Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7) Page 142

“Come back!” I beat furiously on the door. “Please! Rebecca! I need to talk to you!”

As if in answer, the sound of “Beat It” from inside gets louder.

“Please!” I can feel tears rising. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know what happened!”

I bang on the door for what seems like forever, but there’s no answer. Suddenly I feel a huge, gentle hand on my shoulder.

“She ain’t opening that,” says Jeff kindly. “I say you leave it. I say we go home.”

I can’t reply. I stare at the trailer, a painful fullness in my chest. Something happened. And I don’t know what, and the answer’s in there, but I can’t get at it.

“I say we go home,” repeats Jeff. “Nothing you can do now.”

“All right,” I say at last. “You’re right. We should go.”

I follow him past the mobile homes, past the man with the scary dog, out of the gates. I don’t know what I’m going to say to Suze. I don’t know what I’m going to do, full stop.

As Jeff starts up the car, the TV comes on, and I’m assailed by the sound of sobbing. Lois and Sage are in each other’s arms on-screen, mascara dripping down both their faces, while Camberly watches, her hands clasped to her mouth in delight.

“I’ve alwaaaays respected you.…” Sage is hiccuping.

“I’ve had such a damaaaaged life,” Lois sobs back.

“I love you, you know that, Lois?”

“I will always love yoooooou.…”

They both look absolute wrecks. They must have worn non-waterproof mascara on purpose.

Lois cradles Sage’s face between her hands and says tenderly, “You have a beautiful spirit,” and I can’t help snorting with laughter. Is anyone going to believe in this “reconciliation”? I have no idea. And right now I don’t care. All I can think is: Where’s Dad? What’s going on? What on earth is going on?

When I get back, Suze is out. Presumably she’s with Alicia. Presumably they’re having really long, heartfelt conversations, because Suze can’t talk to me, her oldest friend, who helped her have her first baby; does she remember that? And spent a whole week jiggling him in my arms while Suze slept; does she remember that? Where was Alicia then? She was swigging cocktails and planning how to ruin my life, that’s where she was.

Anyway. If Suze wants to be best friends with Alicia, then fine. Whatever. Maybe I’ll make friends with Robert Mugabe, to match.

I leave her a voice mail, giving her the bare bones of what happened, and do the same for Mum. But then I feel at a loss. I can’t just head off randomly in search of Dad. I don’t have a single other clue.

So at last I pack up my bag and get Jeff to take me to Sage’s house, which is surrounded by paparazzi. (Proper paparazzi, not just Lon and his mates.) As we approach, I realize they won’t be able to see into the blacked-out SUV. I wind down the window and they start snapping away at me inside the car, while I ignore them elegantly and Jeff shouts, “Roll that window up!” (He doesn’t have to be so cross. I only wanted some air.)

When I finally get inside, the whole place is pumping with music, and there are about ten assistants milling around, making smoothies and telling people on the phone that Sage is not available. Sage herself is dressed in gray leggings and a T-shirt reading SUCK ON THAT and seems totally hyper.

“So, wasn’t Camberly awesome?” she says about five times before I can even say hello. “Wasn’t it incredible?”

“It was amazing! Did you wear non-waterproof mascara on purpose?” I can’t help asking.

“Yes!” She points her finger at me as though I’ve got an answer correct on a quiz show. “That was Lois’s idea. The makeup people were all, like, ‘You might cry, people often do on this show,’ and we were, like, well, so what? We want to be honest, you know.” She blinks at me. “We want to be truthful. Mascara runs and that’s the truth, and if it’s not your perfect put-together look, then too bad.”

I clamp my lips together so I won’t laugh. Truthful? Only I can’t say anything because she’s my client, so I just nod earnestly.

“Wow. You’re so right.”

“I know,” she says in satisfaction. “So, some dresses arrived. Where did I put them?”

After some searching, I find a Danny Kovitz box in the corner of the room. It was sent over this morning from Danny’s L.A. showroom and contains three dresses. He’s such a star. (I talked to Adrian at the Danny Kovitz headquarters today. Apparently Danny has checked into The Setai in Miami and says he’s never going anywhere colder than seventy-five degrees again. I never thought Greenland would suit him.)