“But Coco is innocent,” Lucretia insisted when she phoned Rebecca in a panic that night. “Her directors sanctioned the making of this cream, behind her back, I just know it. I must do something to help her. I must.”
She was as good as her word. The next day the editors of British and American
Vogue
flew into Charles de Gaulle. They were followed by the editors of
Elle, Tatler
and
Harper’s.
Very soon every editor from every glossy in Europe, along with most of Hollywood and hundreds of Coco’s clients (including Madame N’Femkwe), had arrived. The city was almost forced to declare a state of emergency, such was the run on Perrier, green salad and egg whites. Lucretia chaired a tactics meeting at the Georges Cinq, at which it was decided each of them would submit a written testimonial to the police, attesting to Coco’s good character.
What was more, the following three nights, as the world’s press looked on, two hundred of the planet’s most glamorous women (with their makeup artists, publicists and personal chefs) held a candlelight vigil outside the Mer de Rêves building, to protest the charges brought against Coco and sing “We Shall Overcome.”
By the end of the week Coco’s name had been cleared and all charges against her dropped. She was also free to carry on trading under the Mer de Rêves name, since all the truth cream had been impounded. The decision appeared to have less to do with the protest rally and more to do with the police being unable to find any evidence to prove Coco had known about the dangerous effects of the cream. What was more, her managing director, together with half a dozen members of the Mer de Rêves board, confessed to having masterminded the entire affair entirely on their own. (
Le Figaro
claimed to have evidence that the confession had been extracted under duress. Apparently the police had stripped the men, tied them down and smeared their naked bodies with Revivessence.)
The next day Rebecca was able to phone Wendy and tell her that Lucretia had put her case, and that of the other members of staff who’d been sacked by Mer de Rêves, to Coco. She immediately offered them substantial financial compensation as well as their jobs back. The others opted to take the money and find new jobs. Wendy decided to stay on. Coco had been so impressed by Wendy’s courage and determination that in addition to a cash payout, she had offered her an executive position at Mer de Rêves, a six-figure salary and a seat on the board. Despite everything that had happened, Wendy decided it was far too good an offer to turn down.
“I don’t know quite how to thank you for all you’ve done,” Rebecca said to her, “other than to say there will be a sizable check from the
Vanguard
on its way to you soon. You know this is far and away the best story I’ve ever had.”
“Well, let’s hope it leads you to bigger and better things,” Wendy said.
“You know,” Charlie said, “a French lawyer mate of mine reckons the guys at Mer de Rêves responsible for the antiwrinkle cream could go down for ten years.”
He had come over just as she was getting ready to leave for the day and was now sitting on the edge of her desk, winding up one of her sushis.
“Wow, so we’re in the clear. Nobody’s suing anymore.”
“Correct.” He put the sushi down and watched it
click-clack
across the desk. “You know,” he said, “taking on you and Max was the best thing I ever did.”
He hesitated for a moment. “I’m so sorry, you know—about the two of you splitting up. For what it’s worth, I thought you made a great pair.”
“Yeah, so did I. But you know . . .”
Just then the sushi fell on the floor. Charlie instantly bent down and picked it up. The plastic prawn halves had come away from the slab of rice.
“I am so sorry. Tell me where you bought them and I’ll get you some more.”
Rebecca laughed, said they’d cost virtually nothing and she had no idea where she bought them.
“Don’t worry,” she said, taking the broken sushi from him and dropping the pieces into her bag, “I’ll stick it back together with some superglue.”
“Anyway,” Charlie said, smiling, “the pair of you are going to walk away with God knows how many press awards this year.”
“What, me too?”
“Don’t look so astonished. Of course, you too. This is a major story. Believe me, nobody will better it this year. Now then, I’ve been thinking about how best to show you my appreciation. How do you fancy heading up a small team dedicated to investigative stuff?”
“Me?”
He looked around. “I don’t see anybody else sitting at this desk.”
“What about the makeup column?”
“Well, since Nat who did the column before you has decided not to come back because she wants to be with her baby full time, I think the reinvented Snow will jump at the job. Next objection.”
Her face broke into a broad smile. “I don’t have one,” she said.
“Right, let’s have lunch tomorrow to celebrate. One o’clock at Drake’s.”
Rebecca sang
I Will Survive
, complete with gestures, all the way to the multistory parking garage. It had happened. She’d done it. She’d landed her dream job. Apart from waking up and discovering she was Julia Roberts, life couldn’t get much sweeter than this.
Just as she was about to put the key in the car door, she stopped singing and stared up at the concrete ceiling.
“Thanks, Mum,” she whispered. “I love you.”
On the way home she phoned her dad, who couldn’t stop telling her how proud he was of her. Then he got choked up, the way he had the night she played the lead in
Toad of Toad Hall
in junior high school.
“And Charlie’s even taking me out to lunch tomorrow,” she said.
“Wow. My baby being wined and dined by a Fleet Street editor. Your mother would be so proud of you.”
She could feel tears welling up.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And I have news, too,” he said, “I’m coming home tomorrow. I’ve finally found a manager for the Manchester shop.”
It would be great to have her dad back. She’d missed him. On top of that, the work on Lipstick’s house was finished, which meant she would be moving out in a few days. Much as she was going to miss Lipstick, she couldn’t wait to have the flat to herself again.
By the time she got home, Lipstick (who had by now spoken to Stan) had been out and bought champagne.
“Here’s to a brilliant future,” Lipstick said, handing her a glass. “So what are you going to wear tomorrow?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Lipstick, this is Charlie we’re talking about here. I could turn up dressed as a Morris dancer and he wouldn’t notice.”
“I know,” Lipstick said, “but you want to show him you can dress the part for this new job. It doesn’t hurt to make a good impression.”
Rebecca was puzzled. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why are you so concerned about what I wear tomorrow?”
“I care about you, that’s all, and I just want to see you looking your best. Is that such a crime?”
Lipstick shuffled uneasily and started examining her cuticles.
Rebecca said she supposed it wasn’t.
They ordered Chinese takeout. Still high on excitement and adrenaline, Rebecca ate tons. She couldn’t help noticing Lipstick barely touched a thing. This bug of hers was certainly dragging on.
Rebecca arrived at Drake’s bang on time. She was wearing her posh powder-blue suit. Her choice of outfit had little to do with the fact that she was meeting Charlie and everything to do with Drake’s being the kind of place where women wore posh powder-blue suits.
An unsmiling, surly waiter told her Charlie hadn’t arrived yet and led her to a table by the window. The restaurant was famous for its sublime food and cold, aloof—to the point of downright rude—service. Martin Drake, the tantrum-throwing owner-chef, whose turnover of kitchen slaves rivaled the Gulag at its height, readily admitted that the possession of two Michelin stars gave him the right to treat his customers like ignorant rabble. The more often stories appeared of him forcibly ejecting some poor punter who’d had the temerity to suggest his quenelles were a tad on the heavy side, the more impossible it became to get a table for dinner inside six weeks. (Although like most publicity junkies, he made exceptions for media supremos, including Charlie, for whom a table could always be found.)
Rebecca ordered a glass of mineral water.
“Still or sparkling?”
“Sparkling.”
“We have a choice.” He proceeded to reel off a list of names she’d never heard of.
“Glen Morag,” she said. It all tasted the same to her.
“Can I bring you some bread?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
“What sort of oil?”
“Er, olive, I think.”
The waiter rolled his eyes.
“Of course, olive. But we have a choice. First there is the Adapte, a rich fruity oil from the western slopes of mount Ida, overlooking the Aegean Sea and Lesbos. Then there is Romeu, which is a little more full-bodied, from the Tras Os Montes region of Portugal. My personal favorite, however, is the Da Vero, which comes from a 350-year-old farm in Segromigno, overlooking the Tuscan plain. It has an unusually delicate flavor and stands in sharp contrast to the more assertive oils from Umbria and Chianti.”
“Does it?” she said. She was more than a little confused by now and couldn’t remember any of the names.
“So, which is it to be?” he said, tapping his pad with his Biro.
“I’m not sure. Would you mind going through them again?”
He let out an irritable sigh. “Adapte, a rich fruity . . .”
“OK, yes, the Adapte. That would be fine.”
“Not the Romeu?”
“Or the Romeu, if that’s what you recommend.”
“Rather than the Da Vero?”
“Ah, yes. From the 350-year-old farm, overlooking the Tuscan plain.”
“It is particularly good today,” he said.
“Let’s go with that, then.”
“The Da Vero. An excellent choice if I may say so.”
“Glad you approve,” she said.
As she sat wondering how much longer Charlie was going to be, she couldn’t help eavesdropping on a couple of American businessmen giving their order to a different waiter.
“And perhaps we could offer you a little amuse gueule, with the chef’s compliments.”
The pair exchanged confused glances.
“Sure,” they said.
“So, what’s with the amuse girl thing?” one of them said to his companion, after the waiter had gone. “What do they do, bring in a hooker before the entrée?”
Rebecca looked at her watch and began smoothing out nonexistent creases in the tablecloth. Anxious to find something to occupy herself, she picked up her bag and took out her Filofax. She began flicking through the pages, pretending she was checking her appointments. After a minute or so she got bored. As she put the Filofax back in her bag, she noticed the pieces of broken sushi. She took them out and put them on the table. Somewhere she had some superglue.
Without stopping to consider how ridiculous she would look, sitting in the middle of one of the smartest restaurants in London, doing a spot of DIY on a piece of windup sushi, she started rummaging through her bag. Eventually she found the glue and unscrewed the top. She picked up one of the halves of plastic prawn and squeezed the tube. Nothing. She squeezed again, harder. The superglue shot over the tablecloth. Without thinking she wiped at it with her fingers. Then, with the same hand she picked up the two pieces of plastic prawn and the rice slab.
Suddenly, she was aware of somebody standing over her. Assuming it was Charlie, she looked up and smiled.
“Max.” Her shock at seeing him instantly gave way to profound discomfort.
“Hi,” he said, returning her unease.
“I thought you were in France,” she said.
“Got back last night.”
“Oh, right.”
Silence.
“So,” she said, “who you meeting for lunch?”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie? But I’m having lunch with Charlie—to celebrate my new job. He didn’t say anything about . . .”
The waiter, who had been hovering at a discreet distance moved forward. “Er, Mr. Holland has just phoned to say he is caught up in an urgent meeting and that he isn’t going to be able to make it. He sends his apologies and hopes you and Mr. Stoddart enjoy your lunch.”
Rebecca and Max looked at each other.
“I think maybe I should go,” Max said.
“Yes, me too.” She started to get up.
“On the other hand,” he said, “we could stay. It seems a shame to waste a freebie lunch.”
She thought for a moment, then nodded.
“OK.” She extended her hand toward the seat opposite.
“Ah, Edward Sushihands,” he said, smiling.
Her face turned crimson. The two halves of prawn and plastic rice were stuck to her fingers.
The waiter glowered.
“It’s OK,” she said anxiously, “I think I’ve got some nail polish remover in my bag. That usually gets glue off.”
“Not in here, please, madame. The smell.”
“It’s OK, I’ll go outside.”
She picked up her coat.
“I’ll come with you,” Max said.
Outside, the sky was heavy with rain, but it was holding off for the time being.
He took the bottle of nail polish remover from her.
“OK, hold out your hand,” he said.
The liquid was ice cold on her skin. He began pulling gently at the pieces of plastic.
“Tell me if this hurts,” he said.
“It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. The pain of wanting him and knowing she couldn’t have him was unbearable.
“So,” he said, “I
think
we’ve been set up here. Looks like old Charlie’s been playing cupid. Funny, he doesn’t seem the type.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “No, he doesn’t. By the way, I thought your French nuclear piece was brilliant. I haven’t watched the film yet. But I taped it. And you were great with Paxman on
Newsnight.
”
“Thanks, I was shitting bricks. Your story was pretty amazing, too. Did you get my flowers?”
“They were from you? Oh, God, Max. I had no idea. They came without a card. That was a sweet thought. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And congratulations on this new job. Charlie told me. Sounds amazing.”