Apocalipstick

by Sue Margolis

  Rebecca’s onion soup was equally divine. If Stan had been there, he would have said it was “like angels pissing on your tongue.”

  They’d just finished their first course when two particularly snooty-looking middle-aged women walked in. One had a gray chin-length bob that looked like it had been cut with the aid of a set square. She was dressed from head to toe in baggy black Yohji Yamamoto. The other one was wearing an ankle-length fur coat over a beige trouser suit. Poking out from under her arm was a yippy chihuahua.

  “Ah, cuuute!” Lipstick squealed. “Mind you, it looks a bit anorexic, even for a chihuahua.”

  “Probably lives on crudités and Evian,” Rebecca declared.

  La patronne clearly knew the pair and greeted them with double kisses. Not London or New York mwahhs, but proper puckered-lipped smackers on the cheek. She led them to a table, two down from Rebecca and Lipstick.

  “Look, she’s pointing in our direction,” Rebecca whispered. “I’m sure she’s apologizing for having to put them so close to us. God, they look really pissed off.”

  “Well, they’ll just have to get pissed on again,” Lipstick said with a shrug.

  Just then, the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern waiters reappeared to give their synchronized dome lifting, act two.

  The moment they’d exited, Rebecca’s face dropped like a mudslide.

  “What on earth’s that?” Lipstick asked, looking at Rebecca’s plate.

  “That,” Rebecca announced, “is steak tartare.”

  Lipstick poked it with her fork. “It’s raw,” she said. “I’d send it straight back if I were you.”

  “It’s meant to be raw,” Rebecca said. “That’s what steak tartare is—raw minced beef mixed with garlic and herbs. People adore it, but I’ve never quite been able to develop a taste for it.”

  Lipstick screwed up her nose. “Oh, Becks, I’m so sorry. I thought it was a piece of steak.”

  “No, it’s my fault,” Rebecca said. “I should have looked at the menu. I was so desperate for the loo, I wasn’t concentrating.”

  They decided to share Lipstick’s salmon and the chips. These had just arrived, crispy and golden and sans dome. The problem was Rebecca couldn’t face the embarrassment of letting Rosencrantz and Guildenstern see she hadn’t touched the beef. She forced herself to try a couple of mouthfuls but couldn’t get it down.

  “I know,” Lipstick said excitedly. “The dog. Put some meat on a napkin and leave it on the floor. I bet it comes to have a sniff around.”

  Looking anxiously to check nobody could see, Rebecca began forking up steak.

  They watched the dog’s nose start to twitch. Soon it was padding toward them. It was Lipstick who noticed the dog was dragging a tiny, string-handled carrier bag along the floor.

  “Oh, poor ikkle thing,” she whispered, picking up the pooch. She rubbed her nose against its wet snout, ignoring Rebecca’s eye rolling. “Did the naughty string tie itself round your paw, den?” She unwound the handle. The dog jumped onto the floor and made a beeline for the meat.

  “That’s it, you tuck in,” Lipstick said, patting its bony flank.

  “So, come on,” Rebecca said, “what exquisite little bauble is in the bag? Bound to be doggy related. A Lalique food bowl? A bottle of ‘Chanel pour Chien’?”

  Lipstick glanced round, placed the bag beside her on the banquette and took a peek. “Oh … my … God,” she said, “Talk about ironic. It’s only a jar of Mer de Rêves face cream.”

  “Which one?” Rebecca said.

  Lipstick opened the carrier again. “Revivessence—Antirides, Super Intensif,” she read. “Umm. That’s not one I’ve come across before.”

  Rebecca dropped the chip she was just about to put in her mouth. “Revivessence?” she said in a whispered shriek. “That’s it. That’s only bloody it.”

  “What is?”

  “That. In the bag.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “What, this? This is the stuff we’ve come to steal?”

  “Quick,” Rebecca said, hands shaking, “pass it to me. Under the table so’s nobody can see.”

  Lipstick passed it. Rebecca turned so that she had her back to the two women. Then she opened the bag and pulled out the jar with its trademark diamond-studded lid.

  “But it’s not on the market yet,” Lipstick said. “That’s why we’ve come to steal it.”

  Rebecca trailed her fingers over the glass diamonds and shrugged. “Maybe one of them works for the company or they know somebody on the inside. Quick, I need some kind of container with a lid.”

  “What?” Lipstick said. “You’re going to steal it?”

  “Not all of it. Just enough to give to a lab for analysis.”

  Lipstick went searching in her bag and came up with a tiny round plastic pot. She opened it and took out a pair of foam earplugs.

  “Sometimes Harrison sleeps on my bed and snores,” she explained. “It’s OK, they’re new. The box is perfectly clean.”

  By now Rebecca had unscrewed the lid on the jar of cream. She took the earplug container and, using her dessert spoon, scooped a dollop of the thick rose-scented glop into it.

  “This is just so brilliant,” she said, screwing the lid back on. “Now we don’t have to go to the prize giving. Let’s just pay the bill and get out of here. Then you, me and the cream can catch the next train home.”

  Rebecca was about to summon one of the waiters when the funereal quiet was ruptured by the two snooty women.

  “Salope,” Beige Woman cried.

  Rebecca and Lipstick turned to look, along with all the other startled diners.

  Yamamoto Woman’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “Salope! Salope! Salope!” Beige Woman came at her again.

  “What? What? What?” Lipstick whispered to Rebecca.

  “It means ‘dirty bitch.’”

  “Blimey.”

  The “salope” was followed by a list of insults, which Rebecca couldn’t even begin to translate. Against this tirade the woman in black started crying.

  “Je vous déteste,” Beige Woman carried on furiously. “Toujours je vous ai detestée.”

  Around the restaurant people were busy exchanging embarrassed glances. Rebecca sat glued to the two women, translating for Lipstick as best she could. “Apparently she’s always hated her. Now she’s saying how much she hates her clothes, her house, her dog and her children. Oh, my God, now she’s telling her that her husband’s got a gay lover.”

  Yamamoto Woman’s eyes were bulging out of her head. She threw some notes down on the table, got up and headed for the door. The other woman began rummaging irritably for her purse, clearly intending to do the same. It was only when she stood up that she realized she didn’t have her dog. She bent down and lifted the edge of the tablecloth.

  “Hortense,” she cried, her voice softening. “Hortense, ma petitie, ou es tu? Viens ici, bébé. Viens ici.”

  Hearing the voice, Hortense went scampering off toward her owner. The woman picked her up, admonished her gently and nuzzled her. Holding the dog under one arm, she began gathering up her bags.

  “Oh là là, ma crème!” she gasped, clearly panic-stricken. “Ou est ma crème?”

  “Ici, madame,” Rebecca trilled.

  The woman came tearing across, snatched the cream from Rebecca and immediately began accusing both of the women of trying to steal it. Rebecca did her best to explain that the dog had brought it over, but her usually excellent French hadn’t just deserted her, it had abandoned her and gone off to join the Foreign Legion. Lipstick carried on in her best Franglais.

  “Non, non. Calmez-vous down, madame. It’s not what you pensez. Nous do not want to steal votre crème.” She turned to Rebecca. “This French lark’s easy. Pièce de gâteau.”

  By now la patronne and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had come over to investigate the brouhaha. Beige Woman demanded to know why they had allowed English prostitutes into the restaurant. Then she turn
ed back to Rebecca and Lipstick.

  “Zee Engleesh women are all whores and thieves,” she shouted, sending gobbets of spittle flying onto Rebecca’s face. “And your men, wiz their earrings and shaved ’eads—ils sont barbarians, hooligans, philistines. Go back home to your stinking country with eets turnips and ze queen wiz ze face like an ’orse.”

  Then she turned and teetered off toward the door, glaring at la patronne as she went.

  At that moment la patronne rushed across and offered her profound apologies. “Pleese forgeev this. These women, zey are all crazy lately.”

  “So there have been other incidents like this?” Rebecca said.

  “Mais, oui. Not here, but at other places—gallery openings, at the new Tracey Emin exhibition at the Pompidou. Then at the opéra last week, in ze middle of ze Fledermaus two women zey nearly kill each other. It is la cocaïne, n’est-ce pas?”

  Gradually everybody calmed down and turned back to their food.

  Rosencrantz, or it could have been Guildenstern, came over with a bottle of champagne. “On zee ’ouse,” he said.

  Rebecca said it was very kind, but they had a train to catch and could they just have the bill.

  While they waited, Rebecca’s mind went back to the Lady Axminster piece in Dempster. She remembered the photograph. She was positive there had been a Mer de Rêves jar lying on the floor. And in that edition of Watching You, Watching Me, the one when Lucretia confessed to wanting to be taken from behind by Prince Charles, hadn’t she been scooping cream from the distinctive jar?

  “Oh, my God,” she said eventually. “It’s not cocaine that’s been sending these woman doolally, it’s face cream.”

  “What?” Lipstick shot back.

  She reminded her about Lucretia Coffin Mott.

  “Then there was this piece in Dempster.” She explained. “Each time, Mer de Rêves has been the common factor. I think this mystery chemical Wendy was talking about is affecting their brains.”

  Lipstick gave a doubtful frown. “Oh, come on,” Lipstick said, laughing. “I can imagine it damaging the skin—causing some dreadful allergic reaction, but the idea of it sending them bananas … it’s a bit …” She sat trying to conjure up an appropriate metaphor. “It’s a bit Batman, isn’t it?”

  “Batman,” Rebecca repeated.

  “Yeah. I saw this episode once where the Joker drugs the dough at the Oreo cookie factory, and the entire population of Gotham City falls asleep and he goes round stealing their money. Of course, the mayor is unaffected because he’s allergic to Oreos. He tells Batman and Robin what’s been happening and—”

  “What are you saying?” Rebecca cut across her. “That we should bring the caped crusaders in on the Mer de Rêves case? It’s a thought, but Adam West must be seventy by now. Don’t you think he might have lost his crime-fighting edge a bit?”

  “Ha, ha. All I’m trying to say is that your theory is a bit far-fetched.”

  “Well,” Rebecca said with a determined expression, “I think it’s pretty near-fetched actually.”

  They stood outside looking at the map, trying to work the way to the nearest Metro, Lipstick singing: “Dinna, dinna, dinna, dinna—dinna, dinna dinna, dinna—BATMAN!”

  “OK, this way,” Rebecca said eventually, “toward the church.”

  “You sure you’ve got the cream?” Lipstick said.

  “Yeah, it’s in my pocket.”

  She put her hand inside her jacket, just to check. It was empty. She tried the other pocket.

  “Omigod, it’s not there.”

  Lipstick told her to calm down and try her bag. It wasn’t there either.

  “Maybe I left it on the table.”

  Leaving Lipstick on the pavement Rebecca charged back into the restaurant. Unaware of the stares, she ran back to where they’d been sitting. She looked on the seats, the table. She even got down on her knees and crawled underneath. Nothing.

  One of the waiters came over.

  “Excusez moi,” Rebecca said, getting back onto her feet, “est-ce que vous avez trouvé un petit …” Shit, what was the word for container? Boîte was the best she could come up with. “Oui, est-ce que vous avez trouvé une petite boîte?”

  “Une boîte? Non, nous n’avons rien trouvé.”

  A moment later she was back outside.

  “OK,” she said, running her fingers through her hair, “there’s nothing for it. Back to the original plan. We’ll just have to go to the awards ceremony. We should be OK. It doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes.”

  The pair consulted the map again and started walking.

  They’d been going a couple of minutes when Lipstick noticed the shop sign, complete with gilt horse’s head, on the other side of the street.

  “Ooh, look, a horse butcher. Quick, we’ve just about got time.”

  “Don’t be daft,” Rebecca screeched, “we can’t walk into Mers de Rêves carrying a horse’s willy.”

  But Lipstick was already crossing the road. By the time Rebecca caught up with her she was inside the shop, standing at the counter.

  “Ah, bonjour, monsieur,” she was saying to the butcher, “avez-vous un pénis de cheval?”

  15

  So you really reckon,” Lipstick said breathlessly, trying to keep pace with Rebecca, who was somehow managing to stride out despite the stilettos and tight skirt, “that when he invited me into the back, it wasn’t his horses’ willies he was going to show me?”

  “For the umpteenth time, French butchers do not sell horses’ willies. He could see how you were dressed. He thought you were doing business.”

  Rebecca glanced down at the map. “Next left,” she said. “God, we are so late.”

  After leaving the restaurant, they’d walked for ten minutes in the wrong direction before realizing they were reading the map upside down.

  “OK, this is it.”

  With its smooth white stone thirties façade and tall arched windows in bronze frames, the Mer de Rêves building was by far the most elegant and imposing in the street. They pushed open the even taller arched door and stepped into a perfectly preserved Art Deco interior. The floor and walls were cream polished marble. There was a sweeping Fred and Ginger staircase with a chrome balustrade and pink frosted lights for newels. Lipstick said the place looked like the Stoke Newington Odeon before they turned it into a ten-screen multiplex.

  The girl at the reception desk was wearing a sludge-colored woolen sack thing with an asymmetric neck. Her black hair, which was streaked with scarlet Crazy Colour, had been wound into dozens of worm cast curls. Each was held in place next to her scalp by a miniature wooden clothes peg with a plastic rose on top.

  “Bonjour, mesdames?” she said with a perky smile.

  Rebecca explained they were there for the awards ceremony.

  “Ah, you are a leetle late.”

  Rebecca explained about the upside-down map.

  “Well,” the girl said, “zee others are upstairs listening to Coco’s speech of welcome. Zey will come down in about five minutes on the way to ze conference room for ze champagne reception. You can join zem zen.”

  She invited them to take a seat in one of the leather and walnut armchairs.

  Rebecca picked up a copy of French Vogue, flicked through it for a few seconds and put it down again. “I’m getting the jitters again,” she said.

  “Come on, we’ll be fine,” Lipstick soothed. She offered Rebecca a mint. Rebecca shook her head and said she felt too sick. Lipstick took one for herself and sat chewing and looking about the place. After a bit she leaned forward and tapped Rebecca on the knee.

  “What’s that, then?”

  Rebecca looked up. “What?”

  “That. Over there at the bottom of the staircase.”

  Lipstick nodded toward a square table made of pink mirrored glass, supported by glass Doric-columned legs. On it stood a very large glass dome—the kind of thing that might sit on a grand mantelpiece, covering an antique clock or a much-trea
sured stuffed badger.

  By now Lipstick was leaning forward in her chair, squinting.

  “It can’t be,” she said.

  “What can’t be what?”

  “Under the glass—I think it’s a pot of Mer de Rêves cream.”

  “And this is the Mer de Rêves office,” Rebecca came back. “What would you expect to find on display—a nice piece of halibut?”

  “But suppose it’s—you know—the Revivessence?”

  “Don’t be daft. They wouldn’t leave a pot of the new stuff out for one of their rivals to nick.”

  Lipstick shrugged. “They might,” she whispered. “Come on, let’s take a look.” She stood up and wiggled her skirt down to her lower thighs.

  The deliberate, self-conscious saunters that followed made them look like a couple of incompetent baddies from a vintage cops-and-robbers caper.

  Sitting under the dome, its diamond-encrusted lid cleverly illuminated by the light from the pink frosted newels, was a jar of Revivessence.

  “Bloody hell,” Rebecca said.

  “I knew that white feather meant something,” Lipstick said. “I just knew it.”

  They stood staring at the cream, their noses virtually pressed against the glass. Just then a uniformed security guard approached. He was a beefy, nightclub bouncer type. Definitely more Peckham than Paris, Rebecca thought.

  “Il est interdit de toucher,” he said in a languid, un–security guard sort of a way. He adjusted his hat on his close-cropped, mousy-colored head.

  “Can’t touch,” Rebecca translated.

  “Oh, pardon, excusez-nous,” Lipstick said.

  “Hey … pas de problème.” The guard smiled. Then he started humming Bob Marley’s Buffalo Soldier.

  As the guard took up his position next to the dome, they went back to their seats.

  “So near and yet so far,” Lipstick mused wistfully, as if she were stating a proposition from Hegel. “I mean, the cream’s sitting here right in front of us and we’ve got to go searching for more in the basement.”

  Rebecca grinned. “No, we haven’t,” she whispered. “Come on, you remember our plan—the reason we dressed up in these daft outfits. All you have to do is chat up the guard for a few minutes. Then you make out you’ve got something in your eye. You ask him if he can help get it out. You take him to the window and while he’s doing the business with a sparkling white handkerchief, I lift up the dome, nick the cream and we do a runner.”