Apocalipstick Read Online Free PDF

they got out of their limos, she decided to take a wander round the room, writing down names of celebs, whom they were with and what they were wearing.
    She’d been doing this for a few minutes when she suddenly became aware that somebody was following her. Each time she turned round the same woman, about her own age, a Mer de Rêves employee or publicist she assumed since she was wearing white, was hovering a few feet behind. The woman followed her to the bar and a few minutes later into the ladies’ room, where she took the next-door cubicle. As Rebecca sat peeing she couldn’t make up her mind whether she should be worried about this person trailing her or dismiss the whole thing as meaningless coincidence. She decided on the latter. As they stood washing their hands, Rebecca smiled at her through the over-basin mirror. The woman returned it briefly and opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, then, clearly thinking better of it, she made a beeline for the door, her hands still dripping wet.
    Rebecca shrugged. Then she picked up one of the small linen towels and dried her hands.
    Back at the party, she decided to go up to Fergie—whom she’d interviewed at a couple of charity dos and rather liked—to see if she could get a quote for her column. She greeted Rebecca warmly and swore blind she remembered meeting her. Rebecca couldn’t help feeling flattered. They’d been standing chatting about what Fergie described as the “dazzling decor” (vast potted trees sprayed white, their branches laced with tiny white fairy lights, ten-foot ice statues, a purple-draped ceiling twinkling with stars) and the food, which was equally “dazzling,” when Rebecca realized the woman was still watching her. Feeling slightly spooked by now, she decided to go over and say something. Just then Victoria Posh came over and collared Fergie, enabling Rebecca to make a discreet exit.
    She was easing her way through the crowd when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned. It was Guy Debonnaire, whom she knew from her days on the Sunday
Tribune
“Zeitgeist” section. He was one of those men who gloried in being referred to as a “straight gay,” because it had been fashionable for a while in the nineties to fop around like one of Louis XIV’s wig bearers while secretly being totally straight—which Guy most definitely was, since he had been trying to get inside her knickers for years. Moreover, Guy was a drunken bore. Totally off his face now, he stood swaying in front of her.
    “Ah, the sublime, refined and utterly divine Ms. Fine,” he proclaimed, saluting her so majestically with his kir royale that he spilled most of it down his maroon Thai silk suit.
    Rebecca rolled her eyes.
    “Oh, come on, Becks, don’t be like that,” he slurred, doing his best to steady himself. “Do you know underneath these clothes I’m completely naked?”
    “No, but if you hum it, I’ll sing along.”
    He gave her a wounded look. “Please, Becks. Please come out with me. We could go and see a film.”
    “Sorry, I’ve seen it.”
    “Oh, right. Shame. I like films, though. Don’t you? Especially film noir. Have you ever thought, though, how odd it is that the Elephant Man never did anything else?”
    “Guy,” she said wearily, “you’re slaughtered. Go home.”
    As she squeezed past him, he lunged at her. Being so pissed, his aim was less than perfect and his mouth ended up connecting with her left ear. As she heaved him off, he lost his balance for a moment or two and spilled even more kir royale. Having regained it (his balance, not the kir royale), he winked, made two loud tongue clicking sounds and staggered off.
    As she stood wiping Guy’s slobber out of her ear with a tissue, she looked across to where the woman had been standing, but she’d vanished.
     
    Rebecca had planned to take a taxi home and charge it to the
Vanguard,
but by the time she left, it was snowing, and there wasn’t a yellow light to be