Warpaint

by J J Maya

  Glancing at him fleetingly, I noticed sadness well up. It took all my strength to turn and walk away from him. The tinny tapping of Jackson’s winkle pickers echoing in the background was the only sound I heard as I walked on alone.

  15

  Solution

  THE NEXT MORNING, as Jackson and I rode the subway to work, I wondered how many more times I would make this journey with him before I overstayed my welcome. He had been a darling about it all, but I was not going to impose upon our new friendship—he was, after all, the only real friend I had in this town.

  As we embarked upon the business of the day, Mrs. G took up her usual spot in the middle of the beauty hall floor. I noticed she was clutching a batch of paperwork, nothing unusual about that I supposed, but there was something different about her, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, hush please,” she commanded; in that all-encompassing authoritarian manner I had grown to respect. At least you knew where you stood with Mrs. G.

  Mrs. G cleared her throat in preparation for her next sentence. At once, a wave of silence washed over the shop floor as workers came to a standstill. I waited anxiously as conversations around me came to a halt and I noticed that some of the women were holding hands.

  Oh no! What’s going on here? Everyone looks so worried.

  Mrs. G wielded an air of authority over her staff. She knew she had us in the palm of her hands. I hoped she would be gentle with us.

  “I have an important announcement to make,” she stated, looking around the beauty hall while staring at us all individually, taking her time, before delivering her next sentence.

  Uh oh, don’t like the sound of this.

  “Some of you may already be aware that D’Arcy’s Department Store has been under considerable financial stress as of late. This unfortunate situation has been going on for quite some time.”

  Dammit, this is all I need!

  Jackson gave me a “told you so” look while some of my co-workers looked like they might burst into tears at any moment. Then it struck me. I wasn’t the only one who was struggling to get by. Those carefully applied masks that my co-workers wore worked hard to conceal what was going on underneath, but who knew what their home lives were like? We were all in this together.

  “I have already taken steps to increase sales and you will have noticed by now that I have already moved my two top salespeople onto the Blake’s Apothecary Counter.”

  This statement amazed me. I had no idea I was considered one of the top sellers. Looking over at Isabella, I wondered if this was one of the reasons she disliked me so much. Mrs. G shot me a warning look.

  “And to improve sales still further, I have decided to launch a competition.”

  A wave of excitement washed over the women; some of whom clapped their hands in approval while a few of the more cynical types displayed a look of jaded disgust. Mrs. G immediately shot the little group of dissenters a warning look.

  “The aim of the competition is to find out who is the best overall makeup artist in New York City. Each top department store will enter one of their makeup artists into the competition, here at D’Arcy’s.”

  One of the dissenters, an older woman called Noreen, shook her head in disgust while others around her clapped and hollered their approval.

  “Wait! There’s more!” Mrs. G continued to stare through us, demanding our utmost attention, daring any of us to talk over her. “The winner of the competition will work on the Carlotta Rossellini Team of International makeup artistes at New York Fashion Week.”

  The mere mention of the name Carlotta Rossellini caused the women and Jackson to whoop and holler their approval, so much that even dull Noreen joined in.

  “Hush, hush please…there’s more.”

  The crowd became silent. A couple of the women embraced each other while others listened intently.

  “Depending on requirements there may even be an opportunity to work at London Fashion Week with Carlotta’s team.”

  The beauty hall floor workers erupted in excitement. Most of these women had never been out of the country, never mind go to work in London with one of the world’s most prominent makeup artists.

  Mrs. G allowed us to see a rare smile, as she clearly had us all in the palm of her hands.

  “The press will be in store tomorrow evening to talk to some of you, so I’ll need all hands on deck and absolutely no absences. Got that?”

  I looked on enviously as some of the women hugged each other. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing, and looking around at the others, I felt like an outsider looking in at a glamorous party that I was not invited to. Mrs. G sidled up beside me, catching me off guard, “The winner of the competition will also receive valuable status that will help with a Green Card application. I think they call it the Exceptional Ability class.” Winking at me, I understood completely what she was trying to tell me, that winning this competition might be my only chance at staying in the country in my own right and making it on my own.

  The sweet sensation of possibility ran through my mind. Could I really stay here on my own, build a life all by myself—have my own status and not be dependent on anyone else—be the mistress of my own destiny? There was only one thing for it, I would have to enter that competition and give it my all; see if I could achieve something important all by myself.

  As soon as Mrs. G sidled off, Jackson whispered, “You should enter. It could be the answer to all your problems.”

  “What are you? A mind reader? But I’m guessing I don’t stand a chance next to Isabella,” I bleated, suddenly feeling sorry for myself, scolding myself for even thinking there might be a possibility.

  “Hmm…I see your dilemma,” Jackson completely understood where I was coming from.

  The futility of anyone going up against Isabella was obvious. She was Art School educated and held a Masters in Fine Art. The queue for her Saturday afternoon makeovers sometimes went outside the building and down the street. It would be a total waste of time and energy putting myself up against her. Isabella was the Queen Bee of D’Arcy’s Department Store Beauty Hall and everyone knew it. She and Carlotta Rossellini would make quite a team. My heart sank at the realisation. The stark truth was I had not a chance in hell of winning that competition.

  ***

  Later that evening, after a visit to Lola’s Bar, I felt tipsy on drink and high on possibility. Jackson had spent the whole time in the bar pontificating about ways in which I might win the competition while I drank, silently listening.

  Back home with him, I kicked off my heels and hung up my coat while Jackson boiled the kettle.

  “You want tea?” he shouted through the thin walls.

  “Yes please, and a chocolate cookie… if you have any?”

  There was no more satisfying way to take the edge off an alcohol-fueled night than with a mug of steaming hot tea and a chocolate biscuit to dip in it. As I walked back into the living room of Jackson’s apartment, I could see he had already taken up prime position in his regal, sage green velvet winged armchair. He looked every inch the English lord of the manor, dressed head to toe in pristine black, crossing his long skinny jean-clad legs. I observed him as he sipped on his tea, secretly thanking the Lord above that he had put Jackson into my life.

  “Be a darling and press the button on the answering machine?” he asked.

  “Yes, m’laud,” I quipped, pressing the button as I sat down on the couch to listen.

  “Willow. It’s me. Rick. I’ve… er…decided to do the right thing by Isabella and support her with the pregnancy. I’ll send the rest of your stuff around tomorrow. Goodbye.”

  Sobering up in a flash, the chocolate biscuit fell out of my hand and splashed into the hot tea, scolding my leg. The burning sensation echoed the sense of panic building up inside me - as the full realisation of his short message hit me. Staring at Jackson, a well of tears built up, Jackson stared back, mu
te. Looking like he was trying to compute all the gigantic implications of that one short message. My one and only chance of staying in the country had now been swiftly taken from me. Without Rick in the equation, and with no hope in hell of winning the Makeup Artistry Competition, I would have to return home – a failure.

  “Willow, calm down, will you? No matter how bad this situation is, we can sort it. We’ll find a way. I promise you.” Jackson took control and stood up.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. Don’t you see? He’s just gone and taken away the only chance I have to stay here,” I bleated, tears brimming, ready to spill down my cheeks.

  Jackson looked at me, crestfallen. The penny had finally dropped.

  “There’s got to be a way!” Jackson started pacing. “You can’t go back. Not now. Not after everything you’ve been through!”

  He was right. There had to be a way.

  16

  Earl Grey and Cucumber Sandwiches

  JACKSON AND I arrived at D’Arcy’s ten minutes earlier than usual. It had been a sleepless night for me, fraught with tossing and turning, unable to find a soft spot on the hard couch or the solace I was searching for. I had listened all night long for the sound of the alarm, telling me it was now time to get up and get on with the day. When the alarm finally went off, I felt an instant sense of relief that the day was beginning. My brain had been whirring the whole night long trying to find a solution to the position I now found myself in.

  We set to work on the Blake’s Apothecary Counter, unpacking boxes and making up little gift bags to give to our clients. Jackson had already pre-ordered chintzy teacups from homewares on the third floor and one by one he had handed them to me, indicating for me to give them a quick rinse in the beauty hall sink.

  Every so often, I would catch Mrs. G loitering a second or two longer than was necessary at our counter, keeping a careful eye on proceedings. She was such a stickler for detail. All she had to do was raise one eyebrow to silently communicate that something was awry on the counter. Following her gaze, I would instantly know which pile of wonky cups she was alluding too. This woman did not miss a trick. When everything appeared to be to her liking, she would nod silently then move on to the next counter. D’Arcy’s Department Store would not be D’Arcy’s without Mrs. G at the helm, that was for sure. Funnily enough, although formidable to the outsider, the longer I got to work alongside her, the more I came to admire her.

  As soon as Mrs. G walked away from our counter, I heard Jackson mumble under his breath.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Don’t turn around…Bella’s on her way over.”

  “Shit!”

  It was the moment I had been dreading, the moment of Isabella’s victory lap. The moment when she would take great enjoyment in getting her own back.

  Stay strong. Stay calm. You can do this. Don’t give yourself a showing up on the shop floor.

  Taking a deep breath, I stood up to full height, drew my stomach in, placed my hands on my hips and summoned the inner strength to stare back at Isabella. To my surprise, Isabella didn’t say anything, instead, she just stared back, almost willing me to speak first. A look of malice lay behind that perfectly painted face; beauty really was skin deep. I sensed the other workers had noticed Isabella approach our counter, and one by one, they appeared to stop their activities on the shop floor. The situation reminded me of a John Wayne film, where two cowboys would approach each other slowly, sussing each other out, before brandishing their guns.

  Just then, Isabella lurched forward, placed her arms over her tiny baby bump, groaned, and then smiled straight at me.

  The baby had just kicked her.

  I felt sick to my stomach. I took a few steps towards her, keeping my gaze on her at all times.

  “You got what you wanted. Now get the hell away from me,” I demanded, slightly shocked at the power in my voice.

  Just then, one of Isabella’s regular customers stepped in between us.

  “It’s three o’clock. I have to pick the kids up shortly. When are you going to start my makeover?”

  Isabella scowled at me then drew daggers at her customer.

  “Go and take a seat. I’ll be over in a minute,” she indicated.

  The customer looked at me then at Isabella before deciding it would be better to leave at once.

  “I’m over this. Cancel my appointment. Jane at Macy’s can do it instead,” then the woman rushed off.

  Isabella made her way across the shop floor to my counter. She held a thick white embossed envelope in her hand.

  “This is for you,” she stated.

  Confused, I took the envelope from her and opened it, while Isabella looked on, smiling.

  I read the words on the card and felt instantly like I had just been punched in the stomach.

  “Rick and I have picked out a gift list at the Baby Registry in Saks Fifth Avenue.”

  Then she turned on her heels and walked away.

  I hate you.

  Mrs. G saw everything and strutted over to Isabella.

  “Have you just lost a customer?” she asked, eyebrow raised in indignation. “See me in my office at the end of the shift.” Then she turned to face me, “Willow, haven’t you got work to do?” Her expression speaking a thousand words.

  “Yes, Mrs. G.”

  One by one, the other women returned to their duties, while a few looked over at me with faux sympathetic expressions. I walked over to the trash bin located near Isabella’s counter and threw the white envelope in. I’m sure she saw me.

  I turned to face Mrs. G who was determined to carry on with the important business of the day, Mrs. G announced, “Willow, Jackson, I’ve arranged for the press to come in tonight, just before closing. They’re going to take photos of the both of you working behind the counter.”

  This was a shock to me.

  Newspapers? Me in the press? Whatever next?

  “Oh, and just to give you the heads up, they might want to interview you, so be prepared for that to happen.”

  Interview us? Why would anyone want to interview us?

  Mrs. G stepped closer to the counter, making sure to keep her voice down low, she continued “I’ll need you both to change into fresh uniforms about an hour before they arrive. Got that? I want everything to be perfect.”

  I smiled inwardly at the prospect of my name in headlights in one of the city’s leading newspapers, but Jackson appeared to be unmoved and distinctly unimpressed by the whole thing.

  “Which newspaper is it?” he asked.

  “New York Times – lifestyle section,” Mrs. G responded coolly, although I could sense a ripple of excitement was burgeoning under that icy exterior.

  Suppose there is no such thing as bad press when you have a struggling shop.

  Jackson shrugged his shoulders dolefully. His reaction confused me.

  The New York freakin’ Times? Shouldn’t he be excited?

  I figured out that maybe all this publicity stuff was just not something that Jackson was interested in...

  To each their own, I suppose.

  I set about the tasks at hand before being distracted by a pleasantly plump looking woman in her late 40s. She wore an old-fashioned paisley print dress which clung to her in all the wrong places. Strutting straight into salesperson mode, I motioned for the woman to take a seat.

  “Madam, would you care to sit down?”

  The woman smiled inquisitively as she shifted her heft onto the barstool, panting breathlessly. I stood and watched as she struggled to get onto the leather stool. Finally catching her breath, she took the cup and saucer from me and blurted out, “You from England,” and without waiting for an answer she slurped the tea, “I love the English accent, makes you guys sound so intelligent. Are you clever, honey?”

  Smiling from ear to ear, I couldn’t help but like the countrified ways of this woman. I didn’t have the inclination to explain to her that I was
Scottish, not English, and I found her to be a refreshing antidote to some of the regulars who graced the beauty hall floor. Jackson and I exchanged knowing looks but neither of us wanted to burst her bubble.

  “I’d like to think I was, but I’m sure others would disagree!” I replied, smiling warmly.

  The woman looked at me with a blank expression, she hadn’t understood a word of what I had just said.

  I shrugged.

  May as well be speaking bloody Japanese at this rate.

  Jackson smirked. His cut-glass accent was much easier for Americans to understand.

  Maybe I just need to slow down a bit and pronounce my words better, I thought.

  “What’s this you’re giving me?” The woman stared into her cup of Earl Grey tea, “I ain’t never seen the likes of this before.”

  “It’s all part of the service. Welcome to Blake’s Apothecary. Now, how can I help you?”

  “I just came in to buy a mascara,” she answered, gazing up at me all the while, “But now I think I’ll take a look at this lavender and honeysuckle skincare collection you have here.” The woman paused to scrutinise the contents of the gift box. “What do you recommend for me?” she enquired. I analysed her skin through her makeup, examining the texture of her skin and how the makeup sat in the lines and ridges that had formed on her approximately 48-year-old face. I recommended she start using a nourishing serum followed by a deeply replenishing Shea butter and honey moisturizer.

  Analysis over, I had the woman eating out of the palm of my hand.

  An hour into our shift, we were clearly running rings around the other counters as customers flocked to learn all about our variety of organic skincare and makeup. Perhaps it was the simple pleasure of drinking tea while having their makeup done that swung it in our favour. Whatever it was, our normally cosmopolitan, cocktail-loving clientele seemed to be enjoying the fragrant taste of Earl Grey infused with lemon, complemented by a seemingly never-ending supply of delicate cucumber sandwiches freshly prepared by D’Arcy’s canteen kitchen. With the crusts cut off – of course!