Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)(42)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

“Because there’s been a change of plan. I’m coming back home to hold a meeting at the house. With …” He hesitates. “With Sage.”

It’s as if lightning zings through me. I sit bolt upright, every nerve alive. My misery has vanished. Alicia suddenly seems irrelevant to my life. Sage Seymour? Here? What shall I wear? Have I got time to wash my hair?

“We probably won’t see you,” Luke’s saying. “We’ll probably just go into the library. But I wanted to warn you.”

“Right,” I say breathlessly. “Do you want me to sort out some snacks? I could make cupcakes. Quinoa ones,” I add hastily. “I know she likes quinoa.”

“Darling, you don’t need to make any special effort.” Luke seems to think for a moment. “In fact, maybe you should go out.”

Go out? Go out? Is he mad?

“I’m staying here,” I say firmly.

“OK,” says Luke. “Well … I’ll see you in about half an hour.”

Half an hour! I put the phone down and look around the house in sudden dissatisfaction. It doesn’t look nearly cool enough. I should rearrange the furniture. I have to choose the right outfit, too, and do my makeup again … but first things first. I grab my phone and text Suze and Mum, my fingers clumsy with excitement: Guess what? Sage is coming to our house!!!

Somehow, half an hour later, I’m almost ready. I’ve washed my hair and blasted it with the hair dryer, and I’ve got Velcro rollers in (I’ll quickly take them out when I hear the car). I’ve moved the sofas around in the living room and plumped up the cushions. I’m wearing my new slip dress from Anthropologie, and I’ve memorized the story lines of all Sage’s forthcoming films, which I quickly Googled.

I have a couple of complete outfits ready for Sage, but I won’t show them to her at once. I don’t want her to feel bombarded. In fact, I’m going to have to do this subtly, as I know Luke won’t appreciate me hijacking his meeting. I’ll just be very casual about it, I decide. I’ll have the brocade coat lying about and she’ll admire it and try it on and it will all snowball from there.

The sound of an engine comes distantly from the front of the house, followed by that of car doors. They’re here! I put up a hand to smooth down my hair—then suddenly remember my Velcro rollers. Quickly, I pull them out and hurl them one by one behind a big potted plant. I shake out my hair, casually recline on the sofa, and grab Variety, which is a brilliant accessory as it instantly makes you look like a cool movie person.

I can hear the front door opening. They’re coming in. Stay calm, Becky … stay cool …

“… go into the library, I thought.” Luke is speaking. “Sage, meet my wife, Becky.”

My face starts prickling as three figures appear round the door. Oh my God. It’s her. It’s her! Right here in this room! She’s smaller than I expected, with tiny bronzed arms and that familiar treacly hair. Clothes: teeny white jeans, orange flats, a little gray tank, and The Jacket. The Jacket. I can’t believe she’s wearing it! It’s pale buttery suede, and she was wearing it in Us Weekly last week. It was in “Who Wore It Best?” and she won. Of course she did.

I’ve met Aran before: He’s Sage’s manager. He’s tall and buff and blond, with blue eyes and slanty eyebrows, and he kisses me politely in greeting.

“Hi, Becky,” Sage says pleasantly. “We spoke on the phone, right? For Luke’s party.”

She’s got the most amazing accent. It’s mostly American but with a hint of French, because her mother’s half French and she spent her early childhood in Switzerland. People magazine once called it “the sexiest accent alive,” and I kind of agree.

“We did,” I gulp. “Yes. Hi.”

I try to think of something else to say … something witty … come on, Becky … but something’s wrong with my head. It’s gone blank. All I can think is, It’s Sage Seymour! In my living room!

“You have a nice yard,” says Sage, as though she’s making a really deep pronouncement.

“Thank you. We like it.” Luke strides ahead and pushes open the glass doors to the garden. Sage and Aran follow him out and I follow behind. We all look at the inviting blue of the pool, and I urgently try to think of something to say. But it’s like my brain has been replaced by cotton wool.

“Shall we sit out here?” says Luke, gesturing to our outdoor dining table. It has a massive parasol above it, and the pool guy hoses it every day to keep it clean.