Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7) Page 23

“Like the rodeo?” I say. I’ve heard that story a zillion times.

“That.” He nods. “And … other things.” He pats my hand, twinkling. “Get me John Travolta’s signature. I’d like that.”

“What’s the other favor?” I say, putting the autograph book carefully into my bag.

“Just a small thing.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a slip of paper. “Look up my old friend Brent. He always lived in Los Angeles. This is his old address. See if you can track him down. Say hello from me.”

“OK.” I look at the name: Brent Lewis. There’s an address in Sherman Oaks and a phone number. “Why don’t you call him up?” I suggest. “Or text him? Or Skype! It’s easy.”

As I say the word “Skype,” I can see Dad recoiling. We once tried to Skype Jess in Chile, and it wasn’t exactly a resounding success. The picture kept freezing, so we gave up. But then the sound suddenly came back on and we could hear Jess and Tom having a row about Janice while they made their supper. It was all a bit embarrassing.

“No, you go and say hello,” says Dad. “If he wants to, we can take it from there. Like I say, it’s been a long time. He may not be interested.”

I really don’t get the older generation. They’re so reticent. If it were me getting in touch with my old friend from all those years ago, I’d be sending them a text instantly: Hi! Wow, it’s been decades! How did THAT happen? Or I’d track them down on Facebook. But Dad and Mum just aren’t into it.

“Fine,” I say, and put the piece of paper into my bag too. “What about your other two friends?”

“Corey and Raymond?” He shakes his head. “They live too far away. Las Vegas, Corey is. I think Raymond’s in Arizona somewhere. I’ve stayed in touch with them … at least, I have in a way. But Brent just disappeared.”

“Shame you didn’t have Facebook back then.”

“Indeed.” He nods.

“Oh, thank you so much! They’re a new present from my husband.” Mum’s voice rises above the hubbub, and I turn to look. Some lady I don’t recognize is admiring her pearls, and Mum is preening in delight. “Yes, lovely, aren’t they?”

I grin at Dad, who winks back. Mum was so thrilled with her pearls. They’re antique, from 1895, with a ruby clasp set in diamonds. (I helped her go shopping for them, so I know all the details.) Dad’s BB was bigger than usual this year, so we all went a bit mad.

BB is our family shorthand for “Big Bonus.” Dad worked in insurance for years, and now he’s retired. But he still does consulting work, and it’s amazingly well paid. He goes off a few times a year in a suit, and then once a year he receives a bonus check and we always get a treat. This year it was particularly good, because Mum got her pearls, and he bought me an Alexis Bittar necklace and Minnie a new dollhouse. Even Luke got a beautiful pair of cuff links.

Luke always says to me that Dad must have some sort of niche specialist knowledge that is really valuable, because he commands such high fees. But he’s so modest about it. You’d never know.

“My clever husband.” Mum kisses Dad fondly.

“You look beautiful, my love!” Dad beams back. Dad bought himself a new tweed jacket with his share of the BB, and he looks really good in it. “Now, where’s this famous fountain?”

A few feet away, Tarquin is being interviewed for the TV. Poor Tarkie. He’s not cut out to be a media star. He’s wearing a checked shirt that makes his neck look bonier than ever, and he keeps wringing his hands as he speaks.

“Ahm,” he keeps saying. “Ahm, we wanted to … ahm … enhance the house.…”

“Bloody stupid idea,” comes a gruff voice behind me.

Oh God, it’s Tarkie’s dad, the Earl of Whatsit, stalking up. (I can never remember where he’s earl of. Somewhere Scottish, I think.) He’s tall and lanky with thin, graying hair and an Aran jersey, just like Tarkie wears. I’ve never spoken to him properly, but he’s always seemed pretty scary. Now he’s glowering at the lake and jabbing a weather-beaten finger at it. “I said to the boy, that view’s been unspoiled for three hundred years. Why on earth would you want to go messing with it?”

“They’re going to do fireworks on the lake in winter,” I say, wanting to stand up for Tarkie. “I think it will be beautiful!”

The earl gives me a withering look and turns his attention to a plate of canapés being offered to him. “What’s this?”