Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7) Page 36

“Oh my God!” one woman exclaims. “Are these carts safe?”

“Is she injured?”

“I’m fine!” I call. “Don’t worry, I’m fine!” I hastily get to my feet, brush myself down, and pick up my portfolio. Right. New career, here I come.

“Ma’am?” Shaun has appeared by my side again. “Are you OK?”

“Oh, hi, Shaun.” I beam at him. “I’d like to get off here, actually. I’ll make my own way back, thanks. Brilliant tour,” I add. “I loved the grating. Have a good day!”

I start to walk away, but, to my annoyance, Shaun follows me.

“Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to walk unsupervised through the lot. If you would like to leave the tour, one of our representatives will guide you back to the gate.”

“That’s not necessary!” I say brightly. “I know the way.”

“It is necessary, ma’am.”

“But honestly—”

“This is a working lot, and unauthorized visitors must be accompanied at all times. Ma’am.”

His tone is implacable. Honestly. They take it all so seriously. What is this, NASA?

“Could I go to the ladies?” I say in sudden inspiration. “I’ll just pop in to that building there. I’ll only be a sec.…”

“There’s a ladies’ room at the gift store, which is our next stop,” says Shaun. “Could you please rejoin the cart?”

His face hasn’t flickered once. He means business. If I make a run for it, he’ll probably rugby-tackle me to the ground. I want to scream with frustration. Nenita Dietz’s design company is right there. It’s yards away.

“Fine,” I say at last, and morosely follow him back to the cart. The other passengers are looking at me with wonder and incomprehension. I can almost see the thought bubbles above their heads: Why would you get off the cart?

We whiz off again, past more buildings and round corners, and Shaun starts talking about some famous director who used to sunbathe nude in the 1930s, but I don’t listen. This is a total failure. Maybe I need to come again tomorrow and try a different tack. Sneak away at the start before I’ve even got on a cart. Yes.

The only tiny positive is, there’s a shop. At least I can buy souvenirs for everyone. As I wander around the gift store, looking at tea towels and pencils with miniature clapper boards on them, I can’t help sighing morosely. The old lady who was sitting next to me comes over and picks up a novelty megaphone paperweight. She glances at Shaun, who is supervising us all with a close eye. Then she moves nearer to me and says in a lowered voice, “Don’t look at me. He’ll suspect something. Just listen.”

“OK,” I say in surprise. I pick up a Sedgewood Studios mug and pretend to be engrossed in it.

“Why did you get off the cart?”

“I want to break into movies,” I say, practically whispering. “I want to meet Nenita Dietz. Her office was right there.”

“Thought it was something like that.” She nods in satisfaction. “That’s the kind of thing I would have done.”

“Really?”

“Oh, I was stagestruck. But what was I going to do? I was a kid in Missouri. My parents wouldn’t let me sneeze without permission.” Her eyes dim a little. “I ran away when I was sixteen. Got as far as L.A. before they tracked me down. Never did it again. I should have.”

“I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly. “I mean … I’m sorry you didn’t make it.”

“So am I.” She seems to come to. “But you can. I’ll create a diversion.”

“Huh?” I stare at her.

“A diversion,” she repeats a little impatiently. “Know what that means? I distract ’em, you get away. You do what you gotta do. Leave Shaun to me.”

“Oh my God.” I clasp her bony hand. “You’re amazing.”

“Get over to the door.” She nods her head. “Go. I’m Edna, by the way.”

“Rebecca. Thank you!”

My heart beating hard, I head toward the door and linger by a display of We Were So Young aprons and baseball caps. Suddenly there’s an almighty CRASH! Edna has collapsed theatrically to the floor, taking an entire display of crockery with her. There are screams and shouts, and all the staff in the place, including Shaun, are rushing forward.

Thank you, Edna, I think as I creep out of the shop. I start to hurry along the street, running as fast as I can in my H&M wedges (really cool black-and-white print; you’d never think they cost only twenty-six dollars). After I’ve gone a little way, I slow down, so as not to look suspicious, and turn a corner. There are people walking along and riding bikes and driving around in golf carts, but none of them has challenged me. Yet.