Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7) Page 115

They’ve been really clever. (At least, Lois has been really clever.) And now I’m part of it too! The best bit was this afternoon, when I was picking up the children from school. I’d already made quite an impression, what with Jeff and Mitchell and the blacked-out SUV. But then, when I was waiting at the preschool door to get Minnie, Sage rang and I said, “Oh hi, Sage, how are you?” just a bit more loudly than usual, and everyone turned to stare.

The only not-so-A-list thing is, all the photographers have disappeared from our gates, which is a bit disloyal of them. Well, not all. There’s one geeky Asian guy who is still hanging around. He has bleached-blond hair, and today he was wearing a pink bomber jacket with tight black jeans and rubber ankle boots. I started to pose and he took a few snaps, then he beckoned me over and said excitedly, “You’re a friend of Danny Kovitz, right? The designer? Could you get me his autograph?” It turns out his name is Lon and he’s a fashiondesign student and he worships Danny. And now he worships me, too, because I’m a friend of Danny.

And, OK, maybe I did play up to it a bit. Maybe I did promise to come out tomorrow morning wearing a vintage Danny Kovitz outfit (i.e., two years old), which never even hit the catwalks, and let him take a picture of it. The thing is, I like having photographers outside the house. It’s boring not to have any around.

I’m in the kitchen preparing an A-lister-type supper when Luke comes in. Dad must have come back at some point and he and Tarquin have gone out sightseeing—they left a note—and Suze is nowhere to be seen, so I guess she’s with them too. All the children are in bed and I’ve sent Jeff and Mitchell out for supper, so it’s just Luke and me, which is nice.

Now that I’m a rising Hollywood celebrity, I have to cook appropriately. We’ll probably need to get a chef or private juice-maker or something, but for now I’m making a very of-the-moment dish. Grain soup. It’s the latest thing. All the A-listers have it, plus I need to look thin for all my forthcoming appearances, and apparently it’s got some magic combination that boosts the metabolism.

“Hi!” I greet Luke with a kiss and a wheatgrass smoothie, which is also very healthy and A-list.

“What’s that?” He sniffs it and recoils. “I’m having a glass of wine. Want one?”

“No, thanks,” I say self-righteously. “I’m trying to follow a clean diet.” I ladle grain soup into two bowls and put them on the table. “This is totally organic and macrobiotic. It has chia,” I add.

Luke looks dubiously at it and pokes it with his spoon. “OK,” he says slowly. “What are we having with it?”

“This is it! It has protein and sprouty things and everything. It’s a meal in a bowl.” I’m about to take a spoonful when I remember something. I push my chair back and start doing squats.

Luke stares at me in alarm. “Becky, are you all right?”

“I’m fine!” I say breathlessly. “You should do squats before you eat. It boosts the metabolism. All the stars do it. Nine … ten.” I take my seat again, panting slightly. Luke surveys me silently for a moment, then takes a spoonful. He munches it but doesn’t say anything.

“Isn’t it great?” I say cheerily, and take a massive spoonful myself.

Argh. Bleargh. Ack.

Seriously? This is what the film stars eat?

It’s really watery, and what little taste it has is like a mix of mushrooms and sawdust and earth. I force myself to swallow it down and take another spoonful. I don’t dare look at Luke. A bowl of this won’t fill him up. Nor me. It wouldn’t even fill up Minnie.

How do the A-listers stay so cheery when they have to eat grain soup the whole time? It must be mind over matter. They must sit there grimly, telling themselves, I’m ravenous—but I’m in a movie! My stomach is rumbling and I feel faint—but I’m friends with Leonardo DiCaprio!

I take another mouthful and try to chew it a hundred times, as recommended in the blog I read. But honestly. How can this be good for you? My jaw is aching, and all I can taste is sprouty things. I would kill for a KitKat—

No, stop it. A-listers don’t eat KitKats. If I’m going to be in their crowd, I need to learn to love grain soup.

“Luke, maybe we should buy a yacht,” I say, to take my mind off the grain soup.

“What?” He looks flabbergasted.

“Just a little one. And then we could hang out with other people on yachts. Like Ben and Jennifer,” I add casually. “Those kinds of people.”

Sage was talking about “Ben” today as though they’re best friends. Well, if she can be friends with him, why not me too?