Shopaholic to the Stars (21 page)

‘Who’s that?’ I say, nudging Suze. ‘Is that Glenn Close?’

‘No, it’s the one out of … you know. That show.’ Suze wrinkles her nose. ‘Oh God, what’s her name …’

‘Look!’ I point ahead at a young guy with spiky hair and a DJ getting out of his limo. Photographers are clustered around the car, clicking away and calling out, but he’s ignoring them, in a totally cool way.

‘Are you ladies ready?’ The limo driver turns to face us.

‘Right. Yes.’ I take a deep breath, calming my nerves.

Suze and I practised all afternoon in her hire car, getting out and taking pictures of each other, and we’ve totally nailed it. We won’t be flashing our underwear, or tripping over our heels. Nor will we wave at the camera, which Suze always wants to do.

‘Ready?’ Suze is grinning tremulously.

‘Ready!’

The limo driver has opened the door on my side. I give my hair a last-minute pat and take my most elegant step out, waiting for the flash of bulbs, the shouts, the clamour …

Oh. What?

Where did all the cameras go? They were here a minute ago. I turn round, discomfited, and see them all clustered around another limo, behind us. Some red-haired girl in blue is getting out of it and smiling prettily around. I don’t even recognize her. Is she a real celebrity?

Suze emerges from the limo beside me, and looks around, bewildered.

‘Where are the photographers?’

‘There.’ I point. ‘With her.’

‘Oh.’ She looks as disconsolate as me. ‘What about us?’

‘I suppose we’re not celebrities,’ I say reluctantly.

‘Well, never mind.’ Suze brightens. ‘We’ve still got the red carpet. Come on!’ Tarquin has got out of the limo too, and she grabs him by the arm. ‘Red-carpet time!’

As we get close to the hotel, there are loads of people milling about in black tie, but we manage to push our way through to the entrance to the red carpet. I’m fizzing with anticipation. This is it!

‘Hi!’ I beam at the security guard. ‘We’re guests.’ I proffer our invitations, and he scans them dispassionately.

‘This way, ma’am.’ He points away from the celebs, to some kind of side route which a crowd of people in evening dress are filing down.

‘No, we’re going to the benefit,’ I explain.

‘That’s the way to the benefit.’ He nods, and opens a rope barrier. ‘Have a good evening.’

He doesn’t get it. Maybe he’s a bit slow.

‘We need to go
this way
.’ I gesture clearly to the bank of photographers.

‘On the red carpet,’ puts in Suze. She points at our invitation. ‘It says, “Red Carpet Entrance”.’

‘This is the red carpet, ma’am.’ He points at the side route again, and Suze and I exchange looks of dismay.

OK, I suppose strictly speaking there is a carpet. And it is a kind of dull red. But
don’t
tell me that’s where we’re supposed to go.

‘It’s not red,’ objects Suze. ‘It’s maroon.’

‘And there aren’t any photographers or anything. We want to walk on
that
red carpet.’ I point behind him.

‘Only Gold List Guests will be walking that red carpet, ma’am.’

Gold List Guests? Why aren’t we Gold List Guests?

‘Come on,’ says Tarkie, clearly bored. ‘Shall we go in, have a titchy?’

‘But the red carpet’s the whole point! Hey, look, there’s Sage Seymour!’ Sage is talking earnestly to a TV camera. ‘She’s my friend,’ I say to the security guard. ‘She wants to say hello.’

‘There’ll be a chance to greet her inside the benefit,’ says the security guard implacably. ‘Could you move along, ma’am? People are waiting behind you.’

We don’t have any choice. Morosely, we all move through the barrier and start down the Non-Gold List, Totally Inferior Sub-Red Carpet. I don’t believe it. I thought we’d be on the red carpet with Sage and all the famous people. Not filing along like cattle down some dimly lit
maroon
carpet that has stains on it.

‘Hey, Suze,’ I whisper suddenly. ‘Let’s go round again. See if we can get on the proper red carpet.’

‘Definitely,’
says Suze. ‘Hey, Tarkie,’ she says more loudly. ‘I need to adjust my bra. I’ll see you in there, OK? Get us a titchy.’

She hands him his invitation, then we swing round and begin to hurry back up the non-red carpet. There are so many people piling down by now, in evening dress and jewels and clouds of scent, it feels as if we’re like fish swimming against a very sparkly, glamorous tide.

‘Sorry,’ I keep saying. ‘Just forgot something … Excuse me …’

At last we reach the top of the carpet, and pause for a breather. The security guard is still standing at his post, directing people down the maroon carpet. He hasn’t spotted us yet, but that’s because we’re hidden behind a screen.

‘What now?’ says Suze.

‘We cause a diversion.’ I think for a moment, then squeal, ‘Oh my God! My Harry Winston earring! Please, everyone! I lost my Harry Winston earring!’

Every woman in the vicinity stops dead in shock. I can see blood draining from faces. You don’t joke about Harry Winston in LA.

‘Oh my
God
.’

‘Harry
Winston
?’

‘How many carats?’

‘Please!’ I say, almost tearfully. ‘Help me look!’

About ten women bend down and start patting the carpet.

‘What does it look like?’

‘Frank, help! She lost her earring!’

‘I lost my Harry Winston ring once, we had to empty the whole pool …’

It’s complete mayhem. There are women on their hands and knees, and people trying to get on to the maroon carpet, and men trying to chivvy their wives along, and the security guard keeps calling, ‘Move along, folks! Please move along!’

At last he drops his rope barrier and comes striding on to the carpet.

‘Folks, we need to keep moving along.’

‘Ow! You trod on my hand!’ cries out a woman.

‘Don’t step on the earring!’ exclaims another.

‘Did someone find the earring?’

‘What earring?’ He looks at the end of his tether. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘Now,’ I whisper in Suze’s ear.
‘Run!’

Before I can think twice, we’re both careering up the maroon carpet, past the unattended velvet-rope check-point and on to the red carpet … I can’t help laughing out loud with glee. We’re there! On the actual, proper, red carpet! Suze looks pretty exhilarated, too.

‘We did it!’ she says. ‘Now,
that’s
what I call red.’

I look around, getting my bearings, whilst trying to stand properly and smile. The carpet’s definitely red. It also feels quite big and empty, which is maybe because all the photographers have turned away. As Suze and I move slowly along we’re doing our best Hollywood poses, elbows out and everything. But not one cameraman is taking a picture. Some of them are still clustered around the young guy with spiky hair, and the others are chatting or on the phone.

I mean, I know we’re not
exactly
famous, but still. I feel quite aggrieved on behalf of Suze, who looks absolutely gorgeous.

‘Suze, do that bendy-back pose where you look over your shoulder,’ I say, and then hurry over to a photographer with dark hair and a denim jacket who’s leaning on the barrier, yawning. Yawning!

‘Hey, take her photo,’ I say, pointing at Suze. ‘She looks gorgeous!’

‘Who is she?’ he retorts.

‘Don’t you recognize her?’ I try to sound incredulous. ‘You’re going to lose your job! She’s the latest thing.’

‘The photographer seems unimpressed. ‘Who is she?’ he repeats.

‘Suze Cleath-Stuart. She’s British. Really, really hot.’

‘Who?’ He leafs through a printed crib sheet, with faces and names of celebrities. ‘Nope. Don’t think so.’ He puts the crib sheet away, then takes out his phone and starts sending a text.

‘Oh, take her photo,’ I beg, all pretence gone. ‘Go on! Just for fun.’

The photographer looks at me as though for the first time. ‘How did you get on the red carpet?’

‘We sneaked on,’ I admit. ‘We’re visitors to LA. And if
I
was a Hollywood photographer, I’d take pictures of normal people as well as celebrities.’

A tiny, reluctant smile tweaks at the photographer’s mouth.

‘Oh, you would?’

‘Yes!’

He sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘Go on then.’ He lifts his camera and focuses it on Suze. Yessss!

‘Me too!’ I squeak, and skitter over the red carpet to join her. OK, quick. Elbow out. Legs crossed. It’s actually happening! We’re actually having our photo taken, in Hollywood, on the red carpet! I smile at the lens, trying to look natural, waiting for the flash …

‘Meryl! Meryl! MERYL!’

In a blink, the lens vanishes from sight. Like stampeding wildebeest, every single photographer, including our guy in the denim jacket, has charged to the far side of the red carpet. I don’t think he took a single shot of us, and now he’s in the thick of the paparazzi, yelling and screaming.

‘OVER HERE, MERYL! MERYL! HERE!’

The flashes are like strobe lighting. The clamour is extraordinary. And all because Meryl Streep has arrived.

Well, OK. Fair enough. No one can compete with Meryl Streep.

We both watch in awe and fascination as she makes her way graciously along the red carpet, surrounded by several flunkeys.

‘Meryl!’ calls Suze boldly as she comes near. ‘Love your work!’

‘Me too!’ I chime in.

Meryl Streep turns her head and gives us a slightly bewildered smile.

Yes! We networked with Meryl Streep on the red carpet!
Wait
till I tell Mum.

As we enter the ballroom where the benefit is happening, I’m still on a high. Never mind if no one took our picture, this is
exactly
what I imagined Hollywood would be like. Lots of people in amazing dresses, and Meryl Streep, and a band playing smooth jazz, and delicious citrussy cocktails.

The whole place is decorated in pale grey and pink, and there’s a stage on which some dancers are already performing, and a dance floor and loads of circular tables. And I can already see a goodie bag on each chair! My head is swivelling around as I try to catch sight of all the celebs, and Suze is doing the same.

I notice Luke by the bar, and Suze, Tarkie and I hurry over. He’s standing with Aran and a couple I don’t recognize. He introduces them as Ken and Davina Kerrow, and I remember him telling me about them last week. They’re both producers, and they’re making a film about the Crimean War. Luke and Aran are jockeying to get Sage considered for the part of Florence Nightingale. Apparently, Sage needs a ‘change of direction’ and ‘rebranding’ and being Florence Nightingale will achieve that.

Personally, I don’t think she’s at all suited to being Florence Nightingale, but I’m not going to say that to Luke.

‘Sage is very interested in the role,’ he’s saying now to Ken, who is bearded and intense and frowns a lot. ‘I would say she’s passionate about it.’

Davina is also fairly intense. She’s dressed in a black tuxedo suit and keeps checking her BlackBerry and saying ‘Uh-huh?’ when Luke is in the middle of a sentence.

‘Sage feels this is a story that must be told,’ Luke presses on. ‘She really felt the role spoke to her … Ah, here she is! Just talking about you, Sage.’

Ooh! There’s Sage, approaching in a swishy red dress that sets off her treacly hair perfectly. I feel a small thrill of excitement at the idea of introducing her to Suze and Tarkie.

‘I’d hope you
are
talking about me,’ says Sage to Luke. ‘Why else do I pay you?’ She gives a roar of laughter and Luke smiles politely.

‘Just talking about Florence,’ he says. ‘I was saying how passionate you are about the role.’

‘Oh totally.’ Sage nods. ‘Did you see my new tattoo?’ She holds out her wrist, waving her fingers playfully, and Luke flinches.

‘Sage, sweetie,’ says Aran evenly. ‘I thought we said no more tattoos.’

‘I had to have it,’ says Sage, looking hurt. ‘It’s a swallow. It means peace.’

‘That would be a dove,’ says Aran, and I see him exchange a look with Luke.

‘Hi Sage,’ I say casually. ‘You look lovely.’

‘You’re so kind.’ Sage sweeps a dazzling smile over me, Suze and Tarkie. ‘Welcome to the benefit. Would you like a photo? Aran, these people would like a photo, could you …?’ I stare at her, confused. She thinks I’m some random fan.

‘It’s me, Becky,’ I say, turning red with embarrassment. ‘Luke’s wife? We met at the house?’

‘Oh,
Becky!
’ She bursts into laughter again, and presses a hand on my arm. ‘Of course. My bad.’

‘Sage, I’d like you to meet my friends, Suze and Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Suze and Tarkie, may I present Sage …’ I trail off mid-introduction. Sage has turned away from us and is enthusiastically greeting some guy in a midnight-blue tuxedo.

There’s a moment of awkward silence. I can’t believe Sage has been so rude.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble at last.

‘Bex, it’s not your fault!’ says Suze. ‘She’s quite … um …’ She stops, and I can tell she’s trying to be diplomatic.

‘I know.’

Sage looks hyper to me. Is she
high
? Now she’s talking loudly about Ben Galligan, who is her ex-boyfriend from about three years ago. He cheated on her while he was making
Hour of Terror 5
, and he dumped Sage at the premiere, and now his new girlfriend is pregnant. And Sage has never got over it.

It was all in
People
magazine and Luke says most of it is true. But then, annoyingly, when I asked him to tell me exactly which bits were true and which bits weren’t, he said I should stop reading that trash and remember that celebrities are human beings.

‘Is the rat here?’ Sage is looking wildly around. ‘Because I swear, I will tear his eyes out.’

‘Sage, we talked about this!’ says Aran in a low voice. ‘Tonight you’re an ambassador for world equality and justice, OK? You can be a pissed-off ex-girlfriend in your own time.’

Sage doesn’t seem to be listening. Her eyes are darting wildly about. ‘Suppose I throw a bottle of wine over him. Think of the exposure. It’ll go viral.’

‘That’s not the kind of viral we want. Sage, we have a strategy, remember?’

‘I really couldn’t tell you who else is in the running,’ I can hear Davina Kerrow saying to Luke. ‘Although you can probably guess …’