by Sue Margolis
But the most hurt she ever caused Rebecca was just before the fifth-year prom. Although Rebecca’s tits had arrived by then, so had her acne. Acres of it. Her face was a mass of blackheads, boils and those hard painful lumps that refused to turn into actual zits. Even the unaffected skin was flaky and red raw, through too much washing and overuse of the Retin-A the doctor had prescribed.
“Dunno why you’ve bothered to come, Spot,” Lipstick had sneered, all purple frosting and thigh-high side slits. (By now Lipstick was seeing a twenty-five-year-old bloke called Craig, who had George Michael hair, drove a Ford Capri and was rumored to be Duran Duran’s record producer.) “Nobody’s going to want to dance with you.”
And, of course, nobody did—despite the fabulous Laura Ashley taffeta ball gown Judy had bought her. For most of the evening Rebecca sat with Roger Shakelady, the class saddo, who wore knitted school sweaters and had been infamous when they were all at primary school for sitting in the playground licking moss.
“And my dad’s about to marry this appalling, stuck-up tart,” Rebecca wailed on the phone to Jess.
“Oh, stop it,” Jess came back. “That was years ago. You were kids. She won’t still be a tart. Or even remotely appalling or stuck up.”
“OK, I expect she probably isn’t a tart anymore. She was a snob and she’ll have gone all sophisticated by now. She’s probably got entire rooms full of Prada and Gaultier. But she’ll still be horrible. I guarantee it.”
“Look,” Jess said, “your mum was one of the kindest, most down-to-earth people I’ve ever met. Stan would never go for somebody who wasn’t like her.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Rebecca said. “All men lose the plot when beautiful women start paying them attention. Particularly beautiful younger women. She’ll have conned him—made out she loves him when all she’s after is his money. She’s just the kind of cold calculating type who’d do that.”
“But you said her family was rich. She doesn’t need money.”
“They had money and they were flash, but they weren’t rich rich. Anyway, she’s the type who could never have enough.”
“Sorry, but I can’t see it,” Jess said. “Your dad has spent ten years waiting for the right woman to come along. He is not going to make a mistake like that. You told me the other day you’d feel threatened if Bernadette turned out to be beautiful. Well, she is and here you are, jealous as hell.”
Rebecca didn’t say anything for a moment. “She’s also successful,” she muttered, eventually.
Jess laughed. “Come on,” she said gently, “I bet Lipstick’s really sweet.”
“I dunno,” Rebecca said. “I can imagine Lipstick being a lot of things, but sweet ain’t one of them.”
Rebecca fell asleep—having completely forgotten about her date with the Vibroclit—and dreamed her stepmother-to-be had two really ugly grown-up daughters and that all three got to go to the annual Press Awards ball and dance with Max Stoddart, while she was forced to stay at home stitching endless Bagpuss pajama cases.
The next morning, the bulge was still there. She decided it was a toss-up between starving all day, doing five hundred stomach crunches or going on her date with Max wearing her M&S control pants. It was no contest. Starving herself would only make her feel sick and lethargic and probably have no effect on the bulge. Crunches hurt and although she fancied Max Stoddart, she didn’t fancy him enough to slip a disk for him. The pants, on the other hand, would cure the problem instantly—even if they were the size of the Balkans and so tight they cut off the blood supply to her head and turned her bum into a mass of taut, unyielding flesh that gave a whole new meaning to the phrase tight-assed. She would just have to hope he didn’t try to stroke it.
She decided to finish her column at home and e-mail it to Lucretia. That way she could spend the afternoon titivating. Her bathroom shelves were stacked with freebie tubes, jars and gadgets. Cynical as she was about the beauty business, it seemed a shame to let them go to waste.
By half past five she’d cleansed, toned, exfoliated and moisturized to such an extent that even she had to admit her skin felt as soft as an Hermès scarf. She was sitting on the sofa watching Neighbours and sanding the Parmesan buildup on her feet, when the phone rang. It was Rose.
“Darling, I was wondering if you could do me a favor. I forgot to pick up my prescription for my blood pressure pills today and I’ve run out. Do you think you could possibly pop round to the doctor before the office closes and collect it? I wouldn’t bother you if it weren’t really urgent. You see the moment I stop taking the tablets I start getting these pounding headaches.” Pause. Cue weak pathetic voice: “Apparently they can be really dangerous if they go untreated.”
Rebecca couldn’t help thinking that her grandmother should have been a travel agent for guilt trips. “OK, don’t panic,” she said kindly. “It’s no problem. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
She threw on a pair of trackie bottoms and a fleece. It wasn’t six yet. She wasn’t meeting Max until half past eight. There was just about time to get to Hendon and back.
But the rush-hour traffic was hellish. On top of that, the doctor hadn’t printed out the prescription and she had to wait. Then there was a twenty-minute queue in Boots.
By the time she pulled up outside Rose’s it was nearly seven. She decided to ring Max to say she was going to be a bit late, but there was no reply from his home phone, his mobile or his office line. Since he was clearly not at home or at work, she left a message on his mobile.
Rose opened the door dressed in her best suit—the imitation Chanel she’d had ever since Rebecca could remember. It was navy with gold buttons and cream edging around the jacket. These days the skirt was a bit stained and a couple of the buttons were missing. She’d also painted her nails. Badly. But the clumsily applied scarlet provided the perfect accessory to the wobbly red on her lips and the dollops of sky blue on her eyelids.
Rebecca kissed her hello and remarked on how glam she was looking.
“So, what’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” Rose said casually. “I just felt like giving the outfit an airing, that’s all.”
Rebecca handed her the Boots bag, said she was sorry that she had to dash and that she’d catch up with her at the weekend.
“But you can’t go,” Rose insisted. “You only just got here. Come in. Sit down. Have a cup of tea.”
“But I can’t. I’m meeting some friends for dinner and I’m already late.” She didn’t dare say she had a date. Rose’s interrogation would be endless.
“Five minutes, that’s all I ask. What difference can five minutes make? I hardly get to see you these days.”
“But I came for dinner four days ago.”
Rose pulled one of her lonely neglected old woman faces.
“OK. Five minutes,” Rebecca said firmly.
She followed Rose into the kitchen and sat down at the old blue Formica table. Rose started faffing around making tea. Every so often she would stop to peer shortsightedly at the kitchen clock.
“You sure you’re not expecting somebody?” Rebecca asked.
“Who should I be expecting?” Rose sounded distinctly edgy, Rebecca thought.
“Dunno. It’s just that you keep checking the clock.”
Rose’s tea making seemed to take forever. Rebecca kept expecting her to bring up the subject of Stan and Bernadette, but she didn’t. Clearly Stan hadn’t plucked up the courage to tell her yet.
Once she’d poured the tea, she couldn’t find the biscuits.
“Gran, I don’t need biscuits. I’m going out to dinner. Look, I really should get going.”
“No, you can’t go.” The edginess had turned to pure anxiety. She fell theatrically onto a kitchen chair. “Ooh,” she said, breathing hard and tapping her chest, “I just went a bit dizzy there for a second. Darling, do you think you could fetch me my pills and a glass of water?”
“’Course,” Rebecca said, jumping up. She went over to the sink
and picked up a glass from the draining board.
“Gran, you OK?”
Rose was rubbing her forehead. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“But I am worried. Perhaps I should phone the doctor.”
“No, no, it’s nothing. It’ll pass as soon as I’ve taken my tablets.”
Rebecca handed her the box of pills and the glass of water. Rose pushed two tablets out of the foil and knocked them back.
Just then the front doorbell rang. As if by magic, the tension left Rose’s face and her mouth turned smileward.
“Oh,” she said, “that must be Warren. He’s Esther’s nephew. The picture’s gone fuzzy on my PC. She said she might send him round to take a look at it. Apparently he’s a wiz with computers. Lovely boy. Oxford degree. Very brainy.”
As she toddled off on her short bandy legs to answer the door, Rebecca tried Max’s mobile again. Still no answer. She left another message. After two or three minutes, Rose returned.
“Look, Gran, I’m really sorry, but I just have to go. I’ve got to have a shower and get changed.”
“OK, but you must come and say hello to Warren. He’s in the living room with the computer.” She cleared her throat. “Be rude not to.”
“All right, but it’ll have to be a very quick hello and good-bye.”
“Hi.” Rebecca waved tentatively from the doorway. “I’m Rebecca, Rose’s granddaughter.”
Rose pushed her so hard from behind that she nearly fell into the living room. She turned round. Rose was making shooing motions with her arms, urging her granddaughter farther into the room.
The penny finally dropped inside Rebecca’s head. She turned to glare at Rose, who was still busy shooing and pretending not to notice.
Warren stood up. He was tall and stooping, with masses of wiry ginger hair.
He gave her a nervous smile and introduced himself. Rebecca couldn’t work out if he had been expecting to meet her or had been set up, too.
“Why don’t I take your coat,” Rose said.
Underneath he was wearing a red Alan Partridge V-neck with snowflakes all over it.
“Your grandmother tells me you’re a journalist,” he ventured.
She nodded. “What about you?”
She was guessing something in environmental health.
“Local government,” he said.
“Which department?”
“Planning and urban traffic calming.”
She smiled to herself. OK, not quite environmental health, but it wasn’t far off.
“Oh, right. Must be interesting. You working on anything in particular at the moment?”
“I’ll say he is,” Rose butted in eagerly. “Warren’s planning a whole new road system for the center of Chalfont D’Arcy, aren’t you, Warren?”
“Yes. But it’s all a bit hush-hush at the moment.” He tapped the side of his large, pointy nose and began rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I’m working on this neotraditionalist road-growth paradigm based on grid street networks. Wouldn’t want the press getting hold of it.”
“God, no,” Rebecca said. “I mean the Sun would seize on something like that in a flash. Anyway, it was great to have met you, but I really must get going.”
“But I’ve made a lovely supper,” Rose pleaded. “Look at the table. Look at all the trouble I’ve gone to. It would be a crime to waste it.”
Rebecca turned toward the dining room table at the far end of Rose’s through lounge. Her grandmother couldn’t have found room for another platter or serving bowl if she’d tried.
“It’s your favorite,” Rose said to Rebecca. “Poached salmon. I even got those baby corn you like.” She turned to Warren, who was still rocking and looking stupid. “Ever since she was three years old, she’s had a thing for baby corn.”
“But, Gran, I have to go …” Rebecca whispered, giving her grandmother a how-could-you-do-this-to-me? scowl.
Rose responded by letting out a soft moan. Then she closed her eyes and began rubbing her forehead. “Oooh, the pain.” She gripped the back of the sofa and started to wobble.
Much as she adored Grandma Rose, Rebecca also knew she could be as manipulative as a two-year-old when she wanted something.
“Sorry, Warren,” Rose said in a small, breathless voice, “you’ll have to excuse me. Sometimes my blood pressure shoots up. The doctor says that at my age and with my blood vessel history, I can’t rule out the possibility of a stroke.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. She was almost 100 percent certain Rose was putting on an act, but she couldn’t be sure. She put her arm round her shoulders and gently guided her to the armchair.
“All right, Gran.” Rebecca smiled, realizing she had no choice but to stay and keep an eye on her. “Of course I’ll stay for dinner. Just let me make a quick call.”
She went out into the hall and dialed Max’s mobile. Once again all she got was his voice mail. She explained about Rose, left profuse apologies for standing him up and said she hoped they could arrange another date.
When she came back into the room, Rose was yakking away to Warren, nineteen to the dozen.
“Of course the doctor thinks I should change my diet—you know, start eating health foods—but I keep telling him that at my age I need all the preservatives I can get.” With that she began shaking with laughter.
“So, feeling a bit better, Gran?”
“Maybe a little. I think perhaps the pills have kicked in.” She tapped the photograph album sitting on her lap. “I was just showing Warren the picture of you when you were bridesmaid at your cousin Valerie’s wedding. Look, you’d just gotten your new braces.”
Rebecca gave Warren a weak smile.
“Now then, why don’t we all go and sit down,” Rose said.
As they made their way to the table, Rose gave a little tug on Rebecca’s fleece. “Couldn’t you have worn something a bit smarter?” she hissed.
“So, Warren,” Rebecca said, offering him a bread roll from the basket, “tell me all about this new road layout of yours.”
“Well,” he said, reaching for a roll, completely unaware that he was dragging his sleeve through the potato salad, “my plan is a reaction to the arterial-slash-collector road system we have at the moment, which essentially supports urban sprawl. You see, road networks don’t have to be like that. I mean, take Peninsular Charleston in South Carolina. There you have a perfect example of a vibrant, eclectic, profoundly inspiring urban village… .”
Even though she’d finished her column, Rebecca decided to go into the office the next morning. She had some research to do for a profile she was writing on some new girl band, which the Mail had commissioned. She could see no point staying at home and paying for phone calls when she could make them at the Vanguard for free. On top of that there was always the possibility—albeit unlikely—that a major investigative scoop would come her way.
When she arrived just after ten, there was no sign of Max. She guessed he’d gone off on a story. Her phone must have rung half a dozen times that morning. Each time—assuming it was Max—she’d snatched it off its cradle and purred a deep, sexy hi into the mouthpiece. The first time it was Rose phoning to find out what she thought of Warren.
“Very sweet, but not really my type,” Rebecca said diplomatically. She decided that getting cross about last night would only send Rose’s blood pressure up again.
“You know your problem, don’t you?” Rose said in a gently scolding tone. “You’re too fussy by half. Take my word for it—wait much longer for your boat to come in and you’ll find your jetty’s collapsed.”
The rest of the calls were from beauty company PRs looking for publicity for new products. The last one was from Mimi Frascatti at Mer de Rêves, who had been phoning every couple of days to try and persuade Rebecca to do an interview with the director of Mer de Rêves, Coco Dubonnet du Sauvignon.
Rebecca, who had about as much interest in Coco Dubonnet du Sauvignon and her doings as she did in those o
f Sven Goran Eriksson, had repeatedly made “I’ll mention it to the editor”–type noises and promised to get back to her. Of course she never did, which meant Mimi was forever on the phone nagging.
“Now, I even have a brilliant peg for the interview,” Mimi had trilled a few minutes ago. “Mer de Rêves is about to launch a new antiwrinkle cream—Revivessence. But unlike all the other wrinkle creams, this one really does work.”
“Right,” Rebecca said, with the same kind of enthusiasm with which she greeted her dental hygienist.
“No, honestly. It really does work. You see it contains this miracle ingredient, which dissolves wrinkles in a matter of days—completely organic, of course. Unfortunately we can’t let you have a sample yet because it’s all deeply under wraps until the official launch. But we’d adore some prepublicity—you know a Hello!-type interview with Coco looking gorgeous, sipping Taittinger at her rustic gîte in the Périgord.”
Rebecca made the point, as tactfully as she could, that without a sample to try out on some willing guinea pigs, there really wasn’t much of a story.
“Right,” Mimi said, going into flounce mode, “I desperately want to give it to you as a world exclusive, but we have got Vogue and Elle snapping at our heels.”
“You must do what you think best,” Rebecca said, in little doubt that Mimi had already tried Vogue, Elle and very likely the Romford Recorder too and met with the same response.
She’d just gotten rid of Mimi when the phone rang again. Once more she tried the sexy voice, only to discover yet again a woman’s voice on the end of the line.
“Hello,” it said in an anxious nervous whisper, “you don’t know me. My name’s Wendy. I saw you at the Mer de Rêves party the other evening.”
A cold chill shot down Rebecca’s back. She knew at once it was the creepy woman who’d been following her.
“I tried to speak to you then,” she went on, “but I was too scared.”