Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 89
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“Sorry, guys,” I hear him say, and then he turns back toward the house. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
“Aran!” I say, as the front door opens. “What’s going on?” I walk back down the stairs to talk to him.
“Oh, nothing much.” He smiles easily. “World’s press descending, same old same old.”
“And they want to interview me?”
“They sure do.”
“What did you say to them?”
“I said, ‘Don’t scratch the gates, you miserable bloodsucking lowlife.’ ”
I can’t help smiling. Aran seems so relaxed about things. The buzzer sounds again and he peers out of a side window.
“What do you know,” he observes. “ABC just turned up. This story is going mainstream.”
“Luke says I should stay inside and ignore them,” I venture. “And we’ll give out a statement later.”
“If you want this to go away, that’s the best thing you can do,” he says, in neutral tones. “Totally. Keep your head down and they’ll get bored.”
I can sense a “but” hovering in the air. I look at him questioningly and he shrugs noncommittally.
He’s not going to say a single word more unless I press him, is he? I walk a little way off, in the opposite direction from the kitchen, and wait for Aran to follow me.
“But?” I say, and Aran sighs.
“Becky, you’re Luke’s wife. I’m not here to advise you.”
“But?”
“It all depends on what you want. And what Luke wants.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I say, confused. “I don’t even know what you mean.”
“OK. Let me explain.” He seems to marshal his thoughts. “I’ve watched you trying to make it in Hollywood as a stylist. Without a whole lot of success, right?”
“Right,” I say reluctantly.
“You know what people need to make it in Hollywood? They need heat. Right now, you have heat. All that attention, that buzz …” He gestures out to the front. “That’s heat. And call me an environmentalist, but I don’t like to see heat go to waste.”
“Right.” I nod uncertainly. “Me neither.”
“Whether you like it or not, getting ahead in this place isn’t about talent or hard work. OK, maybe ten percent is talent.” He spreads his hands. “The other ninety percent is catching a lucky break. So here’s your choice. You can see last night as a weird little moment to hush up and move on from—or you can see it as the luckiest break you ever caught.” He focuses on me, his eyes suddenly intense. “Becky, last night was providence giving you a FastPass. You can jump to the head of the line if you want to. You can go the distance. Do you want to?”
I stare back, utterly mesmerized by his words. I can jump to the head of the line? Go the distance? Why on earth wouldn’t I want to do that?
“Yes!” I stutter. “Of course I do! But—but what do you mean, exactly? What should I do?”
“We can make a plan. We can use this heat. But you have to know what you’re getting into. You have to be prepared to see it through.”
“You mean use the media?” I say hesitantly. “Do interviews?”
“Channel the energy, is all I’m saying. Your profile just went through the roof, but the world knows you as Becky Brandon, Witness to a Shoplifting. How about if you transformed that into Becky Brandon, Celebrity Stylist? Becky Brandon, Hollywood’s Fashion Maven. Becky Brandon, the Go-To Girl for a Great Look. We can brand you any way we like.”
I stare back at him, too dazzled to speak. Brand? Celebrity stylist? Me?
“You know that bag you picked out is all over the Internet?” he adds. “Do you realize how hot you are right now? And if it goes to court, they’ll be all over you. You’ll be the star witness and, believe me, the world will be watching.”
I feel a fresh tingle of excitement. Star witness! I’ll have to have a whole new wardrobe! I’ll wear little Jackie O. suits every day. And I’ll straighten my hair. No, I’ll put my hair up. Yes! Maybe I could have a different style every day, and people will call me the Girl with the Amazing Updos, and—
“Are you starting to realize what you have here?” Aran interrupts my thoughts. “People would kill for this exposure.”
“Yes, but …” I try to calm my whirling thoughts. “What do I do? Now? Today?”
“Well.” Aran sounds suddenly more businesslike. “We sit down and we make a plan. I can pull in some colleagues, you’ll need an agent—”
“Aran!” I say, as the front door opens. “What’s going on?” I walk back down the stairs to talk to him.
“Oh, nothing much.” He smiles easily. “World’s press descending, same old same old.”
“And they want to interview me?”
“They sure do.”
“What did you say to them?”
“I said, ‘Don’t scratch the gates, you miserable bloodsucking lowlife.’ ”
I can’t help smiling. Aran seems so relaxed about things. The buzzer sounds again and he peers out of a side window.
“What do you know,” he observes. “ABC just turned up. This story is going mainstream.”
“Luke says I should stay inside and ignore them,” I venture. “And we’ll give out a statement later.”
“If you want this to go away, that’s the best thing you can do,” he says, in neutral tones. “Totally. Keep your head down and they’ll get bored.”
I can sense a “but” hovering in the air. I look at him questioningly and he shrugs noncommittally.
He’s not going to say a single word more unless I press him, is he? I walk a little way off, in the opposite direction from the kitchen, and wait for Aran to follow me.
“But?” I say, and Aran sighs.
“Becky, you’re Luke’s wife. I’m not here to advise you.”
“But?”
“It all depends on what you want. And what Luke wants.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I say, confused. “I don’t even know what you mean.”
“OK. Let me explain.” He seems to marshal his thoughts. “I’ve watched you trying to make it in Hollywood as a stylist. Without a whole lot of success, right?”
“Right,” I say reluctantly.
“You know what people need to make it in Hollywood? They need heat. Right now, you have heat. All that attention, that buzz …” He gestures out to the front. “That’s heat. And call me an environmentalist, but I don’t like to see heat go to waste.”
“Right.” I nod uncertainly. “Me neither.”
“Whether you like it or not, getting ahead in this place isn’t about talent or hard work. OK, maybe ten percent is talent.” He spreads his hands. “The other ninety percent is catching a lucky break. So here’s your choice. You can see last night as a weird little moment to hush up and move on from—or you can see it as the luckiest break you ever caught.” He focuses on me, his eyes suddenly intense. “Becky, last night was providence giving you a FastPass. You can jump to the head of the line if you want to. You can go the distance. Do you want to?”
I stare back, utterly mesmerized by his words. I can jump to the head of the line? Go the distance? Why on earth wouldn’t I want to do that?
“Yes!” I stutter. “Of course I do! But—but what do you mean, exactly? What should I do?”
“We can make a plan. We can use this heat. But you have to know what you’re getting into. You have to be prepared to see it through.”
“You mean use the media?” I say hesitantly. “Do interviews?”
“Channel the energy, is all I’m saying. Your profile just went through the roof, but the world knows you as Becky Brandon, Witness to a Shoplifting. How about if you transformed that into Becky Brandon, Celebrity Stylist? Becky Brandon, Hollywood’s Fashion Maven. Becky Brandon, the Go-To Girl for a Great Look. We can brand you any way we like.”
I stare back at him, too dazzled to speak. Brand? Celebrity stylist? Me?
“You know that bag you picked out is all over the Internet?” he adds. “Do you realize how hot you are right now? And if it goes to court, they’ll be all over you. You’ll be the star witness and, believe me, the world will be watching.”
I feel a fresh tingle of excitement. Star witness! I’ll have to have a whole new wardrobe! I’ll wear little Jackie O. suits every day. And I’ll straighten my hair. No, I’ll put my hair up. Yes! Maybe I could have a different style every day, and people will call me the Girl with the Amazing Updos, and—
“Are you starting to realize what you have here?” Aran interrupts my thoughts. “People would kill for this exposure.”
“Yes, but …” I try to calm my whirling thoughts. “What do I do? Now? Today?”
“Well.” Aran sounds suddenly more businesslike. “We sit down and we make a plan. I can pull in some colleagues, you’ll need an agent—”
