Shopaholic to the Stars

“It’s a situation,” chimes in Jeff, nodding.

I look over their shoulders at the crowd of journalists. It is a bit of a mob. They might have a point.

“Well, then, I’ll have to break in at the back,” I say. “Will one of you give me a leg up?”

Jeff and Mitchell exchange glances.

“Rebecca,” says Jeff. “Under the terms of our contract, we are not permitted to aid you, the client, in any endeavor deemed as lawbreaking.”

“You’re so square!” I say in frustration. “Don’t you get bored, driving around in dark jackets and pretending everything’s serious all the time? Well, OK, I’ll do it by myself. And when I’m arrested, I’ll say, Mitchell and Jeff had nothing to do with it, Officer. Happy?”

I grab my bag, slither out of the car, and start heading toward Lois’s house, my heels clicking on the road.

“Rebecca, wait.” Jeff’s voice follows me.

“What now?” I turn. “I know, you think I shouldn’t proceed. You’re worse than the bloody satnav.”

“Not that.”

“What, then?”

He hesitates, then says in a low voice, “There’s a weak point in the fence by the pool house. CCTV just misses it. Try there.”

“Thanks, Jeff!” I beam at him and blow him a kiss.

Lois’s property is so huge, it takes ages to find my way to the back. As I hurry along a side road, I start feeling more and more nervous. I’ve never met anyone suicidal before. I mean, not really suicidal. Shouldn’t I have training or something? Anyway, too late now. I’ll just have to be gentle. And uplifting and positive. And apologetic, obviously.

What if she blames me for everything?

I feel an uncomfortable twinge. I really, really want Lois to understand that I didn’t tell everyone. OK, I blabbed to Sage, but I told her to keep it a secret.

But what if Lois won’t see it? What if she screams at me? What if she picks up a knife and says she’s going to stab herself right there in front of me and I throw myself at her to save her but it’s too late? Oh God …

Feeling slightly ill with all these lurid thoughts, I force myself to keep going. At last I arrive at an eight-foot-high fence, with what must be the pool house on the other side. There’s no way I could climb over it on my own, but after walking back and forth a few times, I see what Jeff meant. Two of the slats are loose. I prise them to one side, exposing a gap. I peer at it incredulously. I’m meant to climb through that? What size does he think I am, minus-twenty?

But there’s no other option, so I bend down and start squeezing myself through the gap. I can feel the wood scraping my back, and my hair gets caught a few times, and for one awful moment I think I’ll be stuck there forever. But at last I manage to pop through. (Simultaneously breaking another two slats. In fact, I’ve kind of wrecked this little area of fence. I expect Lois will sue me for that.)

The pool house is about the size of my parents’ house in Oxshott. The pool is pretty huge too. Then there’s a kind of ornamental hanging garden, which looks very weird and out of place, and a lawn and a great big terrace with sofas and chairs and then, finally, the house. Which is vast, needless to say.

OK. What do I do now? I suddenly remember Jeff mentioning CCTV, and it occurs to me that I’m probably being filmed right now. Argh. I need to move fast, before the attack dogs reach me. I hurry to one side of the yard and make my way cautiously toward the house. My heart is beating fast and I’m expecting to be stopped at any moment. But the way I see it, if I can just get to speak to Lois—even for a second—she’ll know I tried. She’ll know I was thinking of her.

Panting, I reach the terrace and crouch down behind a massive pot containing a fern. Five yards away are the French doors. They’re open. Do I just walk in? What if I freak her out?

Or maybe I should just write a note. Yes. Much better. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. I’ll write a note and leave it on the terrace and creep away, and then she can read it in her own time. I rummage in my bag for my notebook and pen, which I’ve been using to make styling notes. I carefully tear out a page and write the date at the top.

Dear Lois,

Oh God. What do I write? How do I put it?

I’m so, so sorry for everything that’s happened. But you must know, I was as shocked as you when Sage exposed you. I told her IN CONFIDENCE.

I underline the last two words several times, and am sitting back on my heels to take stock, when something attracts my attention. It’s a pair of sunglasses lying on a chair. A pair of Missoni sunglasses. They’re pink and green and swirly, and they look exactly like the ones I gave Sage yesterday morning.