Free Apocalipstick by Sue Margolis Page A

was three years old, she’s had a thing for baby corn.”
    “But, Gran, I have to go . . .” Rebecca whispered, giving her grandmother a how-could-you-do-this-to-me? scowl.
    Rose responded by letting out a soft moan. Then she closed her eyes and began rubbing her forehead. “Oooh, the pain.” She gripped the back of the sofa and started to wobble.
    Much as she adored Grandma Rose, Rebecca also knew she could be as manipulative as a two-year-old when she wanted something.
    “Sorry, Warren,” Rose said in a small, breathless voice, “you’ll have to excuse me. Sometimes my blood pressure shoots up. The doctor says that at my age and with my blood vessel history, I can’t rule out the possibility of a stroke.”
    Rebecca rolled her eyes. She was almost 100 percent certain Rose was putting on an act, but she couldn’t be sure. She put her arm round her shoulders and gently guided her to the armchair.
    “All right, Gran.” Rebecca smiled, realizing she had no choice but to stay and keep an eye on her. “Of course I’ll stay for dinner. Just let me make a quick call.”
    She went out into the hall and dialed Max’s mobile. Once again all she got was his voice mail. She explained about Rose, left profuse apologies for standing him up and said she hoped they could arrange another date.
    When she came back into the room, Rose was yakking away to Warren, nineteen to the dozen.
    “Of course the doctor thinks I should change my diet—you know, start eating health foods—but I keep telling him that at my age I need all the preservatives I can get.” With that she began shaking with laughter.
    “So, feeling a bit better, Gran?”
    “Maybe a little. I think perhaps the pills have kicked in.” She tapped the photograph album sitting on her lap. “I was just showing Warren the picture of you when you were bridesmaid at your cousin Valerie’s wedding. Look, you’d just gotten your new braces.”
    Rebecca gave Warren a weak smile.
    “Now then, why don’t we all go and sit down,” Rose said.
    As they made their way to the table, Rose gave a little tug on Rebecca’s fleece. “Couldn’t you have worn something a bit smarter?” she hissed.
    “So, Warren,” Rebecca said, offering him a bread roll from the basket, “tell me all about this new road layout of yours.”
    “Well,” he said, reaching for a roll, completely unaware that he was dragging his sleeve through the potato salad, “my plan is a reaction to the arterial-slash-collector road system we have at the moment, which essentially supports urban sprawl. You see, road networks don’t have to be like that. I mean, take Peninsular Charleston in South Carolina. There you have a perfect example of a vibrant, eclectic, profoundly inspiring urban village. . . .”
     
    Even though she’d finished her column, Rebecca decided to go into the office the next morning. She had some research to do for a profile she was writing on some new girl band, which the
Mail
had commissioned. She could see no point staying at home and paying for phone calls when she could make them at the
Vanguard
for free. On top of that there was always the possibility—albeit unlikely—that a major investigative scoop would come her way.
    When she arrived just after ten, there was no sign of Max. She guessed he’d gone off on a story. Her phone must have rung half a dozen times that morning. Each time—assuming it was Max—she’d snatched it off its cradle and purred a deep, sexy hi into the mouthpiece. The first time it was Rose phoning to find out what she thought of Warren.
    “Very sweet, but not really my type,” Rebecca said diplomatically. She decided that getting cross about last night would only send Rose’s blood pressure up again.
    “You know your problem, don’t you?” Rose said in a gently scolding tone. “You’re too fussy by half. Take my word for it—wait much longer for your boat to come in and you’ll find your jetty’s collapsed.”
    The rest of the calls