Warpaint

by J J Maya

  “Why? What’s going on?” I enquired.

  Jackson appeared to take a moment or two before deciding whether to divulge any more. Searching my eyes for an indication that he could trust me, before making his big reveal, “I’ve got a dying counter.”

  “Oh. I see,” I said softly.

  Shit. This is awkward. This is all I need. The guy gets me a job and now he could be out on a limb.

  I shifted nervously in my chair, trying to find the perfect balance between composed and concerned while attempting not to look too worried for him. I knew he had been having trouble with Mrs. G, but I hadn’t thought it was this serious.

  “They put me on it as a last-ditch attempt to save it, but it’s not working. Don’t know what’s going to happen next.” Looking relieved that he had finally confided in someone, I tried my best to comfort him, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. What could I say? I had only just walked in the door and had been invited in by the very guy who was now in trouble.

  “Anyway!” he brightened, “’Nuff about me! How are you going to survive working beside the “shark”?”

  “You mean Isabella?”

  Jackson nodded.

  “Don’t know,” I replied, somewhat unnerved that he had turned the conversation so expertly back to me, “I’ll have to figure it out somehow. I’ve met her kind before, but this is different…way different.”

  Gulping the last remaining dregs from the bottom of my glass, I found myself overcome with emotion. Perhaps it was the effects of the alcohol, but this offloading of our concerns was catching. Now, it was my turn to divulge.

  “I’m a mess!” I blurted.

  Surprised, Jackson stared at me before gently placing his glass on the counter, then sat back in his barstool, folded his arms and indicated he was giving me his full attention.

  “Go on…” he nudged.

  I looked around me to make sure that no-one else was listening in to our conversation, the way you do when you are feeling tipsy and think you are the beholder of the most secret information on the planet. Information that no-one else could give a damn about.

  “Ok! only I could come all the way to New York and end up working beside my husband’s pregnant ex, that’s if she is his ex…. for all I know, they could still be together.” There, I had said it.

  Now it was Jackson’s turn to shift uncomfortably from one foot to the next. I immediately picked up on his discomfort.

  Alarmed, I grabbed his arm, unintentionally knocking the empty glass from his hand, causing it to smash into pieces on the bar floor. Everyone at the bar turned to stare.

  “You know something. Don’t you?” I heard my voice rise in pitch,

  Embarrassed that I had brought attention to him, Jackson made his apologies to the barwoman as he kicked the shards of glass into a neat pile in front of the bar. He turned to face me, ready to impart an important piece of information, something he had been keeping to himself for a while.

  “Willow, you do know she’s going to fight you for him…you know that, don’t you?” Jackson gently rubbed the top of my hand, as if trying to reassure me.

  After a day like today, I had pretty much guessed that this would be the case. Jackson continued to stare at the glum expression on my face.

  “She’s not going to give Rick up just like that,” he snapped his fingers. “She told me so. They were together an age before he met you,” he paused, “And now…what with her carrying his baby,” he paused as the words ‘his baby’ sank in, “Well, she’s going to do everything in her power to get him back.”

  I felt defeated before the fight had even begun. A sick feeling rose in my belly.

  “Damn him! Why did he walk into my life and cause all this chaos?”

  “Because you attracted him in. That book you’re always reading—what’s it called? “You Only Get One Life—”

  I finished the sentence for him, “Here’s How to Live It.”

  “Yeah! That’s the one!” He rounded on me, smiling wickedly, “Just a suggestion…. maybe you should put the book away… I mean don’t take this the wrong way, but it doesn’t seem to be doing you much good, does it?”

  Then he went to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  8

  Big Reveal

  “ANOTHER ROUND PLEASE.”

  Jackson had taken over 20 minutes to return from the Gents, leaving me alone to stare at the pitiful reflection looking up at me from the bottom of my glass.

  Decidedly ahead of him in the drinking stakes, I stood up and pushed my barstool away deftly with one foot while crunching broken glass with the other.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I declared in tipsy fashion, hands on hips and full of bravado.

  Trying his best to contain his amusement, Jackson gave me an encouraging smile, “Go on then…”

  Clearing my throat for maximum dramatic effect, I announced again, “I’ve been thinking…if it wasn’t for that book as you call it, I wouldn’t be standing on broken glass in this gorgeous New York dive bar.” The sound of broken glass underfoot only served to highlight my storyline to maximum effect.

  Jackson looked like he was fit to burst, which only spurred me on further.

  “If it wasn’t for THAT BOOK, as you like to call it, I would be walking home alone along Buchanan Street on a freezing cold November night, after having spent an awful day at work, to spend the rest of the night alone in my room while my flat mate drunkenly entertained young men I went to school with in the front room.”

  “OK, OK, I get it. You’re just yet another escapologist somehow hoping that New York is the answer to all your problems.”

  Shit! Is that what I am? An escapologist?

  Turning the conversation back to Jackson, I enquired, “So, what about you then? What are you escaping from?”

  Jackson grabbed me playfully by the wrist, guiding me back to the barstool as he stared me straight in the eyes. “Now that, my dear, is a long story…and sometime, maybe not too far from now, I might just tell you all about it. But for now, drink up! I have to get you home before it gets any later.”

  Frustrated with him withholding information from me, I was determined to find out more about him.

  “OK then, Mr. Mysterious…if you weren’t a makeup artist what would you be?” I asked.

  “Oh…that’s easy!” he replied, “I would have been a Flight Attendant.”

  “Really? For sure?” His answer took me by surprise. “Why?”

  “The beautiful men, flying the globe, staying in fancy hotels…I mean, what’s not to love?” he asked as a cheeky grin flashed across his face.

  “Er…well, there’s the jet lag, cranky passengers, screaming babies, long delays, and passengers throwing up in paper bags” I reminded.

  Jackson put his glass down and regained a serious demeanour.

  “You have to learn to look more on the bright side, Willow, you know…the world is an exciting place. Don’t let your past tell you otherwise.”

  He was right. In so many ways, he was right.

  “But enough about me…what about you? What would you be?” he asked, prodding my arm with his manicured finger.

  “Oh, that’s easy,” I replied. “I would have been a makeup artist to the stars.”

  “Really? So, why are you still working behind the counter?” he asked, a cheeky glint appearing as he spoke.

  I felt uncomfortable. He’s right—why have I not moved on from behind the counter?

  I shifted in my seat as I thought of a suitable answer.

  “I suppose I just never got the chance,” I said, annoyed with myself.

  “Rubbish!” he declared. “You make your own luck in this life!” Jackson wagged his finger in my face. “Don’t wait on someone coming along to save you—they’ll never arrive. You’ve got to get out there and grab every opportunity that comes along.”

  “Yeah! You’re right Jackson,” I conceded, fe
eling slightly downcast and annoyed with myself.

  Jackson sensed the change in mood.

  “Look. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jackson rubbed my back. “You made it to New York, didn’t you? Now that’s no easy feat! Most people would never dream of marrying a guy after only six weeks…but you did!”

  I looked up to see Jackson laughing at me. He was winding me up and winning.

  “Cheeky!” I said as I playfully tapped him on the arm

  Not ready for our bonding session to be over, I decided to jump right in with my size sevens and offered him some assistance.

  “Look, I’ve been thinking about your counter.”

  “Have you now?” he asked, throwing his shoulder into his overcoat. “So, now you think you can save me?”

  I ignored his sarcasm.

  “Well… you and I could work on that counter together. Mrs. G asked me to figure out a way of helping you to increase sales. She thinks we should milk our “Britishness.” We could really turn it around – put on posh accents, serve Earl Grey tea with a splash of lemon, and offer cucumber sandwiches to our customers. Oh, with the crusts cut off, of course!” I smiled, pleased with my own creative ideas. I could sense he was mulling over my suggestions.

  Jackson stopped what he was doing and stared at me.

  “She asked you to help me out?” Jackson appeared crestfallen like he had just been kicked in the stomach.

  “…er, yeah…just in the short term, till you get back on your feet.”

  This wasn’t going as well as I had anticipated. I was excited that my new boss had asked me to assist a colleague, but I could see the news was making Jackson feel insecure. I had to figure out a way to make him feel better.

  “We could re-launch Luella Bee’s Apothecary, you know…put a British twist on it! Call it Blake’s Apothecary or something,” I suggested, suddenly feeling excited about my prospects.

  Jackson thought things over for a few moments. I could sense his cogwheels slowly churn as he digested my idea while I grew more and more excited by the idea’s potential.

  “You could sell the organic skincare, “I said, taking a deep breath, “and I’ll encourage the women of Queens to ditch the orange skin and fake eyelashes and venture out without 7 inches of Pan Stick and spackle caked on their faces.”

  “You mean, promote the anti-Kardashian effect?” Jackson asked. “You’re a riot!” He rolled his eyes, “Like, that’ll ever happen! Not in this neck of the woods.”

  I listened to him, sighed, and slapped the table. “But we could give it a bloody good try!” I declared. I took mental stock, working the scenario out in my head. “I can just picture it now, no orange skin, no fake nails, and no triple-decker false eyelashes! What will the women of Queens think of that?” I asked, staring hard at Jackson.

  “Ok,” Jackson nodded. “I think you might be on to something here.” He wore a serious business-like expression, one that hinted at past success.

  “We could call it the “Great British Make-Under”. The New York press will go apeshit for it.” His blue eyes lit up like a light bulb as I sat back on my barstool, nodding in agreement.

  “Well?” I enquired, looking up at him, expectation writ large across my eyes.

  “Well, what?”

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “We dance!”

  Jackson grabbed me again by the wrist, pulling me from my barstool as the first bars of Primal Scream’s “Don’t Fight It, Feel It” started to play over the bar’s sound system. To my astonishment, and the amazement of everyone else at the bar, he began a series of intricate pirouettes, spins and leaps across the tiny dance floor. I trailed clumsily behind him as he dragged me by the wrist, and shouted into his ear, “Where did you learn to dance like that?” The pounding beat reverberated all around the tiny dance floor as Denise Johnson belted out, “Gonna get high till the day I die.” Taking this as his cue, Jackson expertly picked me up and swung me around as if I was a slightly built rag doll.

  “The Royal Ballet!” he shouted as I gasped at the very thought of him spinning me around one more time. Then, as quickly as the music had begun, I noticed a regretful expression take root on Jackson’s face. Jackson let me go and gathered up our belongings before indicating towards the doorway.

  “C’mon Cinderella. Better get you back to your husband before it gets any later.”

  I laughed. No one had ever referred to me as Cinderella before.

  ***

  Jackson and I walked on in silence. Both of us deep in thought. As we neared the entrance to Rick’s apartment building, I was more than a little thankful for him walking me home, considering the amount of alcohol we had consumed in the bar.

  Our “goodbyes” were short and sweet as my new colleague made attempts to hail a cab back to his apartment. The yellow cab pulled up to the side of the pavement. Jackson cracked a smile, as his laughter lines crinkled.

  “See you tomorrow then?” he chirped, winking at me.

  Jackson folded his tall body into the back seat of the yellow cab. I could tell he had a lot on his mind…and so did I. Something made me look back, as the cab spun off into the darkness. That’s when I saw him staring back at me. He waved.

  Goodnight Jackson.

  Five minutes later, as I stood outside the doorway of my new marital home, I put the key in the lock and opened the door to Rick’s apartment. Peering in, I switched on the hallway light. Immediately, I was struck by the absence of the familiar musty smell that I had become accustomed to, this time my nostrils were happily greeted by the sweetest fragrance of pink peonies.

  My favourite flowers!

  Next to the bouquet of fresh-cut pink peonies lay a small, white, thickly embossed card with the words, “Hope you like the flowers. See you at 9pm,” carefully etched across the front. I threw the card back on the counter and threw myself down on the couch.

  I really wanted a fag. Maybe it was the alcohol but all I could think about was smoking a cigarette. I didn’t understand this phenomenon at all. I had never smoked a cigarette in my life but right now there was nothing I wanted more than to light up and take a long drag.

  Sitting there, looking around my surroundings, I decided the apartment could do with a quick furniture change and sprucing up before Rick got home. There wasn’t much room to do anything substantial, but my years of reading “Elle Deco” had taught me some classic room layouts that would make a small space appear larger. I rolled up my sleeves and went to work. I moved the couch away from the wall and set the glass coffee table in the centre of the living room, opposite the faux fireplace. I lit the candles on top of the mantel and set my bouquet of pink peonies in a baby blue ceramic jug and placed the jug on top of a pile of glossy magazines. They weren’t my type of magazine; they were mainly focused on financial issues and the stock market, which makes sense seeing as Rick worked in the Financial District of NYC. I would soon swap those out for a batch of glossy Vogue and interior design magazines. Rick’s bachelor pad furniture was sleek and minimal, but I had already got my eye on some nice sage green velvet cushions on sale in the store. I would purchase them with my staff discount. That would salve the pain of the $30 price tag.

  The galley kitchen was in dire need of some re-organisation. I made a mental note to buy six storage jars and printed labels as I earmarked a cabinet that could be turned into a pantry for dry goods. In the meantime, I moved the position of the new kettle to a countertop under the window then I set out a tray filled with accoutrements for making tea. My spirits lifted with every design decision…or was it the alcohol? Who knows? Whatever it was, it felt like my artistic touches were helping to soften Rick’s testosterone-fueled design scheme. Smiling to myself, I poured myself a large glass of robust red wine and threw myself, once again, down on the couch. Scanning the room and feeling pleased with my interior design efforts, I raised my glass to no one in particular and called out, “Just needed a woman’s touch, Ric
ky Boy.”

  As I squished into the couch, my attention was drawn to a small silver earring that had got stuck down the side of the seat cushion. I pulled it out and examined it carefully. It was an elegant design with a diamond stone.

  My stomach lurched as I held yet another reminder of Rick’s past in my sweaty palm. Deflated, I threw the earring into the cut glass plate on the coffee table and knocked back the wine in one big despondent glug.

  That bloody woman is everywhere!

  The nagging thoughts resumed their tirade.

  Should have given it more time, Willow…Getting married? After only six weeks? You must be off your head.

  Oh, shut the hell up!

  As my mood became more morose, I thought of my choices: I could return home to my old life and pretend like this farce of a marriage never happened or I could stick it out, separate from Rick, and make it on my own. There was just one major problem with that scenario, without a spousal visa, I would be kicked out of the country and sent on my merry way.

  My thoughts wouldn’t leave me in peace. I was going to have to pick up the phone and tell Geneviève what has happened. Putting aside our differences, I reached over and dialed her number.

  Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up.

  “Hello? Who is it?”

  Shit! She picked up.

  “Hi doll” I said, “It’s me, Willow.”

  As I relayed the story of my arrival in New York to Geneviève, I couldn’t quite believe it was Rick I was talking about.

  “I told you this would happen. Now, didn’t I?” she said in her trademark self-congratulatory tone.

  “Yes. You did,” I replied, feeling as small as a five-year-old child, “And you were right.”

  “If I were you, I would book a flight right now and come home!” she demanded. “I’m not on best terms with the girl who has your room, so I’ll kick her out and you can have your old room back…it’ll be fun! Just like the old days!”

  “Yes,” I paused, unsure of myself, “I’ll book a flight first thing in the morning.”