Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 22
As we get near, we find a cordoned-off area for VIP visitors, where my mum and dad have commandeered a prime position, along with our neighbors Janice and Martin.
“Becky!” exclaims Mum. “Just in time!”
“Becky! We’ve missed you!” Janice gives me a hug. “How was L.A.?”
“Great, thanks!”
“Really, love?” Janice clicks her tongue disbelievingly, as though I’m putting a brave face on some personal tragedy. “But the people. All those plastic faces and whale pouts.”
“Do you mean trout pouts?”
“And drugs,” puts in Martin ponderously.
“Exactly!”
“You need to be careful, Becky,” he adds. “Don’t let them suck you into their way of thinking.”
“Unhappiest city on the planet,” agrees Janice. “It said so in the paper.”
They’re both staring at me mournfully, as though I’m about to be carted off to a penal colony on Mars.
“It’s a brilliant city,” I say defiantly. “And we can’t wait to get there.”
“Well, maybe you’ll see Jess,” says Janice, as though this is the only possible ray of light. “How far’s Chile from L.A.?”
“It’s …” I try to sound knowledgeable. “Not far. Same general area.”
My half sister, Jess, is married to Janice and Martin’s son, Tom, and they’re out in Chile, where they’re planning to adopt a little boy. Poor Janice is trying to wait patiently, but apparently it could be a year before they come back.
“Don’t listen to them, love,” Dad chimes in cheerfully. “L.A. is a fine city. I still remember the glint of the Cadillacs. The surf on the sand. And the ice-cream sundaes. Look out for those, Becky.”
“Right.” I nod patiently. “Ice-cream sundaes.”
Dad spent a summer driving around California before he got married, so his version of L.A. is basically from 1972. There’s no point saying, No one eats ice-cream sundaes anymore; it’s all about flavored fro-yo.
“In fact, Becky,” Dad adds, “I’ve got a couple of favors to ask you.” He draws me to one side, away from the others, and I look up at him curiously.
Dad’s aged a bit recently. His face is craggier and there are little white hairs tufting out of his neck—although he can still vault over a gate quite athletically. I know this because he was showing off to Minnie earlier today in one of Suze’s fields, while Mum cried out, “Graham, stop! You’ll do yourself an injury! You’ll break a metatarsal!” (Mum has recently found a new daytime TV show, Doctor’s Surgery Live, which means that she now thinks she’s an expert on all things medical and keeps dropping words like “platelets” and “lipoproteins” into the conversation, even when we’re just talking about what to have for supper.)
“What is it, Dad?”
“Well, the first thing is this.” He takes from his breast pocket a small paper bag and pulls out an ancient autograph book with a picture of a Cadillac on the front and California in white swirly writing. “Remember this?”
“Of course!”
Dad’s autograph book is a family tradition. It gets pulled out every Christmas, and we all politely listen as he tells us about all the signatures. They’re mostly autographs of obscure TV stars from American shows that no one’s ever heard of, but Dad thinks they’re famous, so that’s all that matters.
“Ronald ‘Rocky’ Webster,” he’s saying now, turning the pages fondly. “He was a big star then. And Maria Pojes. You should have heard her sing.”
“Right.” I nod politely, even though I’ve heard these names a million times and they still mean nothing to me.
“It was my friend Corey who spotted Maria Pojes drinking in a hotel bar,” Dad’s saying. “Our first night in L.A. He dragged me over, offered to buy her a drink.…” He laughs reminiscently. “She wouldn’t accept it, of course. But she was sweet to us. Signed our books.”
“Wow.” I nod again. “Fantastic.”
“And so …” To my surprise, Dad presses the open autograph book into my hand. “Over to you, Becky. Fill her up with some new blood.”
“What?” I stare at him. “Dad, I can’t take this!”
“Half the book’s empty.” He points at the blank pages. “You’re off to Hollywood. Finish the collection.”
I look at it nervously. “But what if I lose it or something?”
“You won’t lose it. But you’ll have adventures.” Dad’s face flickers oddly. “Oh, Becky, love, I am envious. I’ve never known anything like those adventures I had in California.”
“Becky!” exclaims Mum. “Just in time!”
“Becky! We’ve missed you!” Janice gives me a hug. “How was L.A.?”
“Great, thanks!”
“Really, love?” Janice clicks her tongue disbelievingly, as though I’m putting a brave face on some personal tragedy. “But the people. All those plastic faces and whale pouts.”
“Do you mean trout pouts?”
“And drugs,” puts in Martin ponderously.
“Exactly!”
“You need to be careful, Becky,” he adds. “Don’t let them suck you into their way of thinking.”
“Unhappiest city on the planet,” agrees Janice. “It said so in the paper.”
They’re both staring at me mournfully, as though I’m about to be carted off to a penal colony on Mars.
“It’s a brilliant city,” I say defiantly. “And we can’t wait to get there.”
“Well, maybe you’ll see Jess,” says Janice, as though this is the only possible ray of light. “How far’s Chile from L.A.?”
“It’s …” I try to sound knowledgeable. “Not far. Same general area.”
My half sister, Jess, is married to Janice and Martin’s son, Tom, and they’re out in Chile, where they’re planning to adopt a little boy. Poor Janice is trying to wait patiently, but apparently it could be a year before they come back.
“Don’t listen to them, love,” Dad chimes in cheerfully. “L.A. is a fine city. I still remember the glint of the Cadillacs. The surf on the sand. And the ice-cream sundaes. Look out for those, Becky.”
“Right.” I nod patiently. “Ice-cream sundaes.”
Dad spent a summer driving around California before he got married, so his version of L.A. is basically from 1972. There’s no point saying, No one eats ice-cream sundaes anymore; it’s all about flavored fro-yo.
“In fact, Becky,” Dad adds, “I’ve got a couple of favors to ask you.” He draws me to one side, away from the others, and I look up at him curiously.
Dad’s aged a bit recently. His face is craggier and there are little white hairs tufting out of his neck—although he can still vault over a gate quite athletically. I know this because he was showing off to Minnie earlier today in one of Suze’s fields, while Mum cried out, “Graham, stop! You’ll do yourself an injury! You’ll break a metatarsal!” (Mum has recently found a new daytime TV show, Doctor’s Surgery Live, which means that she now thinks she’s an expert on all things medical and keeps dropping words like “platelets” and “lipoproteins” into the conversation, even when we’re just talking about what to have for supper.)
“What is it, Dad?”
“Well, the first thing is this.” He takes from his breast pocket a small paper bag and pulls out an ancient autograph book with a picture of a Cadillac on the front and California in white swirly writing. “Remember this?”
“Of course!”
Dad’s autograph book is a family tradition. It gets pulled out every Christmas, and we all politely listen as he tells us about all the signatures. They’re mostly autographs of obscure TV stars from American shows that no one’s ever heard of, but Dad thinks they’re famous, so that’s all that matters.
“Ronald ‘Rocky’ Webster,” he’s saying now, turning the pages fondly. “He was a big star then. And Maria Pojes. You should have heard her sing.”
“Right.” I nod politely, even though I’ve heard these names a million times and they still mean nothing to me.
“It was my friend Corey who spotted Maria Pojes drinking in a hotel bar,” Dad’s saying. “Our first night in L.A. He dragged me over, offered to buy her a drink.…” He laughs reminiscently. “She wouldn’t accept it, of course. But she was sweet to us. Signed our books.”
“Wow.” I nod again. “Fantastic.”
“And so …” To my surprise, Dad presses the open autograph book into my hand. “Over to you, Becky. Fill her up with some new blood.”
“What?” I stare at him. “Dad, I can’t take this!”
“Half the book’s empty.” He points at the blank pages. “You’re off to Hollywood. Finish the collection.”
I look at it nervously. “But what if I lose it or something?”
“You won’t lose it. But you’ll have adventures.” Dad’s face flickers oddly. “Oh, Becky, love, I am envious. I’ve never known anything like those adventures I had in California.”
