Warpaint

by J J Maya

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, staring through me.

  “Oh…nothing!” I chirped, clasping my hands tightly as I settled into the chair, wiggling my bum into a more comfortable position, knowing that by doing so, I was pissing her off even more in the process.

  Isabella grabbed the selection of brushes that she had left out to dry overnight, I noticed then that a few of my new co-workers had gathered around to watch. In unison, I guessed that none of us could believe that I was going to allow Isabella to get to work on my face.

  OK! Here goes nothing! God help me!

  “Where do I begin?” Isabella sighed as she scrutinized every line and wrinkle on my face. “I got my work cut out!” I looked up at her briefly only to be reviled by the look of disgust on her face. I settled my gaze on the backs of my hands which were now clasped tightly in my lap.

  The next ten minutes passed uncomfortably as Isabella worked heavy-handedly, making sure to focus in on the scar tissue on my right cheek.

  “Do you have to be so rough?” I called out angrily as she tore at my skin with the concealer brush. “Do you treat all your clients like this?”

  “Only those that need it,” she spat.

  Heartless bitch!

  “This is all about Rick, isn’t it?” I asked, one eyebrow arched in defiance as I dared stare up at her.

  Isabella stopped what she was doing and stared down at me, looking at me, as if seeing me properly for the first time.

  “Rick?” she snarled. “He’s the father of my child. Don’t you forget it.”

  “Is he?” I glared, defying her to answer me.

  My question cut through her like a knife as she stopped the makeover.

  “Do it yourself,” she threw the foundation brush at me.

  “Isabella! That’s enough now,” a man scolded.

  I looked up to see Jake, the Irishman who had been in the restaurant on the night that Rick had introduced me to his family.

  “You never mind her,” he winked. “She’s a fiery one,” he chirped as he vacuumed around the counter.

  As Isabella exited the shop floor, Jackson appeared at my side.

  “My God! What happened? What did you say? I’ve never seen Bella look so upset!”

  Part of me felt bad for Isabella.

  “Nothing to worry about,” I shrugged as I smiled at Jake.

  But I was worried. Isabella apparently still has feelings for my husband.

  Have I come all this way to swap one work hell for another? This unsettling thought lingered with me for the rest of the morning.

  7

  Transformation

  THE REMAINDER OF the shift passed smoothly as I became acquainted with my new colleagues and customers. Lisa from Perfumery stood opposite me, helping me with some of the finer details of a D’Arcy’s counter. Little did she know that, location aside, D’Arcy’s was just like every other department store I had worked in. The only difference was that at D’Arcy’s, the diverse clientele seemed to know exactly what they wanted and weren’t shy at asking for it.

  Half an hour into my morning shift, it soon became obvious to me that I was being watched closely from all quarters. I already sensed Isabella intently observing my every move as I slowly got to grips with the inner running of the store, making me feel like a caterpillar caught under a microscope. But the one person who unnerved me the most was Mrs. G. Every so often, I would catch her watching me as I looked up from performing a makeover, but when we locked eyes, she would hold her gaze, causing me to look away. Occasionally, she would bring over new clients and introduce me to them as her “Brit Girl.” She appeared to take some pride in my national identity as she jokingly told her clients that she had hired me to stop Jackson— “her other Brit employee”—from feeling so lonely. I secretly hoped that this hadn’t been the only reason she had hired me.

  Shortly after lunch, I noticed a hefty woman appear in front of Jackson’s counter.

  “Jackson! Look at what you did to me!” an unmistakable Jamaican lilt echoed around the beauty hall as the woman pointed at a patch of angry crusted pimples on her face.

  “You should never have sold me that toner!” she cried. “It’s toilet cleaner!”

  Jackson breathed out heavily, making his annoyance known. No matter whether you worked in New York, London or Paris, nobody appreciated having their brand’s products bitch slapped in front of a full house of customers.

  Inhaling impatiently, Jackson stared at the woman, “I thought I told you to use it sparingly? I told you to use just a little!”

  I sensed the tension building as the Jamaican woman shifted her weight impatiently from foot to foot, looking like she was ready to do battle. “You never told me that!” she bellowed, as the other shoppers came to a halt, looking around to see where the commotion was coming from.

  Oh no! This is not going to be good.

  I knew that Jackson had already taken a verbal assault from Mrs. G earlier in the shift about the state of his counter, and now I could see her walking towards him, eyebrows arched in anticipation, ready once again to do battle with her “Brit boy” cohort.

  It was now or never. I stepped away from my counter and took up position in front of Jackson’s client.

  “Why don’t I have a look?”

  The Jamaican woman, Ms. Sondra, peered down at me, staring hard as she tried in vain to place my accent.

  “You need some chamomile on that to calm it down,” I suggested. “Hold on I’ve got just the thing.” Delving into Luella Bee’s Apothecary cabinets, I rummaged around in search of some cotton pads and a bottle of chamomile lotion. As I walked back towards Ms. Sondra, I realised that it was not going to be as easy to pacify her as I had first thought.

  “Wow! Hold on there, missy!” Ms. Sondra stopped me. “You’re not putting any more garbage on my face! I’m sick of you people always trying to sell me stuff and none of it works.” In any other situation, Ms. Sondra’s gaze would have unnerved me, but I was experienced in conflict deflection. Years of living with Geneviève had taught me that skill.

  Seizing the opportunity to walk away, Jackson scampered off the shop floor, leaving me alone to face both Mrs. G and the irate customer.

  Nice one. Thank you, Jackson.

  I ignored the scathing comments from Ms. Sondra as I gently dabbed at her face with the lotion. Gradually, I felt her begin to relax. I didn’t speak. Instead, I allowed her to vent until she ran out of steam. Mrs. G watched in silence as I calmed the situation and Ms. Sondra’s complexion. As I slowly got the situation under control, I sensed I was beginning to win over Jackson’s customer. After some time, I felt the woman’s defenses deflate.

  “Can I ask you something?’ Ms. Sondra peered inquisitively into my face.

  “Go on,” I encouraged, not sure what was going to come out of her mouth.

  “Do you like what you see when you look in the mirror?” she enquired, staring hard at me.

  I realised immediately what she was referring to. Ever since Isabella’s early morning attempt at a makeover, my scar tissue had felt as if it was pulsating under my makeup. I felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness sweep over me.

  “No. Not always. But I try not to let it get me down. Sometimes I disguise it and sometimes I let it show. Just depends on how I feel.”

  “I like you!” Ms. Sondra dived in for a hug, unnerving me, shaking me off my firm footing.

  “You’re such a cutie!” she kept hugging on, “And such a dope accent too! Give me two bottles of that stuff…and you can tell Jackson he can go…never mind, I’ll tell him myself!” Ms. Sondra cackled wickedly as she winked at me.

  Mrs. G and I watched on as she left the building. I looked at my watch.

  “Time for my tea,” I said to no one in particular. As I walked by Jackson’s counter, I stifled a laugh as I caught him peering up from behind the cash register.

  “It’s OK. You can get up now. She’s gone.�
�

  Jackson bowed apologetically as I passed. I had saved his skin, now he owed me one.

  After my lunch, dining alone in the store restaurant, I ventured back to my counter. There was no sign of Isabella. Must be off on one of her vaping breaks. There were some days when I wished that I had a 20-a-day habit, but no matter how hard I tried I could never bring myself to smoke. The beauty hall floor was quiet, almost completely devoid of customers. I looked at my watch. There was always a dip in the afternoons when the workers returned to their offices and the school run was yet to begin. This was the time of day that I usually dedicated to paperwork and stocking up on supplies in anticipation of the handover to the evening part-timer. Isabella and Jackson were nowhere to be seen and the perfume ladies appeared to be deep in conversation about the previous night’s episode of “Housewives of New York City.”

  I surveyed the floor, hoping to make a few late afternoon sales so that I could reach my target for the day and keep Isabella off my back. To my right, I saw a young woman in her early 20s. Doe-eyed, and endowed with crystal clear green eyes, she had fine, sculpted features and an elegant silk scarf tied bandana-like at the nape of her neck. Her gait told me she was either shy, nervous, or both. I would need to proceed with caution. Years behind the makeup counter had turned me into a bit of a body language expert and in most cases, I had been proven correct.

  “Hello,” I began approaching her. “Can I help you?” I asked quietly, not quite sure whether I should just leave her alone.

  The young woman held up her hand, indicating that she didn’t want me to approach. I backed off and buried my head in a mountain of paperwork. Someone else would come along soon, they always did.

  Twenty minutes passed, yet still, the young woman stood at the side of my counter, appearing to examine the products, one by one, slowly placing them back on their respective shelves.

  What is going on with this woman? She should buy or go away instead of hanging about my counter all day!

  Placing my pen down on the paperwork, I decided to approach once more. This time, a little more directly. My stomach was rumbling and the blister on my right heel was starting to complain.

  “I’m between clients and have a spare 20 minutes if you’d like to try on some products?” I enquired gently, not wanting to appear too pushy.

  The young woman stared straight back at me. Momentarily taken aback, I gulped, hoping not to show my surprise.

  “Could you give me some brows and some lashes?”

  “Of course. Take a seat.” I replied, immediately warming towards the young woman. “My name is Willow. What’s yours?” I enquired as I gathered my tools: a pot of powder and eyebrow brush for the brows and a set of false lashes to frame her searing green eyes, as opalescent as the ocean.

  “Claudia.”

  She relaxed a little as she settled into the makeover chair, I felt her trust in me begin to grow. It was then I realised that she had been watching me this whole time, slowly gathering the confidence to ask me to help her. I felt honoured.

  Ten minutes later, and with no resistance from my new customer, I decided to push the boat out and applied two delicate flicks of sexy black liquid eyeliner. The results were astonishing as Claudia transformed in front of my eyes.

  “Can I see?” she enquired, almost childlike.

  Peering intently at her reflection in the mirror, I sensed immediately her self-esteem begin to soar. It was the best part of my job. The side of the job that only other makeup artists know about; the side that builds and accomplishes self-esteem with one deft flick of a brush or eyeliner pen. I smiled back at her.

  “Gorgeous!” I exclaimed. “Just gorgeous!”

  Getting up off the chair, Claudia grabbed the hand-held mirror out of my hand, looked at me, and then returned her gaze to the mirror.

  “Oh my God, you made me look …normal!” she gasped, then returned to stare at her reflection in the mirror once more.

  “Yes. You look beautiful,” I replied. My heart swelled like it might burst with pride.

  Claudia swung around and hugged me tightly, squeezing the very breath out of me. I wondered how long she had been feeling so low.

  “Happy?” I asked, tears of joy threatening to spill over onto my cheeks. It wasn’t often my job reduced me to tears but today was an exception.

  “That’s an understatement! Book me in for next week. I got a date with my husband and I want to look like this when he takes me out. Our first wedding anniversary is coming up!” She peered again at her reflection, letting me see behind her emotional guard for just a second, “It’s been a tough year.”

  “I bet it has,” I responded while checking the appointment book, “3pm OK for you?”

  “Perfect.”

  Gathering her things, Claudia made her way proudly through the myriad of counters, her bald head gleaming under the bright store lights. Her spirit dazzling other would-be customers who stood aside to let her pass. I turned around to pack away my brushes, noticing at once that the silk headscarf was lying on my counter.

  “Claudia! You forgot this!” I shouted, holding up her scarf, waving it in the air as I attempted to grab her attention.

  “Don’t need it,” she hollered back, making her way out of the store. I looked on wistfully, secretly wondering what it must feel like to be excited to go on a date with a loving husband. Feeling forlorn, I returned to my paperwork as Mrs. G walked towards me.

  “Willow, come and see me in my office at the end of your shift.”

  Shit! What have I done?

  “Will do! Mrs. G,” I replied, attempting to look confident while wiping my sweaty palms with a tissue.

  The end of my shift posed a problem. I knew I would now have to think about what to do about the “Rick situation,” plus I had to go and see Mrs. G in her office. I waited patiently at the staff entrance, huddled in the doorway as Jackson took an intense drag on a Marlboro. I peered up at him, wondering why he looked so stressed out.

  Just then, as if on cue, Isabella exited the building, knocking me off my footing as she barreled by, forcing me to step down onto the pavement.

  “Hey!” I called, “Watch where you’re going.”

  Jackson joined in, stubbing out his cigarette under his black leather winkle pickers, “Bella! Wait up!”

  Isabella ignored both of us, throwing her head back, bedraggled hair straggling down her long narrow back as she marched down the street at an impressive pace in her three-inch heels. Jackson shrugged his shoulders, peering down at me from his 6-foot 3-inch height.

  “C’mon. I’ll buy you a drink. It’s about time you got to see how we live it up in Queens!”

  I smiled.

  Finally! Thought you would never ask!

  ”OK. But give me five minutes...Mrs. G wants to see me in her office.”

  I felt as if I had been waiting forever for someone to show me the inside workings of this town but yet, no one had thought of asking me to tag along with them.

  Ten minutes later, Jackson led me into Lola’s and invited me to sit at the bar. For a moment, it seemed as though I was the only woman amongst this throng of gorgeous, toned, trim men. Jackson stood taller than most, brooding above everyone else at the bar. As he ordered two Singapore Slingers from the bartender, I noticed for the first time how his exquisitely toned arms didn’t bulge out like so many of the other men, his physique was different – modest and athletic, lending him an air of poise coupled with a dash of elegance.

  Jackson waited patiently as the only other female (besides me) prepared our drinks. Nodding over at me, he motioned for me to sit on the barstool before placing my drink in front of me.

  Holding his glass up high in the air, he nodded at me as his face burst into a huge smile, “Willow Campbell-Delgado, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  I raised my glass to his, “Jackson Dart, it’s lovely to meet you too!”

  “Cheers!” we said in unison. />
  “But wait a wee minute…what do you mean by finally?” I asked.

  “Finally, a true friend,” he exhaled as a look of relief seemed to wash over him. “I feel like I’ve been waiting forever for someone like you to come along.”

  The intensity of his revelation unnerved me.

  “But I don’t get it…I’d thought you’d have tons of pals to hang around with,” I blurted, mystified, wondering how this gorgeous man could have so few friends.

  Jackson peered down at me, his expression changing slightly to one of sadness, “Acquaintances more like. It’s so difficult to find real friends in this city. People move around at such a fast pace. I always feel like I’m being left behind.”

  I felt honoured that he would take me into his confidence so quickly.

  “I used to feel like that in Glasgow,” I responded, as I remembered how many of my colleagues only stayed for a short while before heading off to pastures new. “But now I am here to stay, so you don’t need to worry about me, OK?” I declared with absolute certainty.

  Jackson looked away shyly, took a swig of his drink, then turned to face me once more.

  “So, tell me about Bella,” he asked, one eyebrow arched skyward, “Does she bite?”

  “No!” I laughed, “But I fully expect that if she could, she damn well would!”

  Jackson took a long, slow drag on his cigarette, inhaling deeply before responding, “Sounds just like our Bella.”

  Moments passed in silence with no further conversation between us. Jackson appeared to be deep in thought, staring at the dregs of liquid in his glass. Neither of us seemed willing or able to discuss Bella any further. As the awkward silence developed, I decided to break it.

  “Earth to Jackson?”

  Jackson placed his empty glass on the counter and turned to give me his full attention.

  “Sorry. Been a tough day. Mrs. G’s been putting the pressure on again,” he gulped, tapping his fingers off the table, looking at once vulnerable and out of character.