Warpaint

by J J Maya

  I heard her silently echo into my subconscious…Go home darling, go home. I knew she was around me, all the time, silently guiding me and supporting me as I flew in the face of one disastrous situation to another. If only it were that easy. If only I had someplace I could really call “home.”

  I opened the yellow book at a random page. It said, “Are you standing in your own way? Let your creative gifts shine.”

  What creative gifts do I possess?

  I thought long and hard but nothing much came to the surface. Then it struck me like a bolt. My creative gifts are working with makeup. It’s the run-up to Christmas. Girls need pampering before a big night out. Why didn’t I think of this before? If I could drum up enough business, I might be able to earn some extra cash to tide me over and at least pay another month’s payment on the rent. Buy me some time.

  I opened Jackson’s old laptop and set about designing myself a little flyer:

  New Year, New You Makeovers by Willow

  Only $65.

  Book now and reserve your spot. Will travel to your home or place of work.

  Then I forwarded my document to an online printer and ordered my first batch of 100 flyers. I would have to speculate to accumulate but there was no time like the present to get working on my little side hustle.

  Exactly two days later, I was placing the flyers in strategic spots around the staff room and canteen, drumming up business. Rose had helped spread the word with her former colleagues in Shoes and George in Gadgets had promised to do his best by me. I think he had a soft spot for my Scottish accent. Whatever it was, he was willing to help me out.

  By 5pm, I had precisely 8 bookings lined up with the last one booked for New Year’s Eve. 8X65=$520. Almost enough to pay rent for the next month. I knew that this practice was frowned upon by most department stores but as Mrs. G was otherwise occupied by her own troubles and she knew the inner workings of my complicated life, I suspected that she would turn a blind eye to my entrepreneurial ways. I was right.

  Later that evening as I prepared to leave for my first appointment with Sheila, one of the canteen cooks, I was handed an official letter from Deborah in HR.

  Oh no! Don’t like the look of this!

  The familiarity of the thickness of the letter brought memories surging back from the fateful night in Devonshire’s, when Greta had handed me a thick white envelope. The envelope held a written warning. One more strike and I would have been out of a job if I hadn’t made the monumental decision to change the direction my life had been going in.

  Deborah wouldn’t make eye contact with me.

  What is this? Last one in the job, first one out of a job?

  I opened the envelope there and then, scanning the contents while searching for the three words that would seal my fate. There they were, expertly hidden between the HR speak and hyperbole: “Terms of Redundancy.”

  D’Arcy’s Department Store would be closing at the end of February and I was being given two months’ notice. Deborah had already moved on to her next target. My redundancy offer was minimal. One months’ extra pay and a reference. I couldn’t complain really. I was only just in the door and I was lucky to be offered anything. I did the mental math and deducted that I could survive till March. Breathing a sigh of relief and thanking the angels for granting me this stay-of-execution, I smiled at Deborah and went on my merry way. At least now I could relax and enjoy the remainder of my extra time in New York while I figured out what to do next.

  ***

  Flying by the seat of my pants might have become second nature to me but not so for the other employees, many of whom were wandering about in a state-of-shock. A few of the women had only known D’Arcy’s as their employer since leaving school. I understood the shock waves they were currently feeling. I, on the other hand, had been walking around the store with an invisible shield of armour around me, making me invincible to what was going around me. I wondered if there might be something wrong with me, but then it dawned on me. After everything I had been through in my lifetime, I had grown with each grueling challenge. I was a changed person. I felt like I was indefatigable, that nothing could permeate the armour I wore. This inner well of strength shocked and frightened me a little.

  “Willow, I’m assuming you have received your letter?” Mrs. G enquired, searching my eyes. I wondered what kind of inner hell she was going through right now, to be losing her life’s work. Her hopes and dreams about to be flushed down the pan. The bail money alone had amounted to $300,000, a sum of money that had been rustled up by selling every stock and share she had amassed over the years.

  “Yes. I have it.”

  I didn’t know what else to say.

  “I have recommended you to the Beauty Hall Manager in Macy’s. She is happy to interview you, that’s if you decide you want to stay?” she enquired.

  “That’s very kind of you. Thanks for thinking of me.”

  “No problem. I would only recommend you if I thought you were up to the job. I have my reputation to think of, you know.”

  Reputation! Reputation! Oh My God! She will never work another day in this city. The authorities will make sure of that.

  I felt heartbroken for Mrs. G. It was as if she was still holding onto whatever thread of hope she could muster. She was facing very serious charges and possibly looking at jail time.

  “Thanks for offering me a job, Mrs. Gerson.” I felt the tears well up. I could see that my boss’ armour was on the verge of melting. We shook hands and parted ways. I ran all the way to the staff toilets, gripping on to the white porcelain sink as I burst into tears. I realised that I wasn’t as strong as I thought I was. The tears that fell were testament to that. Pulling myself together, I dabbed my makeup and thanked my lucky stars it was a Kat von D day and my foundation was intact. I made a mental note to fill up my sample pot the next time I went past that counter.

  ***

  On my return home to Jackson’s apartment, I made payment on the rent. There was no need for the concierge man to know that he had left the building.

  ***

  It was only five days till Christmas yet the gloom that hung over the store was palpable. Mrs. G had already told us she was planning on having a huge closing down sale but not until after the Makeup Artistry competition. It made perfect sense.

  Word was beginning to get around D’Arcy’s clientele and they were not happy. The store had been a catalyst in many of their lives. It was the place where they went to buy outfits to celebrate major events in their lives: from baptisms and christenings to communions and proms. There was even a small bridal pop-up that sold lingerie and silky accessories for the big day. Many of the staff were like close family friends to the customers. Repeat business was a huge part of the weekly takings but depending on where you stood on the political spectrum, feelings on immigration ran high. It was estimated that Mrs. G’s employee numbers dropped by a third, the morning of the big reveal in the newspaper. Many workers just never showed up again.

  There was also a huge question mark hanging over my name as I was in the middle of a complicated immigration application of my own. My meeting with Homeland Security was a disaster and it was only a matter of time before they summoned me.

  Why does life have to be so bloody complicated?

  Nevertheless, I chose to enjoy this time in my life as much as was feasibly possible despite the set of unusual circumstances I found myself in.

  On Christmas Eve, as Mrs. G closed the store and most of the workers had rushed off to be with their families, I guessed she wanted to talk to me about something. I was right.

  “Willow…are you in a rush?”

  It was the moment I had been dreading, one that had been put off for far too long, the moment that both Mrs. G and I had been skirting around, the moment she would ask me about Jackson.

  “Come with me, let’s grab a glass of bubbly and relax for a bit, eh?”

  Mrs. G indicated for me to follow h
er to a little corner of the shop floor that had been turned into a welcoming living room area complete with winged armchairs situated at either side of a fake Georgian fireplace. The fireplace mantel had been festooned in fairy lights, and Christmas garlands while the atmosphere hung heavy with the pungent smell of cinnamon and orange. On a tall round table lay a silver platter of sandwiches and a bottle of champagne chilling nicely in an ice bucket, accompanied by two crystal glasses. I smiled inwardly at the absolute awkwardness of the scenario, but there was nothing else for it to but to sit down and wait on the slew of unwelcome questions.

  Mrs. G wore a weary smile. She looked physically exhausted.

  “I’m not going to ask you about Jackson. I wouldn’t put you in that situation…all I want to know…is he OK?”

  I had no idea where Jackson was, but I thought it best not to worry Mrs. G.

  “Yes. He’s perfectly fine. Quite comfortable I would say!”

  Enough now, Willow! No need to go overboard.

  I reached forward and clinked my glass with hers and smiled.

  “He’s doing fine. You know Jackson. He’s a survivor. He’s been through a lot worse than this. He’ll get by.”

  I didn’t quite believe my own words, but I wanted to somehow reassure the woman who had been looking out for him all these years.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, searching my face for clues.

  “Absolutely, he’s going to be just fine…you’ll see.”

  I knew she wanted to ask me more, so much more. But we both knew it would be wise not to. Who knows, the store may have been bugged by the authorities. Mrs. G knew inwardly she would have to do with just the tiniest morsel of information. I looked on as she sat back in her seat and exhaled.

  I wondered how long she has been dying to ask me about him.

  “Now, what about you? What’s going to happen to our little Scottish makeup girl?”

  I felt embarrassed that the spotlight was now firmly on me. I hated attention of that sort. I wasn’t used to anyone being interested in anything I had to say. It had been that way for so long now I just accepted it.

  “Me? Oh—I’ll be fine.”

  The familiar rolling and swelling sensation in my stomach erupted into a wave.

  I had absolutely no clue whatsoever what was going to become of me.

  My boss placed her glass down on the side table and stared at me, directly. Unnerving me. I froze.

  “Is there any future for you and Rick?” she asked.

  Now that’s bordering on the personal, I thought. I wondered what she already knew about the situation I was in.

  “I only ask as I’d love for you to be able to stay…” Mrs. G pressed her lips together and her voice trailed off. We sat in silence.

  I knew what she was really thinking. That I had no hope in hell of winning the competition and being able to stay legally, under my own name.

  There was a burning question whirring away in my brain, something that I desperately needed to ask Mrs. G, yet was scared. Then out of the blue, I heard myself blurt, “Why did you help the likes of Jackson and me? I mean, it would’ve have been easier to just get on with your own life…you know, running your own business…” I immediately regretted asking.

  Mrs. G stiffened for a few seconds while she thought of her response to my question, then she softened, took a sip of her champagne and settled back into the armchair, all the while holding my gaze.

  “You know, Willow, this country is built on immigration. There would be no United States of America if there were no immigrants. We should be proud of our immigration heritage, proud of a country that opens its arms to all who want to better themselves and make a good life for themselves.” Mrs. G took another sip and swallowed. “I wanted to give you both an opportunity. My own name “Gerson” is Hungarian. It means “stranger” or “the banished.” My family came here in the 1940s; they settled in the Queens area and have stayed ever since. I am carrying on the family tradition, living up to my name it seems, helping the strangers and the banished.”

  Freakin hell! This woman is something else!

  I sat back and smiled at my boss, taking in all she had just told me. Visualising her family arriving from Hungary, destitute and homeless, dependent on the charity of strangers. I remembered how she had taken me in and twinned me with Jackson. It all made perfect sense now. She was proud of me; she knew all about my strife and struggles and now she was facing a monumental one of her own. Her family had built up the department store and now, under her guardianship, they were going to lose it. Her losses were going to be far more reaching and gut-wrenching than anything I could imagine.

  Now, it was Mrs. G’s turn to change the subject.

  “It’s Christmas Eve and look at us!” she smacked the arm of her chair. “We should be getting home and getting settled for the night. Big day tomorrow!”

  We both stood up and made to leave.

  We were after all the mistresses of disguise, the masters of the art of concealing or revealing. It was what we did for a living and we were both rather good at it.

  “Oops! I almost forgot this!”

  Mrs. G leaned down the side of her winged armchair and picked up a small gift-wrapped package. She looked at me, then handed the gift to me.

  “Merry Christmas, Willow! Now, don’t open it till tomorrow!” she warned, knowing full well that this would be the only present I would be opening on Christmas morning.

  “Happy Christmas Mrs. G…But you shouldn’t have!” I replied, secretly delighted that she had bothered to get me something.

  “I’m sorry…I don’t have anything for you.” I felt ashamed that I hadn’t even thought of getting her a gift.

  “You already gave me a gift – the day you walked into my store,” she shrugged, “I have enjoyed every minute watching you grow into a fine young artist.

  “Merry Christmas, Willow!”

  “Happy Christmas, Mrs. G!”

  ***

  Early the next morning, I awoke to my very first New York Christmas. The apartment was as cold as ice, but I climbed into an old sleeping bag and sat for most of the morning drinking mugs of hot tea while watching an endless run of festive season movies. My spirits were high considering my circumstances. I refused to feel blue at such an amazing time of year. I promised myself I would go for a walk to Central Park later in the afternoon, then I remembered the small gift wrapped in silver foil and tied with a white ribbon.

  That woman has such exquisite taste.

  I wondered what could be inside as I delicately unraveled the ribbon, enjoying every moment of anticipation.

  Foil discarded, my present was inside an elegant white box, the kind you would receive on purchasing an expensive piece of jewelry. Slowly, I lifted the lid while perusing the contents of the box. I must admit, I was slightly disappointed to see that the only things in the box was a bronze key with a crumpled cardboard tag attached to some string.

  What the hell is this?

  I took the weighty key out of the box and read the address on the label:

  24a West Park Avenue.

  Why is she giving me a key to a property on West Park Avenue?

  I searched inside the box for any further remnants of information, but the box was empty. There was nothing else for it. I was going to have to get up, get dressed and go and find this address. My heart raced with anticipation as my brain whirred. I racked my memory to our previous conversations, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember my boss ever talking about this address.

  I looked out of the window of Jackson’s apartment; it was blustery, and I could tell it must be freezing just by watching the passers-by on the street below. I didn’t even know if New York transportation ran on Christmas Day. There was nothing else for it but to pull on my warmest layers and head out the door on my very own magical Christmas mystery tour.

  Forty-five minutes later I stood in front of a stunning lime stoned building
that seemed to go up and up and up. This was unlike any other building I had been inside since arriving in the city and yet I held in my palm the key to apartment 24a.

  The only problem now was that a doorman stood between me and access to the building.

  “Merry Christmas, ma’am,” he gestured, awaiting a response.

  “Happy Christmas, sir,” I replied, wondering what to do next.

  “Can I be of assistance?” he enquired.

  Then I was at a loss at how to play this thing out. Should I tell him that I have a key to an apartment, or should I just swagger in, pretending that I knew where I was going?

  Think on your feet, Willow…say something!

  “Yes! Perhaps you can help me. Gigi Gerson sent me. I have to pick up some belongings for her.”

  The doorman stepped aside and indicated for me to come in.

  “Then welcome! Let me know if I can be of any assistance. Here’s my card. Call down if you need me.”

  I accepted the card then made my way for the lift. The gilded lift whizzed me all the way up to apartment 24a on the 16th floor. As I stepped out into the hushed hallway and onto the plush carpeting, the memory of arriving at Rick’s apartment flooded me, filling me with instant despair.

  Not now…I am not going to feel like this when I am standing amid such luxury.

  I shoved the memory away into a dark recess while I traipsed down the hallway looking for the apartment.

  There’s 18a, 20a, 24a must be down here somewhere…

  On arrival at the door, I put the key in the keyhole and with bated breath opened the door. The apartment was in darkness, with only a night light illuminating the light switch. I flicked the switch on and stood back and gasped as the whole expanse of the apartment in front of me was flooded with light. Light of all kind illuminated expensive pieces of furniture.

  “Hello! Is there anyone in?” I called in a low voice.

  Silence.

  Tentatively, I stepped in and closed the door behind me.

  The open plan living room was minimally decorated but had enough sofas and armchairs to seat at least eight people. In the corner, a demurely decorated Christmas tree twinkled as the aroma of fresh pine hit my nostrils.