Shopaholic to the Stars (20 page)

‘Who’s Ora?’ says Suze.

‘Alicia’s daughter,’ I mutter. ‘Of all the children in all the world for Minnie to become friends with.’

‘Honestly, Bex!’ retorts Suze. ‘You’re ridiculous. What is this, the Montagues and the Capulets?’

Minnie looks from Suze to me, then back again. Then she screws up her face for a scream. ‘Love Oraaaaaaa!’

All this time, Luke has been tapping away on his BlackBerry. He has this almost mystical power to tune out his immediate surroundings when they consist of Minnie screeching. But now he raises his head.

‘Who’s Ora?’

I can’t believe our entire breakfast table is discussing Alicia Bitch Long-legs’ daughter.

‘No one,’ I say. ‘Minnie, come here and help me do my toast.’

‘Toast!’ Her eyes light up with instant excitement and I can’t help giving her a little kiss. Minnie thinks spreading butter on toast is the most fun activity in the world, except I have to dissuade her from adding marmalade
and
chocolate spread
and
peanut butter. (Luke always says, ‘Like mother like daughter,’ which is absolute nonsense, I don’t know what he means.)

As I sip my coffee and try to stop Minnie from smearing butter all over her fingers, I find myself watching Luke. He’s gazing at his BlackBerry and there’s a vein pulsing in his neck. He’s stressed out about something. What?

‘Luke?’ I say cautiously. ‘Is something up?’

‘No,’ he says at once. ‘Nothing. Nothing.’

OK. That means it’s something.

‘Luke?’ I try again.

He meets my eye and exhales. ‘It’s an email from my mother’s lawyer. She’s having some kind of surgery. He thought I should know.’

‘Right,’ I say warily.

Luke is glowering at the screen again. Any stranger looking at him would simply see a man in a bad temper. But I can see the special, devastated overlay that appears whenever Luke’s thinking about his mother, and it makes my heart crunch. Luke just can’t find happiness with his mother. He used to worship her unreasonably; now he loathes her unreasonably. Elinor abandoned him to go and live in the States when he was just a child, and I don’t think he’s ever quite forgiven her. Especially now he has Minnie; now he knows what it is to be a parent.

‘What does she expect?’ he suddenly bursts out. ‘What does she expect me to do?’

‘Maybe she doesn’t expect anything,’ I venture.

Luke doesn’t reply, just sips his coffee with a murderous scowl.

‘What kind of surgery is she having?’ I ask. ‘Is it serious?’

‘Let’s just forget about it,’ he says abruptly and gets to his feet. ‘So I’ll tell Aran there are four acceptances for the benefit. It’s black tie,’ he adds, and kisses me. ‘See you later.’

‘Luke—’ I grab his hand to stop him. But as he turns back, I realize I don’t know what I want to say, except, ‘Please make peace with your mother,’ which I can’t just blurt out with no build-up. ‘Have a good day,’ I say lamely, and he nods.

‘Black tie?’ Tarquin is looking dismayed as he turns to Suze. ‘Darling, what will I wear? I don’t have my kilt.’

His
kilt
? Oh my God. The idea of Tarkie turning up to some LA benefit in a kilt and sporran and those big woolly socks makes me want to collapse in laughter.

‘You’re not going to wear a kilt!’ expostulates Suze. ‘You’re going to wear …’ She thinks for a moment. ‘An Armani tuxedo. And a black shirt and a black tie. That’s what all these Hollywood types wear.’

‘A black shirt?’ Now it’s Tarquin’s turn to expostulate. ‘Suze, darling, only spivs wear black shirts.’

‘Well, OK, a white shirt,’ Suze relents. ‘But
not
a wing collar. You need to look cool. And I’m going to test you on celebrities later.’

Poor Tarkie. As he leaves the kitchen he looks like a man sentenced to prison, not a man who’s got a ticket to the coolest party in town.

‘He’s hopeless,’ sighs Suze. ‘You know, he can name about a hundred breeds of sheep, but not
one
of Madonna’s husbands.’

‘I’ve never seen anyone so out of place.’ I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. ‘Tarkie’s really not suited to LA, is he?’

‘Well, we’ve been on enough holidays to grouse moors,’ says Suze. ‘It’s my turn. And I
love
it here.’ She pours herself some more orange juice, then lowers her voice. ‘What do you think’s up with Elinor?’

‘I don’t know.’ I lower my voice even further. ‘What if she’s really ill?’

We look at each other anxiously. I can tell our thoughts are heading in the same direction, then sheering away.

‘He has to know the truth about the party,’ says Suze at length. ‘He has to know how generous she was. Just in case … anything happens.’

‘But how do I tell him? He’ll just fly off the handle. He won’t even listen!’

‘Could you write it down?’

I consider this for a moment. I
am
quite good at letter-writing, and I could make Luke promise to read to the end before shouting. But even as I’m considering it, I know what I truly want to do.

‘I’m going to invite her over,’ I say with resolve. ‘Either before her surgery or afterwards, depending.’

‘Invite her where?
Here?
’ Suze’s eyes widen. ‘Are you sure, Bex?’

‘If I write a letter, he’ll just ignore it. I need the two of them together. I’m going to stage an intervention,’ I say with a flourish.

We were talking about interventions at Golden Peace the other day, and I was the only one who hadn’t been in one. I felt quite left out.

Suze looks doubtful. ‘Aren’t they for drug addicts?’

‘And family disputes,’ I say authoritatively.

I don’t actually know if this is true. But I can always start my own kind of intervention, can’t I? I have a vision of myself, dressed in flowing white clothes, talking in a low melodious voice and bringing harmony to the fractured souls of Luke and Elinor.

Maybe I’ll buy some healing crystals for the occasion. And some scented candles, and a CD of soothing chants. I’ll come up with my own special cocktail of techniques, and I won’t let Luke or Elinor leave until they’ve achieved some sort of resolution.

‘Shouldn’t you get someone specially trained?’ Suze is still looking dubious. ‘I mean, what do you know about it?’

‘Loads,’ I say, a bit offended. ‘I’ve picked up a lot from Golden Peace, you know, Suze. I’ve done conflict resolution, and everything. “To understand everything is to forgive everything,”’ I can’t resist quoting. ‘Buddha.’

‘OK, if you’re such an expert, sort out this conflict.’ Suze points at Wilfie and Clemmie, who are fighting desperately over some tiny plastic animal.

‘Er … hey, Wilfie! Clemmie!’ I call out. ‘Who wants a sweetie?’

Both children instantly stop tussling and hold out their hands.

‘There!’ I say smugly.

‘Is that how you’re going to sort out Luke and Elinor?’ scoffs Suze. ‘Offer them sweeties?’

‘Of course not,’ I say with dignity. ‘I’ll use a variety of techniques.’

‘Well, I still think it’s risky.’ She shakes her head. ‘
Very
risky.’

‘“One cannot refuse to eat simply because there is a risk of being choked,”’ I say wisely. ‘Chinese proverb.’

‘Bex, stop talking like a bloody T-shirt!’ Suze suddenly flips out. ‘I hate this stupid Golden Peace place! Talk about something
normal
. What are you going to wear for the benefit? And
don’t
say something stupid like, “
Clothes are a metaphor for the soul
.”’

‘I wasn’t going to!’ I retort.

Actually, that’s quite good. I might drop that into a class at Golden Peace.
Clothes are a metaphor for the soul
.

Maybe I’ll get it printed on canvas and give it to Suze for Christmas.

‘Why are you smiling?’ says Suze suspiciously.

‘No reason!’ I force my mouth straight. ‘So. What are
you
going to wear to the benefit?’

Suze can talk about shopping. She can talk about shopping!

Not only has she bought a new dress for the benefit, she’s bought new shoes, a new necklace and new hair. New
hair
. She didn’t even tell me she was doing it. One moment she was ‘popping out to the hairdresser’, and the next she was walking back in the door with the most luscious, glossy extensions I’ve ever seen. They stream down to her waist in a blonde river, and what with that and the tanned legs she looks like a movie star herself.

‘You look fantastic,’ I say honestly, as we stand in front of my mirror. She’s in a beaded shift, the colour of a glassy sea, and her necklace has a mermaid on it. I’ve never seen a mermaid necklace before, but now I’m desperate for one, too.

‘Well, so do you!’ says Suze at once.

‘Really?’ I pluck at my dress, which is Zac Posen and very flattering around the waist, though I say so myself. I’ve styled it with my Alexis Bittar necklace and my hair is in a really complicated up-do, all little plaits and waves. Plus, I’ve been practising how to stand on the red carpet. I found a guide on the internet, and printed it out for both of us. Legs crossed, elbow out, chin tucked in. I take up my pose, and Suze copies me.

‘I look like I’ve got a double chin,’ she says fretfully. ‘Are you sure this is right?’

‘Maybe we’re tucking our chins in
too
much.’

I lift my chin, and immediately look like a soldier. Suze, meanwhile, is doing a perfect Posh Spice pose. She has the expression and everything.

‘That’s it!’ I say excitedly. ‘Only, smile.’

‘I can’t stand like this
and
smile,’ says Suze, sounding strained. ‘I think you have to be double-jointed to get it right. Tarkie!’ she calls as he passes the open door. ‘Come and practise being photographed!’

Tarquin has looked shell-shocked ever since Suze appeared with extensions. Now he looks like a condemned man. Suze has forced him into a tailored Prada DJ, complete with narrow black tie and dapper shoes. I mean, he looks very good, for Tarkie. He’s tall and strapping, and his hair has been artfully mussed by Suze. He just looks so … different.

‘You should wear Prada all the time, Tarkie!’ I say, and he blanches.

‘Stand here,’ Suze is saying. ‘Now, when you have your picture taken, you need to tilt your face at an angle. And look kind of moody.’

‘Darling, I don’t think I’ll be in the photos,’ says Tarkie, backing away. ‘If it’s all right.’

‘You have to be! They photograph everyone.’ She glances uncertainly at me. ‘They do photograph everyone, don’t they?’

‘Of course they do,’ I say confidently. ‘We’re guests, aren’t we? So we’ll be photographed.’

I feel a fizz of excitement. I can’t wait! I’ve always wanted to be photographed on a red carpet in Hollywood. My phone bleeps with a text and I pull it out of my clutch bag.

‘The car’s here! Let’s go!’

‘What about Luke?’ says Tarquin, who is obviously desperate for some moral support.

‘We’re meeting him there.’ I spray a final cloud of scent over me and grin at Suze. ‘Ready for your close-up, Lady Cleath-Stuart?’

‘Don’t call me that!’ she says at once. ‘It makes me sound ancient!’

I head into the children’s bedroom, where our babysitter, Teri, is presiding over a massive game of Twister. Minnie doesn’t understand Twister, but she understands rolling around on the mat, getting in everyone’s way, so that’s what she’s doing.

‘Night night!’ I plant a kiss on her little cheek. ‘See you later!’

‘Mummy.’ Wilfrid stares at Suze in awe. ‘You look like a fish.’

‘Thank you, darling!’ Suze hugs him. ‘That’s
exactly
what I wanted to look like.’

Tarquin has edged over and is fiddling with Wilfrid’s toy train.

‘Maybe I’ll stay here and help look after the children,’ he says. ‘I’d be very happy to—’

‘No!’ Suze and I shout in unison.

‘You’ll love it,’ says Suze, chivvying him out of the room.

‘You might meet Angelina Jolie,’ I chime in.

‘Or Renée Zellweger.’

‘Or Nick Park,’ I say craftily. ‘You know? The
Wallace and Gromit
man?’

‘Ah!’ says Tarkie, suddenly perking up. ‘
The Wrong Trousers
. Now,
that
was a jolly good film.’

The Beverly Hilton is where they hold the Golden Globes. We’re going to the same place they hold the Golden Globes! As our car edges along in early evening traffic, I can barely keep still.

‘Hey, Suze!’ I say suddenly. ‘D’you think it’ll be the exact same red carpet as at the Golden Globes?’

‘Maybe!’

I can tell Suze is as gripped by this idea as I am. She starts rearranging her hair extensions on her shoulders, and I check my lipstick for the millionth time.

I’m not going to waste this opportunity. There are going to be some A-list celebrities at this party, and if I keep my wits about me I can do some major networking. I’ve got my cards in my bag, printed with
Rebecca Brandon, Stylist
, and I’m planning to work every single conversation I can round to fashion. I just need one influential person to hire me, and then word will spread, and my reputation will grow, and … well, the sky’s the limit.

It’s just finding that one influential person which is the tricky bit.

The car pulls up outside the hotel and I give a little squeak of excitement. There aren’t crowds, like at the Golden Globes, but there are barricades, and banks of photographers, and a red carpet! An actual red carpet! There are big screens with
E.Q.U.A.L
. printed all over, which is the name of the charity. (It stands for something, but I have no idea what. I don’t think anyone does.) In front of them, an elegant blonde woman in a nude dress is posing for the cameras, along with a bearded man in black tie.