Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 82
“Ooh, look! Best Producer Being Mean to Her Assistant,” says Suze, gesturing at a scrawny woman in a tux, who is talking fiercely through the side of her mouth at a young girl who looks like she might start crying.
The actual awards don’t start for another whole hour, and as far as I can see, neither Sage nor Lois is here yet. Suze says her ankle is too painful to mill around, and Tarkie has disappeared off with a friend of his from volleyball, so we’re sitting at our table with glasses of wine, giving out our own awards.
“I saw that girl in the loos.” Suze nudges me as a beautiful red-haired girl walks by. “She gets Best Use of Concealer. And Best Drying Her Armpits under the Hot-Air Dryer—oh!” She breaks off. “April! Hello!”
I swivel round and gulp. There’s April Tremont, looking very slinky in a peacock-blue dress. And standing next to her is …
Oh my God. My heart suddenly starts bumping in my chest.
“Lois, may I introduce Rebecca Brandon” says April. “Rebecca, this is Lois Kellerton.”
Seeing celebrities in real life is like seeing a Magic Eye, I’ve decided. At first they seem totally unreal, like a magazine or a film billboard come to life. Then your eyes gradually adjust and they take on 3-D form. And at last they kind of turn into real people. Kind of.
Lois’s face is thinner even than it was when I saw her before. Her skin is so fair it’s almost translucent. Her wavy hair is caught up in a loose knot, and she’s wearing a drifty, silky gray dress that makes her look like a shadow.
“Hi,” she says softly.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly, holding out my hand. “Lovely to … meet you.”
She takes my hand—and I see something snap in her face. She’s realized. She’s recognized me. My stomach clenches in apprehension. How is this going to go?
All credit to Lois, she’s totally kept her cool. Her pupils haven’t even dilated. No one would have any idea we’ve met before. That’s what acting training does for you, I expect.
“Becky,” she says slowly.
“Exactly.” I swallow. “I’m Becky.”
Don’t mention shoplifting, I tell myself firmly. Do not even THINK about shoplifting. The trouble is, the more I tell myself not to think about it, the more I can’t help it. I feel like her secret is dancing up and down inside me, shouting, Let me out!
“I love macadamias,” I blurt out in desperation. “Don’t you?”
“I guess so.” Lois looks puzzled, then adds, “So, you want to be a stylist, April tells me.”
“Becky is a stylist!” says Suze loyally. “She used to work at Barneys as a personal shopper. She’s brilliant. I’m Suze, by the way. I’m in the profession too,” she adds grandly. “I’m a background artist.”
Honestly, what is Suze like? I’m in the profession too.
“I shopped at Barneys a couple times when I was filming in New York,” says Lois. “I saw … Janet?”
“Janet was my boss!” I try not to sound too excited. “She taught me everything!”
“Oh, OK.” Lois gives me an appraising look. “So you know what you’re doing, then.”
“Becky, I’m so sorry.” April turns to me. “But Cyndi couldn’t make it after all. I was going to get Becky and Cyndi together,” she explains to Lois.
“Oh.” I hide my disappointment. “Well, in the meantime …” I reach for the Art Deco clutch. “I brought this along for you.” I proffer it to Lois. “I saw it and it seemed like your style; it’s vintage.…” I trail off and hold my breath.
There’s silence as Lois considers the bag. I feel like I’m in the MasterChef final, and Michel Roux Jr. is considering my profiteroles.
“I like it,” Lois declares at last. “I love it. Sold.”
“Great!” I say, trying not to sound too joyful. “Well, it’s from this great vintage shop; I go there all the time. I could easily source some more stuff for you.…”
“I’d like that.” Lois gives me that ravishing, understated smile of hers, the one she does in Tess, when Angel strips off and does a sexy dance for her. (Did that happen in the book? Something tells me maybe not.)
She seems totally sweet and low-key. I can’t understand why people think she’s tricksy. Now she’s looking at her phone and frowning. “My agent. I need to go talk to some people. I’ll be back for this delightful thing.” She puts the bag down on the table. “And we’ll talk terms.”
“But what about Cyndi?” I say awkwardly. “I don’t want to tread on her toes.”
The actual awards don’t start for another whole hour, and as far as I can see, neither Sage nor Lois is here yet. Suze says her ankle is too painful to mill around, and Tarkie has disappeared off with a friend of his from volleyball, so we’re sitting at our table with glasses of wine, giving out our own awards.
“I saw that girl in the loos.” Suze nudges me as a beautiful red-haired girl walks by. “She gets Best Use of Concealer. And Best Drying Her Armpits under the Hot-Air Dryer—oh!” She breaks off. “April! Hello!”
I swivel round and gulp. There’s April Tremont, looking very slinky in a peacock-blue dress. And standing next to her is …
Oh my God. My heart suddenly starts bumping in my chest.
“Lois, may I introduce Rebecca Brandon” says April. “Rebecca, this is Lois Kellerton.”
Seeing celebrities in real life is like seeing a Magic Eye, I’ve decided. At first they seem totally unreal, like a magazine or a film billboard come to life. Then your eyes gradually adjust and they take on 3-D form. And at last they kind of turn into real people. Kind of.
Lois’s face is thinner even than it was when I saw her before. Her skin is so fair it’s almost translucent. Her wavy hair is caught up in a loose knot, and she’s wearing a drifty, silky gray dress that makes her look like a shadow.
“Hi,” she says softly.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly, holding out my hand. “Lovely to … meet you.”
She takes my hand—and I see something snap in her face. She’s realized. She’s recognized me. My stomach clenches in apprehension. How is this going to go?
All credit to Lois, she’s totally kept her cool. Her pupils haven’t even dilated. No one would have any idea we’ve met before. That’s what acting training does for you, I expect.
“Becky,” she says slowly.
“Exactly.” I swallow. “I’m Becky.”
Don’t mention shoplifting, I tell myself firmly. Do not even THINK about shoplifting. The trouble is, the more I tell myself not to think about it, the more I can’t help it. I feel like her secret is dancing up and down inside me, shouting, Let me out!
“I love macadamias,” I blurt out in desperation. “Don’t you?”
“I guess so.” Lois looks puzzled, then adds, “So, you want to be a stylist, April tells me.”
“Becky is a stylist!” says Suze loyally. “She used to work at Barneys as a personal shopper. She’s brilliant. I’m Suze, by the way. I’m in the profession too,” she adds grandly. “I’m a background artist.”
Honestly, what is Suze like? I’m in the profession too.
“I shopped at Barneys a couple times when I was filming in New York,” says Lois. “I saw … Janet?”
“Janet was my boss!” I try not to sound too excited. “She taught me everything!”
“Oh, OK.” Lois gives me an appraising look. “So you know what you’re doing, then.”
“Becky, I’m so sorry.” April turns to me. “But Cyndi couldn’t make it after all. I was going to get Becky and Cyndi together,” she explains to Lois.
“Oh.” I hide my disappointment. “Well, in the meantime …” I reach for the Art Deco clutch. “I brought this along for you.” I proffer it to Lois. “I saw it and it seemed like your style; it’s vintage.…” I trail off and hold my breath.
There’s silence as Lois considers the bag. I feel like I’m in the MasterChef final, and Michel Roux Jr. is considering my profiteroles.
“I like it,” Lois declares at last. “I love it. Sold.”
“Great!” I say, trying not to sound too joyful. “Well, it’s from this great vintage shop; I go there all the time. I could easily source some more stuff for you.…”
“I’d like that.” Lois gives me that ravishing, understated smile of hers, the one she does in Tess, when Angel strips off and does a sexy dance for her. (Did that happen in the book? Something tells me maybe not.)
She seems totally sweet and low-key. I can’t understand why people think she’s tricksy. Now she’s looking at her phone and frowning. “My agent. I need to go talk to some people. I’ll be back for this delightful thing.” She puts the bag down on the table. “And we’ll talk terms.”
“But what about Cyndi?” I say awkwardly. “I don’t want to tread on her toes.”
