“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Becky!” I reply eagerly. “Becky Bloomwood. I mean, Brandon. I was Bloomwood but I got married, so my name changed.…” Argh. Stop gabbling. “Um, Becky,” I finish lamely.
“Thank you, Becky.”
And before I can say anything, she’s turned and gone.
Next morning, my head is still sparking in disbelief. Did that actually happen? Did I actually meet Lois Kellerton?
When I returned to Pump!, clutching the socks, it turned out they hadn’t even noticed that the socks had gone. For an awful moment I thought they were going to accuse me of stealing them. But thankfully a sales assistant took over the incident and called up the CCTV footage, and we all watched as a thin girl in a gray hoodie put the socks in her bag and slipped out. I was tingling all over as I watched. A tiny part of me wanted to yell, Don’t you see who it is? Don’t you see?
But of course I didn’t. I’d made a promise. Besides which, they’d never believe me. On the video you can’t see her face at all.
Then we watched the footage as I chased her out of the shop. All I can say is, I am never buying an Athletic Shaping All-in-One again. I wanted to die when I saw my bottom bulging through the shiny fabric.
Anyway. On the plus side, everyone was really impressed by what I did, even if they were more interested in arguing about whether the socks should have been fitted with security tags. My story was that the “mystery girl” dropped the socks as I chased her down the street and that I couldn’t catch up with her. I didn’t know what to do about the fifty-dollar note, so in the end I pretended that I’d found it on the floor and handed it over. I left my name in case the police need a statement, then hurried back to our hotel, where I finally cut that awful Athletic All-in-One off myself. (I bought a pair of shorts and a tank top from Gap instead.)
Lois Kellerton. I mean, Lois Kellerton. People would die if they knew! (Well, Suze would.) But I haven’t told anybody. When Luke and I finally met up for supper last night, he wanted to hear all about the rental houses I’d looked at, and I didn’t want to admit I’d spent quite so much time on Rodeo Drive … and besides which, I made a promise. I said I’d keep it a secret and I have. Today it feels as though the whole event was a weird little dream.
I blink and shake my head to dislodge it. I have other things to think about this morning. I’m standing outside Dalawear, which is on Beverly Boulevard and has a window display of mannequins in “easy-wear” dresses and pantsuits taking tea on a fake lawn.
I’m not meeting Danny for another twenty minutes, but I wanted to get here early and remind myself of the store and its layout. As I wander in, there’s a lovely smell of roses in the air, and Frank Sinatra is playing over the sound system. It’s a very pleasant store, Dalawear, even if all the jackets seem to be one style, just with different buttons.
I’ve gone through separates, shoes, and underwear when I come to the evening-wear section. Most of the dresses are full-length and heavily corseted, in bright colors like periwinkle blue and raspberry. There are lots of big rosettes at the shoulder or waist, and beading, and lace-up bodices, and built-in “slimming” undergarments. Just looking at them makes me feel exhausted, especially after my Athletic Shaping All-In-One experience. Some clothes just aren’t worth the hassle of trying to get them on and off.
I’m about to take out my phone to text Danny when there’s a rustling sound, and a girl of about fifteen appears out of the dressing room to stand in front of the full-length mirror. She’s not the most together-looking girl. Her dark-red hair is in a fuzzy kind of bob, and her nails are bitten and her eyebrows could do with a bit of a tweeze. But, worst of all, she’s wearing a jade-green strapless, swooshy gown that totally swamps her, complete with a rather revolting chiffon stole. She looks uncertainly at herself and hitches the bodice over her bust, where it really doesn’t fit. Oh God, I can’t bear it. What is she doing here? This shop isn’t for teens.
“Hi!” I approach her hurriedly. “Wow! You look … um, lovely. That’s a very … formal dress.”
“It’s for my end-of-year prom,” mutters the girl.
“Right. Fantastic!” I let a pause fall before I add, “They have some pretty dresses in Urban Outfitters, you know. I mean, Dalawear is a brilliant choice, obviously, but for someone your age …”
“I have to shop here.” She shoots me a miserable look. “My mom had some gift cards. She said I could only get a dress if it didn’t cost her anything.”
