Chapter Text
Faithful readers of my blog will know that I am le dernier mot in fashion, whose musings have inspired many a hapless soul to sartorially upgrade themselves (though sadly, many have remained unkempt and beleaguered). They know of my work in international diplomacy, defusing a number of situations that could have gone horribly wrong without my intervention. The world can count itself fortunate that I have chosen negotiation rather than making horrible movies as my talent.
But what I have kept intentionally quiet until now, for reasons of modesty and national security, is that I also run a very exclusive and chic detective agency for select clientele. There are a few requirements that I specifically have if I am to take your case.
- Enough resources to pay my expenses (yes, sometimes I am forced to buy my own pave bracelets despite some rather obvious hint-dropping to my oblivious parents). Do not attempt to haggle on my fees; they are non-negotiable and you make yourself look worse.
- Either a personal connection or a reference from a respected client – I will not take cases on for clients with no sense of discretion and style. (I'm looking at you, Willow Smith).
- Discretion. I cannot emphasize this enough. If you are so low class as to sell your own stories to the tabloids, I cannot trust that you will not fabricate lies about my services in an attempt to garner fleeting moments of fame. This is why I will never assist the Kardashians, no matter how much they plead (though if Penelope Scotland Disick wishes to make her escape and reclaim some semblance of a fulfilling life, I have some experience in the matter and will assist pro bono).
- A case of some intrigue or complexity. I will not take any matters relating to domestic disputes, suspected narcotic usage, or missing stuffed animals. I am not willing to bend on the last one, Skyler Berman.
Of course, all these regulations have meant that while I take very few cases per year, the ones I do take on are grave matters whose solutions tend to remain sub rosa. However, I feel that it is time to share one of my most recent cases in an attempt to explain certain rumors that some unscrupulous tabloids may or may not be circulating in the near future.
I had been taking a break from my cases to concentrate on my current academic pursuits; though I can clearly master any challenge thrown at me, convincing my classmates not to wear Uggs is a different matter. (When will this national nightmare end). So normally I would not have answered my private agency line.
However, as readers are well aware of, when it comes to Cruz Beckham, I cannot say no.
“Suri. Please help me.” And with these four words, I knew I would assist in whatever matter he gave me. He sounded frantic, not his usual cool Beckham self.
“Cruz. Calm down.”
“I think someone's following me.”
Great, a paparazzi case. I dislike these almost as much as I dislike whatever Jessica Simpson is wearing on any particular day, but again, it's Cruz. “If it's a reporter, you know there are--”
“It's not a reporter. I think it's myself.”
While the prospect of two Cruz Beckhams is enough to make any observant girl happy, a more likely solution presented itself. “Cruz, if you're currently taking something...”
“No! I swear I'm not. It's someone who looks like me. I keep seeing them out of the corner of my eye everywhere I go.”
His paranoia was making him less attractive by the minute. “Cruz--”
“He's here again! I have to go--” My phone showed the call was dropped. Given the quality of my phone service, it had to have been intentional.
I tried redialing him, but it went straight to voice-mail. Naturally, I was concerned. If Cruz was taking something, I needed to stop him before he went down the path so many Lohans have gone before. So I did what I've never done before.
I called Harper Beckham. This is not something I do frequently, given my general reluctance to put upon the Beckham family, but this was important.
“Harper? It's Suri. I need to know if you've seen Cruz.”
“Cruz? He's right here.” That was unexpected.
“I need to talk to him.”
There was some static and then-- “Hello?”
“Cruz. I was worried. You just hung up.”
“I do not know what you mean. You have not talked to me today. I am fine. I need to go now. My family needs me.” For the second time that day, he hung up on me. And people wonder why I have such issues with him.
Not to mention he sounded... robotic. Now I'm used to Victoria Beckham looking and sounding like a very advanced android, but Cruz? This was strange.
So these were the facts:
- 1. Cruz Beckham thought someone who looked like him was stalking him.
- He hung up on me. Twice. No one does that to Suri Cruise without a very good reason.
- Monaco Blue is such an uninspired color. They should have gone with Poppy Red.
This meant an investigation was in order. I donned a rather delightful raspberry coat, informed my mother I had a study group (that poor woman is so unobservant), and surreptitiously began my preliminary research. (That playhouse will make things so much simpler for my agency).
But after several phone calls to Cruz that went unanswered, a cursory search of street cameras that turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and a quick stop to Maison Kayser, I was where I started: fashionable and sought-after, but none the wiser as to what had happened to Cruz.
Then I saw the pink coat out of the corner of my eye.
I must explain that it's not uncommon to see others attempting to dress like me. In fact, it's to be expected. But someone with identical clothing and my haircut? Unacceptable. There can only be one Suri Cruise.
And if there was a current trend in people attempting to foist their own cheap substitutions as the real thing, I would have to stop it. I refuse to accept imitations.
I saw the pink coat again disappear around the corner. I went to follow it.
And that is when Violet Affleck grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into an alley.