Shopaholic to the Stars (4 page)

The girl is wriggling desperately to get away, but I’m gripping on to her arm with both hands. Being the mother of a two-year-old, you learn a lot of immobilization skills.

‘And then all the prices go up,’ I add, panting. ‘And everyone suffers! I know you might think it’s your only option, but it’s not. You can turn your life around. There are places you can go for help. Do you have a pimp?’ I add, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘Because I know they can be a real pain. But you could go to a safe house. I saw a documentary about it, and they’re brilliant.’ I’m about to elaborate when the girl’s sunglasses slip to one side. And I glimpse the side of her face.

And suddenly I feel faint. I can’t breathe. That’s—

No. It can’t be.

It is. It
is
.

It’s Lois Kellerton.

All thoughts of crack addicts and safe houses disappear from my head. This is surreal. It can’t be happening. It has to be a dream. I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, am clutching the arm of top Hollywood actress Lois Kellerton. As I peer at her unmistakable jawline, my legs start to shake. I mean,
Lois Kellerton
. I’ve seen all her films and I’ve watched her on the red carpet and I’ve—

But what—

I mean,
what
on earth—

Lois Kellerton shoplifted three pairs of socks? Is this some kind of candid-camera show?

For what seems like the longest moment, we’re both motionless, staring at each other. I’m remembering her as Tess in that brilliant adaptation of
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
. God, she made me cry. And there was that sci-fi one where she got deliberately stranded on Mars at the end, in order to save her half-alien children. I cried
buckets
, and so did Suze.

I clear my throat, trying to gather my thoughts. ‘I … I know who you—’

‘Please,’ she cuts me off in that familiar husky voice. ‘Please.’ She takes off her dark glasses and I stare at her in fresh shock. She looks terrible. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her skin is all flaky. ‘Please,’ she says a third time. ‘I’m … I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you employed by the shop?’

‘No. I’m a customer. I was up a ladder.’

‘Did they see me?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

With a trembling hand she grabs the three pairs of socks from her bag and offers them to me.

‘I don’t know what I was doing. I haven’t slept for two nights. I think I went a little crazy. I never did anything like this before. I never will again. Please,’ she whispers again, shrinking inside her hoody. ‘Take the socks. Take them back.’

‘Me?’

‘Please.’ She sounds desperate. At last, awkwardly, I take the socks from her.

‘Here.’ She’s scrabbling in her bag again and produces a fifty-dollar note. ‘Give this to the employees.’

‘You look quite … um … stressed,’ I venture. ‘Are you OK?’

Lois Kellerton raises her head and meets my eyes, and I’m suddenly reminded of a leopard I once saw in a Spanish zoo. That looked desperate, too.

‘Are you going to tell the police?’ she breathes, so quietly I can barely hear her. ‘Are you going to tell anyone?’

Oh God. Oh
God
. What do I do?

I put the socks in my bag, playing for time. I should tell the police. Of course I should. What difference does it make if she’s a movie star? She stole the socks and that’s a crime and I should perform a citizen’s arrest right now and march her off for justice.

But … I can’t. I just
can’t
. She looks so fragile. Like a moth or a paper flower. And after all, she’s giving the socks back, and she’s making a donation, and it sounds like she just had a moment of madness …

Lois Kellerton’s head is bowed. Her face is hidden inside the grey hood. She looks as though she’s waiting for an execution.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ I say at last. ‘I promise. I’ll give the socks back and I won’t tell anyone.’

As I release my grip on her, her thin hand squeezes mine. Her dark glasses are already back on her face. She looks like an anonymous skinny girl in a hoody.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘Thank you. What’s your name?’

‘Becky,’ I reply eagerly. ‘Becky Bloomwood. I mean, Brandon. I was Bloomwood but I got married, so my name changed …’ Argh, stop gabbling. ‘Um, Becky,’ I finish lamely. ‘My name is Becky.’

‘Thank you, Becky.’

And before I can say anything, she’s turned and gone.

Next morning, my head is still sparking in disbelief. Did that actually happen? Did I actually meet Lois Kellerton?

When I returned to Pump!, clutching the socks, it turned out they hadn’t even noticed that the socks had gone. For an awful moment I thought they were going to accuse
me
of stealing them. But thankfully a sales assistant took over the incident, and called up the CCTV footage and we all watched as a thin girl in a grey hoody put the socks in her bag and slipped out. I was tingling all over as I watched. A tiny part of me wanted to yell, ‘Don’t you see who it is? Don’t you
see
?’

But of course I didn’t. I’d made a promise. Besides which, they’d never believe me. On the video you can’t see her face at all.

Then we watched the footage as I chased her out of the shop. All I can say is, I am never buying an ‘Athletic Shaping All-in-One’ again. I wanted to
die
when I saw my bottom bulging through the shiny fabric.

Anyway. On the plus side, everyone was really impressed by what I did, even if they were more interested in arguing about whether the socks should have been fitted with security tags. My story was that the ‘mystery girl’ dropped the socks as I chased her down the street, and that I couldn’t catch up with her. I didn’t know what to do about the fifty-dollar note, so in the end I pretended that I’d found it on the floor and handed it over. I left my name in case the police needed a statement, then hurried back to our hotel, where I
finally
cut that awful all-in-one off myself. (I bought a pair of shorts and a vest from Gap instead.)

Lois Kellerton. I mean,
Lois Kellerton
. People would die if they knew! (Well, Suze would.) But I haven’t told anybody. When Luke and I finally met up for supper last night, he wanted to hear all about the rental houses I’d looked at, and I didn’t want to admit I’d spent quite so much time on Rodeo Drive … and besides which, I made a promise. I said I’d keep it a secret and I have. Today it feels as though the whole event was a weird little dream.

I blink and shake my head to dislodge it. I have other things to think about this morning. I’m standing outside Dalawear, which is on Beverly Boulevard and has a window display of mannequins in ‘easy-wear’ dresses and pantsuits, taking tea on a fake lawn.

I’m not meeting Danny for another twenty minutes, but I wanted to get here early and remind myself of the store and its layout. As I wander in, there’s a lovely smell of roses in the air, and Frank Sinatra is playing over the sound system. It’s a very
pleasant
store, Dalawear, even if all the jackets seem to be one style, just with different buttons.

I’ve gone through separates, shoes and underwear, when I come to the evening-wear section. Most of the dresses are full-length and heavily corseted, in bright colours like periwinkle blue and raspberry. There are lots of big rosettes at the shoulder or waist, and beading, and laced-up bodices, and built-in ‘slimming’ undergarments. Just looking at them makes me feel exhausted, especially after my ‘Athletic Shaping All-in-One’ experience. Some clothes just aren’t worth the hassle of trying to get them on and off.

I’m about to get out my phone to text Danny when there’s a rustling sound, and a girl of about fifteen appears out of the dressing room to stand in front of the full-length mirror. She’s not the most together-looking girl. Her dark-red hair is in a fuzzy kind of bob, and her nails are bitten, and her eyebrows could do with a bit of a tweeze. But worst of all, she’s wearing a jade-green, strapless, swooshy gown which totally swamps her, complete with a rather revolting chiffon stole. She looks uncertainly at herself, and hitches the bodice over her bust, where it really doesn’t fit. Oh God, I can’t bear it. What is she doing here? This shop isn’t for teens.

‘Hi!’ I approach her hurriedly. ‘Wow! You look … um, lovely. That’s a very … formal dress.’

‘It’s for my end-of-year prom,’ mutters the girl.

‘Right. Fantastic!’ I let a pause fall before I add, ‘They have some pretty dresses in Urban Outfitters, you know. I mean, Dalawear is a brilliant choice, obviously, but for someone your age …’

‘I have to shop here.’ She shoots me a miserable look. ‘My mom had some coupons. She said I could only get a dress if it didn’t cost her anything.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘The sales lady said green would set off my hair,’ she adds hopelessly. ‘She went to find me some shoes to match.’

‘The green is … lovely.’ I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘Very striking.’

‘It’s OK, you don’t have to lie. I know I look terrible.’ Her shoulders slump.

‘No!’ I say quickly. ‘You just … it’s a tiny bit full for you … perhaps a bit fussy …’ I tug at the layers of chiffon, wanting to trim them all off with a pair of scissors. I mean, when you’re fifteen, you don’t want to be dressed up like a Christmas cracker. You want to be in something simple and beautiful, like …

And then it hits me.

‘Wait here,’ I say, and hurry back to the underwear section. It takes me about twenty seconds to grab a selection of silk slips, lace slips, ‘shaping’ slips, and a ‘luxury satin slip with boned bodice’, all in black.

‘Where did you get those?’ The girl’s eyes light up as I arrive back in the evening-wear section.

‘They were in another section,’ I say vaguely. ‘Have a go! They’re all in Small. I’m Becky, by the way.’

‘Anita.’ She smiles, revealing train-track braces.

While she’s rustling around behind the curtain, I search for accessories, and find a black beaded sash plus a simple clutch bag in dark pink.

‘What do you think?’ Anita emerges shyly from the changing room, utterly transformed. She’s in a strappy lace slip that makes her look about three sizes smaller and shows off her long legs. Her milky skin looks amazing against the black lace, and her short, stubby hair seems to make more sense, too.

‘Amazing! Just let me do your hair …’ There’s a basket of complimentary water bottles on the counter, and, quickly opening one, I wet my hands. I smooth down her hair until it looks sleek and gamine, cinch her waist in with the beaded sash, and give her the pink clutch to hold.

‘There!’ I say proudly. ‘You look fabulous. Now, stand with some attitude. Look at yourself. Don’t you just rock?’

Once she’s got a pair of heels on, she’ll look a million dollars. I sigh happily as I watch her shoulders relax and a sparkle come to her eye. God, I love dressing people up.

‘So I found the shoes in your size …’ comes a trilling voice behind me, and I turn to see a woman in her sixties approaching Anita. I met her when I came for the interview before, and her name’s … Rhoda? No, Rhona. It’s on her name-badge.

‘Dear!’ She gives a shocked laugh as she sees the teenage girl. ‘What happened to the gown?’

The girl’s eyes slide uneasily to me, and I step in quickly.

‘Hi, Rhona!’ I say. ‘I’m Becky, we met before, I’m starting work here soon. I was just helping Anita with her look. Doesn’t that slip look great worn as a dress?’

‘Well, goodness!’ Rhona’s rigid smile doesn’t move an inch, but her eyes fix me with daggers. ‘How imaginative. Anita, sweetheart, I’d love to see you in the green full-length.’

‘No,’ says Anita stubbornly. ‘I’m wearing this one. I like it.’

She disappears behind the curtain and I step towards Rhona, lowering my voice.

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘You don’t need to see her in the green. It didn’t work. Too big. Too old. But then I suddenly thought of the slips and … bingo!’

‘That’s hardly the point,’ says Rhona, bristling. ‘You know what the commission on that green gown is? You know what the commission on a slip is?’

‘Well, who cares?’ I say indignantly. ‘The point is, she looks lovely!’

‘I’m sure she looked far lovelier in the green gown. I mean, a slip.’ Rhona looks disapproving. ‘To a prom. A
slip
.’

I bite my lip. I can’t say what I really think.

‘Look, we’re going to be working together, so … shall we agree to disagree?’ I hold out my hand placatingly, but before Rhona can take it, there’s an exclamation from behind me and two arms twine themselves around my neck.

‘Becky!’

‘Danny!’ I wheel round to see his pale-blue eyes shining at me through heavy eye-liner. ‘Wow! You look very … um … New Romantic.’

Danny never puts on any weight or looks a day older despite leading the least healthy lifestyle on the planet. Today his hair is dyed black and gelled into a kind of droopy quiff; he’s wearing a single dangly earring and tight jeans tucked into winkle-picker boots.

‘I’m ready,’ he announces. ‘I have my reference. I learned it on the plane. Who do I say it to? You?’ He turns to Rhona and makes a small bow. ‘My name is Danny Kovitz – yes,
the
Danny Kovitz – thank you – and I am here today to recommend Rebecca Brandon as a personal shopper without parallel.’