Shopaholic to the Stars

by Sophie Kinsella

  ‘Right!’ I approach the table triumphantly, holding a plate. ‘Here’s our healthy LA breakfast. It’s a steamed egg-white omelette, made with kale.’

  There’s silence around the table. Everyone is looking at the plate in horror.

  OK, I admit it doesn’t look exactly like an omelette. It’s kind of white and shapeless, and the kale has turned grey-green. But it’s healthy.

  ‘A steamed omelette?’ says Suze, at last.

  ‘I did it in the microwave, in a Ziploc bag,’ I explain. ‘It’s fat-free. Who’d like the first one?’

  There’s another silence.

  ‘Ahm … It looks delicious, I must say.’ Tarquin plunges in. ‘But you don’t have any kippers, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t have any kippers!’ I say, a bit rattled. ‘This isn’t Scotland, it’s LA, and everyone eats steamed omelettes.’

  Luke finally looks up from the letter he’s been reading. ‘What’s that?’ he says in horror, then sees my face and adjusts his expression. ‘I mean … what’s that?’

  ‘It’s a steamed omelette.’ I prod it disconsolately.

  They’re right, it does look disgusting. And I spent ages separating all the eggs and chopping up all the kale. The recipe was in a book called Power Brunch, and I thought everyone would be really impressed. I don’t dare tell them about the mushroom protein shake, which I’ve got waiting in the blender.

  ‘Bex, where are the egg yolks you didn’t use?’ says Suze suddenly.

  ‘In a bowl.’

  ‘Well, why don’t I make an omelette with them?’

  Before I can stop her, Suze is heating up a pan, putting lashings of butter into it, and frying up the most delicious, yellow, crispy omelette I’ve ever seen, together with ribbons of bacon which she got from the fridge.

  ‘There.’

  She puts it on the table, and everyone falls on it. I take a forkful myself and nearly die with pleasure.

  ‘They should do egg-yolk omelettes in restaurants,’ says Suze, her mouth full. ‘Why’s everyone so obsessed by egg whites, anyway? They don’t taste of anything.’

  ‘They’re healthy.’

  ‘Crap,’ says Suze robustly. ‘We feed egg yolks to our lambs and they’re perfectly healthy.’

  Luke is pouring coffee for everyone, Suze is slathering marmalade on a slice of toast, and spirits have generally lifted.

  ‘So.’ Luke looks around the table. ‘I’ve had an invitation today. Who fancies coming to a gala benefit at the Beverly Hilton?’

  ‘Me!’ Suze and I exclaim simultaneously.

  ‘It’s for …’ He squints at the letter. ‘Victims of discrimination. Some new charity.’

  ‘I read about that!’ says Suze in excitement. ‘Salma Hayek will be there! Can we really go?’

  ‘Sage is asking us all to sit on her table, house guests included.’ Luke smiles at Suze. ‘You’re in.’

  ‘Tarkie, did you hear that?’ Suze leans across the table, brandishing her toast. ‘We’ve been invited to a real Hollywood party!’

  ‘A party.’ Tarquin looks as though he’s been told he has to have a tooth out. ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘It’ll be fun,’ says Suze. ‘You might meet Salma Hayek.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looks vague. ‘Marvellous.’

  ‘You don’t know who Salma Hayek is, do you?’ says Suze accusingly.

  ‘Of course I do.’ Tarkie looks trapped. ‘He’s … an actor. Jolly talented.’

  ‘She! She’s jolly talented!’ Suze sighs. ‘I’ll have to coach you before we go. Here, read this, for a start.’ She passes him a copy of US Weekly, just as Minnie and Wilfrid run into the kitchen.

  Having the Cleath-Stuarts to stay is brilliant for Minnie. I don’t think she’s ever had so much fun in her life. She’s wearing two baseball caps, one on top of the other, holding a shoe horn like a riding crop, and ‘riding’ Wilfrid like a horse.

  ‘Go, horsey!’ she yells, and pulls on the ‘reins’, which consist of about six of Luke’s belts buckled together. The next minute, Clementine appears, ‘riding’ Ernest.

  ‘Let’s jump, Minnie!’ she squeals. ‘Let’s jump over the sofas!’

  ‘No!’ says Suze. ‘Stop running about and come and have some breakfast. Who wants toast?’

  I notice she’s diplomatically not even referring to the egg-white omelette. I think we’ll all just pretend it never existed.

  As all the children get settled into their seats, I suddenly notice that Minnie has reached out for my phone.

  ‘Please phone,’ she says promptly. ‘Pleeeeeease. Pleeeeeeeease!’ She hugs it to her ear as though it’s her newborn infant and I’m Herod.

  I’ve given Minnie about three plastic toy phones, but they don’t fool her for an instant. You have to admire her, really. So I always end up giving in and letting her hold my phone – even though I’m paranoid she’s going to drop it in her milk or something.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘Just for a minute.’

  ‘Hello!’ says Minnie into the phone, and beams at me. ‘Hello, Oraaaa!’

  Ora? Ora Bitch Long-legs?

  ‘Don’t talk to Ora, darling,’ I say lightly. ‘Talk to someone else. Talk to Page. She’s a sweet little girl.’

  ‘Talk Ora,’ Minnie says stubbornly. ‘Love Ora.’

  ‘You don’t love Ora!’ I snap, before I can stop myself.

  ‘Who’s Ora?’ says Suze.

  ‘Alicia’s daughter,’ I mutter. ‘Of all the children in all the world for Minnie to become friends with.’

  ‘Honestly, Bex!’ retorts Suze. ‘You’re ridiculous. What is this, the Montagues and the Capulets?’

  Minnie looks from Suze to me, then back again. Then she screws up her face for a scream. ‘Love Oraaaaaaa!’

  All this time, Luke has been tapping away on his BlackBerry. He has this almost mystical power to tune out his immediate surroundings when they consist of Minnie screeching. But now he raises his head.

  ‘Who’s Ora?’

  I can’t believe our entire breakfast table is discussing Alicia Bitch Long-legs’ daughter.

  ‘No one,’ I say. ‘Minnie, come here and help me do my toast.’

  ‘Toast!’ Her eyes light up with instant excitement and I can’t help giving her a little kiss. Minnie thinks spreading butter on toast is the most fun activity in the world, except I have to dissuade her from adding marmalade and chocolate spread and peanut butter. (Luke always says, ‘Like mother like daughter,’ which is absolute nonsense, I don’t know what he means.)

  As I sip my coffee and try to stop Minnie from smearing butter all over her fingers, I find myself watching Luke. He’s gazing at his BlackBerry and there’s a vein pulsing in his neck. He’s stressed out about something. What?

  ‘Luke?’ I say cautiously. ‘Is something up?’

  ‘No,’ he says at once. ‘Nothing. Nothing.’

  OK. That means it’s something.

  ‘Luke?’ I try again.

  He meets my eye and exhales. ‘It’s an email from my mother’s lawyer. She’s having some kind of surgery. He thought I should know.’

  ‘Right,’ I say warily.

  Luke is glowering at the screen again. Any stranger looking at him would simply see a man in a bad temper. But I can see the special, devastated overlay that appears whenever Luke’s thinking about his mother, and it makes my heart crunch. Luke just can’t find happiness with his mother. He used to worship her unreasonably; now he loathes her unreasonably. Elinor abandoned him to go and live in the States when he was just a child, and I don’t think he’s ever quite forgiven her. Especially now he has Minnie; now he knows what it is to be a parent.

  ‘What does she expect?’ he suddenly bursts out. ‘What does she expect me to do?’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t expect anything,’ I venture.

  Luke doesn’t reply, just sips his coffee with a murderous scowl.

  ‘What kind of surgery is she having?’ I ask. ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Let’s
just forget about it,’ he says abruptly and gets to his feet. ‘So I’ll tell Aran there are four acceptances for the benefit. It’s black tie,’ he adds, and kisses me. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Luke—’ I grab his hand to stop him. But as he turns back, I realize I don’t know what I want to say, except, ‘Please make peace with your mother,’ which I can’t just blurt out with no build-up. ‘Have a good day,’ I say lamely, and he nods.

  ‘Black tie?’ Tarquin is looking dismayed as he turns to Suze. ‘Darling, what will I wear? I don’t have my kilt.’

  His kilt? Oh my God. The idea of Tarkie turning up to some LA benefit in a kilt and sporran and those big woolly socks makes me want to collapse in laughter.

  ‘You’re not going to wear a kilt!’ expostulates Suze. ‘You’re going to wear …’ She thinks for a moment. ‘An Armani tuxedo. And a black shirt and a black tie. That’s what all these Hollywood types wear.’

  ‘A black shirt?’ Now it’s Tarquin’s turn to expostulate. ‘Suze, darling, only spivs wear black shirts.’

  ‘Well, OK, a white shirt,’ Suze relents. ‘But not a wing collar. You need to look cool. And I’m going to test you on celebrities later.’

  Poor Tarkie. As he leaves the kitchen he looks like a man sentenced to prison, not a man who’s got a ticket to the coolest party in town.

  ‘He’s hopeless,’ sighs Suze. ‘You know, he can name about a hundred breeds of sheep, but not one of Madonna’s husbands.’

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone so out of place.’ I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. ‘Tarkie’s really not suited to LA, is he?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been on enough holidays to grouse moors,’ says Suze. ‘It’s my turn. And I love it here.’ She pours herself some more orange juice, then lowers her voice. ‘What do you think’s up with Elinor?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I lower my voice even further. ‘What if she’s really ill?’

  We look at each other anxiously. I can tell our thoughts are heading in the same direction, then sheering away.

  ‘He has to know the truth about the party,’ says Suze at length. ‘He has to know how generous she was. Just in case … anything happens.’

  ‘But how do I tell him? He’ll just fly off the handle. He won’t even listen!’

  ‘Could you write it down?’

  I consider this for a moment. I am quite good at letter-writing, and I could make Luke promise to read to the end before shouting. But even as I’m considering it, I know what I truly want to do.

  ‘I’m going to invite her over,’ I say with resolve. ‘Either before her surgery or afterwards, depending.’

  ‘Invite her where? Here?’ Suze’s eyes widen. ‘Are you sure, Bex?’

  ‘If I write a letter, he’ll just ignore it. I need the two of them together. I’m going to stage an intervention,’ I say with a flourish.

  We were talking about interventions at Golden Peace the other day, and I was the only one who hadn’t been in one. I felt quite left out.

  Suze looks doubtful. ‘Aren’t they for drug addicts?’

  ‘And family disputes,’ I say authoritatively.

  I don’t actually know if this is true. But I can always start my own kind of intervention, can’t I? I have a vision of myself, dressed in flowing white clothes, talking in a low melodious voice and bringing harmony to the fractured souls of Luke and Elinor.

  Maybe I’ll buy some healing crystals for the occasion. And some scented candles, and a CD of soothing chants. I’ll come up with my own special cocktail of techniques, and I won’t let Luke or Elinor leave until they’ve achieved some sort of resolution.

  ‘Shouldn’t you get someone specially trained?’ Suze is still looking dubious. ‘I mean, what do you know about it?’

  ‘Loads,’ I say, a bit offended. ‘I’ve picked up a lot from Golden Peace, you know, Suze. I’ve done conflict resolution, and everything. “To understand everything is to forgive everything,”’ I can’t resist quoting. ‘Buddha.’

  ‘OK, if you’re such an expert, sort out this conflict.’ Suze points at Wilfie and Clemmie, who are fighting desperately over some tiny plastic animal.

  ‘Er … hey, Wilfie! Clemmie!’ I call out. ‘Who wants a sweetie?’

  Both children instantly stop tussling and hold out their hands.

  ‘There!’ I say smugly.

  ‘Is that how you’re going to sort out Luke and Elinor?’ scoffs Suze. ‘Offer them sweeties?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say with dignity. ‘I’ll use a variety of techniques.’

  ‘Well, I still think it’s risky.’ She shakes her head. ‘Very risky.’

  ‘“One cannot refuse to eat simply because there is a risk of being choked,”’ I say wisely. ‘Chinese proverb.’

  ‘Bex, stop talking like a bloody T-shirt!’ Suze suddenly flips out. ‘I hate this stupid Golden Peace place! Talk about something normal. What are you going to wear for the benefit? And don’t say something stupid like, “Clothes are a metaphor for the soul.”’

  ‘I wasn’t going to!’ I retort.

  Actually, that’s quite good. I might drop that into a class at Golden Peace. Clothes are a metaphor for the soul.

  Maybe I’ll get it printed on canvas and give it to Suze for Christmas.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’ says Suze suspiciously.

  ‘No reason!’ I force my mouth straight. ‘So. What are you going to wear to the benefit?’

  ELEVEN

  Suze can talk about shopping. She can talk about shopping!

  Not only has she bought a new dress for the benefit, she’s bought new shoes, a new necklace and new hair. New hair. She didn’t even tell me she was doing it. One moment she was ‘popping out to the hairdresser’, and the next she was walking back in the door with the most luscious, glossy extensions I’ve ever seen. They stream down to her waist in a blonde river, and what with that and the tanned legs she looks like a movie star herself.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ I say honestly, as we stand in front of my mirror. She’s in a beaded shift, the colour of a glassy sea, and her necklace has a mermaid on it. I’ve never seen a mermaid necklace before, but now I’m desperate for one, too.

  ‘Well, so do you!’ says Suze at once.

  ‘Really?’ I pluck at my dress, which is Zac Posen and very flattering around the waist, though I say so myself. I’ve styled it with my Alexis Bittar necklace and my hair is in a really complicated up-do, all little plaits and waves. Plus, I’ve been practising how to stand on the red carpet. I found a guide on the internet, and printed it out for both of us. Legs crossed, elbow out, chin tucked in. I take up my pose, and Suze copies me.

  ‘I look like I’ve got a double chin,’ she says fretfully. ‘Are you sure this is right?’

  ‘Maybe we’re tucking our chins in too much.’

  I lift my chin, and immediately look like a soldier. Suze, meanwhile, is doing a perfect Posh Spice pose. She has the expression and everything.

  ‘That’s it!’ I say excitedly. ‘Only, smile.’

  ‘I can’t stand like this and smile,’ says Suze, sounding strained. ‘I think you have to be double-jointed to get it right. Tarkie!’ she calls as he passes the open door. ‘Come and practise being photographed!’

  Tarquin has looked shell-shocked ever since Suze appeared with extensions. Now he looks like a condemned man. Suze has forced him into a tailored Prada DJ, complete with narrow black tie and dapper shoes. I mean, he looks very good, for Tarkie. He’s tall and strapping, and his hair has been artfully mussed by Suze. He just looks so … different.

  ‘You should wear Prada all the time, Tarkie!’ I say, and he blanches.

  ‘Stand here,’ Suze is saying. ‘Now, when you have your picture taken, you need to tilt your face at an angle. And look kind of moody.’

  ‘Darling, I don’t think I’ll be in the photos,’ says Tarkie, backing away. ‘If it’s all right.’

  ‘You have to be! They photograph everyone.’ She glances uncertainly at me. ‘
They do photograph everyone, don’t they?’

  ‘Of course they do,’ I say confidently. ‘We’re guests, aren’t we? So we’ll be photographed.’

  I feel a fizz of excitement. I can’t wait! I’ve always wanted to be photographed on a red carpet in Hollywood. My phone bleeps with a text and I pull it out of my clutch bag.

  ‘The car’s here! Let’s go!’

  ‘What about Luke?’ says Tarquin, who is obviously desperate for some moral support.

  ‘We’re meeting him there.’ I spray a final cloud of scent over me and grin at Suze. ‘Ready for your close-up, Lady Cleath-Stuart?’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’ she says at once. ‘It makes me sound ancient!’

  I head into the children’s bedroom, where our babysitter, Teri, is presiding over a massive game of Twister. Minnie doesn’t understand Twister, but she understands rolling around on the mat, getting in everyone’s way, so that’s what she’s doing.

  ‘Night night!’ I plant a kiss on her little cheek. ‘See you later!’

  ‘Mummy.’ Wilfrid stares at Suze in awe. ‘You look like a fish.’

  ‘Thank you, darling!’ Suze hugs him. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to look like.’

  Tarquin has edged over and is fiddling with Wilfrid’s toy train.

  ‘Maybe I’ll stay here and help look after the children,’ he says. ‘I’d be very happy to—’

  ‘No!’ Suze and I shout in unison.

  ‘You’ll love it,’ says Suze, chivvying him out of the room.

  ‘You might meet Angelina Jolie,’ I chime in.

  ‘Or Renée Zellweger.’

  ‘Or Nick Park,’ I say craftily. ‘You know? The Wallace and Gromit man?’

  ‘Ah!’ says Tarkie, suddenly perking up. ‘The Wrong Trousers. Now, that was a jolly good film.’

  The Beverly Hilton is where they hold the Golden Globes. We’re going to the same place they hold the Golden Globes! As our car edges along in early evening traffic, I can barely keep still.

  ‘Hey, Suze!’ I say suddenly. ‘D’you think it’ll be the exact same red carpet as at the Golden Globes?’

  ‘Maybe!’

  I can tell Suze is as gripped by this idea as I am. She starts rearranging her hair extensions on her shoulders, and I check my lipstick for the millionth time.