Apocalipstick by Sue Margolis Page A

think she’s on the level?” Max said.
    Rebecca shrugged. “I think so.”
    Just then the intercom buzzer went.
    “Oh, that’ll be my sister,” he said, putting down his wineglass and heading toward the door. “She’ll only be a minute. She popped round earlier on to borrow my laptop and my little nephew left his blankey thing here. Won’t go to bed without it.”
    A few moments later he was back. Behind him were a slim pretty woman with expensive Fulham highlights and a rather tearful-looking boy of about four, dressed in a Thunderbird outfit.
    “Rebecca, this is my sister Beth.”
    Beth? Rebecca did a double take. Oh, God, Beth was the sister who had heard her Big Max Hot Line performance.
    “Hi,” she said, taking Beth’s hand, “pleased to meet you.”
    “And this,” Beth said, “is one extremely overtired and miserable Jake. Look, I’m so sorry to barge in like this, but he gets hysterical if he hasn’t got blankey at bedtime.”
    Rebecca turned to the little boy. “Wow, great costume,” she said. “So which Thunderbird are you? Don’t tell me. Scott Tracy.”
    “I’m Vergil,” he said grumpily, looking at her as if she were a complete fool. “Scott wears a yellow sash.”
    Beth rolled her eyes and told Jake to stop being so rude. “Sorry,” she said to Rebecca. “He should have been in bed over an hour ago.”
    Max crouched down so that he was on a level with the boy. “Hey, Jake. Come on, cheer up. Remember what we say.”
    Jake gave a self-conscious grin.
    Max’s hand went to his head in solemn salute. His face became grave. Jake followed suit.
    “OK,” Max said, “let’s see if you remember how it goes: All hail the
goosenflappers,
masters of the park, lords of all things that flap . . . come on, you have to say it, too.”
    Max began again. This time Jake joined in, between giggles.
    Rebecca shot Beth a quizzical look.
    “Sometimes Max takes him to the park on a Sunday morning so that his dad and I can have a lie-in. A few months ago they saw a huge flock of geese. Max invented this daft ritual and it just stuck.”
    By now Max and Jake were in stitches. Rebecca couldn’t help registering that Max seemed to be a bit of a natural with kids.
    Max turned to Beth and said he’d take Jake into the living room to look for his blankey.
    “Always had a bit of a weird sense of humor, my brother,” Beth went on. “You should hear his mad voice mail message at the office. He’s only got some sexy woman telling callers they’ve reached the Big Max Hot Line. I keep meaning to speak to him about it. God only knows what people must think.”
    “Oh, don’t worry,” Rebecca shot back. “He got rid of it. He was just messing about and forgot to erase it. I don’t think too many people heard it.”
    “Well, thank the Lord for that. I was beginning to think he’d completely flipped. So, Rebecca, how long have you been at the
Vanguard
?”
    They’d been chatting for a couple of minutes when Max appeared carrying Jake, who was clutching an ancient and rather grubby-looking blue cot blanket.
    “Mission accomplished,” Max announced. “It was under the sofa.”
    Beth took Jake from him. “Come on, Vergil, let’s get back into Thunderbird 2 and leave these people to their dinner. Sorry again for intruding.”
    She turned to Rebecca and waved.
    “Nice to meet you,” she said.
    “You too.”
    “She doesn’t seem even remotely bossy,” Rebecca said to Max after Beth and Jake had gone.
    “On her best behavior, because you were here.” Max grinned. “Plus Beth has never been quite as scary as the other three.”
    He topped off her wineglass. Then he turned to look at the oven timer.
    “Right, I think we’re almost ready to eat. Why don’t you take the salad next door and I’ll be with you in a sec.” He bent down to open the oven. She was desperate to find out what was inside, but she thought it would be rude to hover.
    The large living room was similar to hers before she