Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 109
I’ve also bought myself a couple of tiny things—just a sequined evening dress and a few pairs of shoes, because I’ll need them for my new lifestyle. I even used my notebook from Golden Peace, just to make sure I wasn’t shopping in an unhealthy way. In answer to the question Why am I shopping? I wrote Because I am a celebrity stylist now. I mean, you can’t argue with that.
When I head out of the shop, the blacked-out SUV is waiting by the curb. Mitchell is standing at attention, his shades glinting in the sun, and Jeff escorts me to the SUV door. I can see some shoppers looking at me curiously, and I put my hand up to shield my face, just like a proper A-lister.
As I get into the SUV, surrounded by bags, I feel elated. I’m totally on track with my new career! The only slight worry I have is that my Breakfast Show USA segment is tomorrow, and I still haven’t heard from them what sort of styling they want. How can I prepare a fashion piece if I don’t have a brief? I’ve left a zillion messages for Aran about this already, but I decide to try him again anyway, and this time he picks up.
“Oh, hi, Aran,” I say. “Listen, did you ever hear back from Breakfast Show USA about what sort of clothes I should prepare? Because it’s tomorrow! I need to get some pieces together!”
“Oh!” Aran laughs. “My bad. Yes, I meant to tell you. They say don’t worry about the clothes. They’ll take care of all that. Your job is just to go on the show and talk.”
Don’t worry about the clothes? I stare blankly at the phone. How can I not worry about the clothes when I’m the stylist?
“But how will that work? How will I prepare?”
“Becky, you’ll be great,” says Aran. “You can comment on the clothes, engage in some general chat, get your personality across.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, OK. Thanks.”
I ring off, still puzzled. This is all very weird. But maybe they do things differently in the States. In fact, maybe I should do some research. I zap on the TV to see if there are any fashion items I can watch, flicking through the channels until an image suddenly stops me. For a moment I can’t even make sense of what I’m seeing.
It’s a fuzzy picture of Lois’s house in the dark. There’s an ambulance flashing in her driveway and paramedics wheeling a hospital gurney, and the headline is: BREAKING NEWS: LOIS IN SUICIDE BID?
Suicide?
Suicide bid?
Oh God, oh God, oh God …
My heart thumping, I turn the volume up and lean forward anxiously to hear the voice-over.
“There are unconfirmed reports that Lois Kellerton was rushed to the hospital last night, in what one commentator described as ‘the desperate act of a desperate star.’ Over to our reporter Faye Ireland.”
The picture flashes to a reporter standing outside what I recognize as Lois’s house, talking gravely into a microphone.
“Neighbors confirm that at around midnight last night, an ambulance was summoned to the house, and one witness saw Lois Kellerton being placed in the ambulance, on a gurney. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Lois Kellerton appeared to return to the house and has not been seen since.” The screen shows a fuzzy long-lens picture of a figure covered in a sheet being bundled into the house. “Friends have been worried about the state of mind of the award-winning actress since her apparent exposure as a thief.” The picture flashes to the familiar sight of Lois at the ASAs, crumpling in shock on the stage. “Ms. Kellerton’s spokesman refused to comment on these latest troubling events. Back to the studio.”
“And now to sports …” says a woman in a purple dress, and I switch off. I’m quivering all over. I never thought in a million years anything like this would happen. I never imagined—I never expected—
I mean, it isn’t my fault.
It isn’t. It really isn’t.
Is it?
On impulse, I dial Sage’s number. Of all people, she must know how I feel. In fact, she must feel even worse.
“Sage,” I say, as soon as she answers. “Did you see the news about Lois?”
“Oh.” She sounds unconcerned. “That.”
“Sage, we did that to her!” My voice is trembling. “I can’t believe it’s gone so far. Have you been to see her or called her or anything?”
“See that maniac?” Sage retorts. “You have to be kidding!”
“But shouldn’t we do something? Like … I don’t know. Go and apologize?”
“No,” says Sage flatly. “Not happening.”
“Just, no?”
“This is her problem, Becky. She’ll sort it out. I gotta go.” And she rings off.
When I head out of the shop, the blacked-out SUV is waiting by the curb. Mitchell is standing at attention, his shades glinting in the sun, and Jeff escorts me to the SUV door. I can see some shoppers looking at me curiously, and I put my hand up to shield my face, just like a proper A-lister.
As I get into the SUV, surrounded by bags, I feel elated. I’m totally on track with my new career! The only slight worry I have is that my Breakfast Show USA segment is tomorrow, and I still haven’t heard from them what sort of styling they want. How can I prepare a fashion piece if I don’t have a brief? I’ve left a zillion messages for Aran about this already, but I decide to try him again anyway, and this time he picks up.
“Oh, hi, Aran,” I say. “Listen, did you ever hear back from Breakfast Show USA about what sort of clothes I should prepare? Because it’s tomorrow! I need to get some pieces together!”
“Oh!” Aran laughs. “My bad. Yes, I meant to tell you. They say don’t worry about the clothes. They’ll take care of all that. Your job is just to go on the show and talk.”
Don’t worry about the clothes? I stare blankly at the phone. How can I not worry about the clothes when I’m the stylist?
“But how will that work? How will I prepare?”
“Becky, you’ll be great,” says Aran. “You can comment on the clothes, engage in some general chat, get your personality across.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, OK. Thanks.”
I ring off, still puzzled. This is all very weird. But maybe they do things differently in the States. In fact, maybe I should do some research. I zap on the TV to see if there are any fashion items I can watch, flicking through the channels until an image suddenly stops me. For a moment I can’t even make sense of what I’m seeing.
It’s a fuzzy picture of Lois’s house in the dark. There’s an ambulance flashing in her driveway and paramedics wheeling a hospital gurney, and the headline is: BREAKING NEWS: LOIS IN SUICIDE BID?
Suicide?
Suicide bid?
Oh God, oh God, oh God …
My heart thumping, I turn the volume up and lean forward anxiously to hear the voice-over.
“There are unconfirmed reports that Lois Kellerton was rushed to the hospital last night, in what one commentator described as ‘the desperate act of a desperate star.’ Over to our reporter Faye Ireland.”
The picture flashes to a reporter standing outside what I recognize as Lois’s house, talking gravely into a microphone.
“Neighbors confirm that at around midnight last night, an ambulance was summoned to the house, and one witness saw Lois Kellerton being placed in the ambulance, on a gurney. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Lois Kellerton appeared to return to the house and has not been seen since.” The screen shows a fuzzy long-lens picture of a figure covered in a sheet being bundled into the house. “Friends have been worried about the state of mind of the award-winning actress since her apparent exposure as a thief.” The picture flashes to the familiar sight of Lois at the ASAs, crumpling in shock on the stage. “Ms. Kellerton’s spokesman refused to comment on these latest troubling events. Back to the studio.”
“And now to sports …” says a woman in a purple dress, and I switch off. I’m quivering all over. I never thought in a million years anything like this would happen. I never imagined—I never expected—
I mean, it isn’t my fault.
It isn’t. It really isn’t.
Is it?
On impulse, I dial Sage’s number. Of all people, she must know how I feel. In fact, she must feel even worse.
“Sage,” I say, as soon as she answers. “Did you see the news about Lois?”
“Oh.” She sounds unconcerned. “That.”
“Sage, we did that to her!” My voice is trembling. “I can’t believe it’s gone so far. Have you been to see her or called her or anything?”
“See that maniac?” Sage retorts. “You have to be kidding!”
“But shouldn’t we do something? Like … I don’t know. Go and apologize?”
“No,” says Sage flatly. “Not happening.”
“Just, no?”
“This is her problem, Becky. She’ll sort it out. I gotta go.” And she rings off.
