Apocalipstick Page 3

  Lucretia grimaced—at the mention of men in G-strings, Rebecca presumed, rather than Sheherazade’s limited eloquence.

  Rebecca moaned inwardly. She couldn’t bear the thought of another cosmetics company bash. Another night of air kissing X-ray celebs, fashion and beauty hacks, most of whom were about as deep as a worm’s grave. Plus she owned nothing white. It looked dreadful on her. It wasn’t just that it instantly added ten pounds to her hips and made her look like a bandaged Anne Widdecombe. It also drained every ounce of color from her face, leaving her with the complexion of an anemic geisha.

  It was Sheherazade who, seeing her expression, nudged her and whispered that there was loads of white gear in the fashion cupboard. “Take what you need. The rest of us do. Nobody minds.”

  “Right,” Lucretia said, “any other ideas before we wind up?”

  “Well, I thought we could do a piece on ways to ring the changes with bottled water.” It was Butter. She was from L.A. “I mean water cocktails are just so right now. Personally I’m into two parts Evian, one part Volvic.”

  “Brilliant. Absolutely inspired,” Lucretia declared, making a note. “Right, that it?”

  “Well,” Rebecca piped up hesitantly. This being her first fashion, beauty and lifestyle planning meeting, she was feeling distinctly nervous. “I thought maybe we could do a hard-hitting feature on wrinkle creams. I mean everybody buys them, but we all know they’re a con and chip oil’s probably just as good. Then there’s all the meaningless made-up vocabulary the manufacturers use. I mean, who are the people who sit round all day thinking up words like lyposculpt? Anyway, I thought we could get women to test a load of creams—maybe pay a dermatologist to write a report. It would cost a bit, but …”

  The room fell deathly silent. Rebecca found herself wondering if she’d farted without realizing.

  “Rebecca,” Lucretia said, her expression and tone equally scathing, “I have one word to say to you—advertising. How on earth do you think the magazine makes money?” She began gathering up her bag and notebook.

  Rebecca colored up. “Oh, God. I didn’t think.”

  “Clearly.” Lucretia stood up to go.

  It was obvious to Rebecca that the fashion, beauty and lifestyle editor was doing her utmost to dispense an acrid smile, but was having some difficulty making her mouth obey her brain. It took her several seconds before she remembered what Snow had told her about Lucretia’s lust for rejuvenating (mostly freebie) facial procedures and realized there probably wasn’t a muscle left in her Sorrento-ed, wrong-side-of-forty-five-year-old face that hadn’t been frozen with Botox.

  The moment Rebecca got back to her desk, the phone rang.

  “Hi, Max darling, it’s me,” the young woman’s voice purred, before Rebecca had a chance to speak. “Just wanted to check everything’s OK for tonight.”

  “Sorry,” Rebecca said, “but I’m afraid you’ve come through to the wrong extension.” She transferred the woman back to the switchboard. Twenty minutes later another woman called for Max. Again Rebecca transferred her back to the switchboard. Realizing the switchboard had gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick regarding the Max/Rebecca desk situation, she complained to the operator, but it did no good. Ten seconds later the caller was back. Rebecca offered to take a message, but the woman said it was personal and she’d try him on his mobile. Half an hour went by and a third woman was on the line—another personal call. Each of the callers had been young and sexy-sounding—confirming Rebecca’s growing suspicions that Max Stoddart was something of a babe magnet. Not that his private life was any of her business. As far as she was concerned, he could have hordes of naked women chasing him down Farringdon Road after work every night, so long as they didn’t call him on her extension.

  By the time the fourth woman rang, Rebecca had had enough. OK, she decided, indignation and sense of mischief rising, if she’d become Max Stoddart’s messaging service, she might as well make a decent job of it. She picked up the phone.

  “Hello,” she said in her best breathy siren voice, “you’ve reached the Big Max Hot Line. To find out Max’s star sign and favorite pizza topping, press one on your telephone keypad now. To hear an inspirational spiritual message, press two. To check his current availability for dinner, theater and bar mitzvahs, press three. To leave a message, press the star key at any time.”

  “Max?” the woman’s voice piped up. “It’s Beth. What’s going on? I take it this is one of your daft jokes. I’ll speak to you later. Anyway, for now I have one word to say to you—fireworks. With a bit of luck, tonight is going to go with such a bang.” Then she giggled and hung up.

  Rebecca snorted with laughter. Her “Big Max” epithet was inspired, she thought.

  As she turned back to her computer she realized she hadn’t told Jess she couldn’t make it to her place tonight on account of the Mer de Rêves do. She picked up the phone and punched in Jess’s number.

  Jess didn’t seem too bothered about Rebecca’s not coming round, since Diggory had started dropping off for a few hours round about nine and it would give her a chance to get some extra sleep. Rebecca promised to pop in for tea the next day instead. She had two days to write the column, so could easily afford to take an afternoon off.

  “Oh, by the way,” she said, “you’ll never guess what happened with Small Penis Guy from this morning …”

  She recounted the story, ending with her fake messaging service performance.

  Jess roared and agreed the “Big Max Hot Line” was, indeed, inspired. “Mind you,” Jess said, “if he’s as good-looking as you say he is, he’s bound to have loads of women after him.”

  “I guess.”

  “Ooh,” Jess came back, “do I detect the slightly maudlin tone of a woman who’d hoped she was in with a chance of a leg over?”

  “Don’t be daft. He’s not my type. Too posh. Too smooth, and I could never go out with a bloke who spent more time in front of the bathroom mirror than me.”

  Jess gave a small laugh. “Right, if you say so.”

  After half an hour rummaging through the fashion cupboard she finally came up with some beautifully cut white hipster flares and a matching satiny blouse. When she looked in the mirror, even she had to admit the outfit wasn’t entirely unflattering.

  Her newfound confidence in her ability to wear white was, however, short-lived. She arrived at The Sanderson to find everybody dressed in black. How could she have been so stupid? She might have known Fleet Street’s fashion and beauty queens would refuse to be cowed into abandoning their regulation uniform—even by an edict from the director of Maison Mer de Rêves, Coco Dubonnet du Sauvignon.

  Only a handful of people had made the effort—mainly Mer de Rêves employees and those who could carry it off, like Jerry Hall—who was all golden mane and white cashmere legs, looking, Rebecca thought, like an exquisitely coutured Palomino—and Vivienne Westwood, who had come as a bride. Fergie’s attempt to get into the spirit of the occasion had been less successful. Her weight had clearly taken a turn for the wurst and the layer upon layer of sticky-out white tulle she was wearing did nothing to disguise the fact. The words Sugar Plump Fairy were being bandied about by the gay waiters who were wearing ironic white polo necks over the tightest leather hot pants.

  Since she couldn’t take refuge with the photographers, who were all in the street waiting to snap the stars as they got out of their limos, she decided to take a wander round the room, writing down names of celebs, whom they were with and what they were wearing.

  She’d been doing this for a few minutes when she suddenly became aware that somebody was following her. Each time she turned round the same woman, about her own age, a Mer de Rêves employee or publicist she assumed since she was wearing white, was hovering a few feet behind. The woman followed her to the bar and a few minutes later into the ladies’ room, where she took the next-door cubicle. As Rebecca sat peeing she couldn’t make up her mind whether she should be worried about this person trailing he
r or dismiss the whole thing as meaningless coincidence. She decided on the latter. As they stood washing their hands, Rebecca smiled at her through the over-basin mirror. The woman returned it briefly and opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, then, clearly thinking better of it, she made a beeline for the door, her hands still dripping wet.

  Rebecca shrugged. Then she picked up one of the small linen towels and dried her hands.

  Back at the party, she decided to go up to Fergie—whom she’d interviewed at a couple of charity dos and rather liked—to see if she could get a quote for her column. She greeted Rebecca warmly and swore blind she remembered meeting her. Rebecca couldn’t help feeling flattered. They’d been standing chatting about what Fergie described as the “dazzling decor” (vast potted trees sprayed white, their branches laced with tiny white fairy lights, ten-foot ice statues, a purple-draped ceiling twinkling with stars) and the food, which was equally “dazzling,” when Rebecca realized the woman was still watching her. Feeling slightly spooked by now, she decided to go over and say something. Just then Victoria Posh came over and collared Fergie, enabling Rebecca to make a discreet exit.

  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.