Apocalipstick

by Sue Margolis

  So that was it. She’d convinced Stan to give her money to expand the business. Now she would simply dump him and move on to the next unsuspecting sucker.

  “Must be costing a fortune,” Rebecca said pointedly.

  “Tell me about it. But you should have seen me with my bank manager last week. I was magnificent. I charmed the pants off him… .Didn’t I charm the pants off him, Hawwie? Putty in my hands he was. Anyway he said if I came up with half the money, the bank would probably lend me the rest. The only problem was the loan had to be approved at the bank’s head office. Then, would you believe it, just before you arrived the manager rang to say it had all gone through. So everything’s come together on the same day. I can hardly believe it.”

  “And the rest of the money—where’s that coming from?”

  “Oh, that’s not a problem. I’ve got some savings and my gran died last year and left me a fair bit.” She paused. “I know I haven’t shown it, but the last few weeks have been pretty tense. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had my oldest friend to talk to, in Australia.”

  “You have a best friend in Australia?” Rebecca said, swallowing hard. That would explain the late-night calls.

  “Yes, Mandy. Can’t believe I haven’t mentioned her. Lives in Brisbane with a what d’you call it … a pederast.”

  “A pederast? Your best friend is married to a pederast?”

  “Oh, maybe that’s not it. But it’s definitely ped something.”

  Rebecca thought for a moment. “You don’t mean a podiatrist, do you?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Anyway I’ve been discussing everything with her—usually in the middle of the night because it’s the only time I can get her. Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  “Good God, no,” Rebecca said, laughing too loudly. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Anyway,” Lipstick went on, “I haven’t seen her in years because she could never afford the fare back home, but her cake-making business is really picking up, so we’ve decided to meet up in the summer. We thought somewhere a bit unusual, maybe. I’ve always fancied Brazil.”

  “So, Dad isn’t involved in the business expansion?”

  “Stan? Absolutely not. Listen, Becks, when your father asked me to marry him I made sure he understood one thing. I have my own money and I make my own way. I’ve never been a kept woman and I’ve no intention of becoming one now.”

  Just then the phone went on the reception desk.

  “Hiya,” Lipstick said. She covered up the mouthpiece. “It’s your dad,” she mouthed to Rebecca.

  So he hadn’t had an accident, thank God.

  “Says he’s been wandering round bookshops in Sheffield all afternoon looking for more bizarre titles.”

  “Say hi from me and ask him if he found any,” Rebecca said.

  Lipstick asked and then burst out laughing. “Two,” she came back. “Truncheons, Their Romance and Reality and What to Say When You Talk to Yourself.”

  “Brilliant,” Rebecca said, moving over to the window to give Lipstick some privacy.

  By now she was consumed with guilt. Stan trusted Lipstick: why hadn’t she been able to do the same? There was no doubt in her mind that her chances of being reincarnated as Jennifer Aniston had been well and truly dashed. The best she could hope for was to be brought back as one of Bloody Lorna’s anal warts.

  Lipstick told Stan she missed him and loved him and put down the phone.

  “So, was that all you wanted to talk about?” she said to Rebecca. “You looked a bit stressed when you came in.”

  “I know. Sorry. It’s Max. He’s dumped me for Bloody Lorna.”

  “Oh, Becks, I’m really sorry.” She put her arms round Rebecca and hugged her. Harrison, trapped between the two bodies, started to yelp.

  “There you are, even Hawwie’s upset. Aren’t you, baby?” She chucked him under the chin. Then she looked back at Rebecca and smiled. “I’ve got some news that’ll cheer you up. The Mer de Rêves people have brought forward the date for the awards ceremony.” She reached into her overall pocket and with a dramatic flourish produced two first-class Eurostar tickets.

  “They sent these. We’re off on Friday.”

  “Ooh, formidable!” Rebecca cried in her best French accent.

  “No,” Lipstick said, frowning. “They’re not for anybody else. They really are for us.”

  14

  … and you know what I’d love? Some cock-a-leekie soup.”

  “Hang on, Gran,” Rebecca said, switching her mobile to her other ear. “Let me get this straight. You want me to bring you back cock-a-leekie soup? From France?”

  Rebecca had been sitting drinking coffee in the Eurostar departure lounge at Waterloo—Lipstick had gone for a pee—when Rose rang to wish them bon voyage.

  “What’s wrong with that?” her grandmother came back. “But don’t go mad. It’s heavy. A couple of tins will do.”

  “But it’s not French.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Cock-a-leekie soup.”

  “Don’t be daft. How can it not be French?”

  “Because it’s Scottish.”

  “Scottish,” Rose mocked, laughing. “Didn’t they teach you any French at school? Look, cock’s French for chicken. Coq au vin is chicken in wine. Cock-a-leekie is chicken in leeks. Lez leekies. I mean, if that doesn’t sound French I don’t know what does. All you can get here is the Baxters version, but I’ve always meant to try the real thing.”

  Rebecca sighed. Seeing there was no way she was going to convince Rose that cock-a-leekie soup wasn’t French, she decided to give up trying. When she got back from Paris she would simply say the workers at the cock-a-leekie plant were en grève and attempt to placate her with a jar of bouillabaisse.

  “And a couple of French sticks would be nice,” Rose continued.

  Rebecca made the point that it was a waste of time buying baguettes since there were so many bakers in London these days that made wonderful French bread. “And it’ll be stale by the time I get it home.”

  “I can freshen it up in the oven,” her grandmother insisted. “If you ask me, French bread from France still tastes more authentic. But if you can’t be bothered… .”

  “No, it’s OK,” Rebecca said kindly. “I don’t mind.”

  She did really. Nursing a baguette home on the train would be a total pain in the arse. On top of that, all the other passengers would think she was some unworldly Eiffel-tower-snow-dome-buying McPleb who’d never eaten French bread before and had been so overwhelmed by the taste and sophistication that she was taking it home for all her McPleb friends to try. Then she’d be forced to have very loud pretend conversations on her mobile, in her best A-level French—about charcuterie and Jacques Derrida’s theory of deconstructionism—to prove how utterly au courant she really was with French culture. Maybe it would be a good idea to have a bottle of absinthe sticking out of her bag as well, she thought, to shove the point home.

  “So,” Rose said. “I heard about what happened with you and Max. Your dad told me. I’m so sorry, sweetie.” She paused. “Still, you have to be positive. There are plenty more poissons in the mer. You never know, you might come back with a gorgeous Frenchman. Like that Julio Iglesias chappie. Bit old for you, maybe, but I think he’s lovely.”

  “But Julio Iglesias is Spani—” Gawd. What was the point? “Yeah, you never know. Maybe I will.”

  “You loved Max, didn’t you?” Rose said gently.

  Rebecca closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said, swallowing in an attempt to get rid of the lump in her throat. “Yes, I did.”

  “I take it he hasn’t been in touch?”

  “He’s phoned a few times, but when I see his number come up I ignore it. Look, I really have to go. They’ll be announcing our train in a sec.”

  Rose said she loved her and told her to have a wonderful day shopping. (Rebecca hadn’t revealed the real reason they were going to Paris on the grounds that Rose would have been scar
ed witless.)

  “We will,” she said. “Love you too.”

  As Rebecca was putting her phone back in her bag, Lipstick reappeared and sat back down. She was thumbing through the French dictionary she’d bought for the trip.

  “What you looking up?” Rebecca said.

  “The French for penis.”

  “Fair enough,” Rebecca said casually, as if Lipstick had said she was looking up the French for umbrella. She picked up the copy of the Independent she’d just bought and started reading.

  “It’s for Harrison,” Lipstick went on. “I can’t go all the way to France without bringing him back a little pressie.”

  “And you thought a penis would make the perfect gift,” Rebecca said, without looking up from the paper. “I didn’t realize he needed a new one. So what are you thinking? Dior? Balenciaga? Comme des Garçons?”

  But Lipstick was too busy concentrating and hadn’t heard her. “Oh, here it is. Le pénis. That’s easy enough. Now, then, what’s the French for horse butcher?”

  Lipstick began flicking through the pages again.

  “Boucherie chevaline,” Rebecca said vaguely. Then, coming out from behind the newspaper: “Oh, God. Not more bloody horse meat.”

  “It’s just that it’s so easy to get out there and one of my clients told me that in France dried horses’ willies are a really popular doggy treat.”

  Rebecca stared at her in disbelief, then burst out laughing. “I think she may have been having you on.”

  “No, it’s true. Apparently they’re full of vitamins and iron.”

  “Yeah, right,” Rebecca came back, still giggling. “Well, I dare you to go into a boucherie chevaline and ask for a horse’s willy.”

  They arrived at Gare du Nord just before one. As they crossed the concourse, dodging a large yellowish puddle, Lipstick began sniffing the air. “You know that smell gets me every time,” she said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Rebecca replied wistfully. She inhaled deeply. “Suddenly you’re transported back to some little left-bank bar in the fifties, and there’s André Gide and Jean-Paul Sartre debating some moot philosophical point or other over a bottle of Pastis. Then in walks Picasso, arm in arm with Simone de Beauvoir.”

  Lipstick looked confused. “Funny,” she came back. “It never has that effect on me. All I know is, it’s very different from our smell.”

  “That’s because they use different tobacco,” Rebecca explained.

  “Would that affect it, then? I never thought of that.”

  “Definitely. What else could it be?”

  “I dunno,” Lipstick mused. “I’ve often wondered if it’s got something to do with all the wine they drink. I thought that over the centuries maybe their kidneys had evolved differently from ours. You get the same smell in Spain and Italy. They’re heavy wine drinkers, too. But in America it’s the same as ours. They’re more into beer, like us. I’ve made quite a study of it over the years.”

  Rebecca blinked. “We’re not talking about French cigarettes, are we?” she said.

  “Cigarettes?” Lipstick replied. “No, I’m talking about how French stale pissy smell is totally different from Brit stale pissy smell.”

  Since the awards ceremony didn’t start until three, they had booked lunch at a Michelin-starred restaurant a few streets away from the Mer de Rêves offices on rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. Lipstick had made it clear she thought it was far too expensive, but Rebecca had dismissed her objection on the grounds that a) the Vanguard was picking up the tab and b) they were about to embark on a highly dangerous mission, which if it went wrong could mean their being thrown in the Bastille for fifty years and the least they deserved was a decent lunch.

  They decided to take a cab. Their grumpy, monosyllabic driver, who had clearly graduated avec honneurs from the misérablist school of French taxi driving, spent the journey swearing under his breath and driving as though he were auditioning for a part in Wacky Races. They assumed he’d been hoping to pick up a fare who wanted to go to the French equivalent of Newport Pagnell and was pissed off they only wanted to be taken to the eighth arrondissement.

  “I hope you didn’t bloody tip him,” Lipstick said as he screeched off.

  “I did, but only one euro. I told him he should be thankful for small mercis.”

  La Cloche d’Or was set in a row of haughty white buildings with chichi wrought-iron balconies and canopies. Along with the A-list restaurants and boutiques, they housed exquisite antique shops, chocolatiers and parfumeries, each interior more intimidatingly rococo than the last.

  As they walked toward the door, a wondrously coutured woman in her sixties swanned by.

  “Look,” Rebecca whispered, “even her eye bags are Prada. God, I wish you hadn’t made us dress up in all this gear. We look like we escaped from a brothel in Tirana.”

  She was referring to their Erin Brockovich outfits. Just when Rebecca had thought Lipstick had forgotten all about her mad plan for them to “dress the part” for their sleuthing expedition, she’d arrived home last night with two PVC bomber jackets (almost new from the Oxfam shop round the corner) and two plastic carrier bags. One of these she’d handed to Rebecca. It contained a see-through leopard-print blouse, a cheap black satin miniskirt with a Liz Hurley safety pin thing going on down each of the side seams and impossibly high stilettos. The other bag contained Lipstick’s outfit, which was similarly Kings Cross at midnight, only in red. At first Rebecca had categorically refused to wear her outfit, but Lipstick had gone on and on about how much she wanted to act out her Erin fantasy.

  “And you never know, a bit of leg and cleavage might come in handy for softening up some security guard at Mer de Rêves.”

  Rebecca had grunted and finally given in.

  The restaurant’s faded maroon velvet drapes and matching banquettes were perfectly accessorized by the formal, almost reverential atmosphere.

  “Gawd,” Lipstick whispered, “has this lot come to eat lunch or pay it their last respects?”

  They stood there, desperately trying to control their giggles.

  Suddenly la patronne appeared from behind a gargantuan vase of white lilies, sitting on the bar. “Bonjour, mesdames,” she sang, offering them an obsequious smile. She was bulky. Matronly. In a plain navy woolen shift with buttons down the front. An Hermès scarf was tied loosely at her neck. It took her a moment or two to take in what they were wearing. Suddenly the smile froze on her face and her entire body stiffened. Without offering to take their jackets, she beckoned one of the waiters and whispered into his ear. A few moments later he was leading them to their table.

  “In the corner, right next to the bleeding lavabos,” Rebecca hissed. “She thinks we’re on the bloody game.”

  Lipstick told her to stop overreacting and ordered two glasses of champagne. “You’re just nervous about this afternoon. You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to drink.”

  Rebecca smiled and admitted she was beginning to feel a bit scared. “I mean, what if they catch us trying to steal the cream? Tomorrow we could be up before some French judge, charged with attempted robbery.”

  Lipstick reached across the table and took Rebecca’s hand. “It’s going to be fine,” she soothed. “I promise.”

  When Rebecca asked her how she knew, she said she’d had a sign that morning.

  “What sort of a sign?”

  “It was amazing. This white feather came floating down in front of me. Just appeared out of nowhere. I’ve been reading this book on angels and apparently a white feather is a sign that your guardian angel is looking after you and everything’s going to be OK.”

  “What, and it materialized just like that—from nowhere?”

  Lipstick nodded. “From nowhere.”

  “What were you doing?” Rebecca asked.

  “Nothing. I was in the bedroom, just plumping up the pillows.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, observing the groups of snooty women like Prada Eyebag, the somber gray-s
uited businessmen lunching decorously with their girlfriends, the sycophantic waiters delivering their flowery lectures about the foie gras and the lapin.

  “And just look at those two biddies over there,” Lipstick giggled. “I hope I’m still coming out to eat in posh restaurants when I’m that old.”

  Rebecca looked. A pair of shrunken old ladies with faces like car tires were sharing a banquette by the window. Neither spoke as they slowly and meticulously scraped their fish from its bones.

  Lipstick picked up the giant brown leather menu. “I can’t understand any of this,” she said. “What’s that?”

  “Andouillette avec bulots? It’s sausage made from pig’s offal with whelks.”

  Lipstick winced. “What about this?”

  “Cervelles? That’s brains.”

  “I think I’ll just have a green salad followed by the salmon cutlet.”

  Rebecca said she’d have the onion soup to start and would think about her main course while she went to the loo. She stood up.

  “Ooh, look,” Lipstick said. “What about a steak? Can’t go wrong with a nice French filet steak. Have some chips with it and we can share them.”

  “OK, sounds great,” Rebecca said, “order me that. Can you manage?”

  “No problem. I’ll just point.”

  Exactly as Lipstick had predicted, the moment the champagne kicked in, Rebecca started to relax. As she sat spreading her roll with the most delicious Normandy butter, she realized she was rather enjoying herself. She had finished the bread and had resorted to eating lumps of butter off her knife, when two waiters approached their table. Each was carrying a plate covered by a huge silver dome. These were placed, with great solemnity, in front of the two women. Then, with a magnificently camp flourish, and at precisely the same second, the domes were lifted. In perfect unison, the waiters wished them bon appétit and retreated. They had another fit of the giggles and Lipstick said she felt like the queen.

  “Wow, just taste this vinaigrette,” Lipstick said, inviting Rebecca to try the salad.

  Rebecca stabbed some leaves with her fork. The dressing was tangy, slightly sweet and heavy with garlic and mustard. Truly magnificent.