Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 29
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At the sight of Suze’s cheerful face beaming out of my phone, I feel a tiny pang myself. The truth is, although I keep denying it to Luke, I am feeling a bit lonely here in L.A. Everyone feels so far away, there aren’t any neighbors to speak of, and I don’t have a job.…
“Say, Hello, Grana!” Luke is cajoling Minnie, and after a moment she gives a little wave at the phone, her tears gone. “And you know what, darling? It may seem a bit scary here to begin with. But soon we’ll know lots of people in Los Angeles.” He taps the screen. “Soon this phone will be full of pictures of all our new friends. It’s always hard at first, but we’ll settle in, I’m sure we will.”
Is he talking to Minnie or me?
“We’d better go.” I smile gratefully at him. “Minnie has toys to play with and I have new friends to make.”
“Attagirls.” He hugs Minnie, then stands up to kiss me. “You knock ’em dead.”
Minnie’s preschool is somewhere off Franklin Avenue, and although I’ve driven there before, I arrive a bit flustered. God, driving in L.A. is stressy. I haven’t got used to our rental car yet, at all. The controls seem to be in weird places, and I keep hooting the horn by mistake. And as for driving on the right-hand side, well, that’s just wrong. It’s unnatural. Plus, the roads in L.A. are far too big. They have too many lanes. London is far cozier. You know where you are.
At last I manage to park the car, which is a Chrysler and also far too big. Why couldn’t we have rented a Mini? I exhale, my heart still thumping, and turn to face Minnie, strapped into her car seat.
“We’re here! Preschool time! Are you excited, darling?”
“Idiot American driver,” replies Minnie equably.
I stare at her, aghast. Where did she get that from? I did not say that. Did I?
“Minnie, don’t say that! That’s not a nice word. Mummy didn’t mean to say it. Mummy meant to say … lovely American cars!”
“Idiot,” says Minnie, ignoring me. “Idiot American driver, Idiot American driver …” She’s singing it to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” “Idiot American dri-ver …”
I cannot arrive on our first day at L.A. preschool with Minnie singing “Idiot American Driver.”
“Idiot American dri-ver …” She’s getting louder and louder. “Idiot American driiiiii-ver …”
Could I pretend it’s a quaint old British nursery rhyme?
No.
But I can’t sit here all day either. Other mothers with small children are getting out of their massive SUVs, all along the street. And we were supposed to arrive early today.
“Minnie, while we’re walking to preschool, you can have a biscuit!” I say, raising my voice. “But we have to be very, very quiet, like mice. No singing,” I add for emphasis.
Minnie stops singing and eyes me suspiciously. “Biscuit?”
Result. Phew.
(And, OK, I know it’s bad to bribe your children, so I’ll just feed her some extra green beans later, which will cancel it out.)
Hastily, I jump out of the car and unstrap her. I hand her a chocolate chip cookie from my emergency stash and we start walking along the pavement.
I mean sidewalk. I must get used to that.
As we near the preschool, I’m looking all around for paparazzi, but I can’t see any. But, then, they’re probably all hiding in bushes. There are a few mothers leading small children in through the gates, and I subtly scan their faces as we walk in with them.
Hmm. I don’t think any of them are celebs, although they’re all toned and tanned, with shiny hair. Most of them are in workout gear, and I make a mental note to wear that tomorrow. I so want to fit in. I want Minnie to fit in and for both of us to make lots of friends.
“Rebecca!”
Erica is greeting us, and I smile in relief to see a familiar face. Erica is about fifty, with straight red hair and very colorful clothes, like a character from a children’s film. She’s leader of the toddler program and has already sent me lots of emails about “transition” and “separation” and the “joy of learning and self-discovery,” which I think means dressing up, only I don’t quite dare ask.
“Welcome to your first day at Little Leaf, Minnie!” she adds, and escorts us into the Toddlers’ Learning Center, which is basically a room full of toys, like any playgroup in England, only here they call them “developmental aids.” “Did you manage to park all right?” she adds, as she hangs Minnie’s water bottle on her peg. “I know some folks have had issues this morning.”
“Say, Hello, Grana!” Luke is cajoling Minnie, and after a moment she gives a little wave at the phone, her tears gone. “And you know what, darling? It may seem a bit scary here to begin with. But soon we’ll know lots of people in Los Angeles.” He taps the screen. “Soon this phone will be full of pictures of all our new friends. It’s always hard at first, but we’ll settle in, I’m sure we will.”
Is he talking to Minnie or me?
“We’d better go.” I smile gratefully at him. “Minnie has toys to play with and I have new friends to make.”
“Attagirls.” He hugs Minnie, then stands up to kiss me. “You knock ’em dead.”
Minnie’s preschool is somewhere off Franklin Avenue, and although I’ve driven there before, I arrive a bit flustered. God, driving in L.A. is stressy. I haven’t got used to our rental car yet, at all. The controls seem to be in weird places, and I keep hooting the horn by mistake. And as for driving on the right-hand side, well, that’s just wrong. It’s unnatural. Plus, the roads in L.A. are far too big. They have too many lanes. London is far cozier. You know where you are.
At last I manage to park the car, which is a Chrysler and also far too big. Why couldn’t we have rented a Mini? I exhale, my heart still thumping, and turn to face Minnie, strapped into her car seat.
“We’re here! Preschool time! Are you excited, darling?”
“Idiot American driver,” replies Minnie equably.
I stare at her, aghast. Where did she get that from? I did not say that. Did I?
“Minnie, don’t say that! That’s not a nice word. Mummy didn’t mean to say it. Mummy meant to say … lovely American cars!”
“Idiot,” says Minnie, ignoring me. “Idiot American driver, Idiot American driver …” She’s singing it to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” “Idiot American dri-ver …”
I cannot arrive on our first day at L.A. preschool with Minnie singing “Idiot American Driver.”
“Idiot American dri-ver …” She’s getting louder and louder. “Idiot American driiiiii-ver …”
Could I pretend it’s a quaint old British nursery rhyme?
No.
But I can’t sit here all day either. Other mothers with small children are getting out of their massive SUVs, all along the street. And we were supposed to arrive early today.
“Minnie, while we’re walking to preschool, you can have a biscuit!” I say, raising my voice. “But we have to be very, very quiet, like mice. No singing,” I add for emphasis.
Minnie stops singing and eyes me suspiciously. “Biscuit?”
Result. Phew.
(And, OK, I know it’s bad to bribe your children, so I’ll just feed her some extra green beans later, which will cancel it out.)
Hastily, I jump out of the car and unstrap her. I hand her a chocolate chip cookie from my emergency stash and we start walking along the pavement.
I mean sidewalk. I must get used to that.
As we near the preschool, I’m looking all around for paparazzi, but I can’t see any. But, then, they’re probably all hiding in bushes. There are a few mothers leading small children in through the gates, and I subtly scan their faces as we walk in with them.
Hmm. I don’t think any of them are celebs, although they’re all toned and tanned, with shiny hair. Most of them are in workout gear, and I make a mental note to wear that tomorrow. I so want to fit in. I want Minnie to fit in and for both of us to make lots of friends.
“Rebecca!”
Erica is greeting us, and I smile in relief to see a familiar face. Erica is about fifty, with straight red hair and very colorful clothes, like a character from a children’s film. She’s leader of the toddler program and has already sent me lots of emails about “transition” and “separation” and the “joy of learning and self-discovery,” which I think means dressing up, only I don’t quite dare ask.
“Welcome to your first day at Little Leaf, Minnie!” she adds, and escorts us into the Toddlers’ Learning Center, which is basically a room full of toys, like any playgroup in England, only here they call them “developmental aids.” “Did you manage to park all right?” she adds, as she hangs Minnie’s water bottle on her peg. “I know some folks have had issues this morning.”
