Apocalipstick (4 page)

She was easing her way through the crowd when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned. It was Guy Debonnaire, whom she knew from her days on the Sunday
Tribune
“Zeitgeist” section. He was one of those men who gloried in being referred to as a “straight gay,” because it had been fashionable for a while in the nineties to fop around like one of Louis XIV’s wig bearers while secretly being totally straight—which Guy most definitely was, since he had been trying to get inside her knickers for years. Moreover, Guy was a drunken bore. Totally off his face now, he stood swaying in front of her.

“Ah, the sublime, refined and utterly divine Ms. Fine,” he proclaimed, saluting her so majestically with his kir royale that he spilled most of it down his maroon Thai silk suit.

Rebecca rolled her eyes.

“Oh, come on, Becks, don’t be like that,” he slurred, doing his best to steady himself. “Do you know underneath these clothes I’m completely naked?”

“No, but if you hum it, I’ll sing along.”

He gave her a wounded look. “Please, Becks. Please come out with me. We could go and see a film.”

“Sorry, I’ve seen it.”

“Oh, right. Shame. I like films, though. Don’t you? Especially film noir. Have you ever thought, though, how odd it is that the Elephant Man never did anything else?”

“Guy,” she said wearily, “you’re slaughtered. Go home.”

As she squeezed past him, he lunged at her. Being so pissed, his aim was less than perfect and his mouth ended up connecting with her left ear. As she heaved him off, he lost his balance for a moment or two and spilled even more kir royale. Having regained it (his balance, not the kir royale), he winked, made two loud tongue clicking sounds and staggered off.

As she stood wiping Guy’s slobber out of her ear with a tissue, she looked across to where the woman had been standing, but she’d vanished.

Rebecca had planned to take a taxi home and charge it to the
Vanguard,
but by the time she left, it was snowing, and there wasn’t a yellow light to be seen.

Although it was late, the pavements were still pretty crowded. Even so, Rebecca couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Every few yards, she would stop and look to see if the woman was following her, but there was never any sign of her among the scores of bent-over pedestrians battling against the driving snow. She checked again as she stood on the platform and once more in the train carriage. Nothing. By the time she got back to her flat just after half past eleven, she’d dismissed the woman as a harmless weirdo and pretty much put her out of her mind.

She took off her coat, breathed heavily onto her red, frozen hands and flicked the switch on her answer machine.

“Hi, Becks, it’s Dad. Listen, I know it’s short notice, but could we meet for a bit of lunch tomorrow? I’ve got some great news. I’m on my way out now. Phone me first thing.”

Under normal circumstances she would have stayed awake for hours, wondering what on earth her father’s surprise could be, but because she’d gone to bed so late the day before, she drifted off almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

The next she knew it was half past seven. She decided to wait until eight to call him. Maybe at long last he’d found himself a girlfriend, she thought as she stood soaping herself in the shower. But she knew full well the idea was ridiculous.

In the ten years since her mother, Judy, had died, Stan hadn’t shown even the remotest interest in dating. Naturally Grandma Rose had done all she could to remedy the situation. She would invite her son over for Friday night dinner and arrange it so that one of her friends’ divorced-and-desperate daughters would turn up unexpectedly. Over the years, a string of women had presented themselves at Rose’s on a Friday night—all of whom, according to Rose, “just happened to be passing.” Even the ones who lived in Birmingham and Leeds.

Rose had also posted Stan’s personal profile on the
Lonely Jews
Web site and signed him up to countless dating agencies without telling him. Each time he found out he was furious, but when she finally resorted to employing Minnie Mann, an octogenarian matchmaker from Stamford Hill who turned up at his house unannounced carrying a rolled umbrella, a Gladstone bag and an album full of photographs of ultra Orthodox widows in wigs, he didn’t speak to his mother for a month.

Stan always said that his twenty-five years with Judy had been the happiest of his life. When she was killed in a car crash, his world fell apart. Afterward he simply threw himself into his business. Stan owned a chain of lingerie shops called Lacy Lady. He and Judy had set up the first one in the seventies. Today there were twelve. While his female staff and managers served the customers, he took care of the business side. Lately, though, Rebecca had noticed him coming out of himself a bit more. He had joined the gym and a book club.

“But, you know,” he often said to Rebecca as they took one of their Sunday morning strolls, her arm through his, “that feeling of loss never goes away. You just learn to live alongside it.”

Of course, he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

“So, Dad, come on, what’s the deal?” she asked excitedly the moment he picked up the phone. “I know, you’re floating Lacy Lady on the stock market?”

He chuckled. “I wish. No, it’s nothing like that.”

“OK, you’re in the England squad for the World Cup?”

“That goes without saying. I’ll tell you the real news over lunch.”

They arranged to meet at Zilli’s in Soho at one.

She stepped out of the lift—carrying a cappuccino from the place over the road—just as Max Stoddart was about to get in. He was wearing chinos and a lightish blue open-neck shirt. He’d clearly adopted the
Vanguard
dress code.

“Hi, how are you?” he said.

She smiled, told him she was fine and asked if the police had found his car yet. He shook his head.

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll turn up,” she said.

“Hope so. Bit of a day yesterday,” he went on. “If getting my car pinched wasn’t enough, I was up to my eyes finalizing arrangements for this big night I had on.”

“Yes, I know all about it,” she said.

“You do?”

She told him about the switchboard mix-up and the women being put through to her by mistake.

“Oh, God. Once again, I can only apologize.”

“I’ve had a word with the switchboard,” she said, “but I’d really appreciate it if you could, too—just to make sure they know your extension. It did get pretty irritating after a while.”

“I can imagine. I really am sorry.”

“Not to worry,” she said, giving him another smile. Despite her protestations to Jess yesterday, she suddenly realized how unspeakably fanciable he looked. She was suddenly imagining him tonguing her in the fashion cupboard.

“Anyway,” she said, finally coming back to earth, “I must get back to work. Got a column to write.”

“Mind if I walk with you?” he said. “I was going that way.”

“But I thought you were about to get into the lift.”

He shrugged. “I can take the fire escape stairs just as easily.”

“Look,” he said when they reached her desk, “I don’t suppose you’d let me take you out to dinner to make up for being so rude to you yesterday?”

“Oh, that’s kind of you, but there’s really no need. And judging by all those calls, your social life seems pretty packed right now.”

He reached across her desk, picked up a pair of the windup sushi and began winding.

“Not really. I mean I had my parents’ do last night, but I’ve got nothing on for the rest of the week.”

“Parents’ do?” she said.

“Yes, it was their ruby wedding. It was my sisters you spoke to on the phone yesterday. I assumed they’d explained.”

“Sisters?” She cleared her throat. “Er, no. They didn’t say anything.”

“I’ve got four. All older than me and exceedingly bossy. They put me in charge of the booze, the music and the fireworks. For the last couple of days they’ve been on the phone constantly, checking up to see I had everything under control. Lord knows why they didn’t just do it themselves.”

So, he had a party last night. That would explain the posh suit.

“Oh, so the fireworks were real?” she said.

He gave her a puzzled look. “Yes. What did you think they were?”

“Oh, no, nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

“Anyway, you have to believe me when I say the calls that came through to you were a mere fraction of the number I got.” He paused. “So, will you have dinner with me? Please?”

“I’d like that,” she said.

Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack
marched the sushi across her desk.

When she arrived at Zilli’s, Stan was already there, sitting at a table by the window. The first thing that struck her was his hair. Usually the first thing she noticed about him was the lacy bra or knickers sample sticking out of his jacket pocket (she’d lost count of the times he’d had to explain to people—waiters, her teachers on school open nights, rabbis—that he worked in ladies’ underwear). Today there was no lingerie, just the hair. A week ago it had been gray, now it was a dark, bottled reddish brown. He’d also brushed it forward so that there was a strange kind of early Beatles fringe thing going on. The effect was made particularly hideous by the yarmulke-shaped bald patch he had, right in the middle of his head. The upshot was he didn’t look so much John Lennon as Little John.

The moment he saw her he stood up and held out his arms to greet her.

“Wow, Dad,” she said, giving him a kiss and a hug, “great hair.”

“You mean that? I just thought it was time for a new look. You don’t think it’s too much for a man of my age?”

“No, I love it. It really suits you.”

The waiter came over to take their drink order. Stan ordered a bottle of champagne “because this is a celebration,” but it was as much as she could do to stop herself from saying, “Oh, and innkeeper, my father will also have a tankard of your best mead.”

“And what do you think of the slacks?” he said, half standing again. She hadn’t noticed until now. He was wearing cargo pants. With a tweed sports jacket. And shoes with Velcro fasteners. “Personally I prefer something with an elasticized waist, but I thought I’d give them a go. Apparently they’re very with-it.”

“Yeah, they’re great. Very now.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a paper bag. “Before I forget, I found this in the secondhand bookshop at the end of my road. Thought you might like it.”

Stan collected bizarre books with equally bizarre titles. He had over fifty. Her favorites were
A Study of Hospital Waiting Lists in Cardiff, 1953–1954; Who’s Who in Barbed Wire
and one from the 1930s called
Games You Can Play with Your Pussy.
Whenever she saw something she thought he would like, she bought it. This one was a Western from the fifties.

“
Tosser Hitches His Wagon,
” he guffawed. “Brilliant. I love it. But you shouldn’t.”

“Yes, I should,” she said, smiling. “So, Dad, come on, you’ve got me all excited. What’s the big surprise?”

He reached across the table, took her hand in his and squeezed it. “You know I love you, don’t you, sweetie?”

“Of course I do. And I love you, too.”

“And you know that nobody could ever replace your mother.”

Could this possibly be going where she hoped it was going?

“You’ve met somebody, haven’t you?”

He nodded. “Her name’s Bernadette,” he said, beaming. “We’re getting married.”

“Omigod!” she squealed, getting up to hug him. “I can’t believe it. After all these years, you’ve finally gone and done it. But you never said anything.”

“I—that is, Bernadette and me—we wanted to be certain.”

“Yeah, it’s a big step. I can understand that.” She went back to her seat. “So c’mon, dish,” she said, taking his hand again, “tell me everything about her. How did you meet? Where does she live? Does she work?”

Stan said they met at his book club, that she lived in Muswell Hill, just a few streets from Rebecca, and that she owned her own beauty salon.

“And what, she’s about your age?” Rebecca said, imagining a slim, beautifully preserved woman of about sixty.

“A bit younger.”

“What, fifties?”

He gave a little shrug.

“Forties?”

He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

“Dad,” she said, beginning to feel anxious now. “Exactly how old is Bernadette?”

He cleared his throat. “Thirty-two.”

“Ah.”

She leaned back in her chair and sat processing this information. “Omigod. I’m going to have a stepmother the same age as me.”

This could take some getting used to, she thought. But at least now she had an explanation for Stan’s new look.

“I know this has come as a bit of a shock,” he said, “but Bernadette and I just don’t think about the age thing. When you’re in love, a few years is neither here nor there.”

The waiter arrived with the champagne and began filling their glasses.

“But, Dad, it’s not just a few years,” she said when he’d gone. “It’s over thirty years. What do you have in common? What are you going to talk about? You remember rationing and Glenn Miller. Her idea of rationing is probably a Miller Lite.”

“I know, I know, but we just think stuff like that’s funny. We are just so happy. She makes me feel like a teenager again.”

She took a long, slow breath and looked into his watery brown eyes with their droopy lids. His face always reminded her of a King Charles spaniel. She could see how desperate he was for her approval. Despite her reservations, she at least had to pretend it was fine with her.

“Well, Dad,” she said, her face breaking into a smile, “if it’s what you really want and this Bernadette makes you happy, then I’m happy, too.”

Stan patted the back of her hand. “You don’t know how much I was hoping you’d say that. By the way, don’t say anything to your grandmother. I haven’t mentioned any of this to her yet. Apart from the age thing, Bernadette’s not Jewish. She’s Catholic.”

“No kidding.”

“Might take your gran a while to come round.”

Rebecca nodded. Then they clinked glasses and toasted the future.