Shopaholic to the Stars(43)

‘Sure.’ Sage slides gracefully into a chair, followed by Aran.

‘There’s water in the chiller …’ Luke hands bottles around.

‘Can I get anyone coffee?’ Finally I manage to string two words together.

‘No thanks,’ says Aran politely.

‘I think we’re fine, Becky,’ says Luke. ‘Thanks.’ He gives me a nod which I understand. It means, Leave us alone now. I’ll just pretend I didn’t see it.

As the three start getting out folders and papers, I hurry back into the house, grab the brocade coat, a belt and a pair of shoes, and zoom back out into the garden. I arrive breathlessly next to Sage and hold the coat out on one arm.

‘I just bought this,’ I say chattily. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’

Sage surveys the coat. ‘Cute,’ she says with a nod, and turns back to a page of photocopied press clippings.

‘D’you want to try it on?’ I say casually. ‘I’m sure it’s your size. It would really suit you.’

Sage gives me an absent smile. ‘No, that’s OK,’ she says.

I stare at her in slight shock. It’s so beautiful, I was sure she’d want to try it on. Well, maybe she’s just not into coats.

‘I bought this belt, too.’ I quickly proffer the belt. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

The belt is from Danny’s new collection. It’s black suede, with three chunky buckles in green resin. You’d put it on over a simple dress and the whole outfit would pop.

‘It’s by Danny Kovitz,’ I tell her. ‘He’s a friend of mine, actually.’

‘Great,’ says Sage, but she makes no move to stroke it or touch it, let alone ask to try it on. This is really not going as I planned.

‘You’re size 6½, aren’t you?’ I say in desperation. ‘I bought these shoes by mistake. Why don’t you have them?’

‘Really?’ She looks at me in surprise, eyeing my bigger feet.

‘Yes! Absolutely! Have them.’ I put them on the table. They’re pale coral-coloured sandals by Sergio Rossi, just very simple and gorgeous. In fact, I covet them myself, and it was really hard buying them in Sage’s size, not mine.

‘Nice.’ At last! Sage is finally showing some interest. She picks up a sandal and turns it this way and that. ‘My sister would love these. We’re the same size. I give her all my cast-offs. Thanks!’

I stare at her, dismayed. Her sister? Cast-offs?

A thought suddenly occurs to Sage. ‘How come you bought them in the wrong size? Isn’t that weird?’

I’m aware of Luke’s sardonic gaze from across the table.

‘Oh. Right.’ I can feel myself flushing. ‘Well … I got confused between British and American sizing. And I never tried them on. And I can’t take them back.’

‘That’s a shame. Well, thanks!’ She hands the shoes to Aran, who places them in a tote bag at his feet. Feeling crestfallen, I watch them disappear.

She didn’t admire a single thing I’d bought. She didn’t suggest shopping together, or ask for advice on her next red-carpet appearance, or any of my fantasies. I can’t help feeling dispirited. But I’m not going to give up. Maybe I just need to get to know her a bit better.

Luke is circulating a sheet headed Agenda. Everyone’s ignoring me. I can’t hover near the table any more. But I can’t just go tamely back inside the house. Maybe … I’ll sunbathe. Yes, good idea. I hurry into the house and collect Variety from the living room, then nonchalantly walk to a sunbed about ten feet away from the table and sit down on it. Luke glances up with a slight frown, but I ignore him. I’m allowed to sunbathe in my own garden, aren’t I?

I open Variety and read some piece about the future of 3D franchises, while trying to listen in on the conversation at the table. The trouble is, they’re all talking so quietly. Mum always complains that modern movie stars mumble, and I have to agree. I can’t hear anything Sage is saying. She should have some proper speech and drama lessons. She should project!

Luke is being equally discreet, and the only one whose voice is resonating through the garden is Aran. Even so, I’m only catching the odd intriguing word.

‘… brand … positioning … Cannes … next year … Europe …’

‘I agree,’ chimes in Luke. ‘But … mumble mumble … big budget … Academy Awards …’

Academy Awards? My ears prick up. What about the Academy Awards? God, I wish there were subtitles.

‘You know what?’ says Sage with sudden animation. ‘Fuck them. They’re a … mumble mumble … Pippi Taylor … well, their choice …’