“Does Luke know everything?” A sudden thought strikes me. “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!”
I’ve never been anywhere like CAA in my life. The building is like some sort of spaceship in which all the men are from Men in Black and all the girls are from Vogue and all the sofas are from Architectural Digest. Just sitting in the lobby for five minutes was a better Hollywood experience than the entire Sedgewood Studios tour. I saw three girls from Gossip Girl, and a cool rapper guy feeding his tiny puppy with a milk dropper, and two famous TV comedians having a huge sotto voce row about something called “back end,” while continuing to smile at a very pretty girl at reception. (I’m not sure of their names. I think maybe they’re both called Steve Something.)
And now I’m sitting in this very smart boardroom-type place, at a smooth, pale wooden table, and listening to two women talk to me. One’s called Jodie and one’s called Marsha, and they’re both “talent” agents. Apparently I’m the “talent.” Me! Talent! Wait till I tell Luke that.
They’re very smart and very intense. They’re both dressed immaculately in a sleek-navy-Prada-ish-high-maintenance sort of style. One has got a vast diamond on one finger, and I’m so mesmerized by it, I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying. Except I keep being jerked back to attention by words like “fan base” and “global appeal.”
“Reality,” says the dark-haired woman, who is either Jodie or Marsha. “What’s your opinion on that?”
“Er …”
I want to reply, I’ve totally lost my grip on it, but I sense that’s not the right answer. I sip my iced water, which is so freezing it gives me an instant headache. Why do Americans like their drinks so cold? Are they descended from Eskimos or something? Ooh, maybe they are. Maybe they migrated down from Alaska, millions of years ago. It makes total sense. Have I hit on a whole new theory of human evolution?
“Becky?”
“Yes!” I come back to the room. “Definitely! Um, what exactly do you mean by reality?”
“A reality show,” says Jodie-or-Marsha patiently. “We think we could package a great show as a vehicle for you, your family, your quirky British friends.…”
“You mean, cameras would be following us around the whole time?”
“It would be semi-scripted. It’s less intrusive than you might think.”
“Right.”
I try to imagine sitting in the kitchen with Luke, acting out a semi-scripted scene for the cameras. Hmm.
“I’m not totally sure my husband would like that,” I say at last. “But I can ask him.”
“Another format we have available is ‘BFFs in Hollywood,’ ” says Marsha-or-Jodie. “You would be working with a young actress named Willa Tilton. The concept is, two best friends making it in Hollywood, confiding in each other, shopping for clothes, appearing on the red carpet, getting into scrapes. You would be the married one, and Willa would be the single one. I think it would have a lot of appeal.”
“I think they’d work well together as best friends.” Jodie-or-Marsha agrees.
“But Willa Tilton isn’t my best friend,” I say, confused. “I’ve never met her. My best friend is called Suze.”
“She would be your best friend for the camera,” says Marsha-or-Jodie, as though I’m slightly subnormal. “It’s a reality show.”
“OK,” I say, still confused. “Well, I’ll think about it.”
I take another sip of water, trying to get my head together. Somehow I can’t take any of this seriously. Me? On a reality show? But as I look from Jodie to Marsha (or the other way around), I realize they’re genuine. They wouldn’t give me the time of day unless they meant it.
“In the meantime, we have the Breakfast Show USA segment,” says Jodie-or-Marsha, “which will be very high-profile. Now, do you have an assistant?”
“No,” I say, and the two women exchange looks.
“You might think about getting yourself one,” says Marsha-or-Jodie.
“Your life is going to start feeling a little different,” adds Jodie-or-Marsha.
“Make sure you have some camera-ready outfits.”
“Consider getting your teeth whitened.”
“And you could lose a pound or two.” Marsha-or-Jodie smiles kindly. “Just a thought.”
“Right.” My head is whirling. “OK. Well … thanks!”
“It’s a pleasure.” Jodie-or-Marsha pushes back her chair. “Exciting, huh?”
As I’m walking along one of the museum-style corridors with an assistant called Tori (dressed head to toe in Chloé), I hear a little shriek behind me. I turn and see Sage skittering along the corridor, her arms outstretched.
“Beckeeeeee! I’ve missed youuuuuu!”
I blink in astonishment. Sage is wearing the skimpiest outfit I’ve ever seen. Her bright-blue polka-dot top is basically a bikini top, and her tiny frayed hot pants are more like underwear.