brandee’ and initial it. And then she didn’t say anything remotely interesting, anyway. I mean, honestly.

‘I’m going to have coffee with Sage Seymour,’ I offer, and Suze wrinkles her brow, dissatisfied.

‘Weren’t you going to do that two weeks ago?’

‘Yes, well, she’s been busy …’ I break off as my eye catches a figure walking towards us.

‘Oh my God,’ I breathe. ‘Tarquin looks
terrible
.’

‘I know!’ says Suze. ‘Exactly! He could at least have worn jeans.’

But that’s not what I meant. I’m not looking at his tweed shooting jacket, or his ancient brogues, or the mustard-coloured knitted tie around his neck. It’s his face. He looks so wan. And there’s a stooped slant to his shoulders which I don’t remember.

Luke often gets hassled by his business, too, I find myself thinking. But it’s different. He built his own company up himself. He drove it. He created it. Whereas Tarquin just had a massive empire plonked on his shoulders when his grandfather died. And right now it looks like it’s too heavy for him.

‘Tarkie!’ I hurry forward to greet him. ‘Welcome to Hollywood!’

‘Oh. Ahm.’ He raises a meagre little smile. ‘Yes. Hollywood. Marvellous.’

‘Tarkie, take off your shooting coat!’ says Suze. ‘You must be boiling. In fact, why not take your shirt off too?’

‘Take my shirt off? In public?’ Tarquin looks scandalized, and I hide a giggle. I’d better not take him to visit Venice Beach.

‘Get some sun! It’s good for you! Look, all those men there have taken their shirts off.’ Suze points encouragingly to the volleyball players on the beach, who are mostly dressed in cutoffs and bandanas.

Suze can be quite bossy when she wants to, and within thirty seconds Tarkie has taken off his shooting coat, his tie, his shirt and his socks and shoes. To my amazement, he’s quite tanned and muscled.

‘Tarkie, have you been working out?’ I say in astonishment.

‘He’s been helping with the fencing on the estate,’ says Suze. ‘You don’t mind taking your shirt off for that, do you?’

‘That’s on my own land,’ says Tarkie, as though it’s obvious. ‘Suze, darling, I think I’ll put my shirt back on—’

‘No! Now, put these on.’ She hands him a pair of Ray-Bans. ‘There! Brilliant.’

I’m just about to take pity on Tarquin and offer to get him some Earl Grey tea, when the volleyball bounces near us, and Suze leaps up to get it. A bronzed guy in cut-offs and a Golden Peace T-shirt comes running up, and as he draws near I see that it’s Bryce.

He’s quite amazing, Bryce. He’s got the most piercing blue eyes you’ve ever seen, and he stares at you very intently before he says anything. I don’t know how old he is – his hair is greying but he’s incredibly lithe and energetic. He doesn’t seem to take any groups, but he wanders around and gets to know people and says things like ‘Your journey begins here’ and really seems to
mean
it.