Shopaholic to the Stars

Anyway. Don’t think about stupid Kai. On the positive front, I’ve got the best, most whizzy trainers in the world. And, OK, they cost four hundred dollars, which is a lot, but I’ll just have to think of this as an investment in my career. In my life.

“So, I’ll box those for you,” says the sales assistant, and I nod absently. I’m imagining standing at the start of the race with Sage, and her glancing down at my feet and saying, Cool shoes.

I’ll give her a friendly smile and reply carelessly, Thanks.

Then she’ll say, Luke never told me you were such a serious athlete, Becky.

And I’ll say, Are you kidding? I love running. (Which isn’t quite true yet, but I’m sure it will be. Once I start this race, the endorphins will kick in and I’ll probably become addicted.)

Then Sage will say, Hey, we should train together! Let’s meet up every morning.

And I’ll say, Sure, very nonchalantly.

Then she’ll say, I train with some friends, but you’ll love them; do you know Kate Hudson and Drew Barrymore and Cameron Diaz and …

“Will you be paying by credit or cash, ma’am?”

I blink at the assistant and fumble for my card. “Oh. Right. Credit.”

“And did you choose your water bottle?” the sales assistant adds.

“I’m sorry?”

“We’re offering a free bottle with every shoe purchase.” He gestures at a nearby poster.

Well. This four hundred dollars seems more and more of a bargain.

“I’ll just have a look. Thanks!” I beam at him and head toward the display of bottles. Maybe if I’m carrying a cool bottle, Sage will notice that too! There’s a whole wall of them—chrome, matte black, and all sorts of colors in silicone. As my eye travels upward, I spot a label: LIMITED EDITION PRINT. I squint, trying to see—but they’re on the fifth shelf. Honestly. Why would you put the limited-edition-print bottles on the fifth shelf?

There’s a stepladder nearby, so I drag it over and climb to the top. Now I can see the bottles properly, and they’re amazing: all with gorgeous retro prints. I can hardly bear to choose—but in the end I narrow it down to three: one with red stripes, one with amber swirls, and one with black-and-white flowers. I’ll pay for the extra ones, I decide, because I can give one each to Minnie and Suze as souvenirs.

I carefully put the bottles down on the top step of the ladder and turn to survey the shop. I have an amazing view up here. I can see all the aisles, and I can see that the woman at the cash register needs her roots touched up, and I can see—

What?

Wait a minute.

I stiffen in disbelief and peer more closely.

In the far corner, there’s a girl I hadn’t noticed before. She’s incredibly thin, wearing pale skinny jeans, a gray hoodie up over her head, and dark glasses that hide her face. And no wonder she’s dressed so furtively. Because she’s stealing.

I stare in utter shock as I see her putting a pair of socks into her oversize handbag (Balenciaga, this season), and then another. Then a third. Then she looks around, kind of shrinks down into herself, and walks swiftly toward the exit.

I’ve never seen a shoplifter in action before, and for an instant I feel stunned. But next moment a boiling outrage is rising through me. She took them! She shoplifted! She shouldn’t do that! People shouldn’t do that!

What if we all did that? I mean, I bet we’d all like to have free socks, but we don’t just take them, do we? We pay. Even if we can’t really afford it, we pay.

My stomach is churning as I watch her leave. I feel really angry. It’s not fair. And suddenly I know I can’t just let her go. I have to do something. I’m not sure what—but something.

Leaving the water bottles behind, I bound down the ladder and out of the shop door. I can see the shoplifter ahead of me, and I increase my pace to a run, dodging pedestrians as I go. As I get near, my heart is thumping with apprehension. What if she threatens me? What if she’s got a gun? Oh God, of course she’s got a gun. This is L.A. Everyone has guns.

Well, too bad. Maybe I will get shot, but I can’t wimp out now. I reach out a hand and tap her on her bony shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

The girl whips round and I tense in fright, waiting for the gun. But it doesn’t come. Her sunglasses are so huge I can barely see her face, but I make out a thin, pale chin and a scrawny, almost malnourished neck. I feel a sudden stab of guilt. Maybe she’s on the streets. Maybe this is her only source of income. Maybe she’s going to sell the socks to buy food for her crack-addict baby.

Part of me is thinking, Just turn away, Becky. Let it go. But the other part won’t let me. Because even if there’s a crack-addict baby, it’s wrong. It’s wrong.