Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 2
“How did you get a place?” Mindy says enviously. “I’ve applied for that race, like, every year.”
“Well.” I pause for effect. “I’m on Sage Seymour’s team.”
“Wow.” Her jaw drops, and I feel a spurt of glee. It’s true! I, Becky Brandon (née Bloomwood), am running on the team of a top movie star! We’ll do calf stretches together! We’ll wear matching baseball caps! We’ll be in Us Weekly!
“You’re British, right?” Mindy interrupts my thoughts.
“Yes, but I’m moving to L.A. soon. I’m out here to look at houses with my husband, Luke. He has a PR company and he works with Sage Seymour,” I can’t help adding proudly.
Mindy looks more and more impressed. “So are you and Sage Seymour, like, friends?”
I fiddle with my purse, delaying my reply. The truth is, despite all my hopes, Sage Seymour and I aren’t exactly friends. In fact, the real truth is, I still haven’t met her. Which is so unfair. Luke’s been working with her for ages, and I’ve already been out to L.A. once for a job interview and now I’m out here again, finding a house and a preschool for our daughter, Minnie … but have I even glimpsed Sage?
When Luke said he was going to work with Sage Seymour and we were going to move to Hollywood, I thought we’d be seeing her every day. I thought we’d be hanging out by her pink pool in matching sunglasses and going for mani-pedis together. But even Luke hardly ever seems to see her; he just has meetings with managers and agents and producers all day long. He says he’s learning the movie business and it’s a steep learning curve. Which is fair enough, because previously he’s only advised financial companies and big conglomerates. But does he have to be so resolutely non-starry-eyed? When I got a tiny bit frustrated the other day, he said, “For God’s sake, Becky, we’re not making this huge move just to meet celebrities.” He said “celebrities” like he was saying “earwigs.” He understands nothing.
The great thing about Luke and me is that we think alike on nearly everything in life, and that’s why we’re so happily married. But we have just a few teeny points of disagreement. Such as:
1. Catalogs. (They are not “clutter.” They’re useful. You never know when you might need a personalized kitchen blackboard with a dinky little bucket for the chalk. Plus I like reading them at bedtime.)
2. Shoes. (Keeping all my shoes in their original boxes forever is not ridiculous; it’s thrifty. They’ll come back into fashion one day and then Minnie can wear them. And, meanwhile, he should look where he’s stepping.)
3. Elinor, his mother. (Long, long story.)
4. Celebrities.
I mean, here we are in L.A. The home of celebrities. They’re the local natural phenomenon. Everyone knows you come to L.A. to see the celebrities, like you go to Sri Lanka to see the elephants.
But Luke didn’t gasp when we saw Tom Hanks in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire. He didn’t blink when Halle Berry was sitting three tables away at The Ivy (I think it was Halle Berry). He didn’t even get excited when we saw Reese Witherspoon across the road. (I’m sure it was Reese Witherspoon. She had exactly the same hair.)
And he talks about Sage as if she’s just another client. Like she’s Foreland Investments. He says that this is what she appreciates about him: that he’s not part of the circus. And then he says I’m getting overexcited by all the Hollywood hoopla. Which is totally untrue. I am not overexcited. I’m exactly the right amount excited.
Privately, I’m disappointed in Sage too. I mean, OK, we don’t exactly know each other, but we did speak on the phone when she was helping me with a surprise party for Luke. (Although she’s got a new number, and Luke won’t give it to me.) I would have thought she might be in touch, or invite me round to her house for a sleepover, or something.
Anyway, never mind. It’ll all come good tomorrow. I don’t want to boast, but it’s totally due to my own quick wits that I’m in this Ten Miler race. I just happened to be looking over Luke’s shoulder at his laptop yesterday when a round-robin email came in from Sage’s manager, Aran. It was entitled First come first served and read: Dear friends, there’s a last-minute place available on the Ten Miler team due to an injury dropout—anyone interested in running and supporting Sage?
My hands were on the keyboard, pressing REPLY and typing, Yes, please! I would love to run with Sage! Best wishes, Becky Brandon, before I was even aware I was moving.
OK, so maybe I should have consulted Luke before pressing SEND. But it was “first come first served.” I had to act fast!
“Well.” I pause for effect. “I’m on Sage Seymour’s team.”
“Wow.” Her jaw drops, and I feel a spurt of glee. It’s true! I, Becky Brandon (née Bloomwood), am running on the team of a top movie star! We’ll do calf stretches together! We’ll wear matching baseball caps! We’ll be in Us Weekly!
“You’re British, right?” Mindy interrupts my thoughts.
“Yes, but I’m moving to L.A. soon. I’m out here to look at houses with my husband, Luke. He has a PR company and he works with Sage Seymour,” I can’t help adding proudly.
Mindy looks more and more impressed. “So are you and Sage Seymour, like, friends?”
I fiddle with my purse, delaying my reply. The truth is, despite all my hopes, Sage Seymour and I aren’t exactly friends. In fact, the real truth is, I still haven’t met her. Which is so unfair. Luke’s been working with her for ages, and I’ve already been out to L.A. once for a job interview and now I’m out here again, finding a house and a preschool for our daughter, Minnie … but have I even glimpsed Sage?
When Luke said he was going to work with Sage Seymour and we were going to move to Hollywood, I thought we’d be seeing her every day. I thought we’d be hanging out by her pink pool in matching sunglasses and going for mani-pedis together. But even Luke hardly ever seems to see her; he just has meetings with managers and agents and producers all day long. He says he’s learning the movie business and it’s a steep learning curve. Which is fair enough, because previously he’s only advised financial companies and big conglomerates. But does he have to be so resolutely non-starry-eyed? When I got a tiny bit frustrated the other day, he said, “For God’s sake, Becky, we’re not making this huge move just to meet celebrities.” He said “celebrities” like he was saying “earwigs.” He understands nothing.
The great thing about Luke and me is that we think alike on nearly everything in life, and that’s why we’re so happily married. But we have just a few teeny points of disagreement. Such as:
1. Catalogs. (They are not “clutter.” They’re useful. You never know when you might need a personalized kitchen blackboard with a dinky little bucket for the chalk. Plus I like reading them at bedtime.)
2. Shoes. (Keeping all my shoes in their original boxes forever is not ridiculous; it’s thrifty. They’ll come back into fashion one day and then Minnie can wear them. And, meanwhile, he should look where he’s stepping.)
3. Elinor, his mother. (Long, long story.)
4. Celebrities.
I mean, here we are in L.A. The home of celebrities. They’re the local natural phenomenon. Everyone knows you come to L.A. to see the celebrities, like you go to Sri Lanka to see the elephants.
But Luke didn’t gasp when we saw Tom Hanks in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire. He didn’t blink when Halle Berry was sitting three tables away at The Ivy (I think it was Halle Berry). He didn’t even get excited when we saw Reese Witherspoon across the road. (I’m sure it was Reese Witherspoon. She had exactly the same hair.)
And he talks about Sage as if she’s just another client. Like she’s Foreland Investments. He says that this is what she appreciates about him: that he’s not part of the circus. And then he says I’m getting overexcited by all the Hollywood hoopla. Which is totally untrue. I am not overexcited. I’m exactly the right amount excited.
Privately, I’m disappointed in Sage too. I mean, OK, we don’t exactly know each other, but we did speak on the phone when she was helping me with a surprise party for Luke. (Although she’s got a new number, and Luke won’t give it to me.) I would have thought she might be in touch, or invite me round to her house for a sleepover, or something.
Anyway, never mind. It’ll all come good tomorrow. I don’t want to boast, but it’s totally due to my own quick wits that I’m in this Ten Miler race. I just happened to be looking over Luke’s shoulder at his laptop yesterday when a round-robin email came in from Sage’s manager, Aran. It was entitled First come first served and read: Dear friends, there’s a last-minute place available on the Ten Miler team due to an injury dropout—anyone interested in running and supporting Sage?
My hands were on the keyboard, pressing REPLY and typing, Yes, please! I would love to run with Sage! Best wishes, Becky Brandon, before I was even aware I was moving.
OK, so maybe I should have consulted Luke before pressing SEND. But it was “first come first served.” I had to act fast!
