by Sue Margolis
Jess didn’t say anything.
“Jess, you there?”
“Yes, yes I’m here,” she said, her voice suddenly brimming with excitement. “God, I think the Digman just said ‘Papal Bull.’”
“Jess, he’s two months old. He was probably bringing up some wind.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She paused. “Becks, tell me honestly, do you think I control Ed too much?”
“What, like the other day when you told him to stop breathing because it was getting on your nerves?”
“No, I was thinking more of the way I choose all his clothes.”
“Can’t see anything wrong with that. Loads of women do it. It’s ’cause we have the more sophisticated style gene. It’s thanks to us that the entire male population isn’t swanning around in Aussie ranchman hats and espadrilles.”
“But maybe I’m undermining his self-esteem,” Jess said. “Perhaps he feels emasculated. That would explain the willy-nilly. I’m wondering whether I should stop telling him what to wear, hand over all the financial decision making to him and become a surrendered wife. I read somewhere that subservience is the new pashmina.”
“The financial stuff I can understand. It’s a pain in the arse. I’d love some bloke to do it for me. But handing over sartorial responsibility to a man.” Rebecca breathed in sharply through her teeth. “We are talking major risk here. I mean suppose he came home one night with a mullet or vinyl trousers? Or even worse—what if he grew a beard and no mustache?”
“Oh, come on,” Jess laughed. “I’ve taught him everything he knows about style and fashion. He wouldn’t do anything like that. I know he wouldn’t.”
When Rebecca arrived at Salvo’s, Wendy from Mer de Rêves was already there, sitting alone at a table for four. She was wearing a denim jacket over a bright pink polo neck. A funky multicolored woolen hat was pulled down over her dark bob. She looked far prettier than she had at the party and not in the remotest bit mad or threatening. Nevertheless, Rebecca still felt wary.
The moment their eyes met, Wendy stood up and smiled.
“Hi,” she said, extending a hand. “Thank you so much for coming. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Particularly after my behavior the other night. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“That’s OK,” Rebecca said, shaking her hand and returning the smile.
As they sat drinking cappuccino, Wendy explained that she’d been with Mer de Rêves for five years. It was her second job since leaving school and she’d worked her way up to personal assistant to one of the managing directors.
“I’d always been really happy there. Then over the last year or so the atmosphere changed. I can’t quite put a finger on it, but suddenly this air of secrecy sort of descended. Everywhere I went there were executives whispering in corners. My boss would break off in the middle of a telephone conversation the moment I came into his office with a cup of coffee.”
Rebecca suggested he was talking to his mistress.
“No—he’s divorced. Then about six months ago they stopped me taking the minutes at board meetings and began holding them in private. Anyway, I’d gotten so curious about what was going on, that a couple of weeks ago I stood outside the door and listened. I know I shouldn’t have, but I just couldn’t help myself.”
“So did you hear what was being said?”
“Bits and pieces. From what I could make out, they’re about to put this new wrinkle cream on the market that contains some wonder ingredient.”
Rebecca instantly remembered her conversation with Mimi Frascatti. “Yeah, I know about this,” she said, seriously intrigued by now. “It’s called Revivessence.”
“That’s it,” Wendy said. “Well, the thing is, I think it may be dangerous.”
“In what way? The PR I spoke to said there was a secret ingredient, but it was entirely organic.”
“Then why did I hear them referring to ‘the chemical’? And why were one or two of the directors dead set against it? They kept going on about the risks and that the company would never get away with it. Anyway, then it got really heated. Everybody was talking at once and I couldn’t follow what they were saying. Of course by then I was convinced there was something illegal going on. I thought about it for a few days. Then I decided I just had to go to the papers. I mean, God knows what this chemical’s going to do to people. I knew there’d be journalists at the party. I recognized you from your picture at the top of your beauty column. But I lost my nerve. My boss is a pretty scary guy and I knew I was putting my job at risk. Then the day after the party I was made redundant. The letter from personnel said the company was cutting back. But as far as I know they haven’t sacked anybody else.”
“Do you think somebody saw you listening outside?” Rebecca asked.
Wendy shrugged. “Possibly.”
“So, you’re sure that’s all you can remember. There’s nothing else? No clues as to what this chemical might be, or its effects?”
Wendy shook her head. Rebecca turned to a clean page in her notebook and wrote down her home and mobile numbers.
“If anything else occurs to you,” she said, “or anybody from the company starts threatening you, please just pick up the phone.”
“Do you think they might?” Wendy said uneasily as she wrote down her own number and handed it to Rebecca.
“It’s possible. They might want to warn you off talking to the press.” She patted Wendy’s hand and said she should try not to worry. “Meanwhile,” Rebecca said, closing her notebook, “I intend to find out precisely what’s in this cream.”
“I wish you luck. I know for a fact that until the official launch it’s being kept under lock and key at the factory in France. Although I think there’s also some at the Mer de Rêves office in Paris. The lab is there. It’s where they develop new products.”
It wasn’t until after they’d said their good-byes that Rebecca allowed herself to get excited. Of course it could all come to nothing. Wendy could still be a delusional nutter, but Rebecca didn’t think so. God, now she could show off to Max about having her own Deep Throat. He was bound to be impressed. Although she supposed that since this was a cosmetics story, Wendy was more of a Smooth Throat.
She spent the rest of the morning working on her girl band story. She looked for Max, but he wasn’t around. Then she remembered him telling her he had a meeting at Channel 6 with the director of the documentary that was to accompany his French nuclear story.
At lunchtime she took the tube to Selfridges. She’d decided to buy the matching pants to the La Perla bra on the off chance that Max turned out to be carnivorous (therefore still fanciable) and made a move on her. After last night’s wondrous snog she was pretty sure he would.
Once again she spent ages getting tarted up. Only tonight it took longer than ever. This was on account of her fringe, which refused to stay put and cover up the cut on her head. In the end she smothered it in so much wax, it virtually stuck to her skin. On top of the fringe problem she couldn’t decide what to wear. She wanted sexy, but casual. Definitely not trousers. Not if there was any possibility of sleeping with Max. She hated all that endless farting around to get them off because they were so bloody tight. Then there was the embarrassing hosiery issue. How many times had she ended up on some bloke’s sofa—having been finally divested of her trousers and knickers—starkers except for her flesh-colored M&S Knee Highs?
In the end she decided on her purple satin A-line skirt with a matching lace-edged cardie. The skirt made her hips look big. On the other hand the cropped, low-cut cardie more than compensated because it showed off her tits and offered just a hint of midriff, which was still vaguely tanned from last summer.
She was just about to put on her makeup when she decided to try the sample of freebie lip plump, which she’d been sent a few days ago. Of course, it was bound not to work. On the other hand, if by some miracle it did, she had to admit she rather fancied the idea of an ever so slightly fuller, more sensuous pout.
After half an hour her lips looked no fuller, more sensuous or poutier than usual. No surprise there, then. What she hadn’t bargained for was her lips starting to go dental anesthetic numb. She tried speaking. Definite slurring. Panic rose inside her. She was due at chez Max in Highgate in less than an hour. Considering and immediately rejecting the possibility that he might have a thing for palsied women, she phoned Jess for advice.
Jess assured her the numbness would wear off after a few minutes.
“How d’you know?” Rebecca asked, enunciating as best she could.
“’Cause it’ll be the same stuff I used. Take a look at the tube. Does it say ‘Luscious Lip for Lady Woman’?”
Rebecca looked. It did. “Oh, God,” she moaned. “It’s only made in Kowea.”
Rebecca hadn’t so much as glanced at the tube before she tried the lip plump. She’d just assumed it was a posh European or American make, along with all the other samples.
“I knew it was a con,” Jess said, “but that manky chemist at the end of my road had it on special offer. Turned out to be totally useless, though. My labia are just as shriveled and wrinkly as they always were.”
But by the time she arrived at Max’s flat there was still no improvement.
He opened the door wearing jeans and a baggy T-shirt. He also had bare feet, which she found particularly sexy. The first thing he did was give her a hello kiss on the lips. She tried to pucker up to return the gesture, but couldn’t.
“You OK?” he said, clearly sensing her unease.
She decided to tell him she’d just gotten back from the dentist. “Had a fiwing this afternoon,” she said, rubbing the side of her mouth. “Stiw a bit num.”
“Oh, I hate that. Always end up biting chunks out of my cheek when I eat.”
As he led her down the hall toward the kitchen he asked after the cut on her head. Then he told her how beautiful she looked.
“’hanks,” she said, blushing with pleasure and at the same time sniffing the air for signs of meat. There were hot oveny smells, but nothing that actually shouted animal.
The kitchen was tiny, with eighties orangey pine units, beige wall tiles with dirty grouting and a bare frosted window over the stainless steel sink. The mixer tap was crusted with lime scale. It was lit by a single fluorescent strip. Rebecca was reminded of a kitchen in a slightly seedy holiday cottage somewhere like Great Yarmouth.
“You’ll have to excuse the place,” he said. “I’ve been here a year, but I still haven’t got round to doing it up. Apart from the bedroom and bathroom, everything needs ripping out.”
“Reawy?” she said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He poured her a glass of wine. She took a sip.
“Whoops,” he said, grinning. A moment later he was dabbing wine dribble from her chin with a napkin. He did it slowly, looking into her eyes all the time. She thought he might kiss her, but he didn’t.
She sat down on a kitchen stool and they chatted while he made salad dressing. Gradually and to her huge relief, the numbness began to wear off.
She told him about her meeting with Wendy.
“And you think she’s on the level?” Max said.
Rebecca shrugged. “I think so.”
Just then the intercom buzzer went.
“Oh, that’ll be my sister,” he said, putting down his wineglass and heading toward the door. “She’ll only be a minute. She popped round earlier on to borrow my laptop and my little nephew left his blankey thing here. Won’t go to bed without it.”
A few moments later he was back. Behind him were a slim pretty woman with expensive Fulham highlights and a rather tearful-looking boy of about four, dressed in a Thunderbird outfit.
“Rebecca, this is my sister Beth.”
Beth? Rebecca did a double take. Oh, God, Beth was the sister who had heard her Big Max Hot Line performance.
“Hi,” she said, taking Beth’s hand, “pleased to meet you.”
“And this,” Beth said, “is one extremely overtired and miserable Jake. Look, I’m so sorry to barge in like this, but he gets hysterical if he hasn’t got blankey at bedtime.”
Rebecca turned to the little boy. “Wow, great costume,” she said. “So which Thunderbird are you? Don’t tell me. Scott Tracy.”
“I’m Vergil,” he said grumpily, looking at her as if she were a complete fool. “Scott wears a yellow sash.”
Beth rolled her eyes and told Jake to stop being so rude. “Sorry,” she said to Rebecca. “He should have been in bed over an hour ago.”
Max crouched down so that he was on a level with the boy. “Hey, Jake. Come on, cheer up. Remember what we say.”
Jake gave a self-conscious grin.
Max’s hand went to his head in solemn salute. His face became grave. Jake followed suit.
“OK,” Max said, “let’s see if you remember how it goes: All hail the goosenflappers, masters of the park, lords of all things that flap … come on, you have to say it, too.”
Max began again. This time Jake joined in, between giggles.
Rebecca shot Beth a quizzical look.
“Sometimes Max takes him to the park on a Sunday morning so that his dad and I can have a lie-in. A few months ago they saw a huge flock of geese. Max invented this daft ritual and it just stuck.”
By now Max and Jake were in stitches. Rebecca couldn’t help registering that Max seemed to be a bit of a natural with kids.
Max turned to Beth and said he’d take Jake into the living room to look for his blankey.
“Always had a bit of a weird sense of humor, my brother,” Beth went on. “You should hear his mad voice mail message at the office. He’s only got some sexy woman telling callers they’ve reached the Big Max Hot Line. I keep meaning to speak to him about it. God only knows what people must think.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Rebecca shot back. “He got rid of it. He was just messing about and forgot to erase it. I don’t think too many people heard it.”
“Well, thank the Lord for that. I was beginning to think he’d completely flipped. So, Rebecca, how long have you been at the Vanguard?”
They’d been chatting for a couple of minutes when Max appeared carrying Jake, who was clutching an ancient and rather grubby-looking blue cot blanket.
“Mission accomplished,” Max announced. “It was under the sofa.”
Beth took Jake from him. “Come on, Vergil, let’s get back into Thunderbird 2 and leave these people to their dinner. Sorry again for intruding.”
She turned to Rebecca and waved.
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
“You too.”
“She doesn’t seem even remotely bossy,” Rebecca said to Max after Beth and Jake had gone.
“On her best behavior, because you were here.” Max grinned. “Plus Beth has never been quite as scary as the other three.”
He topped off her wineglass. Then he turned to look at the oven timer.
“Right, I think we’re almost ready to eat. Why don’t you take the salad next door and I’ll be with you in a sec.” He bent down to open the oven. She was desperate to find out what was inside, but she thought it would be rude to hover.
The large living room was similar to hers before she decorated. It had yellow anaglyphic walls, faded green velvet curtains on a mahogany pole and a gas fire with a seventies teak surround. She assumed the black ash wall unit, matching table and gold Dralon sofa were his. Her heart sank. She’d assumed by the way he dressed he would have good taste in furniture. She was clearly wrong.
As she put the salad bowl on the table, she noticed a brown envelope. The bird motif caught her eye and she picked it up. Across the top it said Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. Inside there was a newsletter and a glossy brochure advertising Twitcher Weekends in the Chilterns … “to include nightly lectures from the award-winning thrush expert Dr. Finn McGwerter.” She put the brochure back and dropped heavily onto one of the black ash chairs. She would just eat and make her excuses.
; “Chili con Quorni,” he announced, putting the serving dish down on the table.
“Oh, wow,” she said, hoping she sounded sufficiently enthusiastic. “Smells great.”
He disappeared and came back with the wine bottle and their glasses. “Mind the table. It’s a bit wobbly. I bought all the furniture along with the flat. I’d lived in a furnished place before, so I’ve got nothing of my own apart from a bed, CD player and TV.”
“Oh, so none of this is yours?”
“What? Good God, no.”
Her spirits lifted, but only slightly.
“Oh, there’s something I want your advice on,” he said, spooning chili onto her plate. “You know my sisters and I had this anniversary party for my parents?”
She nodded.
“Well, we haven’t gotten them a present yet. Mum and Dad both love the countryside and wildlife, so I thought about sending them on a bird-watching holiday. What do you reckon?”
Her eyes shot to the envelope. “Oh, right.” She started giggling. “For your parents?”
He gave her a bemused frown. “Yes.”
“Fabulous. Wonderful. I can’t think of anything more perfect.”
“Great,” he said, “I was hoping you’d say that… .So, Rebecca, how long have you been vegetarian?”
She didn’t say anything for a second. “Me, a vegetarian?”
“Yes. Yesterday, on the way home when we stopped at Burger King, you ordered a veggie burger. I just assumed …”
She burst out laughing, only just avoiding spraying him in chili. “The only reason I eat veggie burgers is because they aren’t quite as fatty as the meat ones. Bit lower on the old cholesterol. But I adore meat.”
He looked at her, clearly relieved. “God, you had me really worried last night. I thought you were going to turn out to be terribly self-righteous and fart a lot.”
She made a mental note not to tell him about the effect Brussels sprouts had on her.
They started eating.
“God, this is crap,” he said after a mouthful.
“No, it’s lovely,” she lied. “Quorn’s got a really interesting texture.”
“Yeah, right, so’s barbed wire,” he said, picking up her plate. “How’s about I order in a curry absolutely stuffed with dead animal?”
