Shopaholic to the Stars (28 page)

I know Suze thinks Tarkie attends Golden Peace far too much. But she’s just prejudiced. The truth is, Tarkie is having a brilliant time hanging out with his volleyball gang, being one of the guys. No one pesters him about listed gables or investments in South Africa. Nor do they keep trying to pitch him movie ideas, because that kind of thing is totally banned at Golden Peace. I think it’s the first place he’s ever been where he’s just him. Tarkie. The person.

From outside comes the sound of car doors slamming. A moment later I hear the front door opening and closing, followed by footsteps in the hall. There we go. I knew Tarkie would turn up.

‘You see? He’s here.’ I grab my Lara Bohinc clutch bag and the diamanté one. ‘Let’s have a titchy while he gets ready.’

Suze is stepping into her teetering high heels, which make her look even taller and more willowy than usual. Her blonde hair, piled high in snaky curls, gives her yet more height, and she basically looks amazing: all golden suntanned limbs and fake lashes and imperious frown. No one can frown like Suze. She’s really quite scary, especially when she’s towering above you in her Louboutins. She gets it from her mother, who is equally formidable. Apparently she can trace her ancestry back to Boudicca. (Or do I mean Boadicea? The fierce fighty woman, anyway.)

Now Suze grabs her clutch (Tory Burch, snakeskin, on sale at Bloomingdale’s) and strides out of the room, calling, ‘Tarkie! Where have you
been
? We have to go!’

I hurry after her along the galleried landing, and stop dead at the same time as she does. Tarkie is in the hall below, but he’s not alone. He’s with Bryce, who is looking as tanned and crinkly-eyed as ever. They’re both in baggy surfer shorts and bandanas, and Tarkie is holding a Frisbee. I’ve seen Tarkie holding many weird things in my time – a First World War gun, an antique stuffed owl, an ancient scythe – but somehow seeing him with a Frisbee makes me want to burst into giggles.

As I glance at Suze, I can tell she isn’t thrilled.

‘Hello, Bryce,’ she says, overly pleasant, walking down the stairs. ‘How lovely to see you again. Please don’t let us keep you. Tarkie, you’d better get changed.’

Ouch. Suze’s clipped, polite tones are like little shards of glass landing, one by one. Her smile is icy, and the atmosphere is distinctly uncomfortable.

‘Darling, I’d rather not come tonight, if you don’t mind,’ says Tarkie, apparently oblivious. ‘Bryce’s organized an evening hike with some of the chaps. Sounds rather fun.’

‘But,
darling
, we’re going to the Actors’ Society Awards. Remember? We arranged it?’ Suze’s voice is so flinty that even Tarkie seems to realize something’s up.

‘Oh Suze, you don’t need me there, do you?’ he says pleadingly. ‘It’ll be full of ghastly people.’

Only Tarkie could describe the pick of A-list Hollywood celebrities as ‘ghastly people’.

‘Yes, I do need you there!’ exclaims Suze. ‘And I could have done without you disappearing all day, too. Where’ve you been, anyway?’

‘We played volleyball,’ says Tarquin, looking a bit shifty. ‘And we had lunch … and we talked …’

‘All
afternoon?
’ Suze is sounding shriller and shriller.

‘My apologies,’ says Bryce charmingly, in that smooth, hypnotic voice of his. ‘I waylaid Tarquin. We got talking and never stopped.’

‘Don’t apologize! It was a wonderful day.’ Tarkie turns eagerly to Suze. ‘Suze, darling, Bryce has so many brilliant insights. I’d love us all to have supper one night. And Bryce—’ He turns back to him. ‘I’d love to come to that class you were talking about. Meditation, was it?’

‘Mindfulness.’

‘That’s it! Sounds … ahm … fascinating.’

‘I’m brilliant at that,’ I put in helpfully. ‘It’s really easy.’

‘You don’t need to go to any classes, Tarquin!’ snaps Suze.

‘I agree,’ says Bryce, surprisingly. ‘It’s not at all essential. Tarquin, I think you’re someone who will heal himself through a slow, natural process. Just don’t be afraid to talk.’

‘Right. Ahm … absolutely.’ Tarquin looks uncomfortable. ‘The thing is, it’s not terribly easy—’

‘I know.’ Bryce nods. ‘It’s hard. But it’ll come. Remember, it doesn’t have to be
with
anyone. The sea will hear you. The air will hear you. Just express yourself, and let your soul find the answers.’

I’m listening, totally mesmerized, but Suze is bristling.

‘Talk to the sea?’ she scoffs. ‘What, and have everyone think you’re mad?’

‘“Mad” is a word I try not to use,’ says Bryce, unruffled. ‘And yes, I think talking to other people can bring its own unhelpful baggage. Sometimes you just need to talk to an entity. The void. Your god. We do a lot of healing work with animals.’

‘Tarkie doesn’t need
healing!
’ Suze sounds outraged.

‘That’s your opinion.’ He shrugs in a kind of all-wise, all-knowing,
I have perspective because I have more experience of human problems and neuroses and stress than you could possibly guess at, even though I’m bound to secrecy and will never blab any celebrity details
kind of way.

Well, that’s what I picked up, anyway.

‘I’m his
wife
,’ says Suze stonily.

‘Of course.’ He lifts his hands. ‘Suze, I respect you.’

There’s a really weird chemistry between Suze and Bryce. She’s practically sparking as she squares up to him …

Oh my God, does she fancy him? I mean, everyone kind of fancies Bryce, you’d have to be inhuman not to … but does she
really
fancy him?

‘Come on.’ At last Suze swivels and addresses Tarkie. ‘We need to go.’

‘I’ll see you, Tarquin,’ says Bryce, apparently unoffended.

‘Call me, Bryce,’ says Tarkie. ‘If you and the chaps are playing volleyball, or if there’s another hike …’ He’s so eager and hopeful, he reminds me of a little boy running after the cool kids in the playground.

‘I’ll call.’ Bryce nods kindly, then turns and leaves.

‘Well!’ Suze exhales as the door closes.

‘Interesting guy,’ says Luke noncommittally. ‘What’s his background, Tarquin?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Tarkie. ‘And it doesn’t matter.’ He turns on Suze. ‘I think you could be a bit more polite to my friends.’

‘He’s not your friend,’ retorts Suze.

‘He is! He’s more of a friend than most of the people in my life! He’s cleverer, and kinder, and he understands more …’ Tarquin breaks off and we all gape at him. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Tarkie so impassioned in my life.

I mean, I’d have to agree. I’ve met Tarquin’s friends and most of them can only say about six words: ‘Good shot’ and ‘’Nother titchy?’ and ‘Damned pheasant’. I can’t imagine any of them talking about the soul finding the answers.

And if you ask me, Suze is making a big mistake. Why shouldn’t Tarkie blabber his guts out to the sea if it helps him? He was in a real old state before he got out here. At least now he has a glow to his cheeks.

‘If you can’t see it, then I don’t know how to explain,’ Tarquin finishes at last.

‘Well, I can’t,’ says Suze angrily.

In silence, Tarquin heads up the stairs, his Frisbee dangling at his side. I exchange anxious glances with Luke, then look at Suze. She’s standing with her hands on her hips, her cheeks puffed out defiantly.

‘Suze!’ I hiss as soon as Tarkie is out of earshot. ‘What’s your problem?’

‘I don’t know. I just …’ She exhales. ‘I just don’t like that guy. He winds me up.’

He winds her up. Well, that proves it. She
does
fancy him, even if she doesn’t realize it herself. It’s a sexual chemistry thing and she’s trying to resist it and taking it out on poor Tarkie with an irrational prejudice. Boom! Diagnosed!

Honestly, I should go into psychology. I’ve clearly got a real knack for it.

‘You don’t know what Tarkie’s like,’ Suze continues. ‘You haven’t seen him much recently. He’s started saying weird things. He’s changed.’

Yes, and that’s a good thing!
I want to exclaim.
Have you forgotten what a wreck he was?
But now isn’t the moment.

‘Look, never mind,’ I say soothingly. ‘Let’s go out and have some fun and talk about it another time.’

The truth is, Suze could probably do with some sea-talking-natural-healing-soul-finding stuff herself. (Only I won’t say that because she’d probably stamp on my foot, and she’s wearing her spikiest Louboutins.)

The Actors’ Society Awards are being held at the Willerton Hotel and according to the programme they are for ‘lesser-known actors whose art may not find recognition elsewhere’. The trouble is, the whole place is stuffed full of major celebrities, so the poor old ‘lesser-known actors’ aren’t getting a look-in. I’ve already seen Diane Kruger and Hugh Jackman and the blonde one off that show with the kangaroo. And now the photographers outside are yelling ‘Tom! Tom!’ in a total frenzy, although whether it’s Cruise or Hanks I don’t know.

(Or Selleck?)

(Or some other new hot Tom I don’t know about?)

At least there was only one red carpet this time, not that my feet touched it for more than thirty seconds. All the stars were posing on one side for the photographers, while we lesser mortals were pushed along briskly by men in headsets who were
practically
holding cattle prods. I mean, I was virtually running, and Suze twisted her ankle.

‘Best Hairspray,’ says Suze, nodding at a woman with rocksolid hair.

‘Best Fake Boobs,’ I chime in, pointing to a girl striding by in a strapless dress.

‘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 are 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 hoarding come to life. Then your eyes gradually adjust and they take on 3D 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 grey 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.’

‘You won’t.’ Lois gives a laugh. ‘The truth is, Cyndi’s really too busy to look after me anyway. April always said she would be.’

‘She has too many clients,’ April says ruefully.

‘I don’t have too many clients,’ I say at once, and Lois laughs again.