Apocalipstick

by Sue Margolis

  It may have been the Fleurie, or Frank Sinatra playing on the CD player, but before she knew it, she was telling him about having lost her mum and how much she missed her. She hadn’t cried over Judy in ages, but now tears came rolling down her cheeks. He took her hand and squeezed it.

  “What happened?”

  “Car crash. Drunk driver shot through a red light and plowed straight into her.”

  She took another sip of wine.

  “So,” she said, anxious to lighten the mood, “tell me a bit about you.”

  He told her his father had been in the RAF and that he’d been sent away to boarding school at eight.

  “Rough,” she said.

  He shrugged. “It was the same for all the forces kids. You got used to it.”

  “So I guess the military background and boarding school would explain your obsessively tidy desk.”

  He reddened.

  “So, was he pretty senior, your dad?”

  “Air vice marshal—retired a couple of years ago.”

  Blimey. He was even posher than she thought. She’d never been out with anybody really posh before. Except Jess.

  They’d almost finished eating when Rebecca noticed a pile of videos next to the TV. “My God,” she said, reading the felt-tipped labels, “you like Seinfeld, too.”

  “Love it. I don’t think there’s a show I haven’t got on tape. I’ve gotten to the stage where I can recite whole chunks off by heart.”

  “I know. I’m the same. So, come on, which is your favorite episode?”

  “‘The Baby Shower,’” he said.

  “That’s one of my favorites, too.”

  “I love that bit where Elaine and Jerry are talking and she says her friend has Lyme disease in addition to Epstein-Barr syndrome.”

  “Yeah, she goes: ‘It’s like Epstein-Barr …’”

  “‘… with a twist of Lyme disease,’” Max joined in, bursting out laughing. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

  “Isn’t it?” Rebecca said. Only she wasn’t simply referring to Jerry Seinfeld.

  After dinner they went to sit on the sofa. There were a couple of framed photographs sitting on the side table. One was a wedding picture. Rebecca picked it up.

  “The bride is my sister Kate,” he said.

  She was pretty, like Beth, but a bit darker.

  “And these are your parents?” she said, pointing to the reedy, distinguished man and the elegant woman in pale lavender.

  He nodded.

  “Your dad’s still very handsome. You look just like him.”

  “Really?” he said, clearly enjoying the compliment.

  The other photograph was of a little girl—about two years old, Rebecca guessed. She was naked and splashing in a plastic paddling pool.

  “Wow, gorgeous child,” Rebecca said, picking up the photograph to take a closer look. “Look at all those red curls.”

  “I know.” He smiled. “She gets them from her mother. Of course, that picture’s ages old; she’s a teenager now.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Amy,” he said. “She’s my goddaughter.”

  Rebecca insisted on washing up to say thank you.

  She was standing at the sink rinsing plates when she felt his arms round her waist.

  “Leave it,” he whispered, starting to kiss the back of her neck.

  She closed her eyes and felt herself start to tremble. “But it’ll stink by the morning.”

  “Don’t care,” he said, turning her to face him. She was still holding the squeegee mop. He took it from her and dropped it into the sink. Then he brushed the back of his hand over her cheek.

  “How did somebody get to be this beautiful?”

  “Cod’s roe,” she said.

  “Cod’s roe?” He hesitated. “What, you put it on your face?”

  “No,” she laughed. “You eat it. My mum swore by the stuff. All I ever got for my school lunch was cod’s roe sandwiches. She reckoned fish breath was a small price to pay for great skin. Not sure it really worked in my case, though.”

  “Oh, believe me, it did,” he said, drawing her toward him. He brushed his lips lightly across hers. This time she felt every delicious, stomach-quivering sensation. As he parted her lips with his tongue and she felt him deep inside her mouth she put her arms round his neck and breathed in his deliciously warm, slightly boozy smell. He ran his hand over her bottom. She moved her pelvis toward him and felt his erection hard against her. By now she was feeling distinctly wobbly and leaning against the kitchen units for support. As their kissing became more and more urgent, he put his hand up inside her skirt. He ran his fingers along the inside of her thighs. When he began gently stroking the flesh between her stocking tops and her pants, she thought she was about to pass out with delight.

  Without saying anything he led her to the bedroom. She stood in the doorway.

  “Max. This is beautiful.”

  Every surface was covered in candles. There had to be dozens, their flames dancing in the dark, casting long shadows against the roller blinds. Musky, exotic perfumes she couldn’t identify hung in the air.

  “You did this for me?”

  He grinned. “I thought you’d like it.”

  Like it, she adored it. The most romantic thing Simon the ventriloquist had ever done when they were going out was getting Wayne the dummy to sing “Strangers in the Night.”

  In the candlelight he looked sexier than ever. He guided her to the bed. It was low, Japanesey and covered in brand-new white linen. They stood beside it and kissed again. Taking his time, he began undoing her cardigan buttons. Afterward he pulled down her bra straps and planted kisses on her shoulders and over the tops of her breasts, chasing the goose bumps that were racing over her. When he began running his tongue over her neck, she threw back her head and let out a tiny whimper. She felt him unzip her skirt.

  Once she’d stepped out of it, he stood looking at her, running his hand over her stocking tops, fingering the lace of her bra. He reached behind her, unhooked it and pulled it away.

  “Wow,” he said. Then he took each of her nipples in turn and began sucking them until they were long and erect. He pushed her gently onto the bed. Her head and shoulders sank into the huge square pillows. As she inhaled more of the joss-stick aroma, she felt herself starting to float. He started kissing her stomach and licking the insides of her thighs. By now her breathing was slow and deep.

  As she floated somewhere between northwest London and heaven, she was vaguely aware of her pants being pulled off. Then suddenly his head was between her legs. She cried out as he opened her and his tongue began flicking her clitoris.

  By now she was begging him to make her come. He responded by slowing down, lightening the pressure so that she could barely feel it. The more she begged him, the more he teased her. Only when she was quiet again did he give her what she wanted. The quivering inside her started to build up almost immediately. Then he stopped again, moved up and began kissing her on the mouth. Their kissing was frantic, frenzied. By now she was desperate to feel him inside her. She reached for his jeans belt. He knelt up, let her undo it and unbutton his fly. She pulled his jeans and his boxers over his thighs, releasing his long, thick erection. She kissed his taut stomach, traced the line of dark hair that ran down from his navel.

  As she covered the end of his penis with her mouth and began running her tongue over it, his head slumped forward and he dug his fingers into her shoulders.

  “Bloody hell, you’re good.”

  She kissed him on the mouth, pushed him gently onto the bed and went down on him again. He screwed up his face in delight as she ran her mouth back and forth over the shaft.

  “I want to come inside you,” he said finally.

  Before she knew it, he was pulling her by her ankles to the edge of the bed. He made her bring her knees up to her chest. Kneeling on the floor in front of her, he started probing her again with his tongue and fingers. Finally, he began to concentrate on her clito
ris, stroking it gently at first, then rubbing it in a firm, circular motion. Once again the quivering began to build up inside her. She took hold of his erection, and guided him toward her. As he entered her she let out a tiny moan. His thrusts were slow and deep, the pleasure so intense she was sure she was about to pass out. She came almost immediately.

  Afterward he lay beside her trailing his finger over her breast.

  “You know, I’ve often wondered what those small bumps are round women’s nipples.”

  “It’s Braille,” she said, keeping a perfectly straight face, “for ‘lick them ever so lightly with the tip of your tongue.’”

  He was laughing and moving in on her left nipple when her mobile went off.

  “Fuck,” she said. “I’d better get it. Might be my gran. Her blood pressure’s been playing up and she’s all on her own.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” he said, leaping off the bed.

  He was back in a second. “Text message,” he said.

  “Probably Lucretia. She’s always texting me with ideas for the column. You read it. What’s it say: ‘CRIMSON MSCARA HOT ACCRDNG 2 NY TIMES 2DAY. U CHECKIT SOONEST’?”

  “No, it says: ‘IN MY ABC I’D PUT U AND I TOGETHER.’ Do you think maybe Lucretia’s developed a lesbian crush on you?”

  “Very funny,” she said, looking puzzled as he handed her the phone. She read the rest of the message with Max looking over her shoulder. “‘TCKTS STARLIGHT XPRESS 2MORROW. FANCY IT? I’M HOT 4 YOU, WARREN.’”

  “So,” Max said, “who’s Warren?”

  7

  So, you phoned this Warren bloke,” Jess said, scooping a dried-up cat turd out of the tray with a garden trowel, “told him he’s a lovely bloke, Starlight Express was a sweet thought, but the chemistry between you wasn’t quite right. Then you sent him on his way.”

  Rebecca hesitated. “Pretty much.”

  “How d’you mean, ‘pretty much’?” Jess said, carefully balancing the turd on top of the pile of rubbish spilling out of the pedal bin.

  “I said I was in Greenland.”

  “Greenland.”

  “Yeah. I told him I was spending three months there researching a feature on the body-painting rituals of the Inuit and that I’d give him a call when I got back.”

  “But why couldn’t you just be straight with him?”

  “Dunno,” Rebecca said as Jess put the trowel back on the floor next to the cat tray. “I felt sorry for him, I s’pose. I wanted to let him down gently.”

  “So you made up some daft story? I mean, like the Inuit even have body-painting rituals. They’re wrapped up in furs for eleven months of the year, aren’t they? Warren may be a bit pathetic, but from what you’ve told me he’s not stupid. There’s no way he’ll have believed it.”

  “Yes, he did,” Rebecca said. “I turned on the hair dryer and held it over the phone, made out I was getting blown to bits in a snowstorm. He totally bought it.”

  “But that means he’ll keep on phoning you.”

  “He won’t. I told him I could only be reached on a satellite phone at five pounds a minute.”

  “So, how did he get your number in the first place?”

  “At first I thought it was my grandmother, but it turned out to be some temp at the office.”

  “And what about the Max factor? What if he believes there’s something going on between you and Warren?”

  “I explained everything. Told him about Gran’s matchmaking. He thought it was really funny.” She let out a long sigh. “You know, Max could be the one. It sounds sloppy and romantic, and I hardly know him, but I think I may have found the man of my dreams.”

  “That’s how it goes,” Jess said wistfully. “You marry the man of your dreams and a couple of years later you find yourself living with a sofa that farts.”

  Jess poured more coffee into Rebecca’s mug. They’d just finished lunch. Dolly had taken Diggory to the park in his pram.

  “Come on, don’t go all cynical,” Rebecca said. “Be happy for me.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Jess reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. “This no sex thing is really getting to me. I am happy for you, hon, really I am. Max sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “You’ll love him.” Rebecca’s eyes started to glaze over. “He’s warm, romantic. All those candles. And did I tell you he likes Seinfeld?”

  “Only seventy-nine times,” Jess said, thumbing through Dolly’s Mirror. “Bloody hell, I bet if I looked like her, Ed’d have no trouble getting it up.”

  She was stabbing at a picture of some Teutonic superwaif wearing a PVC triangle over her nonexistent tits and Madonna hipsters that showed off at least three inches of bum cleavage.

  “Look, just stop it,” Rebecca said. “You know how …”

  “… beautiful I am. Yeah, yeah.” She paused. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. It’s Ed’s fortieth next week. Why don’t I throw him a huge surprise party? Might really cheer him up. And afterward we could spend the night at some obscenely expensive hotel. Mum can hold the fort Diglington-wise. I’ll leave her a load of expressed milk. A night away with a couple of bottles of Krug and me in something crotchless might just do the trick. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a great idea,” Rebecca said warmly. “What have you got to lose? Things between you and Ed could hardly get any worse.”

  “So, Stanley,” Rose said, peering at her son over her reading glasses and taking in the black suit jacket with the mandarin collar, “where do you think you’re off to? Nehru’s funeral?”

  Rose, Stan and Rebecca were sitting at a table next to the gents at La Belle Epoque in Hampstead, waiting for Lipstick. It wasn’t the table Stan had booked. He’d specified one by the window for this meet-the-family dinner for Lipstick, but the moment they sat down Rose started complaining about the draft.

  Of course there was no draft. Just like there had been no smear on the wineglass she’d sent back. It was all part of Rose’s campaign to make sure Stan knew precisely how much she disapproved of Lipstick. First there was her age.

  “Twenty years from now,” she’d said to Rebecca on the phone earlier, “when she’s off out with her friends, he’ll be keeping in touch with his through the obituary columns.”

  Then there was her religion. Apart from all the obvious objections Rose had to her son marrying out, she had a particular grievance against the church of Rome. Ten years ago, the Blessed Virgin down the road held a bingo session to which elderly members of her synagogue had been invited. To this day, she swore blind the priest called out the numbers in Latin so the Jews couldn’t win.

  Rebecca patted her dad on the knee and told her grandmother she thought he looked great in the suit. In fact, she was less than keen, but anything was an improvement on the cargo pants he had been wearing the other day. She thanked the Lord his hair was back to normal. The dye must have been a rinse.

  Rose said she still thought the suit looked ridiculous, to which Stan replied that ridiculous was a pierced scrotum. The suit was merely trendy. Rose told him to stop being vulgar and picked up the menu.

  “So, what are we all having?” she said.

  “Mum, we have to wait for Bernadette.”

  “She’s late.” Rose tapped her watch irritably.

  “Only a couple of minutes,” Rebecca said.

  She felt the need to be generous for her father’s sake. Deep down she thought it was typical of Lipstick to keep everybody waiting. Twenty minutes from now she’d come swanning in wearing some itsy-bitsy floaty Voyagey thing, making it clear she was doing them a huge bloody favor by deigning to turn up at all. Rebecca looked down at her trousers, which were straining over her newly rebulged, post-last-night’s-curry stomach and winced. This was partly with revulsion and partly because the fabric was cutting into her. She slipped her finger between the waistband and her skin and felt the indentation it had made. There was nothing for it. She undid the front zip.

  “But I
have to eat,” Rose moaned. “If I don’t eat my blood sugar gets low and I get these spots in front of my eyes.”

  “So, have you seen a doctor?” Stan said, spreading inch-thick butter onto a piece of bread stick.

  “No, just the spots.” Rose was on her second sweet sherry.

  “Look, if you’re feeling hungry, eat this.” Stan held out the piece of bread stick, smeared in butter.

  “What? Are you joking? Butter? I can already feel my left ventricle slamming shut.”

  “Oh, no. Please, Mum, not the angina monologue.”

  Rose glared at him. “And have you looked at the prices they’re charging here?” she said. “Six fifty for fish soup. What do they put in it? A whale? I remember when you could get a bowl of soup in a restaurant for ninepence.”

  Stan shot Rebecca a look, making it clear he wished his mother’s left ventricle would slam shut for a bit.

  “Of course, you know where we should have gone,” Rose continued, “the China Garden down the road. I like it there. They do a wonderful omelette. But my friend Millie says nobody goes there anymore—apparently it’s gotten too crowded.”

  Suddenly Stan’s face broke into a smile. “She’s here.”

  Rebecca and Rose looked up.

  “Where?” Rebecca asked.

  “There,” Stan said, getting out of his chair.

  The only person Rebecca could see was a plumpish, blonde woman about her own age, carrying a vast bunch of yellow carnations.

  “Oooh, sorry I’m late, everybody!” the woman cried out as she came bustling toward them. “Traffic’s bloomin’ murder.”

  Rebecca blinked.

  “Isn’t she beautiful,” Stan whispered.

  Rebecca nodded. There was no doubt she was still beautiful. The blue eyes and cheekbones hadn’t changed a bit. Unlike the rest of her. If ever there were a perfect antithesis of itsy, bitsy and floaty, it was the new Lipstick. Gone were the tiny waist and endless legs. Instead, she had thighs that were positively careering toward chunky and forty-inch hips. Oh, and tight leather trousers. Peach-colored ones.

  Clearly this wasn’t the threatening vision in Voyage she’d been expecting. Ashamed as she was to admit it, this fact was causing Rebecca to perk up considerably.