Warpaint

by J J Maya

  As the clock ticked relentlessly onwards, we made sale after sale, working in tandem: one of us cashing up and capturing our customer details, while the other continued with makeovers, hand massages, and effusive compliments. At one point during the afternoon, it got so busy that Mrs. G had to bring in foot soldiers from some of the quieter counters, much to the chagrin of the other beauty floor employees. No one, not even Mrs. G, could possibly have anticipated how wildly successful our counter would become. The day was made even more enjoyable by the sight of Isabella kicking off her platform shoes as she ran off to be sick in the staff toilets, three times in the space of an hour.

  As I watched her bolt off for the fifth time that afternoon, I couldn’t help but smile inwardly. I was only human after all. After her seventh trip to the bathroom, I felt a tad sorry for her. Then I pulled myself to task – how could it be that I felt sorry for the woman who was supposedly carrying my husband’s baby? How could that be? Sometimes I wasn’t able to decipher my own thoughts. Everything just seemed so crazy and mixed up. I thought back to the times when I had visualised myself as a new mother. I had the vague idea I might be quite good at it, but I suppose deep down, a small part of me was afraid that I might not be up to par.

  Hours passed, but the melee at our counter showed no signs of slowing, much to Mrs. G’s pleasure. From time to time, I would grab a moment to look up from my makeovers and only then did I notice the aggrieved expressions of my colleagues. We were the only counter making serious money, and it was not going down too well with the others. But no matter how much money we brought in, Mrs. G could be seen out of the corner of my eye, staring at me, unnerving me, watching our every move. At one point, I noticed her catch my attention then she stared at my underarm area. Following her gaze, I blushed with embarrassment when I noticed pit stains had become visible.

  Shit!

  Still, there was no time to worry about what anyone else was thinking, I had my own situation to think about. No matter which way I looked at it, there was no clear-cut solution to any of it.

  A quote from the yellow book flitted into my mind as I packaged up a $300 sale:

  When you don’t know what to do, the best course of action is to do nothing.

  As the afternoon turned into early evening, and after clocking up sale-by-sale, I finally took a moment to look up from the cash register. Jackson had been gone on a break and had finally made a reappearance. Leaning over, I angrily whispered in his ear, “Where the hell have you been all afternoon? I’m sweating like a pig.” Jackson gave me one of his classic ‘Really?’ looks, causing me to pause for a second. Indignantly, I handed him my customer’s purchases, “Take these. I need to go get changed before they get here.”

  Jackson shot me a warning look as he half-heartedly tallied up the purchase on the till, “Oh no! You’re not leaving me—no way!”

  “What? What do you mean? You’ve been gone for the best part of the last two hours. I’ve got to go get changed. You afraid of getting your photo taken or something?” Then I bolted before he had time to answer.

  Inside the relative peace and quiet of the staff toilets, I examined the creeping pit stains brought on by almost five hours of non-stop sales and exertion on the counter. Mrs. G had already silently indicated what was going on in my armpit region, but I hadn’t been able to do anything about it until Jackson returned. Now, I had exactly five minutes to get ready before the press arrived. I quickly reapplied my favourite Ruby Woo by MAC and fixed my hair into a smooth gleaming bob just as Mrs. G made her presence known.

  “Ahem,” she interrupted. “You do know they’ve arrived? Don’t you?”

  Mrs. G scanned me from tip to toe as she always did when she spoke, “Jackson is holding court for the moment, but I want you to go out there and really woo them. Do your best. Talk up a storm about working at D’Arcy’s.”

  “Certainly!” I replied. “Will do.”

  At that moment, as I changed into my fresh black uniform dress, I realised I wasn’t the only woman in the room who was trying to keep it all together. Mrs. G’s steely vice-like grip on D’Arcy’s was floundering in front of me. Who knew what pressure she was under to stay afloat? An unspoken camaraderie began to develop between us. I was like a delicate seedling battered in a winter storm and Mrs. G was the protective blanket of snow, sheltering and urging me to grow, perhaps hoping that she too would somehow benefit from my success. Her words cut like shards of glass into my thoughts, “I want you to tell them about the Makeup Artistry Competition and how, if you win it, it might help you to gain citizenship and stay in the country. You do know that, don’t you?” she asked before giving me the time of day to answer.

  Her presence literally took my breath away. She had given me my first chance to prove myself and now she was offering me another. I decided then and there that I owed it to this woman, and to myself, to do my absolute best. If I was going to be in with even the slightest chance of winning, I would need to. But deep down inside, I pondered how I could go up against Isabella and win. I just didn’t see how it could be possible.

  Mrs. G left and the staff toilets were empty once more. I took a twirl in front of the full-length mirror, pulled my shoulders back and inhaled deeply before stepping out into the bright lights of the beauty hall just as Ella Fitzgerald belted out the opening notes of “Sleigh Ride.”

  Giddy up giddy up... our cheeks are nice and rosy…we’re snuggled up together…

  I made my way through the throng of customers, towards our counter. An air of excitement drenched customers and staff alike. The aroma of fresh pine needles was being pumped out into the store, while twinkling lights on the throngs of Christmas trees placed all around the store danced in time to the music.

  Who could not love the run-up to Christmas in New York City?

  17

  Once Bitten

  I STRODE CONFIDENTLY in Jackson’s direction. I could see him being interviewed by a smartly dressed female journalist, but there was something about his stance which struck me as strange. Why does he look so sullen?

  The journalist, a skinny woman around the same age as myself, closed her notebook, “I think I’ve got everything I need,” she snapped matter-of-factly, indicating that the interview was over.

  She removed her black-rimmed glasses and placed them on top of her head. I saw her signal to her photographer to pack up his belongings.

  Wait! What about me?

  As I caught up to the counter, Jackson looked me up and down, then drew me the dirtiest look he could possibly muster. I was at a loss.

  What the fuck is going on? What about my interview?

  The photographer, a thin, spiky looking man with a sharp chin, gruffly moved out of my way, striking my elbow with his equipment in the process.

  “Ouch, watch where you’re going, will you?” I shrilled in his ear, attempting to make myself heard over the store sound system.

  Giddy up, Giddy up…Ella Fitzgerald continued to bellow out.

  Ignoring me, the photographer summoned his colleague to his side, “Let’s get us the hell out of here.” Dismayed by his rudeness, I couldn’t believe my ears when he shouted to the journalist, “We’ve still to report on that new launch at Macy’s, maybe they’ll offer us something a little more interesting than this crap.” Then the photographer leaned in and muttered something incomprehensible in Jackson’s direction, before making his way out of the store.

  Then he was off, making his way towards the journalist who was standing outside in the rain, guarding his equipment and staring at her watch. I turned and stared at Jackson.

  “What a foul man! Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on? I didn’t even get a chance to speak to them.” Placing my hands on my hips, I continued to chastise Jackson, “Mrs. G will be furious with me when she finds out.”

  It was the first time I had ever lost my temper with Jackson, but I appeared to be having no effect on him whatsoever.

 
“Haven’t you got anything to say?” I demanded an answer, desperate now as Mrs. G inched her way through the crowd towards me. Jackson continued to ignore me. Instead, he concentrated hard on packing up his own belongings in preparation for making his exit.

  “Remember I told you about the man I fell in love with? The one that brought me over here, then dumped me three weeks later?”

  “Yes, I do.” Uh-oh!

  Jackson looked over at the weasel man on the sidewalk.

  “That’s who he left me for.”

  Shocked, I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help myself.

  “No way! Him? What a horrible person! Why would anyone choose him over you?”

  These words were music to his ears. Jackson’s mood appeared to brighten slightly.

  So, this is why he didn’t want the press coming in from that newspaper.

  “Sorry, you never got the chance to talk about the competition. I gave the reporter all the details. They’re gonna cover the story over the weekend.”

  “They are?” I paused. “Well. That’s fantastic,” I exclaimed, delighted for both myself and Mrs. G.

  I still had no clue how I could possibly go up against Isabella and win, but I had to try, at least.

  Later that evening, as we arrived at Jackson’s apartment door, we were shocked to see Rick standing waiting on us. Jackson remained silent as he let himself in.

  “You go on...I’ll be in in a minute,” I said as I turned to look at Rick.

  “Hello, Willow.”

  Rick stood at the side of Jackson’s apartment door, staring at me.

  Shit.

  The familiar rolling and swelling erupted in my stomach.

  Keep it together, keep it together.

  I felt my face redden as I stared back at him. He shuffled from one foot to the other, looking as nervous as hell.

  “I brought you your stuff…I thought you might be needing it.”

  I could smell the familiar scent of cedar wood and vetiver. It was his favourite fragrance, I had bought it for him from the Duty-Free at Glasgow Airport just prior to departing for our brand-new life in New York.

  Keep it together. Keep it together. Stay strong girl.

  Rick handed me an overstuffed bag of clothes that I had forgotten to pack that fateful day, the day I had decided to leave him. It all seemed so long ago now; so much had happened since.

  I placed the bag by my feet, not exactly sure of how to proceed. Rick immediately took control of the situation, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist, pulling me close to him. My heart sped up as we stared at each other. His eyes searched mine as my heart raced.

  “Can we start again?” he asked, a huge smile creasing across his face, as hope-filled his eyes.

  There it was – the question I had been dreading. Yet, a part of me had wanted him to ask.

  Stay strong Willow. You can do this.

  I averted my gaze.

  Sensing that I was pulling away from him, Rick continued with his PR campaign.

  “You know you still love me. C’mon Willow…be honest…you and I can make this work.”

  Why did he have to go and make this so difficult?

  “I don’t think so, Rick.” I responded civilly, trying my best to sound like I really meant it.

  That’s it! Stay strong girl. Don’t let him sucker you in again.

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so? For Christ’s sake Willow, they’re not exactly queuing up in droves to invite you out, are they?”

  The bloody cheek of him! Who the hell does he think he is?

  “The whole Isabella thing is just one big mistake…we don’t need to let her ruin what we’ve got going on…think about it at least, will ya?”

  That name sent a shiver down my spine.

  “I have thought about it Rick and the answer is still no.”

  I stepped away from him and turned my back to him. All I could think of was getting inside Jackson’s apartment and closing the door on him.

  Rick’s painful attempt at consoling me descended into desperation as he attempted to block my entry into the apartment.

  “I mean, you’ll be needing me if you want to stay in the country.”

  There it was. I could feel the blood boiling in my veins.

  “I need YOU?” I shouted, kicking his foot away from the door jamb, “Are you for real?”

  Grabbing my belongings and my keys, I opened Jackson’s door on my second attempt and went to slam the door shut, but Rick had once again placed his foot between the door jamb preventing me from shutting it tight. In the narrow gap that separated us, any residual feelings I had for him turned to ice as we stared at each other. Rick was aghast at my response. Things were clearly not going his way, causing him to use the only weapon he had left.

  “But…but they’ll kick you out if you don’t come back to me!”

  I stared in utter disbelief at the man I had fallen head over heels in love with.

  “Then let them!”

  Closing the door on him, I heard my voice say defiantly, “I no longer care.”

  But Rick wasn’t finished yet. He pushed the door open once more,

  “So, you won’t be attending tomorrow morning’s meeting?” he asked.

  I turned to face him, confused.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “The Green Card interview…they brought it forward to tomorrow morning, but I’m guessing you won’t be attending…” Rick turned away as he prepared to leave.

  “Wait! Hold on…what time is it at?”

  “10:00 am. 37 Nassau Street.”

  I weighed up my chances.

  We could still pull this off. It was worth a try at least, I thought.

  “Ok. I’ll be there.” I said matter of factly, assuming control. “Make sure you are on time.”

  18

  Camouflage

  I ARRIVED TEN minutes early for our Marriage-Based Green Card Fraud Interview, hoping to make a good impression and get there before Rick turned up. But when I arrived, he was already positioned on a chair, pretending to look at a government-supplied magazine while I made attempts at polite interaction.

  I could tell he was feeling as nervous as hell.

  “Hi. How are you?” I asked, peering into his eyes but he wouldn’t look at me.

  Shit, Willow. You’re going to have to try harder than that.

  “Be like that. No need to be so bloody rude,” I pressed, hoping for some kind of reaction.

  Finally, Rick looked up at me despondently. He stared into my eyes but said nothing. I couldn’t believe it had come to this. Where was the spark we once had? Where had the passion gone? Inside I felt as hard as concrete like my core was made of iron girders. I knew that in order to stay in the country, I was going to have to ace this interview.

  A thin, tall man in his late 40s walked into the waiting room to greet us. He carried a thick file under his arm, and I noticed large sweat stains around his armpits. He seemed nervous which did nothing to allay my own anxiety.

  What’s he got to be bloody nervous about? I thought.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Delgado? Pleased to meet you both. My name is Mr. Hendricks. I will be conducting the interview this morning…please come with me.”

  His expression was strained as he invited us both into his lair.

  “Take a seat,” he invited.

  He indicated for us both to sit opposite him at the pristine desk.

  “We’ll go over a few details, then you’ll be interviewed separately. The goal today is that both sets of answers are almost identical to each other,” he remonstrated.

  My stomach swelled with anxiety as Rick nudged my foot with his scuffed boot. I refused to look at him.

  The next five minutes consisted of a set of easy questions about our current address, when we arrived in New York, and our current employment. I knew that the next set would not be so easy to answer.


  “Mrs. Delgado, would you come with me please?”

  I looked up at the officer then turned to face Rick. He avoided my stare.

  “Of course,” I replied. Where’s he taking me?

  But even I knew my attempt at forced politeness was wasted on the three of us. Clearly, no-one was in the mood. All three of us just wanted this over and done with.

  The kindly officer took me into a small, airless, windowless interview room. The austere grey paintwork had been vandalised by previous interviewees, and the officer was clearly embarrassed about his poor working conditions. He caught my eye, then lowered his gaze and blushed slightly, “I do apologise for the surroundings, they keep telling us our office space will be upgraded but it never seems to happen. Anyways, let’s get back to the task in hand. I will be recording the interview. Please take your time with the answers and Mrs. Delgado…”

  “What?” I asked, feeling somewhat shaken out of the sense of comfort that he had tried so hard to establish.

  “If you don’t know the answer, please say so…there is to be no guess-work. Got that?”

  Is he on to me? Does he know something I don’t know?

  The nerves ricocheted through me, causing me to cough unexpectedly.

  “‘S’cuse me. The air is so dry in here.”

  “Let me fetch you some water,” he offered, getting up out of his seat.

  He looked like a man who hated every minute of his job.

  “No. You’re quite alright. I’m fine really. Just feeling a little nervous that’s all.”

  The officer placed his hand over mine, patting my hand, unnerving me with his closeness. It was like he had invaded my personal space and I didn’t like it one bit.

  “You’ve absolutely nothing to be nervous about.” He stared right through me, “Now, shall we begin?”

  I nodded my head in agreement.

  I’m hardly going to say “no,” am I?

  The next hour played out, as if in slow motion. The officer pressed the record button on his old-fashioned tape recorder, then indicated for me to start answering the questions.