Warpaint

by J J Maya

  On arrival at Jackson’s apartment, I put the key in the lock and held my breath as I anticipated the scene behind the door. I coughed loudly, alerting the habitants to my presence, then opened the hallway closet door only to be met with a hastily unravelling duvet falling on top of me.

  “Aargh! I forgot I put that in there!”

  “You alright?” Jackson called.

  “Yeah. I’m fine… Where’s Charlie?” I asked looking around for signs of his presence.

  Jackson wore a hang-dog expression. “It didn’t go too well…” he grimaced. “Turns out he’s vegan and allergic to lemongrass…. oh!” Jackson smiled. “And me!”

  I tried to suppress a giggle.

  Really? This is the funniest thing I’ve heard all day!

  “What do you mean he’s allergic to you?” I asked, a stray look of glee threatening to erupt across my face.

  “Well…I went in for a snog and then he started sneezing,” Jackson shrugged. “He wouldn’t bloody stop.” He waved his hands. “Enough about me, how did you get on?”

  “Awful! Just awful!” I replied haughtily, throwing myself onto the couch, secretly glad that Charlie had left.

  “But I thought it was one of your favourite films?”

  “It was… is…just wasn’t impressed with the audience,” I silently indicated to Jackson who I was talking about.

  He got it straight away.

  “No? They weren’t there…surely not,” he shook his head.

  “He was,” I responded. “With another woman.”

  “What?” Jackson asked.

  He shook his head in disgust, “He’s never gonna change…was like that all the way through college, thought he would have grown out of it by now, but apparently not…”

  “What do you mean? College?” I asked.

  “Didn’t he tell you? That’s how we met…he was over in London on a year abroad and we landed up in the same business class. The ballet school made us take business class as a back- up. Rick had some family ties to the school…et voila! We were buddies from the get-go,” he explained, “We stayed in contact after that.”

  “He never told me any of that. Never once mentioned it to me. Bloody man of mystery,” I said sadly.

  I could tell Jackson felt bad for me, “I feel such a fool, Jackson.”

  Jackson leaned in for a hug.

  “So, your night has been just as shit as mine?”

  “Yep,” I responded.

  “What a pair we are, eh?” Jackson declared.

  I stood up and went into the kitchen and shouted through, “You want tea and a chocolate cookie?” There was no answer. Jackson had left the apartment. He had mumbled something about going to buy a newspaper.

  Confused, I stirred the milk into the mug. As I settled into the couch, pulling the blanket over me, I sipped the tea and replayed the night’s events in my head. Twenty minutes later, Jackson made a re-appearance. In his hands, he held a rolled-up copy of the New York Times.

  “Thanks for helping me out tonight love, I’m turning in to read the paper. Night night,” he said. “Oh, and don’t wake me… I’m on a late shift.”

  “Ok. Night Jackson. I’ll see you at 2:00 tomorrow.”

  ***

  Early the next morning, as the wind battered noisily against the double-glazed window, I threw on my black uniform dress, packed a small lunch bag with a bottle of water and a microwavable lasagna for lunch, then tip-toed quietly alone out of the apartment; as Jackson was working a later shift, there was no reason to wake him. Apartment secured, I glanced at my watch, and marched on.

  A sea of downcast faces greeted me as I arrived at D’Arcy’s staff entrance. I made straight for the locker room, shaking the icy particles off my winter coat and slipping out of my flat biker knee-high boots. They had been one of my better purchases during my stay in New York. Perhaps subconsciously, I had bought them knowing that they would do double duty in Glasgow too. Placing the still wet boots in the locker, I glanced at my reflection and smoothed my hair into its usual neat black bob. I avoided staring too deeply at my own reflection.

  As I walked on to the Beauty Hall floor, there was a sense of something in the ether as my colleagues huddled tightly, looking towards the door to Mrs. G’s office.

  A stream of uniformed officers was entering and leaving the office, carrying out boxes of files, while Mrs. G remained inside, barely visible through the open door.

  I looked on, shocked.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Jake.

  “D’Arcy’s is under investigation…Homeland Security is here. They’ve got Mrs. G in the office. She looks a mess…feel so sorry for her.”

  “Oh my God! This is awful.”

  “They could close the whole store down in an instant…if they want to,” he said.

  I felt bad. Real bad.

  Is this somehow my fault?

  Activity on the shop floor continued as Cecil opened the doors to a throng of customers who wanted to get in out of the cold.

  We all banded together and got on with our jobs, serving customers and pretending as if everything was normal while officers continued to search Mrs. G’s office. There was no sign of her. But then a strange thing began happening, on the shop floor. One by one, employees were taken into Mrs. G’s office for questioning, only to be escorted off the premises by an armed guard a short time later.

  I decided to work through my lunch hour. The employee count on the shop floor was diminishing rapidly. At 1:45pm, I saw Jackson walk through the public entrance to D’Arcy’s.

  That’s strange. Why is he not using the staff entrance?

  He was wearing a heavy three-quarter pea coat with the collar turned up and wore a flat cap with the skip pulled down over one eye. He made his way directly towards Blake’s Apothecary, his complexion ruddy from the cold easterly wind blowing outside.

  He stood in front of my counter wearing a determined expression as he watched the officers’ conduct their investigation.

  I recognized Officer Jamieson in the throng of customers; he was making his way towards my counter.

  Shit!

  “You’re early,” I said. “You’re not on duty till 2:00pm.”

  Jackson adopted an aloof expression as he clocked eyes with Officer Jamieson.

  “Sorry, don’t know what you are talking about,” he responded, “can you let me try the L’eau Hiver please?”

  What the fuck? What is he doing? What’s going on?

  I looked intently at Jackson. Silently questioning him. He stared back keeping his gaze higher than the top of my head.

  Why is he acting so strange?

  Mr. Jamieson stood at the side of my counter, watching on intently…saying nothing.

  I turned around and took the tester of L’eau Hiver off the glass shelf and silently handed it to Jackson. He stood coolly in front of me. Sprayed some of the perfume on the slim sheet of cardboard, wafted it in the air, all the while not taking his eyes off me. I noticed a bead of sweat make a trail down his right cheek.

  “How much is it?” he asked in his cut-glass English accent.

  I played along. “95 dollars,” I replied. “Would you like a bottle? We currently have it on promotion. You get a gift bag. Makes an ideal Christmas present…” I trailed on, my words slowing as my heart began to break. I realized Jackson was saying goodbye to me.

  “Yes. I’ll take it,” he responded, staring intently at me like he was silently communicating.

  The voice inside my head screamed, “Don’t blow his cover.” I painstakingly wrapped the perfume, and swiped his credit card, my hand shaking as Shirley Bassey belted out “Big Spender.” I recalled the long conversation we had a while back about being “escape artists” in New York.

  Everything began to fall into place.

  I handed the distinctive D’Arcy’s gift bag over, my fingers grazing Jackson’s hand, a second or two longer than necessary. He smiled
at me as he left last night’s newspaper rolled up on the top of my glass counter. Then he was gone. Out of there and out of my life. I wondered if I would ever see him again.

  Mr. Jamieson looked at me. I stared back at him.

  “What?” I asked, exasperated.

  “Nothing.” Then he turned and walked back towards my boss’s office.

  I felt like I might throw up.

  20

  Panstick & Spackle

  THE SHIFT ENDED unremarkably as I completed my handover with Rose, who had been transferred onto my counter from Designer Shoes mid-afternoon. I had always thought Mrs. G was a fast worker but this time she had really surpassed my expectations. As she was being led out the store by Homeland Security officers, she barked orders at the remaining staff on the shop floor. Rose was a gift. She was highly trained, pleasant and easy to get on with. She could work her way around a set of makeup brushes like she had been practicing her whole life for this very moment. During the day, she had quietly revealed to me that she was heartsick of smelly feet and had longed to be moved to our department since her first shift in the store. I had to hand it to her, if I’d had to work with feet all day long, I wouldn’t have lasted half as long.

  “Now you know how to cash up the till, don’t you?” I asked, hoping against all hope that I would hear the correct answer.

  Rose was studying Architecture at The Spitzer School of Architecture and hoped one day to practice in Europe, but for now, she was solely concerned with the detailed packaging on The Daisy Chain Lipstick Collection.

  “Of course, I do. Now don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be just fine,” she uttered, urging me to get on and leave her alone. As I entered the staff changing room, the scene shocked me. Rows upon rows of metal lockers with the doors having been prised open to reveal the personal belongings of staff who would likely never return to D’Arcy’s Department Store. An eerie sensation chilled my spine as I shuddered. Jackson’s locker had also been prised open.

  I rushed all the way back to the apartment, stomach rolling, hoping and praying that Jackson would be there, sitting in his winged armchair, drinking his tea, like some regal lord of the manor. Instead, I entered the cold dark apartment and instantly knew I was alone. There was no sign of him. He had packed up the few belongings he owned and left. Left me alone in his apartment.

  I threw myself down on the couch, holding my head in my hands.

  “What do I do now?” I asked myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the yellow book lying on the coffee table. “This is all your fault,” I thought. “Wish I had never bloody read you. Would never be in this mess.”

  I went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle, as I waited on it reaching boiling point, I hugged myself, deep in thought. Just then, a white D’Arcy’s bag caught my eye. Inside lay the unopened bottle of perfume that Jackson had purchased earlier. It had a little note attached.

  ‘For you, Willow, love Jackson. P.S. Rent is paid till end of month…wish I could have paid more.’

  So, it really was true. Jackson was gone. The photographer had outed D’Arcy’s Department Store and Jackson in the New York Times article on illegal aliens and now he was on the run from the police. I began to cry as I realized that I might never see him again. Huge belting sobs erupted out of me. My emotions shocking me to the core.

  21

  The Next Step

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, I struggled to get out of the makeshift bed I had made up on the couch. I couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping in Jackson’s bed. I couldn’t help but feel sad for him as I envisioned how life must have been for him for the past seven years. But I had to admire him too. Opening the door to his bedroom, I peeked in, feeling somewhat disrespectful.

  He certainly had me fooled. Then it struck me. The training. The ballet training he undertook as a young boy. He must have picked it up at ballet school in London. All the little pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place. Jackson had managed to expertly pull the wool over everyone’s eyes. Wherever he was right now, I could only imagine how low he must be feeling. I thought back to that fateful night when the newspaper reporter and photographer had come into D’Arcy’s. I remember feeling confused by Jackson’s lack of interest in the whole thing. Now, I could see he must have been dreading his secret being exposed – that photographer! The nasty little man!

  ***

  The morning shift flew swiftly by, as it did every day at D’Arcy’s. I attempted a smile as I noticed an endless stream of women making their way straight towards the newly launched limited edition L’eau du Buttercup – a fine mist spray infused with the scent of buttercups. The fragrance lit up the atmosphere like kindling in a roaring grate on Christmas Eve. But my heart was just not in it.

  Blake’s Apothecary had only dispatched two cartons of this magical stuff but already there were 42 names on the waitlist. Now standing in front of me was customer 43 – an elegantly dressed woman in her mid-40s who wanted to buy a bottle to send to her cousin in Nebraska. I half-heartedly took down the woman’s details, as Lucinda, one of the perfume girls who worked part-time on the Nars counter, whispered in my ear, “Did you hear the good news?” I tried to signal to her that I was with a customer, but she was having none of it.

  Turning my attention back to my counter, I carried on as if she was invisible.

  “Thanks, Mrs Jones, I’ll call you as soon as the L’eau du Buttercup comes back in stock.”

  Lucinda was poking me in the ribs as I spoke, causing me to squeak in a high-pitched voice. Mrs. Jones gave me a strange look but continued on her way.

  Turning around to face my colleague, I mocked her, “Good news? Didn’t think there was such a thing?”

  Refusing to register the cold breeze blowing between us, Lucinda continued, “Isabella and Rick split up last night.” She looked at me intently as I continued to write Mrs. Jones’s name on the client waitlist. My belly rolled and swelled as I strained to maintain my composure. She went on, “She’s staying with me till she gets her shit together.”

  On hearing the “s” word, Mrs. Jones turned around to face Lucinda, drawing her a dirty look, not quite believing she had the nerve to use such a trashy word on the shop floor.

  “Oh? I’m very sad to hear that,” I replied, while not allowing myself to feel anything.

  I noticed Mrs. Jones linger awhile, a little too eager to find out more. I decided to put her out of her misery.

  “You see Mrs. Jones, my husband who I married in Scotland and moved to New York to be with, decided to go back and live with his ex and dump me on the assumption that he is the father to his ex’s child.”

  Lucinda turned to walk away but then stopped and whispered, “Turns out the baby is not his after all.”

  22

  Christmas in New York

  IT HAD ALWAYS been a long-held dream of mine to spend Christmas in New York. Years of watching ice skaters fall and laugh on TV as they sped around the ice rink in Central Park had led me to believe that you hadn’t truly lived until you had done this. With limited funds and no friends to speak of, I was determined to make my dream come true.

  On foot, I set out on the Sunday morning two days before Christmas and made my way through the throng of tourists and locals, towards the Central Park. Although the horse-drawn carts looked like a more inviting way to get around, I decided to leave that activity to the lovebirds.

  On I went. Determined to bathe in the absolute romance of my surroundings. I pulled the woolen scarf up high around my nose and ears and pulled my hat down as far south as it would go, leaving only the cross-section of my eyes and ridge of nose visible. The icy air bit at me, causing me to shiver and catch my breath. When it got to the point of freezer burn hitting my forehead, I decided it wise to turn back and head for the warmth of the subway and Jackson’s apartment. I had two days before his tenancy agreement would run out and the placard inviting me to leave the premises would be placed on the front of hi
s door – for all to see. Two days and still no plan of action. In entering the apartment once more, I made myself a mug of hot tea and settled down into Jackson’s winged armchair. I wondered what might become of this chair – his most prized possession. In fact, I wondered what might become of the remainder of Jackson’s possessions: his bed with the super-soft brushed cotton bed sheets and duvet cover, his collection of shoeboxes which appeared to contain a smattering of personal belonging accumulated over the years, and then, there were his small but select collection of cooking appliances. His three copper pots and Le Creuset cast iron grill. I knew Jackson had dropped some serious cash on his cookware, but I had no idea what to do with any of it. Taking the mug of tea with me, I went into the closet and pulled out my black Kate Spade clutch that contained a bunch of dollar bills that I had managed to save up. Unfortunately for me, they hadn’t miraculously multiplied their contents. I counted the dollar bills and came to the same figure I had the last time I counted the money. $625 and five cents.

  I sensed a wave of despair was about to overwhelm me at any minute.

  What the freakin hell am I going to do?

  I had already searched the classifieds over and over and it was more than clear that $625 would only get me a box room in a shared dive in one of the more insalubrious sides of town, worse still I would still need to find a deposit. That’s if I were to stay. That same $625 was also the price of a cheap one-way ticket home.

  Where’s my yellow book?

  I threw myself down on the couch and switched on the TV. Audrey Hepburn was sitting on a windowsill in a New York apartment not dissimilar to the one I found myself in. She was singing “Moon River,” looking effortlessly gorgeous and elegant while I was feeling fat and frumpy under all those layers and, if I were perfectly honest, feeling like a bit of a fool.

  I dipped the last remaining chocolate biscuit into my tea and thought of my mum. If she were alive, what would she tell me to do? I wondered.