Apocalipstick Read online

  Rebecca picked up her pillow and screamed into it. At which point Bronte Louise began yelling for a feed.

  She was walking back to her car, having completely forgotten she was meant to be meeting Alex later, when she saw him coming toward her, waving.

  “Aren’t you staying for the PM’s speech?” he said. “I thought that was your reason for coming.”

  “Yeah, I know, but …”

  “You OK? You look a bit flushed.”

  “I’m not feeling so good,” she lied. “There’s this stomach bug going round.”

  “So you don’t fancy a coffee, then—after the speech. Thought we could have a bit of a chat.”

  Gawd, he was going to say he really liked her and ask her out on another date.

  “Alex, I think perhaps I gave you the wrong—”

  “Oh, I may as well come straight out with it,” Alex interrupted. “Look, Rebecca, I do like you, but the thing is, I’ve just come out of a really heavy relationship. I thought I was ready to move on, but I’m not. Please don’t take this as a rejection.”

  She looked down. “Oh, I don’t. I don’t,” she said, desperately hoping the relief wasn’t showing on her face. “So, you still love her?”

  He nodded. “Daft, isn’t it? Loving somebody who’s in love with somebody else.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Take it from me, it happens all the time.”

  As soon as she got home, she tried again to reach Charlie. On the third attempt she got through, but they could barely hear each other.

  “Look, if it’s urgent, e-mail me,” he said through the shooshing and crackles.

  She couldn’t see much point. Nobody bloody believed her about Madame N’Femkwe and the truth drug. It was Lipstick who revved her up again.

  “Look, Charlie Holland knows you’re not mad. E-mail him. I told you before, I’m certain he’ll have a quiet word with Tony Blair.”

  Even though she didn’t even remotely share Lipstick’s optimism, Rebecca bashed out the e-mail.

  Afterward Jess rang to see if Rebecca and Lipstick fancied coming over for spaghetti Bolognese. Lipstick said she would pass, since she was starting to feel sick again, so Rebecca went alone. When Ed went into the kitchen to open some wine, Rebecca asked after his willy-nilly.

  “Well, I was going to talk to you about that actually,” Jess said.

  “You were? I’m not sure there’s much I can do about it.”

  Jess giggled. “No, it’s just that the hypnotherapist isn’t making much progress with Ed and she suggested doing some past-life regression. She thinks the willy-nilly could have come about centuries ago.”

  “What, when he was Garibaldi? Or Anne of Cleves? My God, two intelligent people. I cannot believe you are into this kind of stuff.”

  “We wouldn’t be normally, but we’re desperate. We’re prepared to try anything. Anyway, Gwen, that’s the therapist, wants to do it here because she thinks Ed will be more relaxed and as Ed wants me to sit in, I was wondering if you could come round and keep an eye on the Dig-Twig. I’d ask Mum, but that woman she attacked in Harrods pressed charges and she’s due at West End Central in the morning to be bound over to keep the peace.”

  “I still think the pair of you are bonkers,” Rebecca said, “but OK, of course I’ll come.”

  She got home just after midnight. Lipstick was still up.

  “Hey, Becks, you missed the final Watching You, Watching Me.”

  “Bugger. I knew it was tonight. I take it Lucretia won?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Lipstick told her how Lucretia had sashayed out of the house in a short, strapless pink chiffon number, blowing kisses to the crowd.

  “Of course they’re cheering and waving like mad. Then suddenly some twenty-year-old bloke catches her eye and before you know it, she’s down in the crowd snogging and groping him. Of course then all the blokes want a turn. It was at least ten minutes before the telly people could get her away.”

  “So, she’s clearly been on the cream again,” Rebecca said. “You know, it’s all my fault she’s made such a fool of herself. I should have gotten a message to her about the truth drug. This can’t wait any longer. I’ve got to tell her.”

  She picked up her coat.

  Lipstick suggested Rebecca gate-crash the after-show party, but she didn’t know where it was being held.

  “I’ll wait for her until she gets home.”

  “But that could be hours,” Lipstick said.

  “I know, but I won’t sleep unless I tell her what’s been happening.”

  She reached Lucretia’s flat in Notting Hill just after one. She parked outside, prepared for a long, cold wait. Then almost immediately, a taxi pulled up and Lucretia virtually fell out, swigging from a bottle of Baileys and singing I Want to Sex You Up, Baby. After a minute fumbling in her bag, she eventually found her purse and paid the driver.

  Rebecca got out of the car and walked toward her. It was only then that she noticed the back of Lucretia’s dress was tucked into her knickers.

  “Roberta!”

  “It’s Rebecca,” Rebecca said.

  “Ah, yes. Rebecca who thinks we should run articles undermining our biggest advertisers. So, what are you doing here?”

  “Lucretia, we have to talk. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Talk away.” She took another swig from the Baileys bottle and dug Rebecca in the ribs. “Never had the guts to drink this in public before now.” She offered the bottle to Rebecca. She shook her head.

  “Could we go inside?”

  “OK.”

  Lucretia fumbled for her door key and led her up to the first-floor flat. Inside, it was exactly as Rebecca had imagined: expensive, elegant, not an ornament or curtain tassel out of place.

  “Charlie sent you, didn’t he?” Lucretia said. She kicked off her shoes and lay down on one of the feather-backed cream sofas. “To tell me I went too far—saying all the stuff I did. I don’t know what came over me. I couldn’t help it.”

  “I know. It’s the Mer de Rêves Revivessence cream you’ve been using.”

  Lucretia snorted and took another swig of Baileys. “Don’t be ridiculous, dahling. How could a silly pot of face cream make me share my most intimate sexual fantasies with the world?”

  Rebecca started to explain, wondering how much Lucretia would take in, bearing in mind how drunk she was.

  “And you’ve really had it analyzed?”

  “Yep.” She handed her a copy of the report.

  Lucretia sat up and put the Baileys bottle down on the coffee table. “Good God. But Coco’s a friend. She wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

  Rebecca said there was a good chance Coco didn’t know, since she was handing it out to all her friends and best clients.

  “I don’t care, you know—about what it did to me.”

  “You don’t?” Rebecca said.

  “Nope. I don’t know how it works, but for the first time in years, I’m being true to myself. It’s sort of—how can I put this—made me get back in touch with my whore within, I suppose. You know I keep thinking back to that time God spoke to me and I’m wondering if I misunderstood. It’s only now that I realize what my true mission is.”

  “You mean the Lord wants you to become a hooker?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Lucretia said, positively aghast at the suggestion. Then her face broke into a smile. “God wouldn’t want me to spend all day giving head. Terrible view, dahling. No, I know precisely what he wants me to do. I’m meant to leave the Vanguard and write a porn movie.”

  “Very Christian.”

  “But it is, dahling. It is. We have a moral duty to provide pathetic saddos with porn. It comforts them in their loneliness. But, you see, God doesn’t mean me to write the usual naff stuff where the characters look like they live on benefits in an Argos catalogue. Mine is meant to be tasteful, high class and, more to the point, infinitely more stylish.”

  She opened her bag and took out
her notebook.

  “I started jotting down notes while I was in the Watching You, Watching Me house,” she said, handing the book to Rebecca. “What do you think?”

  Rebecca started reading.

  “Coming along the Catwalk—Runway Romps, by Lucretia Coffin Mott

  “Sophia, a dazzling eighteen-year-old Italian supermodel—as yet to be deflowered—is alone in her Philippe Starck kitchen, sipping iced tea. She is wearing a classic Armani shift dress (fabric swatches to follow). The doorbell rings. Enter Eduardo, the plumber, in a granite (or possibly taupe) Comme des Garçons boiler suit.

  “‘Ciao, bella,’ he says, admiring her facings.”

  “So what do you think?” Lucretia said when Rebecca had finished. “I think it’s definitely got something, don’t you?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Rebecca said. “Absolutely.”

  19

  Rebecca was in Jess’s kitchen making herself a cup of coffee. Jess and Ed were in the living room with Gwen, the hypnotherapist from Osterley who had come to do Ed’s past-life regression. She was a warm, bustling woman in her sixties—utterly unremarkable, apart from her bottle-black, waist-length braids. Apparently she’d been Pocahontas in a past life and the plaits were a tribute. Diggory was asleep in his pram—just as Rebecca had predicted he would be. Jess really hadn’t needed anybody there to mind him.

  Rebecca brought her coffee over to the table, pulled out a chair and picked up the Vanguard.

  “Bugger,” she said, looking at the headline running across the bottom of the front page: “African Peace Deal in Tatters.” She carried on reading.

  “War in Africa seemed inevitable last night, as hopes for a resumption of peace talks faded. The president of Nigeria also said at a press conference in Lagos that the British government’s continued support of T’chala N’Femkwe could lead to Nigeria’s cutting off oil supplies to Britain… .”

  “Why didn’t you listen to me, Tony? Why didn’t you bloody listen?”

  Just then, Diggory began to whimper. She went over to the pram and rocked it gently. She couldn’t remember any lullabies so she sang him I Will Survive—Lipstick’s Gloria Gaynor CDs had started to get to her. He seemed to enjoy it and settled after a few minutes. But as soon as she stopped he was off again. She decided to push the pram up and down the hall. As she went past the living room door, she could hear everything going on inside. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help herself. She was desperate to find out who Ed had been in a past life. Perhaps he was famous. He could have been Picasso, Sartre or Michelangelo—not that she could imagine any of them being rejected sexually. But the way these things usually went, Ed would probably turn out to have led some pretty ordinary, humdrum life as Shakespeare’s stationery supplier or Julius Caesar’s pool guy.

  “So, Ed,” she could hear Gwen saying softly. “As you get more and more relaxed, you are going even farther back in time … farther and farther. So where are you now?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, sounding completely spaced out. “Not that far back. The sixties, maybe. I can see this huge hall and there are people—rich, glamorous people I think, sitting at tables in evening dress. A celebration of some kind.”

  “Oh? What are they celebrating?”

  “I think it’s got something to do with me. It’s my birthday. I’m forty-five.”

  “And you’re happy?” Gwen asked.

  “Fairly, but I’ve got all this stuff, important stuff on my mind. I’m worried about Kew. There are Russians in Kew.”

  “What?” Jess interrupted. “There are Russian tourists in Kew Gardens in the sixties?”

  Gwen shushed her.

  “And pigs,” Ed said. “There are definitely pigs involved.”

  “OK, right,” Jess came back. “So now there are Russian tourists and pigs in Kew Gardens.”

  “No,” Ed said. “The Russians aren’t tourists. They’re soldiers. There’s some kind of military bases in Kew. I’ve just gotten off the phone from Khrushchev. ‘Come on, Nikita,’ I’m saying, ‘we’re both civilized men, the future of the planet is at stake here. Can’t we do a deal? But he won’t listen. That bastard refuses to listen.’”

  “Omigod,” Jess piped up. “Don’t you realize who he is? He’s—”

  Another shush from Gwen.

  “Let him get there on his own,” she whispered. Then: “It’s all right, Ed. Calm down. Just relax again. So, tell me, where is all this military activity?”

  “It’s not Kew Gardens. But it’s Kew something. Kew … ba. Cuba. That’s it. The military bases are in Cuba. And I can still see the pigs. There’s this whole pig thing going on. Shit, if we don’t do something, these motherfucking commie bastards are going to nuke the whole fucking world.”

  “All right,” Gwen said, “take me back to the party. What’s happening now?”

  “I can see this woman. Stunning. Blonde. Fabulous figure. Huge red lips. She’s standing up. She’s shimmying over to the microphone. She’s wearing this amazing dress that makes her breasts look like two torpedoes. OK, she’s starting to sing.”

  “What’s she singing?”

  “Listen to that voice. My God, you could pour it on a pancake. Can you hear it?”

  Ed started to sing softly: “Happy birthday, Mr. President, happy birthday to you. That’s me. I’m Mr. President. I’m John Kennedy. And I’m watching her and listening to her sing. Jackie’s sitting next to me, but it’s Marilyn I want.”

  “So what do you do?”

  A couple of beats.

  “OK, it’s later, much later. We’re in her hotel suite. I’m unzipping her dress. Shit, you should see these breasts.”

  “Oh, God,” Jess said. “I’m starting to feel weird, here.”

  “Ditto.” Rebecca muttered to herself, but her embarrassment didn’t stop her listening.

  “She’s unbuttoning my shirt,” he went on. “Now she’s undoing my fly. She’s on her knees and she’s—oh, my God. Oh, my God. She’s … she’s … No, wait.”

  “What?”

  “She’s stopped.”

  “Thank Christ for that,” Jess said.

  “Why? What’s happened? Can you tell me what she’s doing now?”

  “She’s giggling like a little girl. She can’t stop giggling and she’s saying … she’s saying, ‘Gee, Mr. President, it’s real cute. But would you be a li’l less embarrassed if we skipped straight to the cigarette?’”

  “Omigod!” Jess squealed. “JFK had a small willy and he never slept with Marilyn after all because she rejected him.”

  Ed sounded close to tears.

  “Marilyn’s laughing. She’s still laughing.”

  “It’s all right, Ed,” Gwen soothed. “I’m going to bring you back now.”

  She asked Jess to hold his hand.

  “It’s OK, baby,” Jess was whispering to him. “It’s OK. You’ve got a lovely willy. It’s perfect. Honest. Just the right size.”

  “Euuuch. Too much information,” Rebecca muttered, pushing the pram back to the kitchen.

  “God,” Jess said to Rebecca (Ed, who wasn’t quite sure what to make of it all, had gone for a walk to think and clear his head). “So at last we know how the willy-nilly started.”

  “You reckon?” Rebecca said doubtfully.

  “Of course. You realize this information about Kennedy’s willy could be worth millions.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Rebecca replied. “Go to any newspaper and explain that your husband thinks he was JFK in a past life and that he had a small willy and they’re bound to believe you. Probably offer you half a mil on the spot.”

  “OK, no. You’re right.” A faraway look came over her. “But, Becks, just think. I’m married to the man who saved the world from nuclear disaster—to the man who was king of Camelot. The Diggydumpling is the son of the president of the United States. What a legacy. What a legacy.”

  “Jess, get a grip. I always thought agony aunts were sensible, grounded people. It’s
so unlike you to get carried away like this. Read my lips. You are married to Ed. Ed is not JFK. The only thing he’s ever saved is money off coupons.”

  “But he was JFK,” Jess protested. “He was.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. This Gwen is clearly a quack.”

  “All right, I admit it’s possible. But you weren’t in that room with him, Becks. You didn’t see the look on his face. He was Kennedy. I know it… .So, tell me honestly, do you think I could carry off a little pink suit and a pillbox hat?”

  After she left Jess, Rebecca drove to the Vanguard. If she was grateful for one thing, it was that Max hadn’t been in for ages. In fact, she hadn’t seen him since their meeting at Waterloo.

  After he’d finished working on the documentary, he’d taken some time off. Then last Monday his piece revealing how only a lucky accident had saved London and Paris from being nuked finally appeared in the Vanguard (the TV program aired on the same night). The next day, all hell broke loose politically, on both sides of the Channel. There was talk of the French prime minister resigning. In Britain, the government was fielding awkward questions about the safety of British nuclear installations. All that week it seemed like every time Rebecca switched on the TV or the radio there was Max, with John Humphrys or Jeremy Paxman purring all over him about his stupendous scoop.

  Rebecca never watched for long, though. It was too painful. (She hadn’t watched the documentary for the same reason.) Then, on the weekend, he’d left for France to give evidence at the inquiry that had hastily been set up into the near-explosion at the French nuclear plant.

  The moment Rebecca walked into the office, people started clapping and yelling congratulations.

  She gave an uneasy smile. Why on earth would they be cheering her? She had nothing to do with Max’s story.

  “OK, what’s going on?” she demanded.

  “News just in from Reuters,” Snow said. “The peace deal in Africa is back on again. The oil crisis is over and according to Charlie, it’s all due to you.”

  “Charlie’s back?” God, she thought, he must have spoken to Tony Blair.

  “He got back a few minutes ago, and he hasn’t stopped going on about your Mer de Rêves story. Said he wanted to see you the moment you came in.”