“Ah, cuuute!” Lipstick squealed. “Mind you, it looks a bit anorexic, even for a chihuahua.”
“Probably lives on crudités and Evian,” Rebecca declared.
La patronne
clearly knew the pair and greeted them with double kisses. Not London or New York mwahhs, but proper puckered-lipped smackers on the cheek. She led them to a table, two down from Rebecca and Lipstick.
“Look, she’s pointing in our direction,” Rebecca whispered. “I’m sure she’s apologizing for having to put them so close to us. God, they look really pissed off.”
“Well, they’ll just have to get pissed on again,” Lipstick said with a shrug.
Just then, the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern waiters reappeared to give their synchronized dome lifting, act two.
The moment they’d exited, Rebecca’s face dropped like a mudslide.
“What on earth’s that?” Lipstick asked, looking at Rebecca’s plate.
“That,” Rebecca announced, “is steak tartare.”
Lipstick poked it with her fork. “It’s raw,” she said. “I’d send it straight back if I were you.”
“It’s meant to be raw,” Rebecca said. “That’s what steak tartare is—raw minced beef mixed with garlic and herbs. People adore it, but I’ve never quite been able to develop a taste for it.”
Lipstick screwed up her nose. “Oh, Becks, I’m so sorry. I thought it was a piece of steak.”
“No, it’s my fault,” Rebecca said. “I should have looked at the menu. I was so desperate for the loo, I wasn’t concentrating.”
They decided to share Lipstick’s salmon and the chips. These had just arrived, crispy and golden and sans dome. The problem was Rebecca couldn’t face the embarrassment of letting Rosencrantz and Guildenstern see she hadn’t touched the beef. She forced herself to try a couple of mouthfuls but couldn’t get it down.
“I know,” Lipstick said excitedly. “The dog. Put some meat on a napkin and leave it on the floor. I bet it comes to have a sniff around.”
Looking anxiously to check nobody could see, Rebecca began forking up steak.
They watched the dog’s nose start to twitch. Soon it was padding toward them. It was Lipstick who noticed the dog was dragging a tiny, string-handled carrier bag along the floor.
“Oh, poor ikkle thing,” she whispered, picking up the pooch. She rubbed her nose against its wet snout, ignoring Rebecca’s eye rolling. “Did the naughty string tie itself round your paw, den?” She unwound the handle. The dog jumped onto the floor and made a beeline for the meat.
“That’s it, you tuck in,” Lipstick said, patting its bony flank.
“So, come on,” Rebecca said, “what exquisite little bauble is in the bag? Bound to be doggy related. A Lalique food bowl? A bottle of ‘Chanel pour Chien’?”
Lipstick glanced round, placed the bag beside her on the banquette and took a peek. “Oh . . . my . . . God,” she said, “Talk about ironic. It’s only a jar of Mer de Rêves face cream.”
“Which one?” Rebecca said.
Lipstick opened the carrier again. “Revivessence—Antirides, Super Intensif,” she read. “Umm. That’s not one I’ve come across before.”
Rebecca dropped the chip she was just about to put in her mouth. “Revivessence?” she said in a whispered shriek. “That’s it. That’s only bloody it.”
“What is?”
“That. In the bag.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“What, this? This is the stuff we’ve come to steal?”
“Quick,” Rebecca said, hands shaking, “pass it to me. Under the table so’s nobody can see.”
Lipstick passed it. Rebecca turned so that she had her back to the two women. Then she opened the bag and pulled out the jar with its trademark diamond-studded lid.
“But it’s not on the market yet,” Lipstick said. “That’s why we’ve come to steal it.”
Rebecca trailed her fingers over the glass diamonds and shrugged. “Maybe one of them works for the company or they know somebody on the inside. Quick, I need some kind of container with a lid.”
“What?” Lipstick said. “You’re going to steal it?”
“Not all of it. Just enough to give to a lab for analysis.”
Lipstick went searching in her bag and came up with a tiny round plastic pot. She opened it and took out a pair of foam earplugs.
“Sometimes Harrison sleeps on my bed and snores,” she explained. “It’s OK, they’re new. The box is perfectly clean.”
By now Rebecca had unscrewed the lid on the jar of cream. She took the earplug container and, using her dessert spoon, scooped a dollop of the thick rose-scented glop into it.
“This is just so brilliant,” she said, screwing the lid back on. “Now we don’t have to go to the prize giving. Let’s just pay the bill and get out of here. Then you, me and the cream can catch the next train home.”
Rebecca was about to summon one of the waiters when the funereal quiet was ruptured by the two snooty women.
“
Salope,
” Beige Woman cried.
Rebecca and Lipstick turned to look, along with all the other startled diners.
Yamamoto Woman’s hand flew to her mouth.
“
Salope! Salope! Salope!
” Beige Woman came at her again.
“What? What? What?” Lipstick whispered to Rebecca.
“It means ‘dirty bitch.’”
“Blimey.”
The
“salope”
was followed by a list of insults, which Rebecca couldn’t even begin to translate. Against this tirade the woman in black started crying.
“Je vous déteste,”
Beige Woman carried on furiously. “
Toujours je vous ai detestée
.”
Around the restaurant people were busy exchanging embarrassed glances. Rebecca sat glued to the two women, translating for Lipstick as best she could. “Apparently she’s always hated her. Now she’s saying how much she hates her clothes, her house, her dog and her children. Oh, my God, now she’s telling her that her husband’s got a gay lover.”
Yamamoto Woman’s eyes were bulging out of her head. She threw some notes down on the table, got up and headed for the door. The other woman began rummaging irritably for her purse, clearly intending to do the same. It was only when she stood up that she realized she didn’t have her dog. She bent down and lifted the edge of the tablecloth.
“Hortense,” she cried, her voice softening. “Hortense,
ma petitie, ou es tu? Viens ici, bébé. Viens ici.
”
Hearing the voice, Hortense went scampering off toward her owner. The woman picked her up, admonished her gently and nuzzled her. Holding the dog under one arm, she began gathering up her bags.
“Oh là là, ma crème!”
she gasped, clearly panic-stricken.
“Ou est ma crème?”
“
Ici,
madame,” Rebecca trilled.
The woman came tearing across, snatched the cream from Rebecca and immediately began accusing both of the women of trying to steal it. Rebecca did her best to explain that the dog had brought it over, but her usually excellent French hadn’t just deserted her, it had abandoned her and gone off to join the Foreign Legion. Lipstick carried on in her best Franglais.
“
Non, non.
Calmez-vous
down, madame. It’s not what you
pensez. Nous
do not want to steal
votre crème.
” She turned to Rebecca. “This French lark’s easy.
Pièce de gâteau.
”
By now
la patronne
and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had come over to investigate the brouhaha. Beige Woman demanded to know why they had allowed English prostitutes into the restaurant. Then she turned back to Rebecca and Lipstick.
“Zee Engleesh women are all whores and thieves,” she shouted, sending gobbets of spittle flying onto Rebecca’s face. “And your men, wiz their earrings and shaved ’eads—
ils sont
barbarians, hooligans, philistines. Go back home to your stinking country with eets turnips and ze queen wiz ze face like an ’orse.”
Then she turned and teetered off toward the door, glaring at
la patronne
as she went.
At that moment
la patronne
rushed across and offered her profound apologies. “Pleese forgeev this. These women, zey are all crazy lately.”
“So there have been other incidents like this?” Rebecca said.
“
Mais, oui.
Not here, but at other places—gallery openings, at the new Tracey Emin exhibition at the Pompidou. Then at the opéra last week, in ze middle of ze
Fledermaus
two women zey nearly kill each other. It is
la cocaïne, n’est-ce pas?
”
Gradually everybody calmed down and turned back to their food.
Rosencrantz, or it could have been Guildenstern, came over with a bottle of champagne. “On zee ’ouse,” he said.
Rebecca said it was very kind, but they had a train to catch and could they just have the bill.
While they waited, Rebecca’s mind went back to the Lady Axminster piece in Dempster. She remembered the photograph. She was positive there had been a Mer de Rêves jar lying on the floor. And in that edition of
Watching You, Watching Me,
the one when Lucretia confessed to wanting to be taken from behind by Prince Charles, hadn’t she been scooping cream from the distinctive jar?
“Oh, my God,” she said eventually. “It’s not cocaine that’s been sending these woman doolally, it’s face cream.”
“What?” Lipstick shot back.
She reminded her about Lucretia Coffin Mott.
“Then there was this piece in Dempster.” She explained. “Each time, Mer de Rêves has been the common factor. I think this mystery chemical Wendy was talking about is affecting their brains.”
Lipstick gave a doubtful frown. “Oh, come on,” Lipstick said, laughing. “I can imagine it damaging the skin—causing some dreadful allergic reaction, but the idea of it sending them bananas . . . it’s a bit . . .” She sat trying to conjure up an appropriate metaphor. “It’s a bit Batman, isn’t it?”
“Batman,” Rebecca repeated.
“Yeah. I saw this episode once where the Joker drugs the dough at the Oreo cookie factory, and the entire population of Gotham City falls asleep and he goes round stealing their money. Of course, the mayor is unaffected because he’s allergic to Oreos. He tells Batman and Robin what’s been happening and—”
“What are you saying?” Rebecca cut across her. “That we should bring the caped crusaders in on the Mer de Rêves case? It’s a thought, but Adam West must be seventy by now. Don’t you think he might have lost his crime-fighting edge a bit?”
“Ha, ha. All I’m trying to say is that your theory is a bit far-fetched.”
“Well,” Rebecca said with a determined expression, “I think it’s pretty near-fetched actually.”
They stood outside looking at the map, trying to work the way to the nearest Metro, Lipstick singing: “Dinna, dinna, dinna, dinna—dinna, dinna dinna, dinna—BATMAN!”
“OK, this way,” Rebecca said eventually, “toward the church.”
“You sure you’ve got the cream?” Lipstick said.
“Yeah, it’s in my pocket.”
She put her hand inside her jacket, just to check. It was empty. She tried the other pocket.
“Omigod, it’s not there.”
Lipstick told her to calm down and try her bag. It wasn’t there either.
“Maybe I left it on the table.”
Leaving Lipstick on the pavement Rebecca charged back into the restaurant. Unaware of the stares, she ran back to where they’d been sitting. She looked on the seats, the table. She even got down on her knees and crawled underneath. Nothing.
One of the waiters came over.
“
Excusez moi,
” Rebecca said, getting back onto her feet, “
est-ce que vous avez trouvé un petit
. . .” Shit, what was the word for
container
?
Boîte
was the best she could come up with. “
Oui, est-ce que vous avez trouvé une petite boîte
?”
“Une boîte? Non, nous n’avons rien trouvé.”
A moment later she was back outside.
“OK,” she said, running her fingers through her hair, “there’s nothing for it. Back to the original plan. We’ll just have to go to the awards ceremony. We should be OK. It doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes.”
The pair consulted the map again and started walking.
They’d been going a couple of minutes when Lipstick noticed the shop sign, complete with gilt horse’s head, on the other side of the street.
“Ooh, look, a horse butcher. Quick, we’ve just about got time.”
“Don’t be daft,” Rebecca screeched, “we can’t walk into Mers de Rêves carrying a horse’s willy.”
But Lipstick was already crossing the road. By the time Rebecca caught up with her she was inside the shop, standing at the counter.
“Ah,
bonjour, monsieur,
” she was saying to the butcher, “
avez-vous un pénis de cheval?”
15
S
o you really
reckon,” Lipstick said breathlessly, trying to keep pace with Rebecca, who was somehow managing to stride out despite the stilettos and tight skirt, “that when he invited me into the back, it wasn’t his horses’ willies he was going to show me?”
“For the umpteenth time, French butchers do not sell horses’ willies. He could see how you were dressed. He thought you were doing business.”
Rebecca glanced down at the map. “Next left,” she said. “God, we are so late.”
After leaving the restaurant, they’d walked for ten minutes in the wrong direction before realizing they were reading the map upside down.
“OK, this is it.”
With its smooth white stone thirties façade and tall arched windows in bronze frames, the Mer de Rêves building was by far the most elegant and imposing in the street. They pushed open the even taller arched door and stepped into a perfectly preserved Art Deco interior. The floor and walls were cream polished marble. There was a sweeping Fred and Ginger staircase with a chrome balustrade and pink frosted lights for newels. Lipstick said the place looked like the Stoke Newington Odeon before they turned it into a ten-screen multiplex.
The girl at the reception desk was wearing a sludge-colored woolen sack thing with an asymmetric neck. Her black hair, which was streaked with scarlet Crazy Colour, had been wound into dozens of worm cast curls. Each was held in place next to her scalp by a miniature wooden clothes peg with a plastic rose on top.
“Bonjour, mesdames?”
she said with a perky smile.
Rebecca explained they were there for the awards ceremony.
“Ah, you are a leetle late.”
Rebecca explained about the upside-down map.
“Well,” the girl said, “zee others are upstairs listening to Coco’s speech of welcome. Zey will come down in about five minutes on the way to ze conference room for ze champagne reception. You can join zem zen.”
She invited them to take a seat in one of the leather and walnut armchairs.
Rebecca picked up a copy of French
Vogue,
flicked through it for a few seconds and put it down again. “I’m getting the jitters again,” she said.
“Come on, we’ll be fine,” Lipstick soothed. She offered Rebecca a mint. Rebecca shook her head and said she felt too sick. Lipstick took one for herself and sat chewing and looking about the place. After a bit she leaned forward and tapped Rebecca on the knee.
“What’s that, then?”
Rebecca looked up. “What?”
“That. Over there at the bottom of the staircase.”
Lipstick nodded toward a square table made of pink mirrored glass, supported by glass Doric-columned legs. On it stood a very large glass dome—the kind of thing that might sit on a grand mantelpiece, covering an antique clock or a much-treasured stuffed badger.
By now Lipstick was leaning forward in her chair, squinting.
“It can’t be,” she said.
“What can’t be what?”
“Under the glass—I think it’s a pot of Mer de Rêves cream.”
“And this is the Mer de Rêves office,” Rebecca came back. “What would you expect to find on display—a nice piece of halibut?”
“But suppose it’s—you know—the Revivessence?”
“Don’t be daft. They wouldn’t leave a pot of the new stuff out for one of their rivals to nick.”
Lipstick shrugged. “They might,” she whispered. “Come on, let’s take a look.” She stood up and wiggled her skirt down to her lower thighs.
The deliberate, self-conscious saunters that followed made them look like a couple of incompetent baddies from a vintage cops-and-robbers caper.
Sitting under the dome, its diamond-encrusted lid cleverly illuminated by the light from the pink frosted newels, was a jar of Revivessence.
“Bloody hell,” Rebecca said.
“I knew that white feather meant something,” Lipstick said. “I just knew it.”
They stood staring at the cream, their noses virtually pressed against the glass. Just then a uniformed security guard approached. He was a beefy, nightclub bouncer type. Definitely more Peckham than Paris, Rebecca thought.
“
Il est interdit de toucher,
” he said in a languid, un–security guard sort of a way. He adjusted his hat on his close-cropped, mousy-colored head.
“Can’t touch,” Rebecca translated.
“Oh,
pardon, excusez-nous,
” Lipstick said.
“Hey . . .
pas de problème.
” The guard smiled. Then he started humming Bob Marley’s
Buffalo Soldier.
As the guard took up his position next to the dome, they went back to their seats.
“So near and yet so far,” Lipstick mused wistfully, as if she were stating a proposition from Hegel. “I mean, the cream’s sitting here right in front of us and we’ve got to go searching for more in the basement.”
Rebecca grinned. “No, we haven’t,” she whispered. “Come on, you remember our plan—the reason we dressed up in these daft outfits. All you have to do is chat up the guard for a few minutes. Then you make out you’ve got something in your eye. You ask him if he can help get it out. You take him to the window and while he’s doing the business with a sparkling white handkerchief, I lift up the dome, nick the cream and we do a runner.”
“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 Mit-chell.
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, firsthand 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.