Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7) Page 37

The only trouble is, I have no idea where I am. All these bloody white buildings look the same. I don’t dare ask anyone where Nenita Dietz’s office is—I’ll draw too much attention to myself. In fact, I’m still half-expecting Shaun to come whizzing up beside me in a golf cart and perform a citizen’s arrest.

I round another corner and stop in the shade of a big red canopy. What do I do now? The lot is huge. I’m totally lost. A golf cart full of tourists passes by and I shrink away into the shadows, feeling like a fugitive avoiding the secret police. They’ve probably circulated my description to all the golf-cart drivers by this point. I’m probably on the Most Wanted list.

And then suddenly something rattles past me, and I blink at it in astonishment. It’s something so shiny and colorful and wonderful, I want to whoop. It’s a gift from God! It’s a rail of clothes! It’s a girl pushing a rail of clothes in plastic bags. She steers them expertly along the pavement, her phone in her other hand, and I hear her saying, “On my way. OK, don’t stress. I’ll be there.”

I have no idea who she is or what she’s doing. All I know is, where there are clothes, there’s a wardrobe department. Wherever she’s going, I want to go too. As discreetly as I can, I begin to follow her along the street, ducking behind pillars for cover and shielding my face with my hand. I think I’m being fairly unobtrusive, although a couple of people give me odd looks as they pass by.

The girl winds round two corners and through an alley, and I stay on her tail. Maybe she works for Nenita Dietz! And even if she doesn’t, there might be other useful people I could meet.

At last she turns at a set of double doors. I wait a moment, then cautiously push my way in after her. I’m standing in a wide corridor lined with doors, and ahead of me the girl is greeting a guy in a headset. He glances at me, and I hastily duck down a short side corridor. A bit farther on I peep through a glass panel and stifle a gasp. It’s the Holy Grail! It’s a room filled with tables and sewing machines and, all round the walls, rails of clothes. I have to have a look. The place is empty, thank God, so I push the door open and tiptoe in. There are period dresses lined up against one side, and I riffle through them, fingering all the gorgeous little pin tucks and ruffles and covered buttons. Imagine working on a period film. Imagine choosing all those stunning dresses. And look at the hats! I’m just reaching for a poke bonnet with a broad ribbon trim when the door opens and another girl in jeans and a headset looks in.

“Who are you?” she demands, and I start guiltily. Shit.

My mind is racing as I put the bonnet back. I can’t get chucked out now, I can’t. I’ll have to wing it.

“Oh, hi there.” I try to sound pleasant and normal. “I’m new. Just started. That’s why you haven’t seen me.”

“Oh.” She frowns. “Is anyone else around?”

“Er … not right now. Do you know where Nenita Dietz is?” I add. “I have a message for her.”

Ha! Neatly done. Next I can say, Can you just remind me where her office is? and I’ll be in.

The girl’s brow wrinkles. “Aren’t they all on location still?” Location? My heart sinks. It never occurred to me she might be on location.

“Or maybe they got back yesterday. I don’t know.” The girl doesn’t seem remotely interested in Nenita Dietz. “Where are they all?” She’s looking impatiently round the empty room, and I realize she must mean whoever normally works here.

“Dunno.” I shrug. “Haven’t seen them.” I think I’m busking this conversation pretty well. It just goes to show: All you need is a bit of confidence.

“Don’t they realize we’re making a movie?”

“I know,” I say sympathetically. “You’d think they’d realize.”

“It’s the attitude.”

“Terrible,” I agree.

“I really don’t have time to chase people down.” She sighs. “OK, you’ll have to do it.” She produces a white cotton shirt with a frilly collar.

“What?” I say blankly, and the girl’s eyes narrow.

“You are a seamstress?”

My whole face freezes. A seamstress?

“Er … of course,” I say after what seems like an eternity. “Of course I’m a seamstress. What else would I be?”

I need to get out of this room. Quickly. But before I can move, the girl is handing me the shirt.

“OK. So this is for the older Mrs. Bridges. I need a hem in the bottom, half an inch. You should use slip stitch for these garments,” she adds. “I’m sure Deirdre told you that. Did she show you the attachment?”