Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7)

Shopaholic to the Stars (Shopaholic #7) Page 85

“So how can she get that success again?”

“That’s what we’re working on. But it’s a work in progress.” Luke has that wry smile again. “Believe me, even the most obnoxious hedge-fund types in London are less of a pain in the butt than Sage Seymour. When I speak to boards of directors, they listen. We agree to an action plan. We put it in motion. When I speak to Sage … who knows if she’s even listening?”

“Well, Aran thinks you’re brilliant,” I say. “He told me so the other day.”

“Aran’s great.” Luke nods. “We see eye to eye, at any rate.” He lifts his glass up again. “And that’s why, my darling, I hope for your sake that your client is less nutty than mine.”

I grin at him as I sip my drink. It’s nice to have a proper chat, the two of us. These last few weeks have been such a whirlwind; I’ve barely seen Luke, let alone spent time together as a couple. I’m about to share this thought with Luke when a guy in a tuxedo with long, glossy dark hair passes by. He must surely have used hair straighteners and about a whole bottle of product. I glance at Luke and see that he’s noticed the guy too.

“Shall I grow my hair like that?” he says, his mouth barely twitching.

“Yes!” I say with emphasis. “Definitely! I loved it when you had long hair.” I lean over to stroke his hair. “I adore your hair. The more of it, the better.”

When we went on honeymoon, Luke let his hair grow and even had little plaits. But as soon as we got back to London, he whipped it all off again. I’ve always thought that Long-hair Luke was slightly different from Short-hair Luke. More relaxed.

“You should wear long hair and flip-flops to work,” I suggest. “That’s the L.A. way.”

“British men don’t wear flip-flops to work,” he says firmly.

“You’re an Angeleno now,” I retort.

“Hardly!” says Luke, laughing.

“Well, nearly. And Minnie’s definitely a mini-Angeleno. She loves coconut water. And you know she has lessons in yoga at preschool? She’s two and she’s doing kundalini yoga. They start by studying Sanskrit and they waft saffron scent through the air, and then the teacher asks each of them to vocalize what the session means to them.”

“What does Minnie say?” asks Luke, with interest.

“I’ve only sat in on one session,” I admit. “She said, ‘Bum bum bum.’ ”

“ ‘Bum bum bum.’ ” Luke splutters into his drink. “Our articulate child.”

“It was pretty accurate!” I’m starting to laugh myself. “They were doing downward dog. You should do kundalini yoga, too, you know,” I add to Luke teasingly. “When you’ve grown your hair down to your waist and bought a pair of baggy trousers, you’ll fit in perfectly.”

“D’you want to fit in perfectly, Becky?” As Luke holds my gaze, he seems to be asking me a bigger question.

“I … don’t know,” I say. “Yes. Of course. Don’t you?”

“Maybe,” says Luke, after a pause. “Strange place, this. Some bits I relate to. Others, not so much.”

“Well, everywhere’s like that,” I point out. “Remember when you did that job with those designers in Hoxton? You kept telling me how different they were from City people.”

“Touché.” He grins and finishes his gimlet. “Had you better go and see to your client?”

“She won’t be my client if I can’t get that clutch bag back off Sage,” I say, anxiously scanning the crowds of people. “Can you somehow distract Sage and I’ll grab it?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Come on.”

As we start back across the ballroom, there’s a booming fanfare over the loudspeaker system and a deep voice says, “Ladies and gentlemen! The Actors’ Society Awards are about to start. Please take your seats.”

I’m searching all around for a flash of silver, but without any joy. People are pressing back into the ballroom from outside, and it’s getting pretty chock-full. And now there’s a crush of photographers as some major celeb enters the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” comes the boomy voice again. “Please take your seats for tonight’s awards!”

I feel a tap on my shoulder and wheel round sharply, hoping it’s Sage. But it’s Lois.

“Becky, I was looking for you,” she says in that soft voice. “We were interrupted.”

I can’t reply. I’m staring in shock. She’s holding the Art Deco clutch. How did that happen?