Apocalipstick by Sue Margolis Page B

decorated. It had yellow anaglyphic walls, faded green velvet curtains on a mahogany pole and a gas fire with a seventies teak surround. She assumed the black ash wall unit, matching table and gold Dralon sofa were his. Her heart sank. She’d assumed by the way he dressed he would have good taste in furniture. She was clearly wrong.
    As she put the salad bowl on the table, she noticed a brown envelope. The bird motif caught her eye and she picked it up. Across the top it said Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. Inside there was a newsletter and a glossy brochure advertising Twitcher Weekends in the Chilterns . . . “to include nightly lectures from the award-winning thrush expert Dr. Finn McGwerter.” She put the brochure back and dropped heavily onto one of the black ash chairs. She would just eat and make her excuses.
    “Chili con Quorni,” he announced, putting the serving dish down on the table.
    “Oh, wow,” she said, hoping she sounded sufficiently enthusiastic. “Smells great.”
    He disappeared and came back with the wine bottle and their glasses. “Mind the table. It’s a bit wobbly. I bought all the furniture along with the flat. I’d lived in a furnished place before, so I’ve got nothing of my own apart from a bed, CD player and TV.”
    “Oh, so none of this is yours?”
    “What? Good God, no.”
    Her spirits lifted, but only slightly.
    “Oh, there’s something I want your advice on,” he said, spooning chili onto her plate. “You know my sisters and I had this anniversary party for my parents?”
    She nodded.
    “Well, we haven’t gotten them a present yet. Mum and Dad both love the countryside and wildlife, so I thought about sending them on a bird-watching holiday. What do you reckon?”
    Her eyes shot to the envelope. “Oh, right.” She started giggling. “For your parents?”
    He gave her a bemused frown. “Yes.”
    “Fabulous. Wonderful. I can’t think of anything more perfect.”
    “Great,” he said, “I was hoping you’d say that. . . .So, Rebecca, how long have you been vegetarian?”
    She didn’t say anything for a second. “Me, a vegetarian?”
    “Yes. Yesterday, on the way home when we stopped at Burger King, you ordered a veggie burger. I just assumed . . .”
    She burst out laughing, only just avoiding spraying him in chili. “The only reason I eat veggie burgers is because they aren’t quite as fatty as the meat ones. Bit lower on the old cholesterol. But I adore meat.”
    He looked at her, clearly relieved. “God, you had me really worried last night. I thought you were going to turn out to be terribly self-righteous and fart a lot.”
    She made a mental note not to tell him about the effect Brussels sprouts had on her.
    They started eating.
    “God, this is crap,” he said after a mouthful.
    “No, it’s lovely,” she lied. “Quorn’s got a really interesting texture.”
    “Yeah, right, so’s barbed wire,” he said, picking up her plate. “How’s about I order in a curry absolutely stuffed with dead animal?”
     
    It may have been the Fleurie, or Frank Sinatra playing on the CD player, but before she knew it, she was telling him about having lost her mum and how much she missed her. She hadn’t cried over Judy in ages, but now tears came rolling down her cheeks. He took her hand and squeezed it.
    “What happened?”
    “Car crash. Drunk driver shot through a red light and plowed straight into her.”
    She took another sip of wine.
    “So,” she said, anxious to lighten the mood, “tell me a bit about you.”
    He told her his father had been in the RAF and that he’d been sent away to boarding school at eight.
    “Rough,” she said.
    He shrugged. “It was the same for all the forces kids. You got used to it.”
    “So I guess the military background and boarding school would explain your obsessively tidy desk.”
    He reddened.
    “So, was he pretty senior, your dad?”
    “Air vice marshal—retired a couple of years ago.”
    Blimey. He was