Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 16
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Four miles? Four whole miles?
As I look at the road ahead, my legs feel wobbly. My feet are aching. Runners are still pounding by, but the thought of getting back into the fray fills me with dread. A guy in a turquoise baseball cap powers by, and I scowl at him. I’ll be happy if I never see a turquoise baseball cap again.
“I’d better limber up before I start again,” I say, playing for time. “My muscles are cold.”
I lift up my foot to do a quad stretch. I count very slowly up to thirty and then do the other side. Then I flop down and let my head dangle in front of my knees for a couple of minutes. Mmm. This is nice. Maybe I’ll stay here for a while.
“Becky?” Luke’s voice penetrates my consciousness. “Sweetheart, are you OK?”
“I’m stretching,” I inform him. I raise my head, stretch out my triceps, and then do a few yoga-type poses I’ve seen Suze do. “Now I’d better hydrate,” I add. “It’s really important.”
I reach for a cup of water and sip it slowly, then fill another and hand it to a passing runner. I might as well be helpful while I’m here. I fill a few more cups with water, ready to hand out, and straighten a stack of energy bars. There are empty wrappers everywhere, so I begin to gather them up and put them in the bin. Then I retie a couple of balloons which have come loose and adjust some streamers. Might as well make the stand look tidy.
I suddenly notice that the guy behind the water stand is staring at me as though I’m insane.
“What are you doing?” he says. “Shouldn’t you be running?”
I feel a bit indignant at his tone. I’m helping him. He could be more grateful.
“I’m on a stretch break,” I explain, and look up to see that Luke is surveying me quizzically.
“You must be pretty well stretched out,” he says. “Are you going to start running again now?”
Honestly. All this pressure to run the whole time.
“I just need to …” I interlace my fingers and stretch them out. “Mmm. I have a lot of tension there.”
“Lady, you’re gonna miss the whole thing,” says the waterstand guy. He gestures at the road. “That’s the last bunch.”
It’s true: The race is thinning out by now. Only the last few stragglers are left. The spectators are drifting away too. The whole atmosphere is kind of melting away. I can’t put it off anymore.
“Right.” I try to sound positive. “Well, I’ll quickly run those last four miles, then. Shouldn’t take long. Great.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll just get going, then.”
“Or …” says Luke, and my head jerks up.
“Or what?”
“I was wondering, Becky, if you didn’t mind slowing your pace to mine, maybe we could walk it? Together?”
“Walk it?”
He puts his hand over the barricade and clasps mine. By now we’re practically the only people around. Behind us, workmen are beginning to dismantle the barricades and pick up litter with special sticks.
“Not often we get a chance to walk in L.A.,” he adds. “And we’ve got the street to ourselves.”
I want to expire with relief.
“Well, OK,” I say after a pause. “I don’t mind walking. Although obviously I would very much have preferred to run.”
“Obviously.” He shoots me an amused little grin, which I ignore. “Shall we?”
We start to walk along, picking our way through the paper cups and energy-bar wrappers left everywhere. I tighten my fingers around his and he squeezes my hand back.
“Come this way.” Luke leads me to the right, off the street and onto the pavement—or sidewalk, as I must start calling it. “You know where we are?”
“Hollywood? Los Angeles?” I look at him suspiciously. “Is this a trick question?”
Luke makes no answer, just nods at the sidewalk. And suddenly I get it.
“Oh!” I look down with a beam. “Oh my God!”
“I know.”
We’re standing on the stars. The Hollywood Walk of Fame, which I’ve seen a million times on TV but never for real. I feel as though Luke has put it there especially as a present for me, all shiny and pink.
“Edward Arnold!” I exclaim, reading a name and trying to sound reverent. “Wow! Um …”
“No idea,” says Luke. “Someone famous. Clearly.”
“Clearly.” I giggle. “And who’s Red Foley?”
“Bette Davis,” says Luke, pointing at another star. “Will that do you?”
“Ooh! Bette Davis! Let me see!”
As I look at the road ahead, my legs feel wobbly. My feet are aching. Runners are still pounding by, but the thought of getting back into the fray fills me with dread. A guy in a turquoise baseball cap powers by, and I scowl at him. I’ll be happy if I never see a turquoise baseball cap again.
“I’d better limber up before I start again,” I say, playing for time. “My muscles are cold.”
I lift up my foot to do a quad stretch. I count very slowly up to thirty and then do the other side. Then I flop down and let my head dangle in front of my knees for a couple of minutes. Mmm. This is nice. Maybe I’ll stay here for a while.
“Becky?” Luke’s voice penetrates my consciousness. “Sweetheart, are you OK?”
“I’m stretching,” I inform him. I raise my head, stretch out my triceps, and then do a few yoga-type poses I’ve seen Suze do. “Now I’d better hydrate,” I add. “It’s really important.”
I reach for a cup of water and sip it slowly, then fill another and hand it to a passing runner. I might as well be helpful while I’m here. I fill a few more cups with water, ready to hand out, and straighten a stack of energy bars. There are empty wrappers everywhere, so I begin to gather them up and put them in the bin. Then I retie a couple of balloons which have come loose and adjust some streamers. Might as well make the stand look tidy.
I suddenly notice that the guy behind the water stand is staring at me as though I’m insane.
“What are you doing?” he says. “Shouldn’t you be running?”
I feel a bit indignant at his tone. I’m helping him. He could be more grateful.
“I’m on a stretch break,” I explain, and look up to see that Luke is surveying me quizzically.
“You must be pretty well stretched out,” he says. “Are you going to start running again now?”
Honestly. All this pressure to run the whole time.
“I just need to …” I interlace my fingers and stretch them out. “Mmm. I have a lot of tension there.”
“Lady, you’re gonna miss the whole thing,” says the waterstand guy. He gestures at the road. “That’s the last bunch.”
It’s true: The race is thinning out by now. Only the last few stragglers are left. The spectators are drifting away too. The whole atmosphere is kind of melting away. I can’t put it off anymore.
“Right.” I try to sound positive. “Well, I’ll quickly run those last four miles, then. Shouldn’t take long. Great.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll just get going, then.”
“Or …” says Luke, and my head jerks up.
“Or what?”
“I was wondering, Becky, if you didn’t mind slowing your pace to mine, maybe we could walk it? Together?”
“Walk it?”
He puts his hand over the barricade and clasps mine. By now we’re practically the only people around. Behind us, workmen are beginning to dismantle the barricades and pick up litter with special sticks.
“Not often we get a chance to walk in L.A.,” he adds. “And we’ve got the street to ourselves.”
I want to expire with relief.
“Well, OK,” I say after a pause. “I don’t mind walking. Although obviously I would very much have preferred to run.”
“Obviously.” He shoots me an amused little grin, which I ignore. “Shall we?”
We start to walk along, picking our way through the paper cups and energy-bar wrappers left everywhere. I tighten my fingers around his and he squeezes my hand back.
“Come this way.” Luke leads me to the right, off the street and onto the pavement—or sidewalk, as I must start calling it. “You know where we are?”
“Hollywood? Los Angeles?” I look at him suspiciously. “Is this a trick question?”
Luke makes no answer, just nods at the sidewalk. And suddenly I get it.
“Oh!” I look down with a beam. “Oh my God!”
“I know.”
We’re standing on the stars. The Hollywood Walk of Fame, which I’ve seen a million times on TV but never for real. I feel as though Luke has put it there especially as a present for me, all shiny and pink.
“Edward Arnold!” I exclaim, reading a name and trying to sound reverent. “Wow! Um …”
“No idea,” says Luke. “Someone famous. Clearly.”
“Clearly.” I giggle. “And who’s Red Foley?”
“Bette Davis,” says Luke, pointing at another star. “Will that do you?”
“Ooh! Bette Davis! Let me see!”
