“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. As 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, 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 prank 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 store?”
“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 hoodie. “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 it’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 gray 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 hoodie.
“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?