Then she’ll say, ‘Luke never told me you were such a serious athlete, Becky.’

And I’ll say, ‘Are you kidding? I love running.’ (Which isn’t quite true yet, but I’m sure it will be. Once I start this race, the endorphins will kick in and I’ll probably become addicted.)

Then Sage will say, ‘Hey, we should train together! Let’s meet up every morning.’

And I’ll say, ‘Sure,’ very nonchalantly.

Then she’ll say, ‘I train with some friends, but you’ll love them. Do you know Kate Hudson and Drew Barrymore and Cameron Diaz and—’

‘Will you be paying by credit or cash, ma’am?’

I blink at the assistant and fumble for my card. ‘Oh. Right. Credit.’

‘And did you choose your water bottle?’ the sales assistant adds.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘We’re offering a free bottle with every shoe purchase.’ He gestures at a nearby poster.

Well. This $400 seems more and more of a bargain.

‘I’ll just have a look. Thanks!’ I beam at him and head towards the display of bottles. Maybe if I’m carrying a cool bottle, Sage will notice that, too! There’s a whole wall of them – chrome, matt black, and all sorts of silicon colours. As my eye travels upwards, I spot a label: Limited-edition print. I squint, trying to see – but they’re on the fifth shelf. Honestly. Why would you put the limited-edition-print bottles on the fifth shelf?

There’s a stepladder nearby, so I drag it over and climb to the top. Now I can see the bottles properly, and they’re amazing: all with gorgeous retro prints. I can hardly bear to choose – but in the end I narrow it down to three: one with red stripes, one with amber swirls, and one with black and white flowers. I’ll pay for the extra ones, I decide, because I can give one each to Minnie and Suze as souvenirs.

I carefully put the bottles down on the top step of the ladder and turn to survey the shop. I have an amazing view from up here. I can see all the aisles, and I can see that the woman at the cash register needs her roots touching up, and I can see …

What?

Wait a minute.

I stiffen in disbelief and peer more closely.

In the far corner there’s a girl I hadn’t noticed before. She’s incredibly thin, wearing pale skinny jeans, a grey hoody up over her head, and dark glasses that hide her face. And no wonder she’s dressed so furtively. Because she’s stealing.

I stare in utter shock as I see her putting a pair of socks into her oversized handbag (Balenciaga, this season), and then another. Then a third. Then she looks around, kind of shrinks down into herself and walks swiftly towards the exit.

I’ve never seen a shoplifter in action before, and for an instant I just feel stunned. But next moment a boiling outrage is rising through me. She took them! She shoplifted! She shouldn’t do that! People shouldn’t do that!

What if we all did that? I mean, I bet we’d all like to have free socks, but we don’t just take them, do we? We pay. Even if we can’t really afford it, we pay.

My stomach is churning as I watch her leave. I feel really angry. It’s not fair. And suddenly I know I can’t just let her go. I have to do something. I’m not sure what – but something.

Leaving the bottles behind, I bound down the ladder and out of the shop door. I can see the shoplifter ahead of me, and increase my pace to a run, dodging pedestrians as I go. As I get near, my heart is thumping with apprehension. What if she threatens me? What if she’s got a gun? Oh God, of course she’s got a gun. This is LA. Everyone has guns.

Well, too bad. Maybe I will get shot, but I can’t wimp out now. I reach out a hand and tap her on her bony shoulder.

‘Excuse me?’

The girl whips round and I tense in fright, waiting for the gun. But it doesn’t come. Her sunglasses are so huge I can barely see her face, but I make out a thin, pale chin and a scrawny, almost malnourished neck. I feel a sudden stab of guilt. Maybe she’s on the streets. Maybe this is her only source of income. Maybe she’s going to sell the socks to buy food for her crack-addict baby.

Part of me is thinking, ‘Just turn away, Becky. Let it go.’ But the other part won’t let me. Because even if there’s a crack-addict baby, it’s just wrong. It’s wrong.

‘I saw you, OK?’ I say. ‘I saw you taking those socks.’

The girl immediately stiffens, and makes to run away, but I instinctively grab her arm.

‘You shouldn’t steal stuff!’ I say, struggling to keep hold of her. ‘You just shouldn’t! You probably think, “So what? No one got hurt.” But you know, shop assistants get in trouble when people shoplift. Sometimes they have to pay for the goods from their wages. Is that fair?’

The girl is wriggling desperately to get away, but I’m gripping on to her arm with both hands. Being the mother of a two-year-old, you learn a lot of immobilization skills.

‘And then all the prices go up,’ I add, panting. ‘And everyone suffers! I know you might think it’s your only option, but it’s not. You can turn your life around. There are places you can go for help. Do you have a pimp?’ I add, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘Because I know they can be a real pain. But you could go to a safe house. I saw a documentary about it, and they’re brilliant.’ I’m about to elaborate when the girl’s sunglasses slip to one side. And I glimpse the side of her face.

And suddenly I feel faint. I can’t breathe. That’s—

No. It can’t be.

It is. It is.

It’s Lois Kellerton.

All thoughts of crack addicts and safe houses disappear from my head. This is surreal. It can’t be happening. It has to be a dream. I, Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood, am clutching the arm of top Hollywood actress Lois Kellerton. As I peer at her unmistakable jawline, my legs start to shake. I mean, Lois Kellerton. I’ve seen all her films and I’ve watched her on the red carpet and I’ve—

But what—

I mean, what on earth—

Lois Kellerton shoplifted three pairs of socks? Is this some kind of candid-camera show?

For what seems like the longest moment, we’re both motionless, staring at each other. I’m remembering her as Tess in that brilliant adaptation of Tess of the d’Urbervilles. God, she made me cry. And there was that sci-fi one where she got deliberately stranded on Mars at the end, in order to save her half-alien children. I cried buckets, and so did Suze.

I clear my throat, trying to gather my thoughts. ‘I … I know who you—’

‘Please,’ she cuts me off in that familiar husky voice. ‘Please.’ She takes off her dark glasses and I stare at her in fresh shock. She looks terrible. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her skin is all flaky. ‘Please,’ she says a third time. ‘I’m … I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you employed by the shop?’

‘No. I’m a customer. I was up a ladder.’

‘Did they see me?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

With a trembling hand she grabs the three pairs of socks from her bag and offers them to me.

‘I don’t know what I was doing. I haven’t slept for two nights. I think I went a little crazy. I never did anything like this before. I never will again. Please,’ she whispers again, shrinking inside her hoody. ‘Take the socks. Take them back.’

‘Me?’

‘Please.’ She sounds desperate. At last, awkwardly, I take the socks from her.

‘Here.’ She’s scrabbling in her bag again and produces a fifty-dollar note. ‘Give this to the employees.’

‘You look quite … um … stressed,’ I venture. ‘Are you OK?’

Lois Kellerton raises her head and meets my eyes, and I’m suddenly reminded of a leopard I once saw in a Spanish zoo. That looked desperate, too.

‘Are you going to tell the police?’ she breathes, so quietly I can barely hear her. ‘Are you going to tell anyone?’

Oh God. Oh God. What do I do?

I put the socks in my bag, playing for time. I should tell the police. Of course I should. What difference does it make if she’s a movie star? She stole the socks and that’s a crime and I should perform a citizen’s arrest right now and march her off for justice.

But … I can’t. I just can’t. She looks so fragile. Like a moth or a paper flower. And after all, she’s giving the socks back, and she’s making a donation, and it sounds like she just had a moment of madness …

Lois Kellerton’s head is bowed. Her face is hidden inside the grey hood. She looks as though she’s waiting for an execution.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ I say at last. ‘I promise. I’ll give the socks back and I won’t tell anyone.’

As I release my grip on her, her thin hand squeezes mine. Her dark glasses are already back on her face. She looks like an anonymous skinny girl in a hoody.

‘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. ‘My name is Becky.’

‘Thank you, Becky.’

And before I can say anything, she’s turned and gone.


THREE