Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 50
“Shall we walk past and casually peek?”
“I’ve tried,” I say regretfully. “The security people shoo you away.”
“But there are other celebs here, aren’t there?”
“Yes! Loads!” I’m about to elaborate when I notice a staff member walking nearby. “But of course that’s all really hush-hush, so I can’t tell you anything,” I add hastily.
Actually, the truth is, I’ve only seen a couple of celebs in groups, and they weren’t much to speak of. One was a Victoria’s Secret model and held up our entire self-esteem group by making us sign individual confidentiality agreements. Then she’d spelled her name wrong and we all had to change Brandie to Brandee and initial it. And then she didn’t say anything remotely interesting anyway. I mean, honestly.
“I’m going to have coffee with Sage Seymour,” I offer, and Suze wrinkles her brow, dissatisfied.
“Weren’t you going to do that two weeks ago?”
“Yes, well, she’s been busy—” I break off as my eye catches a figure walking toward us.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Tarquin looks terrible.”
“I know!” says Suze. “Exactly! He could at least have worn jeans.”
But that’s not what I meant. I’m not looking at his tweed shooting jacket, or his ancient brogues, or the mustard-colored knitted tie around his neck. It’s his face. He looks so wan. And there’s a stooped slant to his shoulders that I don’t remember.
Luke often gets hassled by his business, too, I find myself thinking. But it’s different. He built his own company up himself. He drove it. He created it. Whereas Tarquin just had a massive empire plonked on his shoulders when his grandfather died. And right now it looks like it’s too heavy for him.
“Tarkie!” I hurry forward to greet him. “Welcome to Hollywood!”
“Oh. Ahm.” He raises a meager little smile. “Yes. Hollywood. Marvelous.”
“Tarkie, take off your shooting coat!” says Suze. “You must be boiling. In fact, why not take your shirt off too?”
“Take my shirt off? In public?” Tarquin looks scandalized, and I hide a giggle. I’d better not take him to visit Venice Beach.
“Get some sun! It’s good for you! Look, all those men there have taken their shirts off.” Suze points encouragingly to the volleyball players on the beach, who are mostly dressed in cutoffs and bandannas.
Suze can be quite bossy when she wants to, and within thirty seconds Tarkie has taken off his shooting coat, his tie, his shirt, and his socks and shoes. To my amazement, he’s quite tanned and muscled.
“Tarkie, have you been working out?” I say in astonishment.
“He’s been helping with the fencing on the estate,” says Suze. “You don’t mind taking your shirt off for that, do you?”
“That’s on my own land,” says Tarkie, as though it’s obvious. “Suze, darling, I think I’ll put my shirt back on—”
“No! Now, put these on.” She hands him a pair of Ray-Bans. “There! Brilliant.”
I’m just about to take pity on Tarquin and offer to get him some Earl Grey tea when the volleyball bounces near us, and Suze leaps up to get it. A bronzed guy in cutoffs and a Golden Peace T-shirt comes running up, and as he draws near I see that it’s Bryce.
He’s quite amazing, Bryce. He’s got the most piercing blue eyes you’ve ever seen, and he stares at you very intently before he says anything. I don’t know how old he is—his hair is graying but he’s incredibly lithe and energetic. He doesn’t seem to take any groups, but he wanders round and gets to know people and says things like Your journey begins here and really seems to mean it.
“Rebecca.” His eyes crinkle into a smile. “How’s your day going?”
“Really well, thanks!” I beam at him. “Bryce, these are my friends Suze and Tarquin.”
“Here’s your ball,” says Suze, handing it to him. She flicks her hair back a little self-consciously, and I can see her sucking in her stomach, not that she needs to.
“Thank you.” Bryce turns his dazzling smile on her. “Welcome, both of you.” His eyes fall on Tarquin’s shooting coat. “Cool jacket.”
“Oh,” says Tarquin. “Ahm. My shooting coat.”
“Shooting coat.” Bryce’s eyes light up. “Now, that’s a great idea. I guess it works in all weathers, right? And great pockets. May I?” Bryce picks up the coat and examines it admiringly.
“Useful for cartridges,” says Tarkie.
“I’ve tried,” I say regretfully. “The security people shoo you away.”
“But there are other celebs here, aren’t there?”
“Yes! Loads!” I’m about to elaborate when I notice a staff member walking nearby. “But of course that’s all really hush-hush, so I can’t tell you anything,” I add hastily.
Actually, the truth is, I’ve only seen a couple of celebs in groups, and they weren’t much to speak of. One was a Victoria’s Secret model and held up our entire self-esteem group by making us sign individual confidentiality agreements. Then she’d spelled her name wrong and we all had to change Brandie to Brandee and initial it. And then she didn’t say anything remotely interesting anyway. I mean, honestly.
“I’m going to have coffee with Sage Seymour,” I offer, and Suze wrinkles her brow, dissatisfied.
“Weren’t you going to do that two weeks ago?”
“Yes, well, she’s been busy—” I break off as my eye catches a figure walking toward us.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Tarquin looks terrible.”
“I know!” says Suze. “Exactly! He could at least have worn jeans.”
But that’s not what I meant. I’m not looking at his tweed shooting jacket, or his ancient brogues, or the mustard-colored knitted tie around his neck. It’s his face. He looks so wan. And there’s a stooped slant to his shoulders that I don’t remember.
Luke often gets hassled by his business, too, I find myself thinking. But it’s different. He built his own company up himself. He drove it. He created it. Whereas Tarquin just had a massive empire plonked on his shoulders when his grandfather died. And right now it looks like it’s too heavy for him.
“Tarkie!” I hurry forward to greet him. “Welcome to Hollywood!”
“Oh. Ahm.” He raises a meager little smile. “Yes. Hollywood. Marvelous.”
“Tarkie, take off your shooting coat!” says Suze. “You must be boiling. In fact, why not take your shirt off too?”
“Take my shirt off? In public?” Tarquin looks scandalized, and I hide a giggle. I’d better not take him to visit Venice Beach.
“Get some sun! It’s good for you! Look, all those men there have taken their shirts off.” Suze points encouragingly to the volleyball players on the beach, who are mostly dressed in cutoffs and bandannas.
Suze can be quite bossy when she wants to, and within thirty seconds Tarkie has taken off his shooting coat, his tie, his shirt, and his socks and shoes. To my amazement, he’s quite tanned and muscled.
“Tarkie, have you been working out?” I say in astonishment.
“He’s been helping with the fencing on the estate,” says Suze. “You don’t mind taking your shirt off for that, do you?”
“That’s on my own land,” says Tarkie, as though it’s obvious. “Suze, darling, I think I’ll put my shirt back on—”
“No! Now, put these on.” She hands him a pair of Ray-Bans. “There! Brilliant.”
I’m just about to take pity on Tarquin and offer to get him some Earl Grey tea when the volleyball bounces near us, and Suze leaps up to get it. A bronzed guy in cutoffs and a Golden Peace T-shirt comes running up, and as he draws near I see that it’s Bryce.
He’s quite amazing, Bryce. He’s got the most piercing blue eyes you’ve ever seen, and he stares at you very intently before he says anything. I don’t know how old he is—his hair is graying but he’s incredibly lithe and energetic. He doesn’t seem to take any groups, but he wanders round and gets to know people and says things like Your journey begins here and really seems to mean it.
“Rebecca.” His eyes crinkle into a smile. “How’s your day going?”
“Really well, thanks!” I beam at him. “Bryce, these are my friends Suze and Tarquin.”
“Here’s your ball,” says Suze, handing it to him. She flicks her hair back a little self-consciously, and I can see her sucking in her stomach, not that she needs to.
“Thank you.” Bryce turns his dazzling smile on her. “Welcome, both of you.” His eyes fall on Tarquin’s shooting coat. “Cool jacket.”
“Oh,” says Tarquin. “Ahm. My shooting coat.”
“Shooting coat.” Bryce’s eyes light up. “Now, that’s a great idea. I guess it works in all weathers, right? And great pockets. May I?” Bryce picks up the coat and examines it admiringly.
“Useful for cartridges,” says Tarkie.
