Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 97
“Constantine. He had a Greek mother.”
“Well, there you are.”
“But …” He exhales. “This is impossible.”
“Look, Dad,” I say kindly. “It’s been a long time. Who knows what happened in Brent Lewis’s life? He could have gone into business, he could have had six divorces, he could have turned into a criminal—”
“Becky, you don’t understand,” he says hotly. “It shouldn’t have happened. This shouldn’t have happened.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand!” I exclaim. “If he was such a close friend of yours, why didn’t you stay in touch?”
There’s silence, and I sense I’ve touched a nerve. I feel a bit mean, confronting Dad like that, but, honestly, he drives me mad. First he won’t use Skype or Facebook or anything normal. Then he sends me off on a wild-goose chase to see his friend, and then when I report back, he doesn’t believe me.
“I’ll text you his sister’s number if you like,” I say. “But honestly, I’d just forget about it if I were you.”
My screen starts flashing with the word Aran and I realize I’ve got a call waiting.
“Dad, I have to go,” I say. “We’ll talk later, OK? I’m sure Brent Lewis is fine,” I add, trying to sound reassuring. “I wouldn’t worry about him anymore.” I ring off and press ANSWER. “Aran! Hi!”
“Becky.” His easy voice comes down the phone. “How’re you doing? You shaken off the paparazzi yet?”
“Just about!” I laugh.
“So, that was quite the photo-call you had this morning. Cute outfit. Great sunglasses. You made a splash. Good work.”
“Thanks!” I beam. I knew Aran would appreciate my efforts.
“As a result, the phone has been ringing off the hook.”
“Really?” I feel a tweak of excitement. “What, like, journalists? Fashion editors?”
“Journalists, producers, all kinds of people. Like I said, you’re hot. And I have a great offer for you. I took the liberty of dealing with it myself, although if you like, I can hand over everything to Luke—”
“No,” I answer a bit too quickly. “I mean … he’s my husband. He’s a bit too close, don’t you think?”
“I agree. So, the offer is a segment on Breakfast Show USA. The producer just called, and she’s very anxious to have you on the show. I told her you’re a stylist and she said great. They’re very happy for you to film a styling segment. New trends, new looks, whatever. We’ll work out the details.”
“Oh my God.” I feel breathless. A styling segment on Breakfast Show USA. This is huge. This is mammoth!
“Now, you’re going to need an agent,” Aran is saying. “I’m going to set up a meeting with our friends at CAA. My assistant will call you with the details, OK?”
CAA! Even I know that CAA is the biggest name in Hollywood. They represent Tom Hanks. They represent Sting! I feel giddy. Never in a million years did I expect to be catapulted into all of this.
“Does Luke know everything?” A sudden thought strikes me. “Sure, of course.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it’s your decision.”
“Right.”
I feel a bit hurt. It’s my decision. What kind of lame response is that? Why didn’t he say, My God, this is amazing, I always knew my wife would be a star? Why isn’t he on the phone telling me my whole life is going to change here and he’ll be with me every step of the way?
“So, what’s your decision?” prompts Aran.
Does he even need to ask?
“It’s yes, of course!” I say joyfully. “It’s yes! It’s a great big yes!”
I’ve never been anywhere like CAA in my life. The building is like some sort of spaceship in which all the men are from Men in Black and all the girls are from Vogue and all the sofas are from Architectural Digest. Just sitting in the lobby for five minutes was a better Hollywood experience than the entire Sedgewood Studios tour. I saw three girls from Gossip Girl, and a cool rapper guy feeding his tiny puppy with a milk dropper, and two famous TV comedians having a huge sotto voce row about something called “back end,” while continuing to smile at a very pretty girl at reception. (I’m not sure of their names. I think maybe they’re both called Steve Something.)
And now I’m sitting in this very smart boardroom-type place, at a smooth, pale wooden table, and listening to two women talk to me. One’s called Jodie and one’s called Marsha, and they’re both “talent” agents. Apparently I’m the “talent.” Me! Talent! Wait till I tell Luke that.
“Well, there you are.”
“But …” He exhales. “This is impossible.”
“Look, Dad,” I say kindly. “It’s been a long time. Who knows what happened in Brent Lewis’s life? He could have gone into business, he could have had six divorces, he could have turned into a criminal—”
“Becky, you don’t understand,” he says hotly. “It shouldn’t have happened. This shouldn’t have happened.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand!” I exclaim. “If he was such a close friend of yours, why didn’t you stay in touch?”
There’s silence, and I sense I’ve touched a nerve. I feel a bit mean, confronting Dad like that, but, honestly, he drives me mad. First he won’t use Skype or Facebook or anything normal. Then he sends me off on a wild-goose chase to see his friend, and then when I report back, he doesn’t believe me.
“I’ll text you his sister’s number if you like,” I say. “But honestly, I’d just forget about it if I were you.”
My screen starts flashing with the word Aran and I realize I’ve got a call waiting.
“Dad, I have to go,” I say. “We’ll talk later, OK? I’m sure Brent Lewis is fine,” I add, trying to sound reassuring. “I wouldn’t worry about him anymore.” I ring off and press ANSWER. “Aran! Hi!”
“Becky.” His easy voice comes down the phone. “How’re you doing? You shaken off the paparazzi yet?”
“Just about!” I laugh.
“So, that was quite the photo-call you had this morning. Cute outfit. Great sunglasses. You made a splash. Good work.”
“Thanks!” I beam. I knew Aran would appreciate my efforts.
“As a result, the phone has been ringing off the hook.”
“Really?” I feel a tweak of excitement. “What, like, journalists? Fashion editors?”
“Journalists, producers, all kinds of people. Like I said, you’re hot. And I have a great offer for you. I took the liberty of dealing with it myself, although if you like, I can hand over everything to Luke—”
“No,” I answer a bit too quickly. “I mean … he’s my husband. He’s a bit too close, don’t you think?”
“I agree. So, the offer is a segment on Breakfast Show USA. The producer just called, and she’s very anxious to have you on the show. I told her you’re a stylist and she said great. They’re very happy for you to film a styling segment. New trends, new looks, whatever. We’ll work out the details.”
“Oh my God.” I feel breathless. A styling segment on Breakfast Show USA. This is huge. This is mammoth!
“Now, you’re going to need an agent,” Aran is saying. “I’m going to set up a meeting with our friends at CAA. My assistant will call you with the details, OK?”
CAA! Even I know that CAA is the biggest name in Hollywood. They represent Tom Hanks. They represent Sting! I feel giddy. Never in a million years did I expect to be catapulted into all of this.
“Does Luke know everything?” A sudden thought strikes me. “Sure, of course.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it’s your decision.”
“Right.”
I feel a bit hurt. It’s my decision. What kind of lame response is that? Why didn’t he say, My God, this is amazing, I always knew my wife would be a star? Why isn’t he on the phone telling me my whole life is going to change here and he’ll be with me every step of the way?
“So, what’s your decision?” prompts Aran.
Does he even need to ask?
“It’s yes, of course!” I say joyfully. “It’s yes! It’s a great big yes!”
I’ve never been anywhere like CAA in my life. The building is like some sort of spaceship in which all the men are from Men in Black and all the girls are from Vogue and all the sofas are from Architectural Digest. Just sitting in the lobby for five minutes was a better Hollywood experience than the entire Sedgewood Studios tour. I saw three girls from Gossip Girl, and a cool rapper guy feeding his tiny puppy with a milk dropper, and two famous TV comedians having a huge sotto voce row about something called “back end,” while continuing to smile at a very pretty girl at reception. (I’m not sure of their names. I think maybe they’re both called Steve Something.)
And now I’m sitting in this very smart boardroom-type place, at a smooth, pale wooden table, and listening to two women talk to me. One’s called Jodie and one’s called Marsha, and they’re both “talent” agents. Apparently I’m the “talent.” Me! Talent! Wait till I tell Luke that.
