Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7) Page 26

With deliberate resolve, Dad starts to applaud, and after a few seconds, the crowd joins in. There are even a few “woohoos!”

Tarquin is gazing at Dad with something close to adoration. The earl has retreated, looking all cross and left out, which is no surprise, as everyone is totally ignoring him. On impulse, I hurry forward and give Dad a hug, nearly spilling my wine as I do so.

“Dad, you’re a star,” I say. “And, Tarkie, listen, the fountain’s going to be amazing. It’s just teething troubles!”

“Exactly!” echoes Suze. “It’s just teething troubles.”

“You’re very kind.” Tarquin gives a heavy sigh. He still looks fairly suicidal, and I exchange anxious looks with Suze. Poor Tarkie. He’s worked so hard for months. He’s lived and breathed his precious fountain. And whatever Dad says, this is a huge humiliation. I can see both TV crews still filming, and I just know this is going to be the comedy “And Finally” piece on the news.

“Darling, I think we need a break,” Suze says at last. “Clear our minds and have a rest.”

“A break?” Tarquin looks uncertain. “What sort of break?”

“A holiday! Some time away from Letherby Hall, the fountain, all the family pressure …” Suze flashes a mutinous glare at the earl. “Angus says we need to make a trip to L.A., to check on our investments. He recommends a trip to California as soon as we can. I think we should definitely go.”

PLEASE?GIVE?GENEROUSLY.?COM

Give to the world … share with the world … enhance the world …

YOU HAVE REACHED THE PLEDGE PAGE OF:

DANNY KOVITZ

Personal message from Danny Kovitz

Dear Friends,

I’m inspired to be writing to you in this, my year of “giving back,” of “challenging myself,” of “taking myself to a whole new place.”

This year I will undergo a series of endeavors designed to test myself to the limit and raise funds for a number of very deserving causes. (See Danny’s Charities.)

I will undertake the feat of completing the following challenges in the space of one year. I know!! It’s quite an undertaking. But it means the world to me to achieve this. Please follow the links and pledge generously, my darling, wonderful friends.

Greenland Ice Sheet Expedition Ironman (Lake Tahoe)

Ironman (Florida)

Marathon des Sables (Sahara Desert)

Yak Attack (mountain-bike race in Himalayas)

Training is going well so far, and my trainer, Diederik, is SO pleased with my progress. (In case you are interested, you can look at Diederik on his site, Diederiknyctrainer.com. The pictures of him doing bench presses in the blue tight shorts are to DIE for.… )

I’ll keep you up to date with my journey. Next stop Greenland!!! Love you all.

Danny xxx

It’s two weeks later. And I live in Hollywood. I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, live in Hollywood. I live in Hollywood! I keep saying it out loud to myself, to see if it feels any more real. But it still feels like I’m saying, I live in fairyland.

The house we’re renting in the Hollywood Hills is made mostly of glass and has so many bathrooms, I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with all of them. And there’s a walk-in wardrobe and an outdoor kitchen. And a pool! And a pool guy! (He comes with the house and he’s fifty-three with a paunch, sadly.)

The most amazing thing is the view. Every night we sit on our balcony and look at all the twinkling lights of Hollywood, and I feel as if we’re in a dream. It’s a weird place, L.A. I can’t quite get a grip on it. It’s not like European cities, where you get to the center and think, Ah yes, here I am in Milan/?Amsterdam/?Rome. In L.A., you drive around endless great big roads and you peer out of the windows and think, Are we there yet?

Also, the neighbors are not very neighborly. You don’t see anyone. People don’t peep over their fences and chat. They just drive in and out of their electronic gates, and by the time you’ve chased after them, shouting, Hi! My name’s Becky! D’you want a cup of … they’ve gone.

We have met one neighbor, who’s a plastic surgeon called Eli. He seemed very friendly, and we had a nice chat about rental prices and how he specializes in “micro-lifts.” But all the while, he was eyeing me up with this critical stare. I’m sure he was working out what he’d do to me if he had me on the operating table. And apart from him, I haven’t met anyone else in the street yet.

Anyway. Never mind. I will meet people. Of course I will.

I step into a pair of raffia wedges, toss my hair back, and survey my reflection in our massive hall mirror. It rests on top of a huge carved chest, and there are two monster armchairs opposite on the Mexican tiled floor. Everything in this house is massive: the squashy L-shaped sofa in the living room, which seats about ten; the four-poster bed in the master bedroom, which Luke and I practically get lost in; the vast, separate kitchen with its three ovens and vaulted brick ceiling. Even all the doors are huge, studded Mediterranean-looking affairs, made of reclaimed wood and with working locks. (I’ve removed all the keys, though they’re picturesque. Minnie and keys really don’t mix.) It is a gorgeous house, I have to say.