“I didn’t teach her that,” I say.
“Nor did I!” says Suze.
I glance at Clemmie—but she’s happily playing in an undershirt with one of Minnie’s skirts on her head. The Cleath-Stuart children wouldn’t have the first idea what “so over” meant.
“It was Ora,” I say with sudden conviction. “She’s a bad influence on Minnie. I knew it!”
“You don’t know it!” objects Suze. “It could have been anyone.”
“I bet it was her. Minnie, this bag is not over.” I pick the bag up and hand it back to her. “It’s a timeless classic. And we don’t throw our bags on the floor, even if they are over.”
“Where are you going?” Suze is looking me up and down. “Nice shoes.”
“Just looking up this guy for my dad.”
“You know the place is still crawling with journalists?”
“Yes.” I try to sound nonchalant. “Never mind. I’ll just have to … er … ignore them.”
Suze gives me a sharp look. “Bex, have you curled your hair?”
“No!” I say defensively. “I mean … a bit. Just to put some body in. Is there anything wrong with that?”
Her eyes focus on my face. “Are you wearing false eyelashes?”
“Just a couple,” I say, flustered. “What is this, the third degree? Anyway, I have to go and run this errand. See you!”
I turn and rush up the stairs. At the front door I take three deep breaths, then push it open. Here we go. Celebrityville, here I come.
At once, a barrage of voices hits me.
“Becky! Beckeee! This way!”
“Becky, have you been in touch with Lois?”
“Have you spoken to the police?”
“Becky! This way!”
Oh my God. There are twice as many journalists as there were before. The gates—tall, with iron bars and swirls—are about twenty meters away from the front door and there are camera lenses pointing at me through every gap. Just for an instant I want to duck back inside the house—but it’s too late now. I’m out.
The thing about having lots of photographers pointing their cameras at you is, they might take a picture at any time. I have to do everything in a flattering way. Sucking in my stomach and throwing my shoulders back, I make my way slowly toward the car, trying to ignore all the shouts.
“Becky, can we have an interview?” one man keeps yelling.
“I’m just going about my daily life,” I call, tossing my hair back. “Thank you.”
My car keys are in my pocket and I manage to get them out in a seamless move. I open the car door—making sure that my legs are crossed over in a Victoria Beckham–type pose—then get in. I close the car door and exhale. There. Done.
Except … What if none of them got a good shot?
Should I have gone closer to the gates? Should I have walked more slowly?
This is my one chance to be photographed by the world’s press in an iconic, defining picture that will be a talking point and launch my career as a Hollywood stylist. I think I need to get out of the car and do it again.
I ponder hard for a few seconds, then open the car door and get out, as elegantly as I can. Trying to look as though I’m ignoring the photographers, I stroll right to the front of the drive and start to examine a hedge intently.
“Becky! Beckee! This way!”
“No press,” I say, smoothing down my hair. “No press, thank you. I’m just going about my daily business.”
Casually, I take off my sunglasses and do my best pouty, sucked-in-cheeks expression. I swivel this way and that a few times, swinging my arms. Maybe I should open the gates, so they get a better view of my shoes. I zap the gates, and they slowly start to swing open.
“Becky!” A woman is waving a microphone in my direction. “Sharon Townsend, NBC. Tell us about seeing Lois shoplifting!”
“Please respect my privacy,” I say. “I’m just going about my daily business.”
A brilliant new idea hits me, and I head over to the car. I heave myself up onto the bonnet, adopt a casual pose, and get out my phone: I can be having a phone call in my own drive, while sitting on my car! What could be more natural than that?
“Hi,” I say into the phone. “Yes. Absolutely.” I cross my legs at a more flattering angle and gesticulate animatedly with my sunglasses. “I know. Awful.”
The sound of cameras snapping is getting more and more frantic. I can’t help beaming with exhilaration. It’s really happening! I’m famous!
“Becky, who are your shoes by?” someone yells.
