Apocalipstick

by Sue Margolis

  Lipstick said she had to be joking. It was Friday evening and the train was packed.

  “Then we need some kind of disguise.”

  Lipstick’s eyes widened. “Ooh, ooh,” she squealed. “I know, chadors. I saw a whole thing about them on the Discovery Channel.”

  “Brilliant,” Rebecca said. “I’ll ask one of the stewards, shall I? I’m sure that along with the miniature packs of hickory roasted peanuts and hot towels, they always carry an emergency supply of heavy black robes favored by fundamentalist Muslim women.”

  “Stop taking the piss,” Lipstick said. “You haven’t just seen what I’ve seen.”

  “Don’t tell me, the next carriage is full of women on their way to a fundamentalist hen night in London.”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I don’t know about the hen night bit. They’ve got their husbands with them. But the point is, I just saw a couple of chadors in dry-cleaning bags. They were draped over a suitcase in the luggage rack outside.”

  “And your idea is we steal them?”

  “Not steal them, exactly,” Lipstick said. “Borrow them. The suitcase had a label tied to it with a London address. We can get them cleaned again and return them with a big bunch of flowers.”

  “Don’t be daft. If we get caught, who’s going to believe we were going to return them? We’d be done for theft.”

  “OK, what do you suggest? Any minute now, Max or Lorna could come down the carriage.”

  Rebecca sat there dithering, drumming her nails on the table. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on,” Lipstick urged.

  Rebecca stopped drumming. “OK,” she said, her face breaking into a smile. “Let’s do it.”

  They decided they would take it in turns to go outside, “borrow” a chador and put it on in the loo. Rebecca couldn’t get over how hot and cumbersome the thing was. On top of that, wearing something that covered most of her face was making her feel decidedly claustrophobic. She looked at herself in the mirror, peering out of the wide cotton mesh, which covered the eye slit.

  “God, I look like a pepper grinder in mourning.”

  She came out of the loo and shuffled toward the automatic compartment door, praying she wouldn’t catch the hem on one of her stilettos and trip. As she sat down opposite Lipstick, who was already in her chador, a couple of the men in suits sitting at the table on the other side of the aisle stared at her. They were clearly wondering what had happened to the original two women. But they didn’t seem too bothered and quickly returned to their papers and laptops.

  “Do you mind telling me,” Lipstick whispered to Rebecca, “how Muslim women flirt wearing this gear?”

  There they sat for the rest of the journey, two strict Muslim women swathed in black—one reading The National Enquirer, the other with her head buried in Cosmo, engrossed in an article entitled “We Reveal the Truth About Anal Orgasm.”

  As the train neared London, people started getting up to put their coats on and retrieve bags from the overhead lockers.

  Then, she saw him, coming down the aisle toward the loo. Her heart lurched along with the train, which had just taken a bend a bit quickly. He was wearing Paul Smith jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. He looked tired, she thought. Yeah, probably from all the shagging. But much as she tried to hate him, she couldn’t. It was as much as she could do to resist leaping out of her seat and throwing herself at him.

  As he drew level with the table, he stepped on a piece of her chador hem, which was sticking out into the aisle.

  “Oops, sorry,” he said.

  “Oh, no, it’s my fault.” She snatched at the black cloth.

  He looked shocked and startled at the sound of her voice. For a second, maybe less, their eyes locked through the chador’s eye mesh. Then, still looking mildly bewildered, he carried on down the aisle.

  “Gawd, you nearly blew it there,” Lipstick said.

  “I know. I know,” Rebecca came back, her heart still racing from wanting him and the fear of being discovered.

  As the train pulled in, Rebecca whispered to Lipstick not to move until everybody had gotten off. “Then we go to the loo and get out of these things. By the time we’ve finished, Max and Lorna will be well away.”

  It was a good ten minutes before they left the train. As they stepped onto the platform, they saw a Eurostar steward a few yards in front of them, surrounded by a dozen or so chador-clad women and their bearded husbands. The heavily accented men were waving their arms and shouting, demanding the police be called to investigate the theft of two robes. The hapless steward, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, was trying to calm them down by saying he would go and fetch a more senior member of staff, but the men had formed a tight cordon round him and were refusing to let him go.

  “Quick, hand me your chador,” Rebecca said to Lipstick. “I think I’ve found a way to save on postage and flowers.”

  A few seconds later she’d carefully folded both robes and put them back, exactly where Lipstick had found them. “If it’s a couple of those black robe things you’re looking for,” she called to the steward, over the din, “they’re on the luggage rack.”

  In a second one of the men had climbed back onto the train and retrieved the garments. His wife moved forward, took Rebecca’s hand in both of hers and said she would remember her to Allah in her prayers.

  “Me too,” murmured the steward, wiping his forehead.

  “Oh, it was nothing,” Rebecca said, offering the woman a smile to melt an ayatollah. “Nothing at all.”

  Still giggling, they reached the main concourse. Rebecca looked round for any sign of Max and Lorna. Nothing. Probably got picked up by a limo, Rebecca thought.

  “Come on,” Rebecca said, “let’s go and find a cab.”

  They headed toward the stand. The queue for taxis was long, but it seemed to be moving at a decent lick. They were almost at the front when Rebecca heard somebody calling her name. She froze.

  “My God, tell me this isn’t happening,” she said to Lipstick. “It’s Max. After everything we’ve done to avoid him.”

  “Rebecca! Please! We need to talk.”

  She turned to see him half walking, half trotting toward the cab stand. He couldn’t go any faster because he was weighed down by the huge leather holdall he was carrying.

  “God, why can’t this queue move any faster?” Rebecca muttered.

  Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned round. “Max. What a surprise.”

  “I know. I know,” he panted, putting his bags down. “I can’t believe you’re here. I was buying a paper and as I looked up I caught this glimpse of you, disappearing into the crowds. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  She could feel his warm breath on her face. He seemed fraught. Guilt, she assumed.

  “So, what are you doing here?” he said.

  “Lipstick and I have just gotten back from Paris.”

  Lipstick gave him a tentative wave and said hi.

  “Really? We must have been on the same train.”

  She could tell he was desperate to talk about what was going on between them, but was holding back because Lipstick was there.

  By now he had noticed her clothes. A smile began to hover on his lips. “You look very … very …” He ran the flat of his hand over his head as he searched for the right words. “I mean, the skirt, it’s not very …”

  “Nice?”

  “I was going to say, long. It’s not very long. Looks, you know—like it might be a bit drafty.”

  “I’ve been working undercover,” she heard herself say. “Charlie asked me to write a color piece on the Union of Working Women’s annual conference. They don’t allow the press in, so I had to pretend to be a delegate. Lipstick came with me—for moral support.”

  Just then a taxi pulled up.

  “I’ll get in and ask the driver to wait,” Lipstick said to Rebecca. “’Bye, Max, nice to see you again.”


  “Yes, you too,” Max said. He turned back to Rebecca. “So, sounds like an exciting trip.”

  “It was. And how’s your story going?”

  “Great. Look, can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “I don’t think there’s much point, do you? I’ve found out all I need to know.”

  “Look, I know it was you who phoned my room when I was in the shower. Lorna told me it was somebody from the office, but I knew just by looking at her that she was lying. I really can explain everything.”

  “Oh, come on, Max. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “But I can.” Suddenly his eyes shot to his jacket pocket. Inside his mobile was ringing.

  “Shit. What now? I’m sorry, but I have to answer it.” He flipped the phone open. “Who?” he barked. “Monsieur who? Look, I’m in the middle of a very important meeting. Can this wait? Can I call you back? … Ah, pardon Monsieur le Premier Ministre … non, ce n’est pas une problème. Non, non, pas du tout.”

  A look of urgent concentration came over him. He turned and took a few paces back from the road, his finger stuffed in his ear against the traffic noise.

  Rebecca stood watching him. If he hadn’t been on the phone to the French prime minister, she might have given in to the impulse to jump up at him, fling her arms round him and beg him to stop loving Lorna.

  “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.”

  She felt Lipstick take her hand.

  “What you need is a night out,” Lipstick declared, once they were in the taxi. “Tell you what, my cousin Donal’s over from Ireland for a couple of weeks. He’s a real laugh. You’ll love him. Why don’t you, me and Jess meet up with him for a drink this week?”

  “Great,” Rebecca said, but her heart wasn’t really in it. She didn’t say anything for a minute or so. Then: “Lipstick?”

  “What is it?”

  “Thanks for coming today. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “You know,” Rebecca went on, “it’s funny the way things have worked out—particularly after the way we hated each other in school.”

  Lipstick looked down at her nails. “You know, I really am sorry about the way I bullied you,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you to bring it up. I can’t believe you waited this long. I should have said something myself, but I was frightened it would open old wounds and you’d get angry. Then I suppose another bit of me thought maybe you’d forgotten.”

  “So what was it about? Why were you so horrible to me?”

  Lipstick shrugged. “Jealousy, I suppose. You were clever. I wasn’t and I couldn’t stand it. My dad used to say my mum could study for a blood test and fail. I suppose I inherited my brains from her.”

  “But you’re not stupid. Look how you’ve built up the Talon Salon.”

  “Oh, come on, I was. I never understood anything. I remember I had these total blank spots. Like Roman numerals. You weren’t in my history group. You never saw me make a fool of myself the day I started going on about Britain fighting in World War Eleven. You know, I’m still haunted sometimes by the sound of those kids laughing at me.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Do you remember the night of the fifth-year prom when you called me Spot and said you had no idea why I’d come because nobody would dance with me? People pissed themselves laughing.”

  “I know. God, you must still hate me.”

  “Don’t be daft. How can you possibly think I still hate you?” Rebecca took her hand.

  “I know I shouldn’t have taken out my feelings of inadequacy on you,” Lipstick said, “but you and your gang were pretty up yourselves, you know—putting on that Waiting for Whatnot thing in the lunch hour.”

  “Oh, blimey, Godot,” Rebecca said. “Did we really do that?”

  Lipstick smiled and nodded. “But it was no excuse for the way I behaved. I was a total cow. Forgive me?”

  “Of course I forgive you… .You know I’m so glad you’re marrying my dad. When I first found out, I thought you’d take him away from me, but I know now that’s never going to happen.”

  “Oh, Becks, I wouldn’t do that. Not ever.”

  “I still think it would feel pretty weird if you and Dad had a baby, though.”

  “Well, that could be a long way off,” Lipstick said. “He still hasn’t found out if his vasectomy reversal worked. But you know, sometimes when we’re cuddling up on the sofa we can’t resist thinking up baby names.”

  “Really? Come on, what’s on the list?”

  “We thought maybe Madonna Enya Lourdes if it’s a girl and Declan Eamon Fergal if it’s a boy. What do you think? I mean, they’re not very Jewish-sounding, are they?”

  “Not very, no,” Rebecca said.

  “The thing is,” Lipstick went on, “I’m a bit worried about how Rose will react.”

  Rebecca said that assuming Rose’s newfound religious tolerance continued, she was sure she would be fine with the names.

  She thought it best not to mention that once Rose discovered a grandchild of hers was to be given not just one, but a string of Catholic names, she would revert to her former self quicker than you could say circumcision brunch.

  Nor did she say that she could see it all now: the two women in the hospital together—Lipstick recovering from having a little Madonna or Declan and Rose recovering from having a little heart attack.

  17

  So, you heard anything from Max Factor?” Jess said, coming back into the kitchen. She’d been to check on Diggory, who was sitting in his car seat in Rebecca’s living room. He was listening to the CD of eighteenth-century organ music his mother had brought with her, and which sounded to Rebecca like it had been composed by Morticia Addams.

  “He’s phoned two or three times,” Rebecca said, pouring coffee into Jess’s mug. “But when I see his number come up on the caller display, I ignore it. Plus, I’ve switched off the answer machine.”

  “You’re going to have to face him eventually,” Jess said.

  “I know. I forced myself to go into the office for a few hours this morning—all dolled up, like I planned, to show him I didn’t give a damn. But he wasn’t there. Snow—you know Lucretia’s gofer from Watching You, Watching Me—is back on the news desk and said he’s viewing film rushes all this week.”

  “You know what would make you feel better?” Jess said, a smile creeping over her face.

  “What?”

  “To have Max see you out with another bloke. Talk about getting your own back.”

  Rebecca laughed and made the point that as an agony aunt, Jess was meant to tell her to take up a fulfilling hobby and get on with her life, not behave like a jilted sixteen-year-old.

  “I know,” Jess said, “but it could be fun. Childish, but fun.”

  She suggested hiring an escort to come and pick Rebecca up from the office after work one evening. Rebecca said they cost a fortune and she couldn’t afford it because she’d just replaced her broken mobile with a brand-new one with a personal organizer and Internet access.

  “Blimey, what on earth do you want all that for?”

  Rebecca said she didn’t and that she had no idea how to make it do anything more complicated than dial out. She hadn’t even worked out how to access her messages. It was just that the cute, twenty-something sales guy in Carphone Warehouse had spent twenty minutes flirting with her. This having gone some way at least to reaffirming her desirability as a woman, even though she knew perfectly well it was only a ploy to make a sale—she hadn’t been able to say no to the phone.

  “Plus, it’s such a waste,” Rebecca said regarding the escort suggestion, “if you don’t have sex with them.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Jess said. “He could have sex with me.” She laughed, but Rebecca could tell she was only half joking.

  “So, Ed still not getting it up?”

  Jess shook her head. “I even gave him this brilliant hand job the other night, you know, with loads of oil—nothing
. In the end we both got so bored I started doing my Cartman impression.”

  She sipped some coffee. “Anyway,” she went on, “he finally went to the doctor. He did some blood tests. We’re still waiting for the results, but he thinks there’s probably nothing wrong with him physically. In the meantime, he’s seeing a hypnotherapist. She thinks the willy-nilly might be due to some kind of sexual rejection from when he was young—most likely in adolescence. God knows why it’s coming out now. Plus, he didn’t start sleeping with women until he was twenty. I’m like, who rejected you before then? Your hand?”

  Just then the phone rang. Rebecca looked at the caller display, saw it wasn’t Max and picked up.

  “You can?” Rebecca said, her face beaming. “That’s brilliant. I’ll be there in an hour or so.” Rebecca explained she’d located an analytical chemist in Epsom and asked them to take a look at the cream. “When I rang this morning, the girl at the desk said they were really busy and she wasn’t sure if they could fit it in. Turns out they can, so I need to get over there right away.”

  An hour and a half later she was pulling up outside the lab, a single-story concrete building on an industrial estate. She wasn’t in there more than a minute. She simply handed over the cream to a white-coated receptionist, signed an order form and that was it.

  Although she’d found the lab easily enough, doing the journey in reverse was much more difficult. This was partly due to there being virtually no signposts and partly because she hadn’t eaten and was starting to lose concentration. The upshot was, she managed to get spectacularly lost. She started rummaging in the door compartment—among the Biros, sticky, hairy tampons and maps of Belgium—for a toffee or a couple of squares of stale chocolate. Nothing. Then she spotted the banana lying on the dashboard. She hadn’t had time for breakfast this morning and had grabbed a banana on her way out. In the end she hadn’t fancied it, as it was speckled and brown and had seen better days. She reached over and undid the skin with her teeth. She’d only taken one bite of it and grimaced at how stale and manky it tasted when her mobile rang. Muttering to herself, she put the banana down on the passenger seat and picked up the phone.