Apocalipstick (9 page)

Max began again. This time Jake joined in, between giggles.

Rebecca shot Beth a quizzical look.

“Sometimes Max takes him to the park on a Sunday morning so that his dad and I can have a lie-in. A few months ago they saw a huge flock of geese. Max invented this daft ritual and it just stuck.”

By now Max and Jake were in stitches. Rebecca couldn’t help registering that Max seemed to be a bit of a natural with kids.

Max turned to Beth and said he’d take Jake into the living room to look for his blankey.

“Always had a bit of a weird sense of humor, my brother,” Beth went on. “You should hear his mad voice mail message at the office. He’s only got some sexy woman telling callers they’ve reached the Big Max Hot Line. I keep meaning to speak to him about it. God only knows what people must think.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Rebecca shot back. “He got rid of it. He was just messing about and forgot to erase it. I don’t think too many people heard it.”

“Well, thank the Lord for that. I was beginning to think he’d completely flipped. So, Rebecca, how long have you been at the
Vanguard
?”

They’d been chatting for a couple of minutes when Max appeared carrying Jake, who was clutching an ancient and rather grubby-looking blue cot blanket.

“Mission accomplished,” Max announced. “It was under the sofa.”

Beth took Jake from him. “Come on, Vergil, let’s get back into Thunderbird 2 and leave these people to their dinner. Sorry again for intruding.”

She turned to Rebecca and waved.

“Nice to meet you,” she said.

“You too.”

“She doesn’t seem even remotely bossy,” Rebecca said to Max after Beth and Jake had gone.

“On her best behavior, because you were here.” Max grinned. “Plus Beth has never been quite as scary as the other three.”

He topped off her wineglass. Then he turned to look at the oven timer.

“Right, I think we’re almost ready to eat. Why don’t you take the salad next door and I’ll be with you in a sec.” He bent down to open the oven. She was desperate to find out what was inside, but she thought it would be rude to hover.

The large living room was similar to hers before she decorated. It had yellow anaglyphic walls, faded green velvet curtains on a mahogany pole and a gas fire with a seventies teak surround. She assumed the black ash wall unit, matching table and gold Dralon sofa were his. Her heart sank. She’d assumed by the way he dressed he would have good taste in furniture. She was clearly wrong.

As she put the salad bowl on the table, she noticed a brown envelope. The bird motif caught her eye and she picked it up. Across the top it said Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. Inside there was a newsletter and a glossy brochure advertising Twitcher Weekends in the Chilterns . . . “to include nightly lectures from the award-winning thrush expert Dr. Finn McGwerter.” She put the brochure back and dropped heavily onto one of the black ash chairs. She would just eat and make her excuses.

“Chili con Quorni,” he announced, putting the serving dish down on the table.

“Oh, wow,” she said, hoping she sounded sufficiently enthusiastic. “Smells great.”

He disappeared and came back with the wine bottle and their glasses. “Mind the table. It’s a bit wobbly. I bought all the furniture along with the flat. I’d lived in a furnished place before, so I’ve got nothing of my own apart from a bed, CD player and TV.”

“Oh, so none of this is yours?”

“What? Good God, no.”

Her spirits lifted, but only slightly.

“Oh, there’s something I want your advice on,” he said, spooning chili onto her plate. “You know my sisters and I had this anniversary party for my parents?”

She nodded.

“Well, we haven’t gotten them a present yet. Mum and Dad both love the countryside and wildlife, so I thought about sending them on a bird-watching holiday. What do you reckon?”

Her eyes shot to the envelope. “Oh, right.” She started giggling. “For your parents?”

He gave her a bemused frown. “Yes.”

“Fabulous. Wonderful. I can’t think of anything more perfect.”

“Great,” he said, “I was hoping you’d say that. . . .So, Rebecca, how long have you been vegetarian?”

She didn’t say anything for a second. “Me, a vegetarian?”

“Yes. Yesterday, on the way home when we stopped at Burger King, you ordered a veggie burger. I just assumed . . .”

She burst out laughing, only just avoiding spraying him in chili. “The only reason I eat veggie burgers is because they aren’t quite as fatty as the meat ones. Bit lower on the old cholesterol. But I adore meat.”

He looked at her, clearly relieved. “God, you had me really worried last night. I thought you were going to turn out to be terribly self-righteous and fart a lot.”

She made a mental note not to tell him about the effect Brussels sprouts had on her.

They started eating.

“God, this is crap,” he said after a mouthful.

“No, it’s lovely,” she lied. “Quorn’s got a really interesting texture.”

“Yeah, right, so’s barbed wire,” he said, picking up her plate. “How’s about I order in a curry absolutely stuffed with dead animal?”

It may have been the Fleurie, or Frank Sinatra playing on the CD player, but before she knew it, she was telling him about having lost her mum and how much she missed her. She hadn’t cried over Judy in ages, but now tears came rolling down her cheeks. He took her hand and squeezed it.

“What happened?”

“Car crash. Drunk driver shot through a red light and plowed straight into her.”

She took another sip of wine.

“So,” she said, anxious to lighten the mood, “tell me a bit about you.”

He told her his father had been in the RAF and that he’d been sent away to boarding school at eight.

“Rough,” she said.

He shrugged. “It was the same for all the forces kids. You got used to it.”

“So I guess the military background and boarding school would explain your obsessively tidy desk.”

He reddened.

“So, was he pretty senior, your dad?”

“Air vice marshal—retired a couple of years ago.”

Blimey. He was even posher than she thought. She’d never been out with anybody really posh before. Except Jess.

They’d almost finished eating when Rebecca noticed a pile of videos next to the TV. “My God,” she said, reading the felt-tipped labels, “you like
Seinfeld,
too.”

“Love it. I don’t think there’s a show I haven’t got on tape. I’ve gotten to the stage where I can recite whole chunks off by heart.”

“I know. I’m the same. So, come on, which is your favorite episode?”

“‘The Baby Shower,’” he said.

“That’s one of my favorites, too.”

“I love that bit where Elaine and Jerry are talking and she says her friend has Lyme disease in addition to Epstein-Barr syndrome.”

“Yeah, she goes: ‘It’s like Epstein-Barr . . .’”

“‘. . . with a twist of Lyme disease,’” Max joined in, bursting out laughing. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

“Isn’t it?” Rebecca said. Only she wasn’t simply referring to Jerry Seinfeld.

After dinner they went to sit on the sofa. There were a couple of framed photographs sitting on the side table. One was a wedding picture. Rebecca picked it up.

“The bride is my sister Kate,” he said.

She was pretty, like Beth, but a bit darker.

“And these are your parents?” she said, pointing to the reedy, distinguished man and the elegant woman in pale lavender.

He nodded.

“Your dad’s still very handsome. You look just like him.”

“Really?” he said, clearly enjoying the compliment.

The other photograph was of a little girl—about two years old, Rebecca guessed. She was naked and splashing in a plastic paddling pool.

“Wow, gorgeous child,” Rebecca said, picking up the photograph to take a closer look. “Look at all those red curls.”

“I know.” He smiled. “She gets them from her mother. Of course, that picture’s ages old; she’s a teenager now.”

“Who is she?”

“Amy,” he said. “She’s my goddaughter.”

Rebecca insisted on washing up to say thank you.

She was standing at the sink rinsing plates when she felt his arms round her waist.

“Leave it,” he whispered, starting to kiss the back of her neck.

She closed her eyes and felt herself start to tremble. “But it’ll stink by the morning.”

“Don’t care,” he said, turning her to face him. She was still holding the squeegee mop. He took it from her and dropped it into the sink. Then he brushed the back of his hand over her cheek.

“How did somebody get to be this beautiful?”

“Cod’s roe,” she said.

“Cod’s roe?” He hesitated. “What, you put it on your face?”

“No,” she laughed. “You eat it. My mum swore by the stuff. All I ever got for my school lunch was cod’s roe sandwiches. She reckoned fish breath was a small price to pay for great skin. Not sure it really worked in my case, though.”

“Oh, believe me, it did,” he said, drawing her toward him. He brushed his lips lightly across hers. This time she felt every delicious, stomach-quivering sensation. As he parted her lips with his tongue and she felt him deep inside her mouth she put her arms round his neck and breathed in his deliciously warm, slightly boozy smell. He ran his hand over her bottom. She moved her pelvis toward him and felt his erection hard against her. By now she was feeling distinctly wobbly and leaning against the kitchen units for support. As their kissing became more and more urgent, he put his hand up inside her skirt. He ran his fingers along the inside of her thighs. When he began gently stroking the flesh between her stocking tops and her pants, she thought she was about to pass out with delight.

Without saying anything he led her to the bedroom. She stood in the doorway.

“Max. This is beautiful.”

Every surface was covered in candles. There had to be dozens, their flames dancing in the dark, casting long shadows against the roller blinds. Musky, exotic perfumes she couldn’t identify hung in the air.

“You did this for me?”

He grinned. “I thought you’d like it.”

Like it, she adored it. The most romantic thing Simon the ventriloquist had ever done when they were going out was getting Wayne the dummy to sing “Strangers in the Night.”

In the candlelight he looked sexier than ever. He guided her to the bed. It was low, Japanesey and covered in brand-new white linen. They stood beside it and kissed again. Taking his time, he began undoing her cardigan buttons. Afterward he pulled down her bra straps and planted kisses on her shoulders and over the tops of her breasts, chasing the goose bumps that were racing over her. When he began running his tongue over her neck, she threw back her head and let out a tiny whimper. She felt him unzip her skirt.

Once she’d stepped out of it, he stood looking at her, running his hand over her stocking tops, fingering the lace of her bra. He reached behind her, unhooked it and pulled it away.

“Wow,” he said. Then he took each of her nipples in turn and began sucking them until they were long and erect. He pushed her gently onto the bed. Her head and shoulders sank into the huge square pillows. As she inhaled more of the joss-stick aroma, she felt herself starting to float. He started kissing her stomach and licking the insides of her thighs. By now her breathing was slow and deep.

As she floated somewhere between northwest London and heaven, she was vaguely aware of her pants being pulled off. Then suddenly his head was between her legs. She cried out as he opened her and his tongue began flicking her clitoris.

By now she was begging him to make her come. He responded by slowing down, lightening the pressure so that she could barely feel it. The more she begged him, the more he teased her. Only when she was quiet again did he give her what she wanted. The quivering inside her started to build up almost immediately. Then he stopped again, moved up and began kissing her on the mouth. Their kissing was frantic, frenzied. By now she was desperate to feel him inside her. She reached for his jeans belt. He knelt up, let her undo it and unbutton his fly. She pulled his jeans and his boxers over his thighs, releasing his long, thick erection. She kissed his taut stomach, traced the line of dark hair that ran down from his navel.

As she covered the end of his penis with her mouth and began running her tongue over it, his head slumped forward and he dug his fingers into her shoulders.

“Bloody hell, you’re good.”

She kissed him on the mouth, pushed him gently onto the bed and went down on him again. He screwed up his face in delight as she ran her mouth back and forth over the shaft.

“I want to come inside you,” he said finally.

Before she knew it, he was pulling her by her ankles to the edge of the bed. He made her bring her knees up to her chest. Kneeling on the floor in front of her, he started probing her again with his tongue and fingers. Finally, he began to concentrate on her clitoris, stroking it gently at first, then rubbing it in a firm, circular motion. Once again the quivering began to build up inside her. She took hold of his erection, and guided him toward her. As he entered her she let out a tiny moan. His thrusts were slow and deep, the pleasure so intense she was sure she was about to pass out. She came almost immediately.

Afterward he lay beside her trailing his finger over her breast.

“You know, I’ve often wondered what those small bumps are round women’s nipples.”

“It’s Braille,” she said, keeping a perfectly straight face, “for ‘lick them ever so lightly with the tip of your tongue.’”

He was laughing and moving in on her left nipple when her mobile went off.

“Fuck,” she said. “I’d better get it. Might be my gran. Her blood pressure’s been playing up and she’s all on her own.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” he said, leaping off the bed.

He was back in a second. “Text message,” he said.

“Probably Lucretia. She’s always texting me with ideas for the column. You read it. What’s it say: ‘CRIMSON MSCARA HOT ACCRDNG 2 NY TIMES 2DAY. U CHECKIT SOONEST’?”

“No, it says: ‘IN MY ABC I’D PUT U AND I TOGETHER.’ Do you think maybe Lucretia’s developed a lesbian crush on you?”