Apocalipstick (13 page)

“S’pose,” Rebecca said. “But can you believe the cheek of the man, messing around like that the moment my back’s turned?”

When they got back from the park, Max tried to get her into bed, but she said she had to go home and get changed for Ed’s surprise party.

“You sure you don’t want to pop in—just for an hour or two? Jess is dying to meet you.”

But his hand was already back down inside his trousers.

“OK, perhaps not,” she said.

On the way home she phoned Jess, ostensibly to ask her if there was anything she’d forgotten for the party and wanted picking up. After Jess had thanked her and said everything was just about under control, she brought up the subject of Lorna. Jess said she didn’t have much time to talk because she was up to her eyes in canapés, but made it perfectly clear that if Rebecca got jealous of every beautiful woman Max Factor came into contact with, their relationship was destined for disaster.

“You know we’re far too hard on beautiful women—always assuming they’re preying on our men. Lorna’s probably lovely and perfectly harmless. I mean, look at Lipstick. I was right about her, wasn’t I?”

She got home just after five. When she went into the living room, Lipstick was standing at the window on a stepladder. Her bum was stuffed into crimson hipsters with gold studs running down the outside leg. Over these she was wearing a shiny mock snakeskin crop top. Bulging out between the two was her considerable midriff. She was hanging blinds. Austrian ones. In cream and olive-green Regency stripes. With a frill at the bottom.

“Ta-dah!” she proclaimed with a flourish.

Rebecca blinked.

“What do you think? Aren’t they brilliant? Ready-mades from Laura Ashley. You attach them with Velcro. So when you want to wash them, all you do is pull them off . . . like so. I thought they were just what you needed. They give the room a much softer, feminine feel, don’t you think? And look, I managed to find the cushions to match.”

Rebecca looked at the striped cushions sitting on her black leather sofa. Then she swallowed. By now the color had completely drained from her face. “Lipstick, this is very kind, but . . .”

“Oh, you don’t have to thank me,” she said, getting down from the ladder. “I just wanted to get you something to say how much I appreciate you taking me in like this. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

Just then the phone rang. Rebecca reached to pick it up, but Lipstick had gotten there first.

“Bound to be a client,” she said, pressing the green button. She nodded to indicate she’d been right.

Rebecca decided the only way she was going to calm down was with a glass of wine and a hot bath.

She went into the bedroom to get undressed. On the dressing table stood a huge turquoise silk flower arrangement thing. On the bed, Harrison, dressed in khaki cargo pants and a T-shirt that said “Doggy Style,” was chewing on a dried pig’s ear and drooling over the duvet.

“She has to go,” Rebecca said, knocking back her second Shiraz. “I know my dad loves her, but she just has to go. She’s completely taking over. When the phone goes it’s only ever for her. And you should see what she’s done to the place. She’s talking about getting somebody in to paint a mural in my bedroom. At the moment she’s thinking frolicking nymphs and satyrs. God, Jess, the place is getting so camp I feel like I’m flat-sharing with the entire cast of
La Cage aux Folles.
”

Jess laughed and told her to calm down. “Look, it’s only for another couple of weeks. As soon as she moves out, take the blinds down.”

“But what do I do when she and Dad come to visit? I can’t keep hanging them back up. And what if they drop in unannounced?”

“Then you say you got burgled by this bunch of gays who just went for the extra-virgin olive oil and your soft furnishings.”

Rebecca managed a smile. They were sitting at Shazzer’s, the wine bar round the corner from Jess’s, waiting for the rest of the party guests. The idea was they’d have a quick glass of bubbly there before heading back to Jess’s to wait for Ed to get home from work.

The people who’d arrived so far were hacks mainly, most of whom Rebecca knew. Then there were some couples Ed and Jess had met at their National Childbirth Trust prenatal classes, and four or five of Ed’s university mates.

“Oh, my God,” Rebecca said, noticing a familiar and distinctly unwelcome face, “I cannot believe you’ve invited that Guy Debonnaire creep. He’s always hitting on me. He actually tongued my ear at the Mer de Rêves do.”

Jess pulled a face. “I know, he hits on everybody. But I didn’t invite him. Somebody from the Sunday
Trib
must have brought him.”

Rebecca said she was going to disappear to the loo before he came over and started tweaking her nipples. She stood up and headed for the ladies’ room, past the members of the NCT brigade who were deep in conversation about the state of their postpartum perineums and loft conversions.

The moment she came out she walked straight into Guy, who was drunk as usual.

“Hi, Becks.”

“Hi, Guy,” she said wearily.

He started nuzzling her. He stank of booze. She pushed him off.

“Oh, don’t be like that. You wanna come back to my place? I’ve got an electric blanket.”

“Tell you what, Guy, how’s about you come back to mine. I’ve got an electric chair.”

He stood in front of her swaying and looking puzzled.

“Rebecca,” a voice boomed from behind them.

It belonged to Lady Axminster. She looked distinctly flushed. She’d clearly had a few gins. Rebecca greeted her with a double kiss and introduced Guy.

“Good God,” Lady Axminster gasped, “you’re not Johnny Debonnaire’s boy, are you?”

“The same, fair lady, the same.” He took her ladyship’s hand and slobbered over it. She looked as if she’d just been presented with a dog turd.

“Johnny courted me many moons ago, you know,” she said, wiping her hand with a lace handkerchief. “Hope you don’t take after him. Chap had the smallest winkle in Gloucestershire.”

His crest may have fallen, but only for a moment. A second later he’d spotted Jess.

“Hey, Jess,” he called out, “how’s about ditching that husband of yours and coming back to my place for a Bacardi and grope?”

Thirty of them, including Guy, trooped back to Jess’s house. By now Lady Axminster had sobered up (for which Jess was hugely grateful since her mother was due to pick Diggory up from Dolly’s in a couple of hours and take him home with her).

When they got to the house the curtains were drawn, but there were chinks of light coming from the living room.

“Oh, my God,” Jess wailed, “Ed’s home early. He’ll have seen all the food and drink laid out in the kitchen. And the balloons. And that huge ‘Happy 40th’ banner I got. This is a complete mess. Shit, what do we do?”

Rebecca told her not to panic. “Look, first, he may not have seen it. The front room’s his study. Maybe he came straight in and decided to get on with some work. I reckon if he’d seen it, he’d have phoned you by now. Let’s just go in as planned and surprise him.”

Jess wasn’t convinced, but agreed they had no option. She got out her key and silently turned the lock. The door squeaked open. Everybody flinched. Then, stifling giggles, people began piling in.

“Go on, then,” Lady Axminster whispered to Jess, “open the door.”

Jess hesitated for a second. Then she threw open the door that led to Ed’s study. Thirty voices yelled, “Surprise!”

Which it certainly seemed to be for Ed.

His head shot round to face them, his face etched in terror. Jess screamed and slapped her hand to her mouth. Without saying a word Ed leaped off the sofa, where until that second he had been lying facedown, his pants and trousers round his ankles, on top of a plastic inflatable woman. Beside her was a pile of porno mags. Rebecca put her arm round Jess. Guy Debonnaire, who somehow had made it to the front and was standing with Rebecca, Jess and Lady Axminster, yelled:

“Oi, give us a go after you, mate.”

There was a lot of nervous shuffling and coughing from the rest of the guests. A few people started giggling. Ed pulled up his pants and looked pleadingly at Jess. Then the people still standing in the hall, who hadn’t seen what was going on, suddenly broke into “Happy Birthday.” Rebecca yelled at them to stop.

Calmly and without saying anything, Jess went to Ed’s desk, picked up his fountain pen and stabbed the doll with the nib. The air shot out in a loud hiss. The doll folded in on herself. Jess turned to look at Ed.

“How could you humiliate me like this?” she said softly, a single tear trailing down her cheek. “How could you?”

“Just come into the kitchen and talk. Let me explain. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“We’ve been talking for weeks and this is where it’s gotten us. I need to do some thinking. You can stay here for the time being. Diggory and I are moving in with Rebecca.”

She then pushed through the crowd of guests and ran upstairs with Ed right behind her, begging her to listen to him.

While Rebecca stood there, trying to absorb the enormity of Jess’s final statement, Guy Debonnaire was kneeling beside the shrinking inflatable woman, attempting to give her the kiss of life.

10

H
ang on, where
was I?” Lipstick, who was giving Jess a manicure, stopped filing for a moment and attempted to gather her thoughts.

“Your grandad’s funeral,” Rebecca chipped in, without taking her eyes off the TV screen.

“Oh, right,” Lipstick said. “So in the end it turned out to be really expensive. They had to bury him in a hired suit.”

Jess burst out laughing and once again she and Lipstick were cackling like a pair of off-duty hookers in a Dickensian knocking shop. Rebecca, who was sprawled on the sofa engrossed in one of her
Seinfeld
tapes, turned toward them. “What? What’s the joke?”

But they were laughing so hard neither of them could get the words out.

Rebecca smiled and went back to the TV. When Jess moved in five days ago she was tearful, angry and confused. The change in her was palpable and much of it was due to Lipstick. Although Rebecca had been there with hugs, late-night talks and encouragement, it was Lipstick who had seen the cheering up of Jess as some kind of mission. OK, maybe her campaign was a tad on the unrelenting side—what with her quoting endlessly from
You Can’t Afford the Luxury of a Negative Thought,
repeatedly showing her all-time favorite videos and telling rambling family anecdotes, her point usually hovering way off in the distance like a German verb—but there was no doubt it had worked, at least on a superficial level. Deep down Jess was still pretty miserable.

“I married a perv,” she’d said to Rebecca, as she sat breast-feeding Diggory late last night. “The Dig-Dig has a perv for a father. It’ll scar him for life.”

Rebecca had almost said, “Unlike having a mother who refers to him as the Dig-Dig,” but didn’t.

Instead, she made the point that thousands of blokes, even those in healthy relationships, kept secret stashes of soft porn. “Come on,” she said gently, “you’re an agony aunt, you know all this. You also know it’s no reason to walk out. OK, thirty people caught him jerking off over Miss July. Desperately humiliating for both of you, I agree, but he didn’t exactly plan it.”

“I know. I know. That’s not the issue anymore.” She went silent for a minute. Finally she took a deep breath. “When I was getting ready to come to your place that night, I couldn’t find a suitcase. Finally I saw one on top of the wardrobe. I pulled it down and opened it.” She paused. “It was revolting, Becks, utterly revolting.”

“What was?”

“I found this . . . this mask thing. Black leather. Covered in studs. I think Ed’s into autoasphyxiation—you know when men starve themselves of oxygen in order to heighten their orgasm.”

“Blimey,” Rebecca said. She asked her if she had it.

“You must be joking. I could hardly bear to touch it. I left it where it was and found another case. You know, I’m starting to think maybe Ed’s willy-nilly isn’t my fault after all. I mean, perhaps I don’t really know him and all these years I’ve been married to some sick weirdo who’s into all sorts of repulsive stuff. Either that or he’s gay.”

A single tear streaked Jess’s face. Rebecca gave her another hug and gently wiped it away.

“You know,” Lipstick tutted, “you’ve got some right old cuticle buildup here. When was the last time you had a manicure?”

Jess took another sip of wine (since she was breast-feeding, she was limiting herself to one glass, which she did her best to make last all evening).

“Never had one,” she said.

Lipstick brought a bowl of warm water onto the sofa arm and placed Jess’s hand in it. “What?” she said. “Don’t you even file your nails?”

“Nah, I just bite them off and throw them away.”

The two of them roared. Then Lipstick suggested they put on another of the videos she’d brought with her. So far they’d been subjected to
Erin Brockovich
(“my all-time heroine after Gloria Gaynor”), Harrison’s christening and the “where-are-they-now?” documentary about the children from
The Sound of Music.
“Maybe a bit later,” Rebecca heard Jess say. She suspected Jess was starting to get just the teensiest bit fed up with Lipstick’s videos.

Rebecca hadn’t expected Jess and Lipstick to hit it off. Although she’d deny it with her dying breath, Jess could be a snob when she chose. (Rebecca had lost count of how many times she’d heard her refer to Andrew and Fergie as the Argos Royals.) Now that they were mates, she couldn’t have been more pleased, especially since Lipstick was happy to spend hours entertaining Diggory and having endless heavy conversations about Ed, which took some of the pressure off Rebecca.

The only thing getting her down was the clutter and mess everywhere.

Even though they’d moved Harrison’s treadmill into the hall, the living room still contained (chintz notwithstanding) Lipstick’s tanning bed, Diggory’s travel cot (in which he was now tucked up and sleeping soundly), a camp bed and half of the Brent Cross Early Learning Centre.

Then there was all Jess’s feeding detritus lying around: the breast pads, the breast pump, the smelly muslins.

She didn’t have the heart to say anything to Jess because she didn’t want to upset her. Instead, she did her best to keep on top of the mess, but it was a losing battle. Lipstick tried to do her bit, but it didn’t amount to much since she was leaving for the Talon Salon at the crack of dawn and wasn’t getting back until well after seven.

“I’ve got this special twofer deal going,” she explained. “Clients come in for a manicure and I throw in a special doggy claw trim and paint job. The phone just hasn’t stopped ringing.”

On top of all this, Rebecca was pining for Max. Although they were speaking on the phone every night, she hadn’t seen him for days—not even at work, since he wasn’t due back until next week. He kept asking her to come round after work, but even though Lipstick was on hand, she felt bad about leaving Jess. Ed was phoning her several times a day, desperate to talk, but she was steadfastly refusing to take his calls, maintaining she was still too angry.

So desperate was he to make contact that late one night he’d stood for half an hour in icy, teeming rain, shouting up to her and begging her to let him explain. In the end Rebecca had taken pity on him and had gone downstairs in her dressing gown carrying two mugs of cocoa, and she and a soggy, pathetic-looking Ed had sat on the floor in the lobby having this awkward conversation about the wanking episode.

He explained he’d been feeling miserable because Jess wasn’t there when he got home and he assumed she’d decided they weren’t going to celebrate his birthday. That day he’d also been out and bought a whole load of porn mags.

“I . . . you know, thought they might help with my problem.”

Rebecca gave him a sympathetic nod.

“Then the bloke in the shop brought out the doll. Everybody knows those things are a joke, but he said the plastic really turns some men on. So I thought I’d give it a go. I got home, saw there was nobody about and the rest you know.”

“So did you? . . . I mean were you able . . . ?”

“Not a dickybird.” He smiled a weak smile.

“Ed? You’re not . . . I mean, has it occurred to you that maybe you might possibly be . . . you see, Jess thinks . . .”

“I’m gay?”

She colored up and gave a weak nod.

“Well, I’m not.”

“Brilliant,” she said, giving a nervous laugh. Then quickly: “Not that it would have mattered a hoot to me if you had been gay. Or to Jess, for that matter. Well, of course it would have mattered to her initially, ’cause it would have meant the two of you splitting up, but I’m sure she’d have come round eventually.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“And . . .” Rebecca cleared her throat and coughed. “. . . the, er . . . the mask thingummy Jess found. What should I say that was?”

“Mask thingumy?”

“Um. Bit pervy, she said. Found it in a suitcase.”

“Pervy? Becks, I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about. All I bought was the doll. I swear I don’t own anything remotely masklike.”

She was pretty sure he wasn’t lying, but she decided not to push it. This was something Jess was going to have to sort out with him herself.

She put her arm round him and said that at least nobody had gone to
Private Eye
with the story.

“Thank God,” he said. “I’d have survived, but being an agony aunt and all that, it wouldn’t have done Jess’s career much good.”

Once they’d finished their cocoa, he made her promise to tell Jess why he’d bought the doll and the porn and even then he hadn’t been able to get it up. He also wanted her to know he was desperately sorry for hurting and humiliating her and that he loved her desperately and wanted her back.

But when Rebecca tried speaking to Jess, she said it was all crap and lies, although she chose to believe the bit about him not being gay.

“Of course he could get it up with the magazines. And he lied about the mask. Why? Because he’s scared shitless I’ll divorce him and he’ll never see the Digwig again.”

“I know,” Lipstick said, spraying Jess’s nails with Quick Dry, “why don’t I make us some more deep-fried Fritos?”

It was like talking to a brick wall, trying to explain to Lipstick that deep-frying a Frito was like waxing a candle. Having said that, they’d had them every night that week and everybody had to admit they tasted sublime.

“Oh, not more Fritos,” Jess moaned, “they must have a zillion calories in them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lipstick shot back, “it’s a waning moon.”

“Come again?” Rebecca said.

“OK, I’m reading this truly amazing book about living your life according to the lunar cycles and it says quite clearly that you can’t get fat on a waning moon.”

Rebecca shook her head in disbelief, but Jess—who had now allowed herself a couple of glasses of wine—declared that was good enough for her and commanded Lipstick to wheel on the Fritos.

“You know,” Jess said after Lipstick had disappeared into the kitchen, “I really like her. And have you seen how wonderful she is with the Digalig? Talk about a natural. She calms him down in an instant with that massage she does. And yesterday she did an entire science lesson with him.”

Rebecca made the point that Lipstick was showing him leaflets on laser hair removal. Jess said, so what were lasers if they weren’t science—Golden Grahams? Then she changed the subject and asked Rebecca if she’d gotten her interview with Coco Dubonnet yet. Rebecca sat up, switched off the
Seinfeld
vid and explained.

“But there must be some way of getting in there,” Jess said.

“Where?” Lipstick asked, coming back into the room. She put the bowl of Fritos and saucer of mayonnaise down on the floor.

Rebecca picked up a Frito and dipped it in the mayo. “Oh, it’s just some story I’m working on.”

“What sort of story?”

Rebecca couldn’t really be bothered to tell it all over again, but decided it would be rude not to, since Lipstick had taken an interest. She took another handful and started to tell her about the Mer de Rêves party, Wendy and the wrinkle cream and how she’d gotten the sack.

“Come on, there has to be some mistake,” Lipstick said. “MdR products are wonderful. They don’t come any better. I’ve used them on clients for years. Why would such a successful company put its reputation at risk like this?”

“Greed,” Rebecca said simply. “This new cream could be worth billions to them.”

Lipstick sat shaking her head. She was clearly finding Rebecca’s revelations hard to take in.

“What I need to do is get into the Mer de Rêves Paris office and steal a sample of the cream for analysis.”

“God,” Lipstick said, munching, “how you gonna do that?”

“Dunno.” Rebecca shrugged. “I’m still working on it.”

“Just shows you can’t trust anybody in this world,” Lipstick said. “Maybe I should give up my prize money.”

“What prize money?” Jess asked.

“My MdR prize money. I sold two hundred and fifty Mer de Rêves facials this year, more than anybody else in the country. They’ve just named the Face Place and Talon Salon their South East Region Outlet of the Year. I was due to go to Paris in a couple of weeks to pick up my five-hundred-pound prize money. I’m not sure I’ll bother now.”

Rebecca leaned forward on the sofa. “Hang on. Hang on,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to Paris? To the MdR office?”

Lipstick nodded. Rebecca and Jess watched as with painful slowness, the penny dropped inside Lipstick’s head.

“Oooh, ooh, wait. Don’t say anything. I’ve got it. I’ve got it.” She was virtually bog-eyed with excitement. “That’s it, I’ll go and steal the cream for you.”

“That’s a thought,” Rebecca said diplomatically. “On the other hand, maybe we could both go.”

“Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll phone the organizers tomorrow and get you in as my assistant.”

“You really think you could do that?” Rebecca said.

“Don’t see why not.”

“Blimey, that would be brilliant. I don’t know what to say.” She suddenly felt guilty for all those harsh, uncharitable thoughts she’d had about Lipstick.

Lipstick waved her hand in front of her as if to say, “Don’t be daft. You don’t need to say anything.”

“Omigod,” she squealed, “this is the most exciting thing I have ever done in my life. Just the thought of all that sleuthing and skulking around brings me out in goose bumps. It’s just so Erin Brockovich. Did I ever tell you, she’s my number one heroine after Gloria Gaynor? Come to think of it, I’ve got a micro mini and low-cut top, just like the one she wore in the film. . . .”

While Rebecca sat wondering what she’d just let herself in for, Jess leaned across and switched on the TV. “
Watching Me, Watching You
is on. They’re doing celebs this series. Should be a laugh.” She turned up the volume. “God,” she said, “that’s Lucretia Coffin Mott, isn’t it?”

It was. She and the other celebrity contestants were being issued their daily challenges. Lucretia’s was to clean out the chickens.

“Er, sorry, people,” she said haughtily. “La Coffin Mott does not do chickens.”