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—