Shopaholic to the Stars

Dad lifts a finger as though he’s about to make a speech. “ ‘The time has come,’ the walrus said, ‘to talk of many things.’ ”

“But, Dad, where did you go? Is everything OK?”

“ ‘Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax’…” continues Dad, totally ignoring me.

Oh God, surely he’s not going to recite the whole of Alice in Wonderland or whatever it is.

“Fab!” I say brightly. “Good idea. Would you like some coffee, Dad?”

“ ‘Of cabbages and kings.’ ” Tarkie nods gravely.

“We know where the secrets are buried.” Dad abandons Lewis Carroll and suddenly looks serious.

“We know where the bodies are buried,” chimes in Tarkie.

“And the secrets.” Dad turns to face Tarkie and taps his nose with his finger.

“And the bodies.” Tarkie is nodding earnestly.

Honestly, I can’t follow a word they’re saying. Dad gives a gurgle of laughter, and Tarkie joins in. They look like two small boys playing truant from school.

“Coffee,” I say briskly. “Sit down.” I turn on the kettle, and reach for our strongest espresso blend. I can’t believe I’m trying to sober up my dad. What is going on? Mum would be livid.

As I’m pouring hot water into the French press, I can hear Dad and Tarkie murmuring to each other behind me. I turn sharply, but they don’t even notice me. I hear Tarkie saying, “Bryce,” and Dad saying, “Yes, yes. Yes. He’s the man. Bryce’s the man.”

“Here you are!” I put the cups down sharply, trying to shock them into sense.

“Oh, Becky.” As Dad looks up, his face is wreathed in fondness. “My little girl, a star in Hollywood. I’m so proud of you, Becky, my love.”

“You’re famous,” chimes in Tarkie. “Famous! We were in a bar and you came on the TV. We said, ‘We know her!’ Your father said, ‘That’s my daughter!’ ”

“I did.” Dad nods drunkenly.

“He did.” Tarkie regards me solemnly. “What does it feel like, being famous, Becky? Fame!” he suddenly sings loudly. For a dreadful moment I think he’s going to start singing the Fame song and dancing on the table, but he clearly doesn’t know the rest, so he just sings “Fame!” again.

“Drink your coffee,” I say, but less sternly than before. I feel quite mollified by their interest. You see? They get it. They realize I’m famous. “It feels … well, I suppose I’ve got used to it now.” I shrug carelessly. “I mean, obviously life will never be the same.…”

“You’re one of them.” Dad nods sagely. “She’s one of them.” He turns to Tarkie, who nods back. “She mingles with the famous people. Tell me who you’ve met, darling.”

“Heaps of people,” I say, basking in their admiration. “I hang out loads with Sage, and I met Lois, obviously, and … er …” Who was that ancient guy at the benefit? “I met Dix Donahue, and I’ve got April Tremont’s phone number, she’s in that sitcom One of Them, and—”

“Dix Donahue!” Dad’s face has crinkled up with delight. “Now, he’s a big name. One of the greats. Your mother and I used to watch him every week.”

“We got on really well,” I boast. “We chatted for ages. He was such a nice man.”

“Did you get his autograph for me?” Dad’s face is all lit up with excitement. “Show me the book, love. It must be full by now!”

It’s as if something cold trickles down my back. Dad’s autograph book. Shit. Dad’s autograph book. I’d forgotten all about that. I don’t even know where it is. Still in a suitcase somewhere? I haven’t given it one single thought since I arrived in L.A.

“I … um …” I rub my nose. “Actually, I didn’t get his autograph, Dad. It … it wasn’t the right time to ask. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Dad looks crestfallen. “Well, you know best, Becky. Whose autographs have you got?”

“I haven’t … actually … got any.” I swallow. “I thought I’d get to know the place first.” I make the mistake of looking at Dad, and I can see from his face that he knows I’m lying. “But I will!” I add hastily. “I’ll get loads! I promise.”

I get to my feet and start stacking plates from the dishwasher, trying to fill the silence in the kitchen. Dad doesn’t speak. At last I dart another look at him, and he’s just sitting there, his face craggy with disappointment. Tarquin seems to have fallen asleep with his head on the table, so it’s only Dad, not saying anything, and me.