Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7) Page 122

“Hi!” My voice is a little too high-pitched.

“Hi.” Luke looks up from some document in a plastic binder. “How was the interview?”

“It was … good. How’s things with you?”

“How’s things?” Luke gives a short, humorless laugh. “To be honest, things have been better.”

“Really?” I look at him in alarm. “What’s up?”

“I thought that wretched Sage was up to something, and now, sure enough, I discover she is.”

“Oh, really?” I say, my heart pumping a little faster. “Um, what?”

“Both of them. Sage and Lois.” He glances at the door. “Shut that, will you? I don’t want your goons hearing.”

I do as he says, my mind working quickly. What’s he found out? How did he find out?

“They staged the whole thing. The whole feud, the stealing, the row at the awards: fake. The whole lot of it.”

“No!” I exclaim, trying my best to sound shocked. “You’re joking!”

“Aran discovered it last night. We’re meeting later on. Obviously this goes no further—” He breaks off and his dark eyes suddenly narrow. “Wait a minute. Becky?”

“Er … yes?” I falter. He comes right up near and eyes me closely. I can feel my cheekbones quivering under his scrutiny. And my lips. I think my hair is shaking too.

“Becky?” he says again, and I feel a horrible sense of foreboding.

Oh God. The thing about Luke is, he knows me really, really well. How am I ever supposed to keep anything from him?

“You knew?” he says at last. “You knew about this?” He seems so scandalized that I gulp inwardly.

“Kind of. I mean, I only found out yesterday afternoon.”

“And you didn’t tell me? Even when I asked you directly?”

“I couldn’t! I mean, Sage said … I promised her …”

I trail off feebly. Luke doesn’t only look angry, he looks hurt. And weary. He looks like he’s had enough, I think with a lurch. But enough of what? Of Hollywood? Of me?

“Don’t worry, I get it,” he says, sounding tired. “You rate your loyalty to Sage above your loyalty to me. That’s fine. I know where I stand.”

“No!” I say in dismay. “That’s not … I just …” Again I trail off, twisting my fingers miserably. I can’t find the words. Maybe there aren’t any words, except the ones I don’t want to say because he’ll think I’m shallow, which I’m not.

Well, OK, maybe I am. A little bit. But, then, everyone in Hollywood is shallow. I mean, compared to lots of people here, I’m deep. I’m profound! Doesn’t he realize that?

“They’ve been really clever,” I say at last. “You have to admit that. Lois thought up the whole thing. No one has any idea.”

“I think you’ll find they’ve been less clever than you think,” says Luke drily. “When this gets out, neither the press nor the public will be very impressed.”

“Maybe it won’t get out.”

Even as I’m saying it, I know I’m being naïve. Everything gets out.

“It’ll get out. And then I think they’ll both have even more trouble finding the kind of work they want.” Luke shakes his head. “Becky, I have to tell you, I won’t be working with Sage any longer than I have to. I’ll wrap up our work properly, stay professional—but it’s over. There’s no point my advising someone who’s going to ignore everything I say. I’ve never met anyone so unprincipled, so capricious, so stupid.… And I’d advise you not to get too mixed up with her either. She won’t do you any favors.”

“Yes, she will!” I say hotly. “She’s my friend! She’s my—”

“Your passport to fame and fortune. I get it.”

“It’s not ‘fame and fortune,’ ” I say, overly defensive. “It’s my work. It’s my career. I’m styling her for a premiere. It’s my big chance! Aran says—”

“Aran doesn’t love you.” He cuts me off again, this time so fiercely that I take a step back in shock. “I do. I love you, Becky. I love you.”

His eyes are only inches away from mine. And as I gaze into their dark depths, it’s as though I can see our whole life together. I can see Minnie being born. Our wedding at my parents’ house. Luke whirling me on the dance floor in New York. My Denny and George scarf.

I don’t know what he can see in my eyes, but he’s gazing just like me, unblinking, as though he’s trying to drink me in.