It’s two weeks later. And I live in Hollywood. I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, live in Hollywood. I live in Hollywood! I keep saying it out loud to myself, to see if it feels any more real. But it still feels like I’m saying, ‘I live in fairyland.’

The house that we’re renting in the Hollywood Hills is made mostly of glass, and has so many bathrooms, I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with all of them. And there’s a walk-in wardrobe, and an outdoor kitchen. And a pool! And a pool guy! (He comes with the house and he’s fifty-three with a paunch, sadly.)

The most amazing thing is the views. Every night we sit on our balcony and look at all the twinkling lights of Hollywood, and I feel as if we’re in a dream. It’s a weird place, LA. I can’t quite get a grip on it. It’s not like European cities, where you get to the centre and think, Ah yes, here I am in Milan/Amsterdam/Rome. In LA you drive around endless great big roads and you peer out of the windows and think, ‘Are we there yet?’

Also, the neighbours are not very neighbourly. You don’t see anyone. People don’t peep over their fences and chat. They just drive in and out of their electronic gates, and by the time you’ve chased after them, shouting, ‘Hi! My name’s Becky! D’you want a cup of—’ they’ve gone.

We have met one neighbour, who’s a plastic surgeon called Eli. He seemed very friendly, and we had a nice chat about rental prices and how he specializes in ‘micro-lifts’. But all the while, he was eyeing me up with this critical stare. I’m sure he was working out what he’d do to me if he had me on the operating table. And apart from him, I haven’t met anyone else in the street yet.

Anyway. Never mind. I will meet people. Of course I will.

I step into a pair of raffia wedges, toss my hair back and survey my reflection in our massive hall mirror. It rests on top of a huge carved chest, and there are two monster armchairs opposite on the Mexican-tiled floor. Everything in this house is massive: the squashy L-shaped sofa in the living room, which seats about ten; the four-poster bed in the master bedroom which Luke and I practically get lost in; the vast, separate kitchen with its three ovens and vaulted brick ceiling. Even all the doors are huge, studded, Mediterranean-looking affairs, made of reclaimed wood and with working locks. I’ve removed all the keys, though they’re picturesque. (Minnie and keys really don’t mix.) It is a gorgeous house, I have to say.

But today my priority is not the house, it’s my outfit. I focus on it intently, searching for flaws. I haven’t felt so jittery about my look for ages. OK, let’s do a rundown. Top: Alice + Olivia. Jeans: J Brand. Tassled bag: Danny Kovitz. Cool hair-slidey thing: found at vintage market. I try a few poses, walking back and forth. I think I look good, but do I look good for LA? I reach for a pair of Oakleys and try them on. Then I try a pair of oversized Tom Ford sunglasses instead. Hmm. Not sure. Fabulous statement … or too much?

My stomach is swooping with nerves, and the reason is, today is a huge day: I’m taking Minnie to her pre-school. It’s called the Little Leaf Pre-School, and we’re very lucky to have got a place. Apparently several celebrity kids go there, so I’m definitely volunteering for the PTA. Imagine if I got in with the in-crowd. Imagine if I got to organize the school fête with Courtney Cox or someone! I mean, it’s possible, isn’t it? And then she’d introduce me to all the Friends cast … maybe we’d go out on a boat or something amazing—

‘Becky?’ Luke’s voice breaks into my thoughts and he comes striding into the hall. ‘I was just looking under the bed—’

‘Oh, hi,’ I interrupt him urgently. ‘Which sunglasses shall I wear?’

Luke looks blank as I demonstrate first the Oakleys, then the Tom Fords, and then a pair of tortoiseshell Top Shop ones which are totally fab and only cost £15, so I bought three pairs.

‘It hardly matters,’ he says. ‘It’s just the school run.’

I blink at him in astonishment. Just the school run? Just the school run? Doesn’t he read US Weekly? Everyone knows the school run is the thing! It’s where the paparazzi snap celebrities acting like normal parents. It’s where people rock their casual looks. Even in London, all the mothers look one another up and down and dandle their bags on their arms in a showy-offy way. So how much more pressured will it be in LA, where they all have perfect teeth and abs, and half of them are genuine celebs?

I’m going for the Oakleys, I decide, and slide them on. Minnie comes running into the hall, and I take her hand to survey our reflection in the mirror. She’s in a cute little yellow sundress and white sunglasses and her ponytail is held back with an adorable bumble-bee. I think we’ll pass. We look like an LA mother and daughter.

‘All set?’ I say to Minnie. ‘You’re going to have such a lovely time at pre-school! You’ll play games, and maybe make lovely cupcakes with sprinkles on …’

‘Becky.’ Luke tries again. ‘I was just looking under the bed and I found this.’ He holds up a garment carrier. ‘Is it yours? What’s it doing there?’

‘Oh.’

I adjust Minnie’s ponytail, playing for time. Damn. Why is he looking under the bed? He’s a busy LA mover and shaker. How does he have time to look under beds?

‘It’s for Sage,’ I say at last.

‘For Sage? You’ve bought Sage a full-length fake-fur coat?’ He stares at me in astonishment.

Honestly, he hasn’t even looked at it properly. It’s not full-length, it’s to mid-thigh.

‘I think it’ll suit her,’ I explain. ‘It’ll go with her hair colour. It’s a really different look for her.’

Luke appears absolutely baffled. ‘But why are you buying her clothes? You don’t even know her.’

‘I don’t know her yet,’ I correct him. ‘But you are going to introduce us, aren’t you?’

‘Well, yes, at some point.’

‘So! You know I want to get into styling, and Sage would be the perfect client. So I’ve been putting some looks together for her. That’s all.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Luke’s face changes. ‘There were some other bags under the bed, too. Don’t tell me—’

I curse myself silently. I should never, ever put anything under the bed.

‘Is that all shopping for Sage?’

He looks so aghast, I feel defensive. First Suze, now Luke. Don’t they understand anything about setting up a business? Don’t they understand that to be a clothes stylist you need clothes? They wouldn’t expect me to be a tennis player and not have a tennis racket.

‘It’s not “shopping”! It’s essential business expenses. It’s like you buying paperclips. Or photocopiers. Anyway, I’ve used all those clothes for my portfolio, too,’ I add robustly. ‘I took some brilliant pictures of Suze. So actually, I’ve saved money.’

Luke doesn’t seem convinced. ‘How much have you spent?’ he demands.

‘I don’t think we should talk about money in front of Minnie,’ I say primly, and take her hand.

‘Becky …’ Luke gives me a long, sort of sighing look. His mouth is tucked in at one side and his eyebrows are in a ‘V’ shape. This is another of Luke’s expressions I’m familiar with. It means: ‘How am I going to break this to Becky without her overreacting?’

(Which is very unfair, because I never overreact.)

‘What?’ I say. ‘What is it?’

Luke doesn’t answer straight away. He walks over to one of the monster armchairs and fiddles with a striped Mexican throw. You might almost say that he’s putting the armchair between himself and me.

‘Becky, don’t get offended.’

OK, this is a rubbish way to start any conversation. I’m already offended that he thinks I’m someone who could get offended. And anyway, why would I be offended? What’s he going to say?

‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘Of course I won’t.’

‘It’s just that I’ve been hearing some really good stuff about a place called …’ He hesitates. ‘Golden Peace. Have you heard of it?’

Have I heard of it? Anyone who’s ever read People magazine has heard of Golden Peace. It’s the place where they wear bracelets and do yoga, and where celebrities dry out and then pretend they were just a little tired.

‘Of course I have. The rehab place.’

‘Not just rehab,’ says Luke. ‘They do a lot of programmes and deal with all kinds of … disorders. The guy I was talking to has a girlfriend who was a terrible hoarder. It was ruining her life. She went to Golden Peace and they really sorted out her issues. And I wondered if somewhere like that could be helpful. For you.’

It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying.

‘Me? But I’m not a hoarder. Or an alcoholic.’

‘No, but you do …’ He rubs his nose. ‘You have had a history of spending issues, wouldn’t you agree?’

I inhale sharply. That’s below the belt. Waaay below the belt. So I’ve had a few minor problems in my time. So I’ve had a couple of teeny financial blips. If I were a FTSE company you’d call them ‘corrections’ and just shove them at the back of the annual report and forget about them. Not drag them up at every opportunity. Not suggest rehab.

‘So, what, I’m an addict now? Thanks a lot, Luke!’

‘No! But—’

‘I can’t believe you’re making these accusations in front of our child.’ I clasp Minnie to me dramatically. ‘What, you think I’m an unfit mother?’

‘No!’ Luke rubs his head. ‘It was just an idea. Nanny Sue suggested the same, remember?’

I glare at him balefully. I don’t want to be reminded of Nanny Sue. I’m never hiring a so-called ‘expert’ again. Her brief was to help us with Minnie’s behaviour, and what did she do? Turn the spotlight on me. Start talking about my behaviour, as if that’s got anything to do with anything.