Shopaholic to the Stars

“I can send you the link,” chimes in the dark-haired girl. “It’s a really great backpack. You can fit an iPad in it.”

“Oh, can I try it on?”

“Sure.” The girl reaches for the bag.

“People!” Mona’s voice sounds a little sharp, and she immediately smiles as though to compensate. “Put the bag down! OK! Let’s … focus. Rebecca, I’m going to recommend that you leave the bag meditation for now. Instead, try to concentrate on your breathing. Become aware of your breath going in and out of your body. Don’t judge it … don’t judge yourself … just observe your breath. Can you do that?”

“OK.” I shrug.

“Great! We’ll take five minutes’ meditation, all of us. Close your eyes if you’d like.”

The room lapses into silence, and I dutifully try to focus on my breath. In. Out. In. Out. In.

God, this is boring. What is there to think about breathing?

I know I’m not an expert on mindfulness, but surely meditation is supposed to make you feel good. Well, I’d feel much better if I was meditating on a lovely bag than on my breathing.

My eyes open and drift to the backpack. No one can tell what I’m meditating on. I’ll say it was my breath. They’ll never know.

Oh, I really do love it. The zips are so cool. And the point is, I should get it because backpacks are good for your posture. Suze will be delighted if I give her my Marc Jacobs. Surreptitiously, I glance at my watch. I wonder where she is. At the airport, hopefully. Her plane should have landed by now, and I’ve told her to come straight here for lunch. Thank God it isn’t all coconut water; they serve a decent decaf cappuccino and some quite yummy carob brownies, and Suze said she’d bring me out some Lion bars …

“And gradually bring your thoughts back to the group.” Mona’s voice interrupts my meditation. Around the room, people open their eyes and stretch their legs, and a couple yawn. Mona smiles at me. “How was that? Did you manage to keep your mind focused, Rebecca?”

“Er … yes!” I say brightly.

Which is sort of true. My thoughts were focused, just not on my breathing.

We end with a minute’s silent contemplation and then file out of the room, onto the grounds, blinking as we reenter the bright sunlight. At once, everyone who was in the class switches their phones back on and stares at them intently. That’s mindfulness, if you ask me. We should meditate on our phones. In fact, I might suggest it next week—

Yessss! A text bleeps in my phone, and I nearly whoop. It’s from Suze! She’s here!

OK, here’s the thing about Suze. She’s one of the most beautiful people I know, and I’m not being biased. She’s tall and slim and she has amazing clothes. She can totally shop for Britain and she once nearly modeled for Vogue. But she does tend to spend quite a lot of time in jodhpurs or jeans or some ancient old Barbour, especially now that she lives in the country all the time. So that’s what I’m expecting to see as I hurry toward the entrance gates. Suze in skinny jeans and ballet pumps, with maybe a nice linen jacket, and the children in their usual bumpy corduroy pinafores and shorts, handmade by Nanny.

What I’m not expecting to see is the vision before me. I have to blink to make sure it’s the Cleath-Stuarts. They look like some celebrity L.A. family. What’s happened?

Suze looks so spectacular I barely recognize her. For a start, she’s wearing teeny denim shorts. I mean, really, really teeny. Her legs are long and brown, and her pedicured feet are in Havaianas. Her long hair is blonder than usual (has she bleached it?) and she’s wearing the most amazing pair of Pucci sunglasses. The children look super-cool too. The two boys are wearing bomber jackets and gel in their hair, and Clementine is rocking teeny little skinny jeans with a tank top.

For a moment I can’t do anything except blink in astonishment. Then Suze sees me and starts waving frantically, and I come to life again and rush forward.

“Suze!”

“Bex!”

“You made it!” I fling my arms round her, then hug all the children in turn. “Suze, your clothes!”

“Are they OK?” Suze says at once, anxiously, and brushes at her micro-shorts. “I wanted to fit in. Do I look all right?”

“You look phenomenal! Did you spray that tan on?” I spot an inked dolphin on her ankle and gasp. “Suze, you haven’t gone and got yourself a tattoo.”

“God, no!” She laughs. “It’s temporary. Everyone’s got tattoos in L.A., so I thought I’d better have one for the trip. And some friendship bracelets.” She waves her arm at me, and I see a stack of about twenty friendship bracelets on her wrist, where normally she has an antique Cartier watch.