“You interviewed my mom today?” I ask, wondering why she didn’t mention it to me.

“No, no, she said it to you over lunch,” Karen says brightly.

“What?”

“It’s right here,” Karen pulls a tape recorder from her purse. I stare at it. She presses Play.

“Being your mother is such a gift.” I hear Mom’s tinny voice from the recorder.

“I . . . I love you too, Mom,” my voice responds. I suck in a breath. I reach out and push the Stop button on the recorder before I have to listen to any more of our talk.

“That was a private conversation!” I exclaim. Karen looks surprised.

“But your mother invited us along,” she says, looking at me blankly. “We were at the next table over. I thought you knew.”

“You were at Tiffany too,” I say as it suddenly dawns on me why she looks familiar. She nods.

“And Bergdorf. . . . My mother invited you?” I can’t believe it.

“And offered to wear a wire so we could record your whole day together,” Karen chirps. She claps happily and leans forward again. “It will make a great opener for the magazine piece. ‘Dial is invited along exclusively on Star Beck’s mother-daughter day!’”

“But . . .,” I start to protest, but the reporter has already switched gears.

“So is it true that Jack and Jill paid you thirty thousand dollars to wear their shoes in your photo shoot yesterday?” Karen asks.

“What?” Where is Mariska when I need her? “No!”

“Or that you received two hundred fifty thousand dollars last month for those ‘candid’ shots of you drinking a can of Diet Melonball soda?”

“No!” I’m feeling dizzy. I don’t even like Melonball soda; it’s just what I was handed when I said I was thirsty.

“Or that your mother has been in talks with preeminent plastic surgeon Richard Wrigley to discuss your nose job?”

“What?” I reach up, startled, and touch my nose. I like my nose! “No! I’m not getting a nose job.”

Karen narrows her eyes. “Dial has also learned that even though you’ve said in numerous interviews that your father left you, in fact, it’s you who have been shutting him out of your life since you’ve become famous, presumably to keep him away from your fortune,” she says.

I can feel my heart stop for a minute. My jaw drops.

“What?” I squeak incredulously. The reporter smiles triumphantly. She’s obviously thrilled to have gotten a reaction out of me.

“We have proof,” she says. She looks so gleeful I’m afraid she’s about to get up and start dancing a jig.

“Huh? What proof?” I’m lost. This can’t be happening. She’s obviously lying.

“Is it true?” she continues, ignoring my question. “Have you been lying to the media all these years, making up some sob story about your dad abandoning you just to get sympathy?”