Warpaint

by J J Maya

  My interview was scheduled for 2:00pm leaving me plenty of time to buy a new black outfit. Remembering the makeup artists, I had already seen in action at D’Arcy’s, it was obvious that a high standard of appearance was expected if I were to succeed at getting the job.

  Further down the street, I noticed a tiny boutique named Cupcake. The window display showed an array of exotic lingerie, but I could see that they also stocked a range of classically designed separates, just the thing for interview attire.

  One hour later, I had chosen a chic black boat-neck cashmere top and a pair of smartly tailored cigarette pants all charged to Rick's credit card.

  Serves him right.

  I felt a wave of excitement as I watched the sales assistant delicately pack up my purchases, placing the garments carefully in a pristine white carrier bag embossed with the store’s name. Now, all that remained was to find some glass cleaner.

  Back in Rick's apartment, I broke the silence of being alone and turned on the radio once more. I carefully laid everything out on top of the bed, making sure not to crease the cashmere, as Dionne Warwick sang, “I say a little prayer for you.” Next, I unpacked my stiletto shoes, normally reserved for nights out where little walking was required. These would do for the moment as I figured that if I were lucky enough to secure a job at D'Arcy's, the heels would soon be replaced by my trusty Repetto ballet flats, a staple of my work wardrobe. But first, I had a little job to attend to.

  I turned the volume up to as high as my hearing could stand and danced to Sister Sledge sing the lyrics to ‘Thinking of You.’ The song always raised my spirits. Stepping back from the mirror, I decided that now would be the best time to bring out the cleaning supplies I had purchased from a quaint dollar store two blocks away. On went the black rubber elbow-length washing up gloves complete with shocking pink feathers, and the ubiquitous bottle of Windex. Rubbing with all my might, the significance of erasing Isabella's artwork from Rick's bathroom mirror was not lost on me.

  Housework done; I smoothed my hair into a shiny, glossy bob before applying a slick of Dolce Vita by Dior - Isabella wasn't the only woman in this city with a passion for iconic red lipstick.

  Later that afternoon, for the second time that day, I strode out of Manhattan Heights, hoping against all hope that I would return as a gainfully employed resident of Queens, New York.

  After last night…it’s the least I deserve.

  5

  Sharks on the Shop Floor

  “PAPERWORK? WHAT DO you have for me?”

  Gigi Gerson sat across from me, perched elegantly on her transparent Starck Empire chair, nails immaculate, painted in a soft ballet pink which perfectly matched her lipstick. The white walls of her office were stylishly offset by her massive white Formica desk, which in turn was accented by a single white vase containing white tulips.

  Bit of a theme going on here, I thought as I surveyed my surroundings.

  “I have a temporary work visa,” I replied, making my best attempt at trying to sound full of confidence. “I’m expecting my Green Card any day now.”

  This was a downright lie, Rick and I both knew that realistically, we would be waiting a year plus for the green card to come in. Scared to look up at her, I continued, “They tell me it can take a while.” Then I stared at my feet once more. Hopeful.

  Shit! What the hell do I know about any of this stuff? Jeez, Willow, keep it together!

  Mrs. Gerson, known to her employees as Mrs. G, stared back at me with an all-knowing look, her chiseled cheekbones expertly highlighted with a sweep of honey blush. On the surface she was attractive in a well lived, handsome kind of way. I could tell she was most likely nearing the end of her 50s, the lines around her artificially plumped lips a dead giveaway. Then again, she could be a smoker. Her svelte figure had been well looked after and if her office was anything to go by, then I was sure she held a membership at the prestigious gym, just a block away. I got the distinct impression she was a force to be reckoned with.

  “This all seems to be in order,” Mrs. G stared hard at me. “Can you start today? I have a vacancy I need to fill urgently.”

  What? I wasn’t expecting that!

  Dismayed, I smiled broadly, stood up and offered my hand in agreement. I saw Mrs. G’s eyes dart quickly to the bottle of hand sanitizer on her desk as she made a split-second decision whether or not to shake my hand.

  Charming…

  But thinking better of it, my new boss took my hand and shook it vigorously.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Gerson. I won’t let you down.” Smile Willow, keep smiling.

  Mrs. G motioned for me to walk with her towards her office door. Once again, I saw her eyes dart from the door handle to the bottle of hand sanitizer.

  “I’m sure you won’t,” she sighed, almost as if she had said this sentence a thousand times before.

  Opening the door to let me out, we were both taken by surprise when a tall young man fell inwards towards us.

  “Jackson! Quelle Surprise!” Mrs. G flashed a wicked smile in my direction, silently apologising for his behaviour. “I want you to take Willow over to Dior.”

  I looked over at Jackson and noticed his expression had changed.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if she worked by me? I mean, just until she finds her feet. You know Dior’s not the easiest counter to start on.”

  Mrs. G’s silence coupled with a steely expression made Jackson think twice about his suggestion.

  The pinging orchestra of nerves in my belly erupted as I expertly read the situation. I had worked in the industry far too long to be considered naïve, I braced myself for what was to come next just as Jackson interrupted my thoughts.

  “Ok Miss Hot Shot! Come with me,” Jackson strode ahead of me, expecting me to follow on.

  Safely out of earshot from Mrs. G, Jackson bent down a touch and whispered in my ear, “You, my dear, are about to meet the scariest shark on the shop floor. Her last assistant only lasted half a shift.”

  “Oh, like that is it?” I enquired.

  Shit! This is all I freakin’ need.

  Jackson swaggered through the swing doors with me by his side. I was immediately gripped by that familiar feeling of anxiety and trepidation. No one likes being the new girl, yet here I was, thousands of miles away from home and about to step into my new role as a D’Arcy’s Makeup Artist on the Dior counter. I sensed that Jackson felt something too. Was it a sense of pride at having helped me secure the role? Or maybe the feeling of British bravado that one feels when working abroad? Whatever it was, he seemed delighted that he now had a Scottish counterpart to aid and abet him whenever required.

  As I marched through the beauty hall, dressed sleekly in black and looking every inch a typical D’Arcy’s employee, I noticed Jackson nod and smile at his colleagues. Quite the popular chap, I thought as I smiled in tandem with him.

  “Here we are!” he announced as we stopped in front of one of the most prestigious counters on the shop floor – all glass and gold and glittering bottles of perfume sparkling like precious jewels under the store lights.

  But surprisingly, for a store of this size and stature, there was no one around to greet us.

  How strange.

  As if reading my thoughts, Jackson piped up, “Bloody typical! Probably out back having a sly fag!”

  Just then, a strangely recognisable figure, dressed in a figure-hugging black jersey dress, emerged from the staff entrance onto the shop floor. I stared at the woman but couldn’t quite place her. But I didn’t need to wait too long. The woman cupped her tiny baby bump as she stared straight through me.

  “You!” she shouted in horror.

  The familiarity of her New Jersey voice struck me as a wave of despondency ran rough shod over me. “It’s you!” I heard myself say, equally horrified, as I took a step back.

  Jackson braced himself as his eyes darted from me to Isabella.

  Isabella hadn’t changed much from
the previous night. She still wore her hair high and messily coiffed, like she had just rolled straight out of bed. The shop floor lights glinted off the same bronze barrette, she wore last night.

  Manky cow, hasn’t even bothered to wash her hair, probably stinks of fag and coffee breath too.

  As I stood there looking at her, it was as if all the pieces of a highly confusing jigsaw puzzle were being pieced together at lightning speed. So, she’s the reason Rick didn’t want me interviewing here!

  I wanted to get away from her, be out of there. The pinging in my belly intensified at an alarming rate. Like an animal in a life-threatening situation, I chose flight over fight and made my way quickly towards the door that Isabella had just come out of. I could hear Jackson in the foreground shouting, “Willow! Come back! You can’t leave now…you only just got here!”

  Jackson caught up with me as I made my way to what I now realized was the staffroom locker. Grabbing me by the arm, he hissed in my ear, “What the hell are you playing at?” his eyes bulging maniacally as he attempted to suss me out.

  “Why didn’t you tell me she worked in here?” I breathed heavily, staring at Jackson, “Or is this all a game to you?” I snarled, losing my rag with the man who had helped me secure a job.

  “Look, I thought Mrs. G was going to put you on my counter. I didn’t for one-minute think she would put you with her.” Jackson looked sheepish, like he had fucked up in a big way. I felt momentarily sorry for him.

  “Don’t worry about it. You weren’t to know. It’s not your fault,” I emphasized but it all seemed like too little too late.

  “I’m sorry Willow,” Jackson said.

  ***

  Unbeknownst to both of us, Mrs. G had been watching proceedings on the shop floor and had followed us both to the staffroom.

  “Jackson,” she called. “I thought I asked you to take Willow to Dior?”

  Jackson stood to attention, standing in front of me, shielding me from my new boss’ steely stare.

  Shit! I thought as I stared at my shoes.

  “Oh, Willow just needed a little pep talk from me on how to deal with New Yorkers. You know they can come across as a bit intimidating to us more reserved Brits.” I felt Jackson gently pinch the back of my arm as he spoke.

  Impressed with his quick thinking I reciprocated pinching his arm, in acknowledgement, as I continued staring at my feet, not daring to look up and catch Mrs. G’s gaze.

  “Then move along people! What are you waiting for? Get back to work,” she demanded, snapping her fingers in a flourish.

  There was no choice but to return to the shop floor and face Isabella De La Souza.

  ***

  I had to hand it to Isabella. She behaved as if nothing fazed her as she requested my resume, scanning it intently. A true professional, I would say. I had already anticipated that she would look for some kind of excuse not to have me on the counter, but no matter how hard she looked, that piece of paper was as clean as a whistle.

  Across from our station on the shop floor, Jackson took up residence on the Luella Bee Apothecary counter, an organic skincare homage to the honeybee. Just as the bee population was in decline it appeared that so too was Jackson’s counter.

  As Isabella and I went about our day, she in scornful silence, I in utter trepidation, Jackson watched on intently—he couldn’t keep his eyes off both of us, observing our every move as we danced expertly behind the counter, ignoring each other while serving our clients. I was well versed in situations like this and by the looks of things, so too was Isabella.

  By mid-afternoon, as the onslaught of lunchtime shoppers began to trickle off, I noticed Mrs. G make her way toward my counter, only to be side-tracked by Jackson staring off into the distance.

  “Don’t stand around all day gawping, there’s a white glove inspection at 3:00pm and you’d better not fail it,” she rasped, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow as she spoke. Jackson stood to attention while attempting to suppress a smirk.

  Wow! He’s brave!

  Despite the trying circumstances of the first day on my new counter, the afternoon seemed to pass quickly. I knew that Isabella and I would each have loved to ask the other a bucketful of questions, but I also knew that neither of us would. Instead, I chose to stand quietly by and observe. Thinking of my colleagues back in Glasgow, I knew that Greta and Co. would have a field day if they knew I was here working alongside my husband’s ex.

  Ex-Partner? That’s when it really hit me. Was she really his ex or did these two still have something going on that I didn’t know about?

  As if on cue, Jackson appeared at my side, “Penny for them?”

  Ignoring him, I set about windexing the counter and shelves, making sure to remove the collection of expensive fragrance bottles one by one, safeguarding them as I went.

  “Be careful not to daydream on the shop floor, if Mrs. G catches you, you’ll know all about it,” Jackson declared, hoping to give me the low-down, but his timing was all wrong.

  “It’s just such a lot to take in, you know?” I replied, my head all over the place. Jackson looked at me like he understood. “And she’s so damn beautiful, I mean what the hell does Rick see in me?”

  “He sees what I see.” Jackson put his arm around me, “Now, c’mon! Snap out of it! Let’s go for tea. This place has died a death,” he paused, “and Bella is due back any minute.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait till she gets here first? I mean, I don’t want to get into trouble on my first day.”

  “Trouble? I think you’ve already made a lasting impression, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so,” I replied meekly, as I pondered the day’s events, not wanting to dwell too deeply on what had just transpired.

  Jackson attempted to cheer me up, “C’mon let’s go!” He pulled my arm. “Next time we’re on shift together, I’ll take you to the Scottish store. They sell Irn Bru and pineapple cakes in there.”

  What a lovely man! I had only known him five minutes, but it somehow felt like we had known each other for ever. Relaxing in his company, I sensed a smile reverberate across my face.

  Despite all the drama, something told me I was going to enjoy working in D’Arcy’s and I was determined that no one, including Bella, was going to steal my thunder. Of that at least, I was sure.

  6

  Scar Tissue

  LATER THAT EVENING, I unlocked Rick’s apartment door. A heady scent of fresh peonies, combined with a top note of cheap, toxic lemon cleaner, lambasted me, infiltrating my nostrils, leaving a distinctive odour permeating throughout the tiny apartment. Someone had come in while I was gone, and I could only assume it had been Rick. I was right. He had left a tiny white envelope inscribed with the words, ‘Let’s start afresh? Call me.’

  I placed the card back in its envelope and decided there and then that no, I wouldn’t call him. I wasn’t going to be won over that easily. I went into the galley kitchen, switched on the kettle before happening upon a blue plastic basin in the bathroom cupboard.

  So, Isabella gets sore feet too!

  I filled the basin with warm water. I had already noticed an expensive looking jar of lavender bath crystals in the cabinet and surmising that they must belong to Isabella, I poured a generous amount under the running water. If I had bought them, I would only have used a capful. Isabella hadn’t struck me as the organic-hippy-chick kind of girl, but perhaps even she suffered from stress occasionally?

  My feet throbbed. Eight hours of standing in three-inch heels had taken its toll. Now, the only activity I wished to pursue was changing out of my stilettos and soaking my feet in the basin of warm lilac water.

  Today had been a psychological head-bender and I wanted it over with. As I sat in front of the TV, with a mug of steaming hot tea in hand, a faint memory from decades ago crept into my thoughts.

  You can only do your best. The world loves a trier.

  Two fat tears splodged onto my cheeks in quick suc
cession. If Mum and Dad had still been alive, they would have told me what to do…

  ***

  That next morning, I awoke, got dressed and stood to attention in front of the bedroom closet mirror. The nervous orchestra in my stomach pinged on cue as I envisioned the day ahead. It was only 08:45 am but I had already decided to splurge and take a cab to work just to negate any chance of me turning up late. I didn’t want to give Isabella any opportunity to chastise me.

  At 09:45 am, as I entered the hallowed halls of D’Arcy’s Department Store, I summoned up the courage to walk alone onto the shop floor. As if on cue, the elastic bands pinged in the pit of my belly as I tried to say “Hello” to a few of my ‘colleagues’ who I recognised had been on duty the day before, then headed straight for Dior. Straight ahead, I could see her standing there, waiting on me…ready to pounce.

  “Sit down,” Isabella demanded.

  “Good morning to you too!” I replied, staring back at her carefully made up face while refusing to look at the black leather chair.

  I wonder what time she got out of bed to achieve that.

  “I said sit!” Isabella snapped, looking at me with that same bitch-slapped expression I had seen in the restaurant that terrible evening.

  “Why?” I asked, refusing to back down as every inch of me prepared to do battle, as a freezing chill snaked down my spine causing me to shiver slightly.

  “You’re a mess! That’s why!” Isabella scanned me from top to toe, cruelly lingering on the scar on my right cheek, a leftover reminder of a basal cell removal from years ago.

  “Charming,” I replied, knowing full well I had taken over an hour to get ready that morning, leaving absolutely nothing to chance. Still, here she was trying her best to trip me up.

  Full of trepidation, I concluded it was probably best, in this instance, to do as she told me. I sat down in the chair reserved for clients, making sure not to break eye contact with her. Years ago, my dad had told me never to lose eye contact with a dog that was threatening to bite, and now I found myself putting his advice to good use in a New York City beauty hall. The thought of it made me smirk.