Apocalipstick Page 24

  Terrific.

  She tried Charlie again—all newspaper editors had access to Number 10—but there was no reply from his hotel room. Then she tried the Vanguard’s news and political editors, but they were both in meetings. She had just put the phone down, when Lipstick and Harrison appeared. Lipstick looked white.

  “I couldn’t go in to work. I feel dreadful. Really nauseous. I think I may have caught Harrison’s tummy bug.”

  “Come on, let’s put you to bed,” she said. “I’ll make you a nice hot-water bottle.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’d prefer to keep upright. Oh, by the way, I saw Max as I came out of the vet’s.”

  Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat. “Really? Did you speak to him?”

  “No, he was on the other side of the road. Seems like he’s ditched Lorna because he had his arm round some girl. Looked like a student. I wasn’t sure whether to tell you, but I thought I should just in case you saw them one day and got upset.”

  “Don’t worry, that’s Amy, his goddaughter. They’re really close. She must have the day off school for some reason. He was probably taking her shopping.”

  “Oh, right. I have to say he didn’t strike me as the type who went for young girls.” A beat. “So, what you been up to?”

  “OK,” Rebecca said, “do you feel up to hearing some amazing news?”

  “Go on.”

  She told her about Madame N’Femkwe and the truth drug. “The thing is I really need to speak to Tony Blair—or at least speak to somebody who can speak to him on my behalf.”

  Lipstick told her not to worry and that she was bound to reach Charlie Holland eventually.

  “You know,” she said, standing up. “Suddenly I’m starving. I could murder an M&M McFlurry.”

  Rebecca tried to tell her all that fat on an upset stomach probably wasn’t a good idea, but she wouldn’t listen.

  “No, it’s what I fancy,” Lipstick said. “I’ve just got to have it.”

  The moment she disappeared with Harrison, the phone rang.

  “Er, hello—is that Rebecca?” It was a male voice. Not one she recognized.

  “Speaking.”

  “God. This is really embarrassing. Look, you don’t know me and I don’t quite know how to put this, but I appear to have bought you.”

  “Bought me?”

  “Yes. In an auction.”

  “Sorry, I haven’t got time for jokes—”

  He interrupted her, begging her not to hang up until she’d heard him out. “It was organized by the Hendon and District Synagogue Ladies’ Guild. I think your grandmother, Rose, is a member. Anyway, they’ve been raising money for Romanian orphans and your grandmother suggested all the members should bring in photographs of their single children and grandchildren and auction them.”

  Rebecca pressed her eyelids with her fingers. She would throttle Rose when she got hold of her.

  “So, let me get this straight—sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Alex.”

  “OK, Alex. So, right, you’re under the impression you now own me?”

  He laughed. “No, not quite. My mother saw your photograph and thought you looked just my type. So, she decided to bid for you and won. The upshot is, I now have a date with you. I was furious with her at first, but then she showed me your picture and you looked, well, absolutely gorgeous, really. So I thought I’d risk phoning you to see if you fancied meeting for a drink. Look, I’d totally understand if you told me to get lost.”

  Absolutely gorgeous. He thought she looked, what was it?—absolutely gorgeous.

  “So, er … how much did your mother bid for me?”

  “Seven pounds fifty.”

  “Wow, as much as that?”

  “No, apparently that was brilliant. The bids only went up fifty pence each time. I think the most they got was a tenner for a girl who’s been in Emmerdale. So would you like to meet up?”

  He sounded pleasant enough and it wasn’t as if blokes were queuing up to take her out. They arranged to meet that evening, at the All Bar One round the corner from Rebecca.

  “Oh, by the way,” she said, “as a matter of interest, which photograph did my grandmother choose? Was it the usual bridesmaid one with the teeth? Or the one of me aged sixteen about to throw up on the Wall of Death at Alton Towers?”

  “I think it may have been the throwing up one. But you still looked cute.”

  “I did?”

  “God, yes.”

  Wow, a man who thought she looked cute, even when she was about to puke. She couldn’t wait to meet him.

  By the end of the day, she was still no nearer getting an appointment with the prime minister, and Charlie still wasn’t answering his phone. She tried his mobile, but that was permanently on voice mail, and she doubted he would be able to pick up messages in Nigeria. By six o’clock she was feeling so frustrated and miserable she decided to cancel her date with Alex. It was Lipstick who persuaded her to go because it might cheer her up and take her mind off things.

  When she arrived he was already there. Her spirits sank almost immediately. He was beaky, and had the overironed look of a man who lived at home with his mother. When he stood up to shake hands she saw he was no more than five four. On top of that his voice was too loud. He began the conversation by announcing so as it could be heard three tables away that he didn’t drink.

  “Alcohol gives me palpitations, so I stick to soft drinks,” he boomed. “But only caffeine free. I think it was caffeine that did in my bowel last year. Have you ever had a barium enema?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Oh, you’d remember if you had. They stick this tube up your rectum and then turn you upside down. Humiliation doesn’t even begin to describe it. Having said that, you get to see your colon on TV, which is fun.”

  “I can imagine.”

  He looked embarrassed. “My God,” he said, “what a subject to be talking about on a date. I can hear you saying to your friends tomorrow: ‘This guy was incredibly good-looking, but the first thing he asked was, have you ever had a barium enema?’”

  “Well, certainly one of the above.” Rebecca smiled.

  “So, I’ll get the first round, shall I?” he said. Rebecca detected a definite reluctance.

  “Or we can go Dutch,” she replied. “I’m fine with that. Tell you what, why don’t I make it my treat?”

  “Really? Oh. OK, then. I’ll have a diet Coke, no ice … sensitive teeth.”

  “Of course.”

  As she went through her bag to find her purse, she took out her phone and put it on the table.

  “My God,” he said, “you’ve got the Ericsson T39. Great phone.”

  “It is? I don’t know. I talk into it. People talk back. I guess that makes it great.”

  “But don’t you find the WAP browser awesome?”

  “I have a WAP browser?”

  “Oh, do you so ever have a WAP browser.” He leaned across the table. “You must let me browse your WAP sometime.”

  “I’ll … er. I’ll get the drinks, shall I?”

  When she got back they talked about jobs. He was impressed she worked for a left-wing newspaper. (She didn’t mention the makeup column. She had the feeling he was the type who would have views about that sort of thing.)

  It turned out he was a senior manager at Muswell Hill General Hospital. She felt she should show an interest, just to be polite. As a result, he spent the next forty-five minutes explaining the intricacies of public-private partnership in the National Health Service. When he eventually went to the loo, a woman who was sitting with some friends at the next table patted Rebecca on the shoulder.

  “I don’t know what effect that bloke’s having on you,” she said, “but he’s boring the pants off us.”

  She decided to make an excuse and leave, but in the end it wasn’t necessary.

  “Look,” he said as he got back to the table, “I’d really like to do this again, but I really should get home early tonight. Big da
y tomorrow.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Tony Blair’s coming to the hospital to open our new obstetrics wing. Although it’s really a chance for him to make a speech about the government’s commitment to the NHS.”

  She put down her drink, barely able to conceal her excitement. “Tony Blair is coming to your hospital? Tomorrow?”

  He nodded.

  She thought it best not to appear too desperate.

  “God, I’ve never seen Blair in the flesh,” she said, running her finger across the rim of her wineglass. “The Downing Street press office only allows a limited number of reporters to go to these things. I don’t suppose there’s even the remotest chance you could get me in, is there?”

  “Don’t see why not.” He shrugged.

  At this point she lost it, leaped out of her seat and threw her arms round him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squealed. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  He gave her a look of startled bemusement, as did the women at the next table. Then she felt his arms round her. She screwed up her face. Omigod, she thought, starting to panic. He thinks he’s scored. She moved away, gently removing his arms. Then she took his hand and began shaking it vigorously. Now he looked really confused.

  “Well, it’s been great meeting you, Alex.”

  “Yes, you too,” he said. “See you tomorrow. Come into the main building and ask for me at reception.”

  Then he said he hoped she didn’t mind if he didn’t drive her home, but he had to pick up his mother—whom he lived with—from her bridge night. Rebecca said she didn’t mind at all.

  When she arrived at the hospital, there was a press pass waiting for her, identifying her as a representative of Health Service Management Today magazine. There was also a note from Alex saying he’d been called away to a meeting, that he was still hoping to make the PM’s speech and maybe he and Rebecca could get coffee afterward. She groaned inwardly when she got to the coffee bit. She would meet him and then let him down gently.

  She headed off across the parking lot to the new obstetrics wing. As she opened the door she was confronted by a thicket of reporters, photographers and TV crews—all standing round chatting and drinking coffee from polystyrene cups. As she eased her way through, a woman she knew slightly from the Tribune waved and shouted hi. Finally she made it to the reception area, where the crowd had thinned out a bit. Behind the desk, a gang of nurses were passing round the lipstick and giggling nervously, while at the same time, daring each other to have a go at Tony about the way the government was neglecting the National Health Service.

  It was only then that Rebecca realized something she ought to have known from the outset: with the huge press presence, not to mention all the hospital high-ups, patients and minders in attendance, she didn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of having a private word with the PM.

  Cross with herself for not thinking straight and desperately trying to think up some way of rescuing the situation, she wandered into the corridor that led off from the reception area. One side was glass, overlooking the parking lot. The other was made up of a series of tiny four-bed wards—all of which had been in use for a couple of months, even though the building hadn’t been officially opened. She poked her head round one, taking in the NHS’s best attempt at creating a home away from home—the mock mahogany dado rail (varnish chipped), the baby-blue, bow-motif wallpaper frieze (riding up at the edges) and the dusky pink nylon floor covering that was already covered in stains and ash from illegal ciggies.

  Most of the mothers were gathered at the window in their dressing gowns and full makeup, watching excitedly for Tony’s car. A few were carrying babies over their shoulders. She carried on down the corridor toward the dayroom. Here, half a dozen women, in slightly more upmarket dressing gowns, were sitting drinking tea and looking defiant. Definitely the Tory mums, Rebecca decided.

  She wandered back. There had to be some way of getting the prime minister on his own. She knew the drill. He would come in, full of smiles, shake patients’ hands and coo over a few babies. The mums would ask him about little Leo. He would smile, come over all proud dad and deliver some bland sound bite like: “Oh, he’s getting to be a real rascal. Into everything. You need eyes in the back of your head.” And that would be it. In a few minutes he would be heading back to the main hospital to make his speech. She had to think of some way to get his attention before he left.

  Then it hit her. The solution was staring her in the face. Virtually all the mothers were up, leaving dozens of beds empty. Why not take one and pretend to be a patient? It was risky. The mother whose bed she chose could come back at any time. But it was either that or go home. She walked into the ward on her left. None of the mothers were there, although the babies were in their cribs next to the beds. Rebecca marched over to the nearest bed, took off her coat and shoes and jumped in.

  A few moments later she heard footsteps coming toward her. A nurse, she presumed. She pulled the covers up over her head and turned on her side, pretending to be asleep. She prayed the nurse would carry on down the corridor. But she didn’t. She stopped. At Rebecca’s bed.

  “All right, Mrs. Hollingsworth,” she singsonged, “if you’d like to pull up your things, I’ll quickly pop in your suppository. If this doesn’t have your bowels open by teatime, nothing will. Mrs. Hollingsworth—you awake?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t feel embarrassed. It’ll only take a moment. And you’ll feel much better.”

  She reached for the bedcovers, but Rebecca’s hand got there first. A tug of war followed, with Rebecca squealing and the nurse scolding her for being such a baby.

  In the end, it was the prime minister who came to Rebecca’s rescue. There was a commotion in the reception area. Apparently Tony’s car had just pulled up outside.

  “All right, Mrs. Hollingsworth,” the nurse said. “Perhaps I’ll leave it until Mr. Blair’s gone. Don’t want you to have an accident in front of the prime minister, do we?”

  Rebecca lay there listening to the prime minister’s greetings, cooings and the clicking of cameras getting closer. She sat up, grateful she was wearing a plain white T-shirt, which she decided could just about pass for a pajama top. Suddenly he was standing in front of her surrounded by a posse of hospital bigwigs and press.

  “Hi, I’m Tony Blair.” He beamed at her from the end of the bed. He looked pleasant enough, she thought. He held out her hand. She took it.

  “Hello. I’m Rebecca,” she said, desperately trying to disguise her nerves.

  “So,” he said, moving round to the crib, “what did you get—boy or girl?”

  “Er … boy,” she said.

  He looked at the baby’s wristband. “Bronte Louise. Quite an unusual name for a boy.”

  She sat there squirming. “Er, Prime Minister, I wonder if I could have a word with you about something.”

  She saw him exchange an uneasy glance with Alastair Campbell.

  “Of course.”

  “In private.”

  Another glance.

  “Well, I do have a really tight schedule. You can always write to me at Number 10.”

  “Please. It’ll take two minutes of your time. I promise. It’s really important.”

  He shot Alastair Campbell a look and the press and hospital bods disappeared.

  She cleared her throat. “Look, I’m here on false pretences. I’m not actually a patient. I’m a journalist.”

  His face darkened. “If there are questions you want to put to me about the NHS,” he said brusquely, “you’ll have to wait until after my speech. Now if you’ll excuse me …”

  He turned to walk away.

  “No, Prime Minister, wait. Please. This has nothing to do with the NHS. It’s to do with the situation in Africa. Does the name Mer de Rêves mean anything to you … ?”

  She had never told a story as fast or succinctly in her life.

  “And here,” she said, taking a plastic bag out
from under the bed, “is the cream, together with a copy of the test results to prove it contains Kenbarbitol Cyclamate. Have your own people check it if you don’t believe me.”

  He smiled a kind, sympathetic smile and put his hand on her shoulder. He was looking at her as if she were raving. It didn’t help that just then her mobile went off in her bag. She grabbed it. She thought she’d pressed the off button, but instead she’d pressed connect. Not only that, but she’d fumbled with it so that it was blasting out on speakerphone and she had no idea how to turn it off.

  “Hello, sweetie, it’s me, Grandma. So, what did you think of Alex? Isn’t he a wonderful boy?”

  “Gran, I can’t talk now, I’m with Tony Blair,” she said, desperately stabbing at every button she could in an effort to shut the thing up.

  Instead of taking the chance to get away, the prime minister stayed rooted to the spot, smiling. He was obviously finding the whole thing very funny.

  “Sorry, darling, the line’s cracking up. You’re with Lionel Blair, you say? I love him. What a dancer. Lionel Blair and Anita Harris—the best dancers this country’s ever produced. Tell him I saw him in pantomime a few years back. Wonderful Dick … No, tell a lie. Maybe that was Anita Harris. Anyway, give Lionel a kiss from me.”

  “No, Gran, I’m not with Lionel Blair, I’m with TONY Blair.”

  “What? The prime minister?”

  Tony Blair was now convulsing with laughter.

  “Yes.” Rebecca looked up and gave Tony a sheepish smile back.

  “Oh, I don’t like him. New Labour? What a joke. Two years Estelle’s Harry has been waiting for his prostate operation. They wouldn’t have done that to the Queen Mother. Anyway, I’ll get off the line and leave you to it. Speak to you later. ’Bye.”

  Rebecca apologized profusely to the PM then tried to engage him again. “Please, you have to explain to the African heads of state that Madame N’Femkwe just couldn’t help herself.”

  Another smile. Another shoulder pat. Another look of abject pity. Then he said good-bye.

  She heard him outside with one of the consultants, discussing the misery of postnatal depression.

  “And certainly in its severest form, it can lead to psychotic delusions,” the doctor was saying.