by Sue Margolis
“I married a perv,” she’d said to Rebecca, as she sat breast-feeding Diggory late last night. “The Dig-Dig has a perv for a father. It’ll scar him for life.”
Rebecca had almost said, “Unlike having a mother who refers to him as the Dig-Dig,” but didn’t.
Instead, she made the point that thousands of blokes, even those in healthy relationships, kept secret stashes of soft porn. “Come on,” she said gently, “you’re an agony aunt, you know all this. You also know it’s no reason to walk out. OK, thirty people caught him jerking off over Miss July. Desperately humiliating for both of you, I agree, but he didn’t exactly plan it.”
“I know. I know. That’s not the issue anymore.” She went silent for a minute. Finally she took a deep breath. “When I was getting ready to come to your place that night, I couldn’t find a suitcase. Finally I saw one on top of the wardrobe. I pulled it down and opened it.” She paused. “It was revolting, Becks, utterly revolting.”
“What was?”
“I found this … this mask thing. Black leather. Covered in studs. I think Ed’s into autoasphyxiation—you know when men starve themselves of oxygen in order to heighten their orgasm.”
“Blimey,” Rebecca said. She asked her if she had it.
“You must be joking. I could hardly bear to touch it. I left it where it was and found another case. You know, I’m starting to think maybe Ed’s willy-nilly isn’t my fault after all. I mean, perhaps I don’t really know him and all these years I’ve been married to some sick weirdo who’s into all sorts of repulsive stuff. Either that or he’s gay.”
A single tear streaked Jess’s face. Rebecca gave her another hug and gently wiped it away.
“You know,” Lipstick tutted, “you’ve got some right old cuticle buildup here. When was the last time you had a manicure?”
Jess took another sip of wine (since she was breast-feeding, she was limiting herself to one glass, which she did her best to make last all evening).
“Never had one,” she said.
Lipstick brought a bowl of warm water onto the sofa arm and placed Jess’s hand in it. “What?” she said. “Don’t you even file your nails?”
“Nah, I just bite them off and throw them away.”
The two of them roared. Then Lipstick suggested they put on another of the videos she’d brought with her. So far they’d been subjected to Erin Brockovich (“my all-time heroine after Gloria Gaynor”), Harrison’s christening and the “where-are-they-now?” documentary about the children from The Sound of Music. “Maybe a bit later,” Rebecca heard Jess say. She suspected Jess was starting to get just the teensiest bit fed up with Lipstick’s videos.
Rebecca hadn’t expected Jess and Lipstick to hit it off. Although she’d deny it with her dying breath, Jess could be a snob when she chose. (Rebecca had lost count of how many times she’d heard her refer to Andrew and Fergie as the Argos Royals.) Now that they were mates, she couldn’t have been more pleased, especially since Lipstick was happy to spend hours entertaining Diggory and having endless heavy conversations about Ed, which took some of the pressure off Rebecca.
The only thing getting her down was the clutter and mess everywhere.
Even though they’d moved Harrison’s treadmill into the hall, the living room still contained (chintz notwithstanding) Lipstick’s tanning bed, Diggory’s travel cot (in which he was now tucked up and sleeping soundly), a camp bed and half of the Brent Cross Early Learning Centre.
Then there was all Jess’s feeding detritus lying around: the breast pads, the breast pump, the smelly muslins.
She didn’t have the heart to say anything to Jess because she didn’t want to upset her. Instead, she did her best to keep on top of the mess, but it was a losing battle. Lipstick tried to do her bit, but it didn’t amount to much since she was leaving for the Talon Salon at the crack of dawn and wasn’t getting back until well after seven.
“I’ve got this special twofer deal going,” she explained. “Clients come in for a manicure and I throw in a special doggy claw trim and paint job. The phone just hasn’t stopped ringing.”
On top of all this, Rebecca was pining for Max. Although they were speaking on the phone every night, she hadn’t seen him for days—not even at work, since he wasn’t due back until next week. He kept asking her to come round after work, but even though Lipstick was on hand, she felt bad about leaving Jess. Ed was phoning her several times a day, desperate to talk, but she was steadfastly refusing to take his calls, maintaining she was still too angry.
So desperate was he to make contact that late one night he’d stood for half an hour in icy, teeming rain, shouting up to her and begging her to let him explain. In the end Rebecca had taken pity on him and had gone downstairs in her dressing gown carrying two mugs of cocoa, and she and a soggy, pathetic-looking Ed had sat on the floor in the lobby having this awkward conversation about the wanking episode.
He explained he’d been feeling miserable because Jess wasn’t there when he got home and he assumed she’d decided they weren’t going to celebrate his birthday. That day he’d also been out and bought a whole load of porn mags.
“I … you know, thought they might help with my problem.”
Rebecca gave him a sympathetic nod.
“Then the bloke in the shop brought out the doll. Everybody knows those things are a joke, but he said the plastic really turns some men on. So I thought I’d give it a go. I got home, saw there was nobody about and the rest you know.”
“So did you? … I mean were you able … ?”
“Not a dickybird.” He smiled a weak smile.
“Ed? You’re not … I mean, has it occurred to you that maybe you might possibly be … you see, Jess thinks …”
“I’m gay?”
She colored up and gave a weak nod.
“Well, I’m not.”
“Brilliant,” she said, giving a nervous laugh. Then quickly: “Not that it would have mattered a hoot to me if you had been gay. Or to Jess, for that matter. Well, of course it would have mattered to her initially, ’cause it would have meant the two of you splitting up, but I’m sure she’d have come round eventually.”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
“And …” Rebecca cleared her throat and coughed. “… the, er … the mask thingummy Jess found. What should I say that was?”
“Mask thingumy?”
“Um. Bit pervy, she said. Found it in a suitcase.”
“Pervy? Becks, I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about. All I bought was the doll. I swear I don’t own anything remotely masklike.”
She was pretty sure he wasn’t lying, but she decided not to push it. This was something Jess was going to have to sort out with him herself.
She put her arm round him and said that at least nobody had gone to Private Eye with the story.
“Thank God,” he said. “I’d have survived, but being an agony aunt and all that, it wouldn’t have done Jess’s career much good.”
Once they’d finished their cocoa, he made her promise to tell Jess why he’d bought the doll and the porn and even then he hadn’t been able to get it up. He also wanted her to know he was desperately sorry for hurting and humiliating her and that he loved her desperately and wanted her back.
But when Rebecca tried speaking to Jess, she said it was all crap and lies, although she chose to believe the bit about him not being gay.
“Of course he could get it up with the magazines. And he lied about the mask. Why? Because he’s scared shitless I’ll divorce him and he’ll never see the Digwig again.”
“I know,” Lipstick said, spraying Jess’s nails with Quick Dry, “why don’t I make us some more deep-fried Fritos?”
It was like talking to a brick wall, trying to explain to Lipstick that deep-frying a Frito was like waxing a candle. Having said that, they’d had them every night that week and everybody had to admit they tasted sublime.
“Oh, not more Fritos,” Jess moaned, “they must have a
zillion calories in them.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lipstick shot back, “it’s a waning moon.”
“Come again?” Rebecca said.
“OK, I’m reading this truly amazing book about living your life according to the lunar cycles and it says quite clearly that you can’t get fat on a waning moon.”
Rebecca shook her head in disbelief, but Jess—who had now allowed herself a couple of glasses of wine—declared that was good enough for her and commanded Lipstick to wheel on the Fritos.
“You know,” Jess said after Lipstick had disappeared into the kitchen, “I really like her. And have you seen how wonderful she is with the Digalig? Talk about a natural. She calms him down in an instant with that massage she does. And yesterday she did an entire science lesson with him.”
Rebecca made the point that Lipstick was showing him leaflets on laser hair removal. Jess said, so what were lasers if they weren’t science—Golden Grahams? Then she changed the subject and asked Rebecca if she’d gotten her interview with Coco Dubonnet yet. Rebecca sat up, switched off the Seinfeld vid and explained.
“But there must be some way of getting in there,” Jess said.
“Where?” Lipstick asked, coming back into the room. She put the bowl of Fritos and saucer of mayonnaise down on the floor.
Rebecca picked up a Frito and dipped it in the mayo. “Oh, it’s just some story I’m working on.”
“What sort of story?”
Rebecca couldn’t really be bothered to tell it all over again, but decided it would be rude not to, since Lipstick had taken an interest. She took another handful and started to tell her about the Mer de Rêves party, Wendy and the wrinkle cream and how she’d gotten the sack.
“Come on, there has to be some mistake,” Lipstick said. “MdR products are wonderful. They don’t come any better. I’ve used them on clients for years. Why would such a successful company put its reputation at risk like this?”
“Greed,” Rebecca said simply. “This new cream could be worth billions to them.”
Lipstick sat shaking her head. She was clearly finding Rebecca’s revelations hard to take in.
“What I need to do is get into the Mer de Rêves Paris office and steal a sample of the cream for analysis.”
“God,” Lipstick said, munching, “how you gonna do that?”
“Dunno.” Rebecca shrugged. “I’m still working on it.”
“Just shows you can’t trust anybody in this world,” Lipstick said. “Maybe I should give up my prize money.”
“What prize money?” Jess asked.
“My MdR prize money. I sold two hundred and fifty Mer de Rêves facials this year, more than anybody else in the country. They’ve just named the Face Place and Talon Salon their South East Region Outlet of the Year. I was due to go to Paris in a couple of weeks to pick up my five-hundred-pound prize money. I’m not sure I’ll bother now.”
Rebecca leaned forward on the sofa. “Hang on. Hang on,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to Paris? To the MdR office?”
Lipstick nodded. Rebecca and Jess watched as with painful slowness, the penny dropped inside Lipstick’s head.
“Oooh, ooh, wait. Don’t say anything. I’ve got it. I’ve got it.” She was virtually bog-eyed with excitement. “That’s it, I’ll go and steal the cream for you.”
“That’s a thought,” Rebecca said diplomatically. “On the other hand, maybe we could both go.”
“Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll phone the organizers tomorrow and get you in as my assistant.”
“You really think you could do that?” Rebecca said.
“Don’t see why not.”
“Blimey, that would be brilliant. I don’t know what to say.” She suddenly felt guilty for all those harsh, uncharitable thoughts she’d had about Lipstick.
Lipstick waved her hand in front of her as if to say, “Don’t be daft. You don’t need to say anything.”
“Omigod,” she squealed, “this is the most exciting thing I have ever done in my life. Just the thought of all that sleuthing and skulking around brings me out in goose bumps. It’s just so Erin Brockovich. Did I ever tell you, she’s my number one heroine after Gloria Gaynor? Come to think of it, I’ve got a micro mini and low-cut top, just like the one she wore in the film… .”
While Rebecca sat wondering what she’d just let herself in for, Jess leaned across and switched on the TV. “Watching Me, Watching You is on. They’re doing celebs this series. Should be a laugh.” She turned up the volume. “God,” she said, “that’s Lucretia Coffin Mott, isn’t it?”
It was. She and the other celebrity contestants were being issued their daily challenges. Lucretia’s was to clean out the chickens.
“Er, sorry, people,” she said haughtily. “La Coffin Mott does not do chickens.”
“Brilliant,” Rebecca cried, clapping her hands. “She’ll last about five minutes.”
The next shot was of a resigned, uncomplaining Snow wearing a boiler suit, up to her elbows in chicken shit. Every so often, the camera cut away to Lucretia in the Communication Room demanding they send in Nicky Clarke, a flotation tank and her Mer de Rêves face cream.
Rebecca pulled the duvet up over her shoulders and lay gazing at the photograph of her mother, which was sitting on the bedside table.
“Don’t half miss you,” she said.
She reached out and picked it up. Then she gave Judy a kiss, switched out the light and slipped the photograph under her pillow.
She was just drifting off when Lipstick’s Brazilian rain forest music started. Apparently the only way she could fall asleep was if she was serenaded by waterfalls and squawking parrots. Rebecca kept asking her to turn it down. (Jess, of course, said she found the music rather soothing and couldn’t see the problem.) Lipstick always apologized profusely and promised to lower the volume, but the next night’s backdrop was as loud as ever.
After a minute or so, the music stopped. No sooner had Rebecca muttered “hoo-bloody-ray” than it was replaced by Lipstick’s voice. She couldn’t hear what was being said but it sounded like she was on her mobile. Rebecca glanced at her bedside clock. Who she could be speaking to this late? Certainly not Stan. He always made a point of telling Rebecca not to phone after half past ten. Of course it was no business of hers if Lipstick and her mates liked to chat in the early hours. Odd, though.
She was due at Max’s flat at eight the next evening. Jess had gone with Lipstick to an Enya concert, leaving Diggory with Lady Axminster. She’d invited Rebecca, too, but since Rebecca would rather have submitted to an entire body wax than sit through an hour and a half of Enya, she made her excuses. Off the hook as regards counseling, she’d phoned Max and invited herself round.
The plan was she’d bring in Chinese and then he’d decide if he felt up to going out. It was just after seven now. She decided to kill an hour by going to the pub with some people from the news desk. Then, just as she was leaving, Charlie Holland collared her, wanting to know what progress she’d made on the story. She told him about Lipstick, who by now had spoken to the Mer de Rêves people.
“They seem perfectly happy for me to come to the prize giving. They’re even sending an extra Eurostar ticket.”
In the end, she got to the pub a few minutes after the others. She was heading over to the bar where they were all gathered, when she spotted Max. He was sitting at a table in the corner. Lorna Findlay was with him. She was wearing a long-sleeved scoop-neck top that kept slipping off her wondrously chiseled shoulders. She made no attempt to pull it back into place. She was too busy having prolonged eye contact with Max and doing an irritating, simpery thing with her lips. Every so often there was a sexy toss of the curls. They were clearly working, though, because they both had yellow legal pads in front of them and a good deal of note making seemed to be going on. Rebecca forced herself to relax and remind herself what Jess had said about jealousy destroying relationships. She made
her way to Max’s table.
“Hello,” she said, smiling warmly at both of them. She turned to Max, whose spots had now completely cleared up. “I thought we were meeting at your place.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, getting up to kiss her hello, “but there’s been a really exciting development with the French story, so Lorna and I decided to meet up for a drink to discuss it. I took a chance on your being here.”
He did the introductions, during which Rebecca was convinced Lorna was looking her up and down, taking in her three-seasons-old Jigsaw work jacket, which since this morning had a large dried-up patch of Diggory sick on the shoulder.
“Tell you what,” Max said, “why don’t I get another round of drinks?”
“Not for me,” Lorna said, “I’ll have to be going in a minute. I’ve got a dinner with Jack Straw.”
Rebecca said she’d have a spritzer. Max disappeared to the bar.
“We have met. Sort of,” Rebecca said, sitting down. “We passed on Max’s landing the other day.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” Lorna said. “You had a bowl or something.” Her tone made it sound like Rebecca had been carrying Lassa fever.
“Chicken soup,” Rebecca said with an uneasy laugh. “You know, Jewish penicillin.”
“Sweet. Max is lucky to have somebody to make a fuss of him. He tells me you’ve got a makeup column.”
Rebecca nodded. “Yes, but it’s not what I see myself doing long term. I really want to get into investigative reporting.”
“Really?” she said, a definite smirk dancing on her lips. “So what’s in the column this week?”
Rebecca colored up. “Er … ten tantalizing ways to enhance your toe cleavage … but I’m also working on this really exciting, hush-hush story about corruption in the cosmetics industry. I think it’s going to be really—”
“You know,” Lorna said, picking imaginary fluff off her skirt, “the contents of my makeup bag could do with an overhaul. I’ll have to phone you for some advice.”
At a loss for a suitably caustic reply, Rebecca merely smiled weakly.
