Free Shopaholic to the Stars by Sophie Kinsella

side, away from the others, and I look up at him curiously.
    Dad’s aged a bit recently. His face is craggier and there are little white hairs tufting out of his neck. Although he can still vault over a gate quite athletically. I know this because he was showing off to Minnie earlier today in one of Suze’s fields, while Mum cried out, ‘Graham, stop! You’ll do yourself an injury! You’ll break a metatarsal!’ (Mum has recently found a new daytime TV show,
Doctor’s Surgery Live
, which means that she now thinks she’s an expert on all things medical and keeps dropping words like ‘platelets’ and ‘lipoproteins’ into the conversation even when we’re just talking about what to have for supper.)
    ‘What is it, Dad?’
    ‘Well, the first thing is this.’ He takes from his breast pocket a small paper bag and pulls out an ancient autograph book with a picture of a Cadillac on the front and
California
in white swirly writing. ‘Remember this?’
    ‘Of course!’
    Dad’s autograph book is a family tradition. It gets pulled out every Christmas and we all politely listen as he tells us about all the signatures. They’re mostly autographs of obscure TV stars from American shows that no one’s ever heard of, but Dad thinks they’re famous, so that’s all that matters.
    ‘Ronald “Rocky” Webster,’ he’s saying now, turning the pages fondly. ‘He was a big star then. And Maria Pojes. You should have heard her sing.’
    ‘Right.’ I nod politely, even though I’ve heard these names a million times and they still mean nothing to me.
    ‘It was my friend Corey who spotted Maria Pojes, drinking in a hotel bar,’ Dad’s saying. ‘Our first night in LA. He dragged me over, offered to buy her a drink …’ He laughs reminiscently. ‘She wouldn’t accept it, of course. But she was sweet to us. Signed our books.’
    ‘Wow.’ I nod again. ‘Fantastic.’
    ‘And so …’ To my surprise, Dad presses the open autograph book into my hand. ‘Over to you, Becky. Fill her up with some new blood.’
    ‘What?’ I stare at him. ‘Dad, I can’t take this!’
    ‘Half the book’s empty.’ He points at the blank pages. ‘You’re off to Hollywood. Finish the collection.’
    I look at it nervously. ‘But what if I lose it or something?’
    ‘You won’t lose it. But you’ll have adventures.’ Dad’s face flickers oddly. ‘Oh, Becky, love, I am envious. I’ve never known anything like those adventures I had in California.’
    ‘Like the rodeo?’ I say. I’ve heard that story a zillion times.
    ‘That.’ He nods. ‘And … other things.’ He pats my hand, twinkling. ‘Get me John Travolta’s signature. I’d like that.’
    ‘What’s the other favour?’ I say, putting the autograph book carefully into my bag.
    ‘Just a small thing.’ He reaches into his pocket and produces a slip of paper. ‘Look up my old friend Brent. He always lived in Los Angeles. This is his old address. See if you can track him down. Say hello from me.’
    ‘OK.’ I look at the name:
Brent Lewis
. There’s an address in Sherman Oaks, and a phone number. ‘Why don’t you call him up?’ I suggest. ‘Or text him? Or Skype! It’s easy.’
    As I say the word ‘Skype’ I can see Dad recoiling. We once tried to Skype Jess in Chile and it wasn’t exactly a resounding success. The picture kept freezing, so we gave up. But then the sound suddenly came back on and we could hear Jess and Tom having a row about Janice while they made their supper. It was all a bit embarrassing.
    ‘No, you go and say hello,’ says Dad. ‘If he wants to, we can take it from there. Like I say, it’s been a long time. He may not be interested.’
    I really don’t get the older generation. They’re so
reticent
. If it were me getting in touch with my old friend from all those years ago, I’d be sending them a text instantly: Hi! Wow, it’s been decades! How did THAT happen? Or I’d track them down on Facebook. But Dad and Mum just