Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 100
“That’s a bit harsh,” I say uncomfortably.
“She stole my purse,” says Sage, unmoved. “She’s a psycho.”
“She didn’t steal it. It was a mistake.”
“Tough talk there from Sage Seymour,” a TV presenter is saying on-screen. “With us in the studio to discuss the scandal is Hollywood commentator Ross Halcomb, film critic Joanne Seldana, and—”
“Sage,” I try again. “You do know it was a mistake, don’t you?”
“Shhh!” says Sage, waving a hand impatiently. We sit in silence as a whole bunch of people in a studio discuss whether Sage Seymour’s career will now go stellar, and then, as soon as they’ve finished, Sage flicks to another news piece about herself. I feel more and more uncomfortable, but Sage won’t let me speak. The TV airways seem to be filled with coverage of her, on every channel—until she clicks on to a new channel and Lois’s face suddenly appears.
“Lois!” Sage leans forward animatedly.
The camera pans away and I see that Lois is being filmed outside her house, which is a huge Spanish-style mansion. She’s wearing a billowy white nightshirt and has bare feet and seems to be shouting at someone, but there’s no sound.
“What is she doing?” Sage is gazing at the screen.
“Why isn’t she inside?” I wince. “She doesn’t look well.”
Lois looks terrible. I mean, terrible. Her skin is pale, her eyes are hollow, her hair is lank and she’s twisting it between her fingers.
I wonder if she’s heard from the police. No one knows if they’re going to press charges; no one knows anything yet. I keep expecting to be summoned to a police station, but so far, nothing. When I mentioned it to Aran, he said, “Becky, don’t worry. Your profile is up there, even without a court case.”
But that’s not what I meant. I was thinking about Lois.
“Leave me alone.” Her voice suddenly becomes audible. “Please leave me alone.”
And now we can hear the shouts from the photographers and journalists outside the gate.
“Are you a thief, Lois?”
“Did you take Sage’s bag?”
“Have you been charged?”
“Do you have a message for the American people?”
Lois’s eyes are dark and despairing, and she’s biting her lip so hard I can see specks of blood appearing. She looks totally on the edge—just like she did when I first caught hold of her in the street. She goes back inside, the front door slams, and the picture flashes back to a studio, where a woman in a tailored red jacket is watching a screen seriously.
“And there we can see the first shots of Lois Kellerton since this scandal,” she says. “Dr. Nora Vitale, you’re an expert on mental health. Would you say Lois Kellerton is experiencing a breakdown?”
“Well, now.” Dr. Nora Vitale is a thin woman in a surprisingly frivolous pink dress, with a serious expression. “We don’t use the word ‘breakdown’ these days.…”
“Jeez.” Sage switches off the TV. “That’ll be all over Hollywood in twenty seconds. You know what they’re saying?”
“What?”
“They’re saying this goes back years. She’s been stealing all her life.”
“What?” I say in horror. “No! I’m sure it was just a one-off. She was under great strain, she made a mistake—anyone can make a mistake!”
“Well.” Sage shrugs comfortably. “Whatever you think, people are coming forward. People she’s worked with—makeup artists, assistants—saying she stole from them too. She’s going to drown in lawsuits.”
“Oh God.”
Guilt is squeezing me inside. I’m going hot and cold with remorse. This is all my fault.
“So, when am I going to see you again?” To my surprise, Sage throws her arms around me when we stop outside my house. “I want you to style me for my next appearance. Head to foot.”
“Wow,” I say, taken aback. “I’d love to!”
“And we have to have lunch. Spago, maybe. Sound good?”
“Yes! Fab.”
“We’re in this together, Becky.” She squeezes me again, as the back doors magically slide open.
There’s a cluster of photographers outside my gates. I’m almost getting used to them. I check my reflection in my compact, then carefully slide out of the SUV. I zap open the gates with my remote control and wave goodbye to Sage. The next minute, Minnie is running down the drive toward me. She’s wearing her gorgeous little yellow dress and clutching a painting she must have just done. I’ve kept her off school today, because she was complaining of earache this morning. (Although it could just have been that her headband was too tight.)
“She stole my purse,” says Sage, unmoved. “She’s a psycho.”
“She didn’t steal it. It was a mistake.”
“Tough talk there from Sage Seymour,” a TV presenter is saying on-screen. “With us in the studio to discuss the scandal is Hollywood commentator Ross Halcomb, film critic Joanne Seldana, and—”
“Sage,” I try again. “You do know it was a mistake, don’t you?”
“Shhh!” says Sage, waving a hand impatiently. We sit in silence as a whole bunch of people in a studio discuss whether Sage Seymour’s career will now go stellar, and then, as soon as they’ve finished, Sage flicks to another news piece about herself. I feel more and more uncomfortable, but Sage won’t let me speak. The TV airways seem to be filled with coverage of her, on every channel—until she clicks on to a new channel and Lois’s face suddenly appears.
“Lois!” Sage leans forward animatedly.
The camera pans away and I see that Lois is being filmed outside her house, which is a huge Spanish-style mansion. She’s wearing a billowy white nightshirt and has bare feet and seems to be shouting at someone, but there’s no sound.
“What is she doing?” Sage is gazing at the screen.
“Why isn’t she inside?” I wince. “She doesn’t look well.”
Lois looks terrible. I mean, terrible. Her skin is pale, her eyes are hollow, her hair is lank and she’s twisting it between her fingers.
I wonder if she’s heard from the police. No one knows if they’re going to press charges; no one knows anything yet. I keep expecting to be summoned to a police station, but so far, nothing. When I mentioned it to Aran, he said, “Becky, don’t worry. Your profile is up there, even without a court case.”
But that’s not what I meant. I was thinking about Lois.
“Leave me alone.” Her voice suddenly becomes audible. “Please leave me alone.”
And now we can hear the shouts from the photographers and journalists outside the gate.
“Are you a thief, Lois?”
“Did you take Sage’s bag?”
“Have you been charged?”
“Do you have a message for the American people?”
Lois’s eyes are dark and despairing, and she’s biting her lip so hard I can see specks of blood appearing. She looks totally on the edge—just like she did when I first caught hold of her in the street. She goes back inside, the front door slams, and the picture flashes back to a studio, where a woman in a tailored red jacket is watching a screen seriously.
“And there we can see the first shots of Lois Kellerton since this scandal,” she says. “Dr. Nora Vitale, you’re an expert on mental health. Would you say Lois Kellerton is experiencing a breakdown?”
“Well, now.” Dr. Nora Vitale is a thin woman in a surprisingly frivolous pink dress, with a serious expression. “We don’t use the word ‘breakdown’ these days.…”
“Jeez.” Sage switches off the TV. “That’ll be all over Hollywood in twenty seconds. You know what they’re saying?”
“What?”
“They’re saying this goes back years. She’s been stealing all her life.”
“What?” I say in horror. “No! I’m sure it was just a one-off. She was under great strain, she made a mistake—anyone can make a mistake!”
“Well.” Sage shrugs comfortably. “Whatever you think, people are coming forward. People she’s worked with—makeup artists, assistants—saying she stole from them too. She’s going to drown in lawsuits.”
“Oh God.”
Guilt is squeezing me inside. I’m going hot and cold with remorse. This is all my fault.
“So, when am I going to see you again?” To my surprise, Sage throws her arms around me when we stop outside my house. “I want you to style me for my next appearance. Head to foot.”
“Wow,” I say, taken aback. “I’d love to!”
“And we have to have lunch. Spago, maybe. Sound good?”
“Yes! Fab.”
“We’re in this together, Becky.” She squeezes me again, as the back doors magically slide open.
There’s a cluster of photographers outside my gates. I’m almost getting used to them. I check my reflection in my compact, then carefully slide out of the SUV. I zap open the gates with my remote control and wave goodbye to Sage. The next minute, Minnie is running down the drive toward me. She’s wearing her gorgeous little yellow dress and clutching a painting she must have just done. I’ve kept her off school today, because she was complaining of earache this morning. (Although it could just have been that her headband was too tight.)
