Apocalipstick (22 page)

“So what was it about? Why were you so horrible to me?”

Lipstick shrugged. “Jealousy, I suppose. You were clever. I wasn’t and I couldn’t stand it. My dad used to say my mum could study for a blood test and fail. I suppose I inherited my brains from her.”

“But you’re not stupid. Look how you’ve built up the Talon Salon.”

“Oh, come on, I was. I never understood anything. I remember I had these total blank spots. Like Roman numerals. You weren’t in my history group. You never saw me make a fool of myself the day I started going on about Britain fighting in World War Eleven. You know, I’m still haunted sometimes by the sound of those kids laughing at me.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Do you remember the night of the fifth-year prom when you called me Spot and said you had no idea why I’d come because nobody would dance with me? People pissed themselves laughing.”

“I know. God, you must still hate me.”

“Don’t be daft. How can you possibly think I still hate you?” Rebecca took her hand.

“I know I shouldn’t have taken out my feelings of inadequacy on you,” Lipstick said, “but you and your gang were pretty up yourselves, you know—putting on that Waiting for Whatnot thing in the lunch hour.”

“Oh, blimey, Godot,” Rebecca said. “Did we really do that?”

Lipstick smiled and nodded. “But it was no excuse for the way I behaved. I was a total cow. Forgive me?”

“Of course I forgive you. . . .You know I’m so glad you’re marrying my dad. When I first found out, I thought you’d take him away from me, but I know now that’s never going to happen.”

“Oh, Becks, I wouldn’t do that. Not ever.”

“I still think it would feel pretty weird if you and Dad had a baby, though.”

“Well, that could be a long way off,” Lipstick said. “He still hasn’t found out if his vasectomy reversal worked. But you know, sometimes when we’re cuddling up on the sofa we can’t resist thinking up baby names.”

“Really? Come on, what’s on the list?”

“We thought maybe Madonna Enya Lourdes if it’s a girl and Declan Eamon Fergal if it’s a boy. What do you think? I mean, they’re not very Jewish-sounding, are they?”

“Not very, no,” Rebecca said.

“The thing is,” Lipstick went on, “I’m a bit worried about how Rose will react.”

Rebecca said that assuming Rose’s newfound religious tolerance continued, she was sure she would be fine with the names.

She thought it best not to mention that once Rose discovered a grandchild of hers was to be given not just one, but a string of Catholic names, she would revert to her former self quicker than you could say circumcision brunch.

Nor did she say that she could see it all now: the two women in the hospital together—Lipstick recovering from having a little Madonna or Declan and Rose recovering from having a little heart attack.

17

S
o, you heard
anything from Max Factor?” Jess said, coming back into the kitchen. She’d been to check on Diggory, who was sitting in his car seat in Rebecca’s living room. He was listening to the CD of eighteenth-century organ music his mother had brought with her, and which sounded to Rebecca like it had been composed by Morticia Addams.

“He’s phoned two or three times,” Rebecca said, pouring coffee into Jess’s mug. “But when I see his number come up on the caller display, I ignore it. Plus, I’ve switched off the answer machine.”

“You’re going to have to face him eventually,” Jess said.

“I know. I forced myself to go into the office for a few hours this morning—all dolled up, like I planned, to show him I didn’t give a damn. But he wasn’t there. Snow—you know Lucretia’s gofer from
Watching You, Watching Me—
is back on the news desk and said he’s viewing film rushes all this week.”

“You know what would make you feel better?” Jess said, a smile creeping over her face.

“What?”

“To have Max see you out with another bloke. Talk about getting your own back.”

Rebecca laughed and made the point that as an agony aunt, Jess was meant to tell her to take up a fulfilling hobby and get on with her life, not behave like a jilted sixteen-year-old.

“I know,” Jess said, “but it could be fun. Childish, but fun.”

She suggested hiring an escort to come and pick Rebecca up from the office after work one evening. Rebecca said they cost a fortune and she couldn’t afford it because she’d just replaced her broken mobile with a brand-new one with a personal organizer and Internet access.

“Blimey, what on earth do you want all that for?”

Rebecca said she didn’t and that she had no idea how to make it do anything more complicated than dial out. She hadn’t even worked out how to access her messages. It was just that the cute, twenty-something sales guy in Carphone Warehouse had spent twenty minutes flirting with her. This having gone some way at least to reaffirming her desirability as a woman, even though she knew perfectly well it was only a ploy to make a sale—she hadn’t been able to say no to the phone.

“Plus, it’s such a waste,” Rebecca said regarding the escort suggestion, “if you don’t have sex with them.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jess said. “He could have sex with me.” She laughed, but Rebecca could tell she was only half joking.

“So, Ed still not getting it up?”

Jess shook her head. “I even gave him this brilliant hand job the other night, you know, with loads of oil—nothing. In the end we both got so bored I started doing my Cartman impression.”

She sipped some coffee. “Anyway,” she went on, “he finally went to the doctor. He did some blood tests. We’re still waiting for the results, but he thinks there’s probably nothing wrong with him physically. In the meantime, he’s seeing a hypnotherapist. She thinks the willy-nilly might be due to some kind of sexual rejection from when he was young—most likely in adolescence. God knows why it’s coming out now. Plus, he didn’t start sleeping with women until he was twenty. I’m like, who rejected you before then? Your hand?”

Just then the phone rang. Rebecca looked at the caller display, saw it wasn’t Max and picked up.

“You can?” Rebecca said, her face beaming. “That’s brilliant. I’ll be there in an hour or so.” Rebecca explained she’d located an analytical chemist in Epsom and asked them to take a look at the cream. “When I rang this morning, the girl at the desk said they were really busy and she wasn’t sure if they could fit it in. Turns out they can, so I need to get over there right away.”

An hour and a half later she was pulling up outside the lab, a single-story concrete building on an industrial estate. She wasn’t in there more than a minute. She simply handed over the cream to a white-coated receptionist, signed an order form and that was it.

Although she’d found the lab easily enough, doing the journey in reverse was much more difficult. This was partly due to there being virtually no signposts and partly because she hadn’t eaten and was starting to lose concentration. The upshot was, she managed to get spectacularly lost. She started rummaging in the door compartment—among the Biros, sticky, hairy tampons and maps of Belgium—for a toffee or a couple of squares of stale chocolate. Nothing. Then she spotted the banana lying on the dashboard. She hadn’t had time for breakfast this morning and had grabbed a banana on her way out. In the end she hadn’t fancied it, as it was speckled and brown and had seen better days. She reached over and undid the skin with her teeth. She’d only taken one bite of it and grimaced at how stale and manky it tasted when her mobile rang. Muttering to herself, she put the banana down on the passenger seat and picked up the phone.

“Oh hi, Gran,” she said. “How are you?” She shoved the mobile between her shoulder and chin and put the banana down on the passenger seat.

“I’m on this diet Estelle recommended. She reckons losing a few pounds might help bring my blood pressure down. The thing is with it, there’s not enough to eat. So, I’ve decided to go on another one at the same time. Anyway, I was just phoning to say how much I enjoyed the bouillabaisse. It was wonderful and I’ve still got loads left.”

“But it’s full of fat, you know, Gran.” Rebecca said, spotting a rest area and deciding to pull in to look for her map book. “You should do some exercise to work it off.”

“Exercise, schmexercise. So, I’ll eat briskly.”

Rebecca slowed down and pulled into the rest area.

“Look, sweetie,” Rose went on. “I’ve been trying to think of some way to help you get over Max.”

“Gran, that’s really kind of you, but I don’t need any help. Honest.”

“I hate the idea of you sitting and moping. You know I heard Warren, the nice town planner chap, has finished with that model he was seeing. She ditched him for some actor. Maybe you should give him a call. Or, better still, I could.”

Rebecca let out a yelp of panic. “No! No, Gran. Please. Promise you won’t do that.”

“But you need cheering up.”

“I’m cheered. Really, I’m perfectly cheered. Never felt cheerier.”

“But you need to get out and meet new people.”

“I am. I’m out all the time. I’m never in. Try me any night on my home phone. You’ll never catch me. That’s because I’m out being extremely cheery with men. Lots of men. Hundreds of them. All the time.”

“Well, if you’re sure you’re all right.”

“I’m sure. Couldn’t be surer.”

“OK, sweetheart. Love you. ’Bye.”

“Yeah, love you too. ’Bye, Gran.”

Rebecca threw back her head, put the phone down on the seat next to her and let out a loud sigh. Noticing a litter bin, she unwound the window, leaned out and lobbed in the banana. Then she searched the glove compartment and under the seats for her map book. Eventually she remembered Lipstick had it. She’d borrowed it when she drove to Manchester to see Stan.

She’d been back on the road for less than a minute when she looked in her rearview mirror and noticed a dark Mercedes with blacked-out windows directly behind her. She vaguely wondered who might be in it and decided it was a toss-up between Iraqi secret agents and some naff D-list celeb. She thought no more about it until she’d been twice round the same roundabout, trying to decide which exit to take, and noticed it was still there. It struck her as a bit odd, but she assumed the driver must be lost too and carried on. When the car was still with her a mile down the road, she started to feel distinctly uneasy and it occurred to her that she was being followed. But it was ridiculous. Why would anybody want to follow her?

After another few hundred yards, she noticed her petrol gauge was registering low. There was a garage up ahead. She decided to pull in and fill up. As she slowed down, the Mercedes slowed down behind her. When she indicated left, it did the same. By now she was feeling really scared. She pulled in. So did it. Suddenly she realized what was happening.

“Omigod. It’s the Mer de Rêves people. They’ve already threatened Wendy; now they’re on to me.”

Instead of stopping at one of the pumps, she sped through the forecourt. As she waited at the exit for a break in the traffic, the Mercedes was behind her. She put her foot down on the accelerator and pulled out into a woefully inadequate gap in the traffic. There was a screech of brakes and a bloke in a Mondeo started hooting and waving at her. Ignoring him, she pulled into the outside lane and kept her foot down. She looked in her mirror. Shit, the Merc was still on her tail. By now her heart was galloping and she was beginning to shake.

“God. What do I do? They’re going to kill me.”

As she swerved in and out of traffic, doing her best to lose the Mercedes, cars were hooting and flashing all over the place. No matter how fast she went, the Mercedes stayed with her, feet from her rear bumper. She decided she had two choices: she could drive on until her car ran out of petrol, after which she would no doubt be dragged from it and bundled into the Merc by a couple of sawed-off-shotgun-wielding hoodlums. They would drive her, gagged and blindfolded, to a breaker’s yard in Essex, where they would throw her into a car crusher and she would end up as a small cube. On the other hand, she could pull over now, sit with her hazards and horn going and phone the police on her mobile. She decided to pull over. Cutting off a Fiesta on the inside lane, she slowed the car onto the side of the road and began leaning on her horn. In her panic and confusion she couldn’t find the hazard light switch and ended up with her heated rear window and windscreen wipers going.

She watched the Mercedes pull up and a guy get out—six foot six, black suit, dark glasses, gold hoops in both ears. Adrenaline surging through her, she ran her hand over the seat looking for her phone. Where the fuck was her phone? Where was it? The guy’s face was peering in through the window. Shit, she was dead. She was so dead. He motioned for her to unwind it. Yeah, right, like she was about to open the window so that he could blow off her face. He tapped on the glass.

“Miss?”

She ignored him and carried on honking.

“Miss, please.”

If he was a hired hit man, he was an exceedingly polite one. Another tap. She hesitated, then opened the window half an inch.

“Wow, I thought I’d never catch you,” he said, smiling. “That was some driving back there.”

She swallowed. Behind her, her hand was still scrabbling frantically over the passenger seat, looking for her phone.

“Miss, is this what you’re looking for?”

He held up her phone.

She unwound the window fully.

“Where did you get that?”

“I saw you at the rest area. I was standing a few feet away and saw you drop it into the litter bin by accident. Well, I assume it was an accident. I can’t imagine anybody throwing away a brand-new Ericsson T39 with built-in organizer and Internet access.”

She turned and saw the manky banana lying on the seat in a brown speckled smile.

A few hours later, she was sitting in a bar in Soho telling the story to Jess, Lipstick and Lipstick’s cousin Donal from Ireland.

“Anyway, after I’d apologized to the driver and explained how I’d got so cross with my gran that subconsciously I’d probably chucked the phone away on purpose, we got chatting and it turns out he works for a posh limo company and he’s got some celebs in the back of the car.”

“God,” Jess said. “So, you’re thinking is it Madonna and Guy? Michael and Catherine?”

“Eddie,” Lipstick piped up.

“Eddie?” the rest of them said as one.

“You know, the dog. From
Frasier.
”

“So, come on,” Donal said when everybody had stopped laughing. “Who was it?”

Rebecca giggled. “Four of the children from
The Sound of Music,
” she said.

They all laughed, apart from Lipstick, who sat looking offended. Rebecca had forgotten it was one of her favorite films and that she’d been four times to
Singalong—Sound of Music.

“How can you not like it?” she said. “It’s got everything—love, adventure, politics, comedy, music . . .”

“. . . all those ridiculous song lyrics,” Donal said.

A second later he and Jess had linked arms and were singing “adieu, adieu to yieu and yieu and yieu” at the tops of their lungs.

Looking defeated, Lipstick got up to buy another round of drinks. Jess went with her to help her carry the glasses.

“So, Donal,” Rebecca said, “whereabouts in Ireland are you from?” He was thirty-six, intelligent, witty, good-looking, she supposed. Not that she fancied him. She couldn’t work out why, but there was something distinctly asexual about him. She was sure he wasn’t gay. Try as she might, she couldn’t work him out. In the end she’d put it down to his fringe—a complete turnoff as far as she was concerned in any male over the age of thirteen.

He told her he lived in Skibbereen, a small town south of Cork.

“And what do you do in Skibbereen?”

“Well, actually, I’m . . .”

But she wasn’t listening. Out of her peripheral vision, she’d seen Max coming down the stairs into the bar. Of course, she thought, they were in Soho. Max was viewing his film rushes all this week at Channel 6. The office was a couple of blocks down the road. He was probably meeting up with Bloody Lorna.

Suddenly she could hear Jess’s words echoing in her head about having Max see her with another bloke. Talk about getting your own back. He was getting closer. He was going to spot her any moment now.

She looked at Donal and cleared her throat. “Er, Donal, look, I know we hardly know each other, but do you think you could do me a huge favor?”

“If I can.”

“OK—would you please kiss me?”

“Kiss you?” He looked distinctly uneasy. “Why?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, it’s not really something I feel very comfor—”

But before he had a chance to finish, she’d clamped her hand onto the back of his neck and was pulling his head toward hers. A moment later they had locked lips. She could feel his entire body going rigid. Then he started to struggle. By now, both her arms were round his neck. When she finally let him go, his face was crimson and he was gasping for breath. She glanced up to see Max retreating toward the stairs.