Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)(95)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

“Yes!” I say in excitement. “Have they uploaded them already? What does it say?”

“Witness Becky is pretty in pink,” reads Dad carefully. “Brit set to testify in court.” That’s on the National Enquirer website.

National Enquirer! Pretty in pink! I feel a jolt of excitement. Although what’s this about testifying in court? I never said anything about that.

“Do I look all right?” I demand. That’s the main point.

“You look wonderful! Ah, now Mum’s found another one: Becky steps out in YSL shoes.”

For God’s sake. I told them my shoes weren’t Yves Saint Laurent.

“Darling, you’re quite the celebrity!” says Dad. “Don’t forget us, will you?”

“I won’t!” I laugh, then jump as I see Luke flash up on the screen.

“I’d better go, Dad. Talk to you later.” I punch ANSWER. “Hi, Luke.”

“Becky, my darling,” he says, in that deadpan, patient tone he uses when he’s actually quite pissed off. “I thought you said you walked straight to the car and got in?”

“Er … yes. Kind of.”

“So why am I looking at a picture of you on the Daily World website, sitting on the car bonnet, brandishing your sunglasses, and beaming at the camera?”

“I was making a phone call,” I say defensively. “I just happened to sit on the car. They must have snapped me.”

“You happened to sit on the car?” says Luke disbelievingly. “How does one happen to sit on a car?”

“I was going about my daily life,” I insist. “It’s not my fault if I’m being stalked and harassed by the press.”

“Becky.” Luke exhales. “What kind of game are you trying to play here? Because it’s a dangerous one. Once you invite these people into your life, it’s very difficult to shut them out again.”

I don’t want to shut them out, I think mutinously. I want to grab my chance while I’m hot.

But Luke wouldn’t understand, because he’s totally warped by his job. I’ve heard his personal views before, when he’s had a couple of glasses of wine. He thinks fame is overrated and privacy is the greatest luxury of the modern world and the tsunami of social media is going to lead to the permanent disintegration of human interaction. (Or something. I sometimes stop listening, to be honest.)

“I’m not playing any game,” I say, trying to sound righteously indignant. “I’m just dealing with a situation, the best way I know how. And what you could do, Luke, is support me.”

“I am supporting you! I’m advising you! I told you to stay indoors! Now you’re all over the papers—”

“It’s for my career!” I say defensively.

There’s silence down the phone, and suddenly I realize my satnav is talking to me.

“Right turn not taken,” she’s saying sternly. “Make a U-turn as soon as possible.”

Damn. I missed my exit. It’s all Luke’s fault.

“Look, I have to go,” I say. “I need to concentrate on the road. We’ll talk about it later.”

I ring off, feeing all cross and prickly. Any other husband would be proud of his wife. I want to talk to Aran. He’ll understand.

“Make a U-turn as soon as possible,” the satnav persists.

“All right! Shut up!”

I really have to focus on the road. I have no idea where I am, except that I’m going in the wrong direction. Truthfully, I’m still a bit hazy about most of L.A. I mean, how on earth are you supposed to get to know the whole city? L.A. is so big. It’s about the size of France.

OK, maybe not France. Maybe Belgium.

Anyway, I need to step on it. Finally I reach a point where I can U-turn. I swing the car round, ignoring the hoots from some other totally unreasonable drivers, who shouldn’t have been driving so fast, and set off: this time in the right direction. Shining Hill Home Estate, here we come!

As I get near my destination, I’m looking out for some beautiful shining hill, but I can’t see one. All I can see is a great big road with motels on either side, and lorries thundering past, and billboards. This isn’t at all what I was expecting. After a while, my satnav takes me off the main road and up an even less inspiring side road, and I peer round warily. There aren’t any mansions. There aren’t any expensive cars. There’s a crummy-looking gas station and a motel offering rooms for thirty-nine dollars. Is this really where Dad’s friend lives?

“Destination two hundred yards ahead on the right-hand side,” my satnav is saying. “Destination one hundred yards ahead. You have arrived at your destination.”