‘I haven’t got it wrong!’ I say, nettled. What does he think I am, an idiot? ‘I saw the eviction notice myself. Brent C. Lewis. It didn’t say what the C was for.’

‘Constantine. He had a Greek mother.’

‘Well, there you are.’

‘But …’ He exhales. ‘This is impossible.’

‘Look, Dad,’ I say kindly. ‘It’s been a long time. Who knows what happened in Brent Lewis’s life? He could have gone into business, he could have had six divorces, he could have turned into a criminal—’

‘Becky, you don’t understand,’ he says hotly. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. This shouldn’t have happened.’

‘You’re right, I don’t understand!’ I exclaim. ‘If he was such a close friend of yours, why didn’t you stay in touch?’

There’s silence, and I sense I’ve touched a nerve. I feel a bit mean, confronting Dad like that, but honestly, he drives me mad. First he won’t use Skype or Facebook or anything normal. Then he sends me off on a wild goose chase to see his friend, and then, when I report back, he doesn’t believe me.

‘I’ll text you his sister’s number, if you like,’ I say. ‘But honestly, I’d just forget about it if I were you.’

My screen starts flashing with the word Aran and I realize I’ve got a call waiting.

‘Dad, I have to go,’ I say. ‘We’ll talk later, OK? I’m sure Brent Lewis is fine,’ I add, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I wouldn’t worry about him any more.’ I ring off and press Answer. ‘Aran! Hi!’

‘Becky.’ His easy voice comes down the phone. ‘How’re you doing? You shaken off the paparazzi yet?’

‘Just about!’ I laugh.

‘So, that was quite the photocall you had this morning. Cute outfit. Great sunglasses. You made a splash. Good work.’

‘Thanks!’ I beam. I knew Aran would appreciate my efforts.

‘As a result, the phone has been ringing off the hook.’

‘Really?’ I feel a tweak of excitement. ‘What, like, journalists? Fashion editors?’

‘Journalists, producers, all kinds of people. Like I said, you’re hot. And I have a great offer for you. I took the liberty of dealing with it myself, although if you like, I can hand over everything to Luke—’

‘No.’ I answer a bit too quickly. ‘I mean … he’s my husband. He’s a bit too close, don’t you think?’

‘I agree. So, the offer is, a segment on Breakfast Show USA. The producer just called, and she’s very anxious to have you on the show. I told her you’re a stylist and she said great. They’re very happy for you to film a styling segment. New trends, new looks, whatever. We’ll work out the details.’

‘Oh my God.’ I feel breathless. A styling segment on Breakfast Show USA. This is huge. This is mammoth!

‘Now, you’re going to need an agent,’ Aran is saying. ‘I’m going to set up a meeting with our friends at CAA. My assistant will call you with the details, OK?’

CAA! Even I know that CAA is the biggest name in Hollywood. They represent Tom Hanks. They represent Sting! I feel giddy. Never in a million years did I expect to be catapulted into all of this.

A sudden thought strikes me. ‘Does Luke know everything?’

‘Sure, of course.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said it’s your decision.’

‘Right.’

I feel a bit hurt. It’s my decision. What kind of lame response is that? Why didn’t he say, ‘My God, this is amazing, I always knew my wife would be a star’? Why isn’t he on the phone telling me my whole life is going to change here and he’ll be with me every step of the way?

‘So, what’s your decision?’ prompts Aran.

Does he even need to ask?

‘It’s yes, of course!’ I say joyfully. ‘It’s yes! It’s a great big yes!’


FIFTEEN