Apocalipstick Read Online Free PDF Page A

that his private life was any of her business. As far as she was concerned, he could have hordes of naked women chasing him down Farringdon Road after work every night, so long as they didn’t call him on her extension.
    By the time the fourth woman rang, Rebecca had had enough. OK, she decided, indignation and sense of mischief rising, if she’d become Max Stoddart’s messaging service, she might as well make a decent job of it. She picked up the phone.
    “Hello,” she said in her best breathy siren voice, “you’ve reached the Big Max Hot Line. To find out Max’s star sign and favorite pizza topping, press one on your telephone keypad now. To hear an inspirational spiritual message, press two. To check his current availability for dinner, theater and bar mitzvahs, press three. To leave a message, press the star key at any time.”
    “Max?” the woman’s voice piped up. “It’s Beth. What’s going on? I take it this is one of your daft jokes. I’ll speak to you later. Anyway, for now I have one word to say to you—fireworks. With a bit of luck, tonight is going to go with such a bang.” Then she giggled and hung up.
    Rebecca snorted with laughter. Her “Big Max” epithet was inspired, she thought.
    As she turned back to her computer she realized she hadn’t told Jess she couldn’t make it to her place tonight on account of the Mer de Rêves do. She picked up the phone and punched in Jess’s number.
    Jess didn’t seem too bothered about Rebecca’s not coming round, since Diggory had started dropping off for a few hours round about nine and it would give her a chance to get some extra sleep. Rebecca promised to pop in for tea the next day instead. She had two days to write the column, so could easily afford to take an afternoon off.
    “Oh, by the way,” she said, “you’ll never guess what happened with Small Penis Guy from this morning . . .”
    She recounted the story, ending with her fake messaging service performance.
    Jess roared and agreed the “Big Max Hot Line” was, indeed, inspired. “Mind you,” Jess said, “if he’s as good-looking as you say he is, he’s bound to have loads of women after him.”
    “I guess.”
    “Ooh,” Jess came back, “do I detect the slightly maudlin tone of a woman who’d hoped she was in with a chance of a leg over?”
    “Don’t be daft. He’s not my type. Too posh. Too smooth, and I could never go out with a bloke who spent more time in front of the bathroom mirror than me.”
    Jess gave a small laugh. “Right, if you say so.”
    After half an hour rummaging through the fashion cupboard she finally came up with some beautifully cut white hipster flares and a matching satiny blouse. When she looked in the mirror, even she had to admit the outfit wasn’t entirely unflattering.
    Her newfound confidence in her ability to wear white was, however, short-lived. She arrived at The Sanderson to find everybody dressed in black. How could she have been so stupid? She might have known Fleet Street’s fashion and beauty queens would refuse to be cowed into abandoning their regulation uniform—even by an edict from the director of Maison Mer de Rêves, Coco Dubonnet du Sauvignon.
    Only a handful of people had made the effort—mainly Mer de Rêves employees and those who could carry it off, like Jerry Hall—who was all golden mane and white cashmere legs, looking, Rebecca thought, like an exquisitely coutured Palomino—and Vivienne Westwood, who had come as a bride. Fergie’s attempt to get into the spirit of the occasion had been less successful. Her weight had clearly taken a turn for the wurst and the layer upon layer of sticky-out white tulle she was wearing did nothing to disguise the fact. The words
Sugar Plump Fairy
were being bandied about by the gay waiters who were wearing ironic white polo necks over the tightest leather hot pants.
    Since she couldn’t take refuge with the photographers, who were all in the street waiting to snap the stars as