by Sue Margolis
“S’pose there’s an alarm?”
“If there is we grab the cream and make a run for it.”
“OK, and what about the girl at the desk?”
“Bugger,” Rebecca muttered. “I’d forgotten about her.”
Then, as if by magic, two monster-arsed American tourists—a man and a woman—walked in asking for directions to “Nodah Daime.”
“Ah, Notre Dame, oui,” the receptionist trilled. “Come wiz me. I will direct you to ze Metro.”
She stood up and led the arses to the door.
Lipstick looked at Rebecca. “The angels sent them,” she said. “What else can it be?”
“Whatever.” Rebecca shrugged. “Right on your bike, Erin. Coco Dubonnet is going to be here any moment.”
Lipstick took off her coat and undid another button of the red blouse. “God,” she said, swallowing hard. “What am I going to say to him?”
“I don’t know. You’ll think of something.” Rebecca couldn’t believe that Lipstick, of all people, was getting nervous about chatting up a bloke.
Lipstick ran her tongue over her lips, threw her hair forward, then back, and set off toward the table—a definite Erin wiggle in her walk. A second later she stopped and turned, an anxious expression on her face. “Stan will forgive me for flirting with another man, won’t he?”
“Don’t worry,” Rebecca said, “I’ll explain.”
She dug Lipstick between the shoulder blades. Lipstick hesitated for another moment or two. Then she hoisted up her skirt and sashayed off again. Rebecca positioned herself nearby, pretending to be studying a particularly stunning arrangement of tropical flowers.
“Bonjour,” she heard Lipstick say to the guard, a definite hesitation in her voice. Then she put her hand in her jacket pocket. “Voulez-vous un Rolo?”
The guard looked round to check nobody was watching. As he took the Rolo he looked Lipstick up and down a couple of times, a definite leer on his lips.
“Yesss,” Rebecca murmured, spotting the leer as she peered between a couple of birds of paradise. “Yes.”
“Vous êtes anglaise?” he asked.
Lipstick nodded. His eyes were locked on her cleavage. Rebecca could see she was feeling uncomfortable.
“Come on, Lipstick,” Rebecca muttered, “what’s gotten into you? In the third year you used to snog anybody for a bite of their Marathon.”
Lipstick cleared her throat. “So,” she said to the guard. “Er, has anybody ever told you that vous êtes le spitting image of Grant Mitchell?”
He gave a confused frown. “Tante Michelle? Je n’ai pas une tante Michelle.”
“Non, non. Grant Mitchell. Il est un acteur dans EastEnders. C’est un opéra de savon que nous avons en Angleterre.”
By now Rebecca’s head was in her hands.
“Opéra de savon?” the guard said.
“Oui. Vous must avez les savons en France. Nous avons beaucoup—Emmerdale, Corrie, Brookside. Anyway, Grant etait married avec Tiffany, mais malheureusement, elle est morte. Run over by her father-in-law. C’est beaucoup, beaucoup tragique. Il habite en Spain maintenant, avec their little girl, Courtney—so he’s not actually in it anymore, as such. But his maman, Peggy, gets the occasional carte postale.”
“Oh, for Chrissake,” Rebecca murmured, “show him a bit of leg, drape yourself on him. Do something.”
“Je suis Pierre.”
“Bernadette.”
“Tu es très jolie, Bernadette,” he said. “Very pretty. Yes?”
“Merci.” Lipstick’s face had turned the same red as her blouse.
By now his body was virtually touching hers. He trailed his finger slowly over her cheek.
Right, Rebecca thought. At last they were getting somewhere.
She turned toward the door to check on the Americans. They were fiftyish at a guess, wearing identical denim jackets and jeans that were stretched taut over their blubber. The husband was asking the receptionist if there was a House of Pancakes near Nodah Daime.
At the same time she could hear Pierre asking Lipstick if she’d like to have dinner with him.
“Er, non. I don’t think so,” Lipstick shot back. “Je suis very busy.”
“But you ’ave to eat, non?” He stroked Lipstick’s cheek again. She flinched.
Rebecca gave a yelp of frustration from behind the flowers.
“So you are busy zees evening?” Pierre said dreamily.
“Oh, yes, I’m definitely busy. Très, très busy.”
Rebecca raked her fingers through her hair. They’d blown it. Lipstick had panicked and they’d lost their best chance of getting hold of the cream.
Outside the Americans were now fretting about foot-and-mouth disease.
“Back home in Fish Creek, Wisconsin—where the cheese comes from,” the wife was saying—“they told us to get to a hospital if we started getting blisters on our hands or foaming at the mouth. But apparently there’s not much they can do because pretty soon you go mad and die.”
The receptionist did her best to explain that it was the British, not the French, who’d had foot-and-mouth, that it was over now, humans couldn’t get it and anyway it didn’t send people mad. “You are confusing it wiz zee mad cow disease.”
The woman in particular didn’t seem convinced and began muttering about it being brought over on the Eurostar.
“But animals, zey do not use ze Eurostar.”
“Yes, they do,” the chap said, elbowing the receptionist in the ribs. “They’re called the Briddish.” Then he roared, long and loud. He laughed so hard, he was bent double.
“You know, that’s really funny, Murray,” his wife giggled. “Really funny.” She turned to the receptionist. “Back in Fish Creek, my husband is known for his wit. In the eighties, he won the Monterey Jack Wittiest Cheese Maker award, three years running.”
“And, you know, everything’s so expensive over there in England,” Murray went on. “When we left our hotel two days ago the guy on the desk said ‘Come back again’ and I said, ‘What for? To visit my money?’”
Murray could barely contain himself. He straightened, threw back his head and doubled over again. Up and down he went. Up and down. Finally, as he stood there slapping his thigh and shaking his rear like Baloo in The Jungle Book, a loud rip rent the air. The seat of his jeans had burst open down the middle to reveal a bare, quivering sumo bottom four feet across, covered in tufts of sweat-matted black hair.
“Mon Dieu!”
“Omigahd, Murray—your pants!”
“Son of a bitch! For crying out loud, Marcie, do something!”
Marcie handed him her street map, which he slapped to his rear.
“Pierre—vite!” the receptionist cried out to the security guard. “Ton veston.”
“Quoi?” Pierre said dozily, turning away from Lipstick.
“Ton veston. Ton veston,” the receptionist repeated.
Seeing what had happened to the American, Lipstick’s hand shot to her mouth. Then she started to giggle.
“I think she wants you to lend him your jacket,” she said to Pierre. “Ton veston—pour l’homme. Il a splitté his pantalons.”
“Quoi?”
“God, what are you on?” Lipstick said. “L’homme—là bas. His pantalons sont kaput.”
Pierre looked. Finally, the Euro dropped.
“Ah, oui,” he said. Slowly, he began taking off his jacket.
“So, your ’usband,” the receptionist said to Marcie, “’e like to go commando, non?”
Marcie reddened. “Oh, yes—always has.” She giggled. “He does it for me. I just find it so darned sexy knowing he’s buck naked under that denim.”
Pierre strolled over to the door, the receptionist yelling, “Vite, vite!”
“You know,” Lipstick said to Rebecca, who was standing beside her now, “when I was doing my beauty therapy training we were always taught that men never got cellulite. Shows how wrong you can be, doesn’t it? I mean, here it is, firs
thand evidence right in front of us that men get cellulite, just like women. Maybe I should write to somebody.”
“Brilliant idea,” Rebecca said. “Perhaps we should sit down and compose the letter right now. On the other hand, seeing as we’re standing alone in front of a jar of Revivessence, maybe we should steal that instead.”
“Oh, God. Shit. Sorry. Right.”
Just then they heard voices and footsteps on the stairs.
“Fuck,” Rebecca muttered, “it’s Coco Dubonnet and the prize-winners. You lift the glass, I’ll grab the cream.”
Gingerly, Lipstick touched the dome, testing to see if it was alarmed. Nothing.
“Brilliant,” Rebecca whispered. “Right, tilt it back.”
As Lipstick lifted the glass dome, Rebecca slid the jar into her handbag. As she closed it, she looked up to see a blonde thicket of English beauty salon managers coming down the stairs, dressed for a slightly upmarket hen night in Cheadle. Rebecca had never seen a picture of Coco, but she was renowned for monochrome, minimalist style and it was quite clear that she wasn’t here, among the Donatella knockoffs. Then from the first landing came the sound of a mobile ringing.
“Oui?” The woman’s voice echoed off the marble walls.
“Must be Coco,” Rebecca said. She looked up. All she could make out through the chrome balustrade was a straight gray bob and the back of a long black coat.
“Who cares? Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
“Ah, Madame N’Femkwe,” Coco continued, “c’est toujours un plaisir.”
“She’s the wife of that African dictator,” Rebecca said.
“Fine, whatever. Let’s go.” Lipstick pulled on her friend’s sleeve, but Rebecca was suddenly curious and refused to budge.
“You adore zee gel pour les yeux?” Coco chirruped. “Zee under-eye puffiness ’as completely gone? Magnifique. What did I tell you? Madame Gaddafy, she swear by eet… . Mais naturellement—of course I can let you have a free sample of our new crème. I will send eet by special courier tonight.”
“Probably go in the same batch as Mrs. Saddam’s depilatory cream,” Rebecca sneered.
“Whatever,” Lipstick said. “Now come on.”
As Rebecca turned to go, she saw Coco Dubonnet coming down the stairs. “Look! Look!” she whispered to Lipstick. “It’s the woman from the restaurant. The one who was insulted by her friend. She’s Coco Dubonnet.”
“OK, right. Brilliant. So what?”
“Well, it means she can’t know how harmful the cream is.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s been dishing it out to all her friends. She’d have to be an evil cow to do that, knowing it was dangerous. This all points to her executives pulling the wool over her eyes.”
“Look,” Lipstick said, utterly exasperated by now, “sorry as I am for her, do you think we can possibly get out of here now?”
They did another of their self-conscious saunters to the door. Murray now had Pierre’s jacket hanging down over his behind, the sleeves tucked into the waistband of his jeans. The receptionist was giving Marcie directions to the Monoprix.
“Your ’usband can wait in an empty office until you get back.”
As Rebecca and Lipstick approached, the receptionist turned round. “But, mesdames, you cannot possibly leave. Look, Coco, she is coming now. You must stay to collect your prize, non?”
“Already got it,” Rebecca said as she and Lipstick began to squeeze past Murray.
Pierre looked at Lipstick. “You ’ave my phone number, oui?” he whispered.
She nodded.
Outside they were met by a blast of icy wind and sheeting rain.
“I think the Metro’s this way,” Rebecca said. They linked arms. Heads bowed against the wind, they half ran, half tottered down the road, past all the big-name fashion houses. They’d been going for a few seconds when they heard Pierre shouting at them to come back.
“Shit, he’s after us.”
“Oh, God,” Lipstick squealed. “What do we do?”
“Just keep running.”
Suddenly Lipstick tripped on an uneven paving stone. Rebecca just managed to stop her falling.
“I can’t run in these,” Lipstick said as she stood, trying to get her breath. “I know, let’s go into Versace. It’s Italian. Maybe we could claim political asylum.”
“Funnee. Come on. You have to keep going.”
“Bernadette, give eet to me.” It was Pierre again. “Pleez, you give eet to me. I must have it.”
“Gawd,” Rebecca said between puffs, “sounds like he’s gaining on us.”
They turned round. In fact, Pierre hadn’t moved more than a few feet from the Mer de Rêves building.
They slowed to a brisk walk.
“Pleez.” It was Pierre again, arms outstretched, begging them.
Lipstick looked at Rebecca. “Do you think he’ll get the sack?”
Rebecca said it was possible.
“Sorry, Pierre,” Lipstick shouted. “I’m truly sorry, but you’ll understand soon.”
They watched him shrug and amble back inside.
They were booked on the seven o’clock Eurostar, but managed to get seats on the five. Rebecca just about had time to pop into a deli round the corner from the station and pick up two baguettes and a jar of bouillabaisse for Rose.
“I’m sorry I got cold feet about chatting up Pierre,” Lipstick said as the train pulled out of Gare du Nord. “I just kept thinking about Stan. I know it sounds pathetic, but it felt like I was cheating on him.”
“You really love him, don’t you?”
“You have no idea,” Lipstick said.
Rebecca squeezed her hand.
“Come on,” Lipstick said after a few moments, “I’m curious. Let’s take a proper look at the cream this time.”
Rebecca reached into her bag and put the jar on the seat, between them. She unscrewed the lid.
Lipstick blinked. “What on earth is that?” she said.
Rebecca prodded the dried planty bits with her finger. Then she picked up the jar and sniffed.
“That,” she said, “if I’m not mistaken, is Moroccan Super Skunk.”
16
Lipstick, petrified they would get caught at customs with Pierre’s stash, insisted on getting off the train briefly when it stopped at Calais to dump it in a waste bin.
Rebecca was feeling too fraught about the Mer de Rêves debacle to care what happened to the stuff. Plus she had no use for it, since she didn’t smoke dope. She’d done it a bit at university and when she first started working—enough to recognize Moroccan Super Skunk when she saw it—but it always gave her a double helping of the munchies with paranoia topping. She’d finally given up after downing three tubs of chocolate chip cookie dough in one sitting and spending the entire night accusing Ben and, to a lesser extent Jerry, too, of having it in for her.
She sat gazing out the window, waiting for Lipstick to get back, wondering what she was going to say to Charlie Holland. How could she have been so naive as to think there was cream in the Revivessence jar? If there had been, it would have been kept in a locked and alarmed display case. Pierre and the glass dome were simply for show. From now on, Charlie would never let her loose on anything more challenging than the beauty column. When Nat, the regular cosmetics columnist, came back after maternity leave, she wouldn’t even have that. As for getting serious work on other newspapers, she could kiss that good-bye once word got round about what a cock-up she’d made of the Mer de Rêves story. There was no doubt in Rebecca’s mind that her career as an investigative journalist was over.
She opened her bag and went rummaging for her packet of Wrigley’s. Chewing gum always helped her think.
“I know there’s some here,” she said irritably, pulling stuff out of her bag and putting it on the table. It was then that she saw it. The hole in the bag’s lining. First she pulled out the packet of Wrigley’s. Next came the earplug box.
“Omigod, it�
��s here!” she squealed. “I didn’t lose it.” She couldn’t have been more excited if George Clooney had walked up to her and announced he wanted her for his sex slave. She pressed the earplug container to her chest. “Thank you, God. Thank you. From now on I will dedicate my life to being a good, kind human being who thinks only of the needs of other people.” She paused. “Well, maybe not actually dedicate. I have a life. But you know what I mean.”
Just then Lipstick reappeared, back from her dumping mission.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve found,” Rebecca singsonged.
“What?”
“Ta-dah!” Rebecca cried, holding out the pot.
Lipstick’s face lit up. “My God, you found it. I can’t believe it. Where was it?”
She explained about it having gone through a hole in the lining of her bag.
“Right,” Lipstick said, “now for Chrissake put it away somewhere safe. Listen, I don’t mean to rain on your parade. But you’ll never guess who’s sitting back there.”
Rebecca frowned. “Who?”
“Max.”
“What?”
Lipstick nodded.
“You are kidding, right?”
“Wrong.”
“Shit.”
“And he’s got a woman with him. I assume it’s that Lorna Findlay, not that I’ve ever watched her program. And they seem pretty cozy together.”
“What am I going to do? He cannot see me in this getup.”
She’d been determined that the next time she saw Max, she would exude elegance and serenity; an air of easy, but aloof self-confidence, which said: “I am so over you and back in control of my life.” Assuming he’d be back in the office on Monday she’d even sent her powder-blue Whistles suit to the cleaners and booked a blow-dry with Camp David before work.
She looked down at her leopard-print blouse, the nasty micromini with the safety pins down the sides; felt her hair hanging round her face like soggy tagliatelle. The only thing she exuded right now was knackered hooker caught in a downpour and a faint whiff of stress-induced underarm BO.
“OK,” she said to Lipstick, “we have to move into another carriage.”