Warpaint

by J J Maya

  The Muse was changing out of her flat shoes into her Louboutin’s in preparation for walking to the podium.

  “Of course! Don’t worry about it…it’ll be fine, no one noticed!” I exclaimed knowing full well I was wearing the falsest smile on my face.

  I hoped and prayed that she wouldn’t see through my mask.

  27

  Flush

  I WATCHED The Muse saunter slowly and sexily towards the podium, hips swaying languidly to Frank Sinatra belting out ‘New York, New York.’ All eyes were firmly glued on her as she elegantly navigated her way through the rows and rows of makeup tables and contestants. It was as if no one else was in the room as her aura permeated through the ether. I felt a sense of motherly pride that she was my model, if only for this one afternoon.

  It was as if all the tough times I had been through had magically disappeared in an instant. I was no longer that same troubled person, running from one disastrous situation to another; this time I had stayed to win the fight. No matter which way the competition turned out, I was proud of myself, perhaps for the first time in my life. I was truly proud of myself. I had navigated my way through a myriad of problems, dealt with far too many obstacles for one little person to deal with, and endured probably more than some would endure in a lifetime. Yet here I was, experiencing one of the most truly magical moments of my life.

  There was nothing more for me to do. All my work was done. It was now up to the judges and the authorities to decide whether I got to remain in the country. I cleared my makeup table and stored my brushes in their canvas wrap. My trolley bag had been positioned under my table this whole time, now all I had to do was pack up the remainder of my belongings and I would be ready.

  The action started with two uniformed from Homeland Security busting in through an open door and making their way towards Carlotta. They spoke for a few moments while Carlotta indicated for one of the perfume ladies to take the microphone from her. Carlotta looked over in my direction, then indicated to the guards my position on the beauty hall floor.

  I felt like my feet were suctioned to the floor as they walked fast towards me. I knew I had failed the Green Card for Marriage interview and had expected this day to arrive, so it wasn’t like they took me by surprise or anything, but still my feet would not move. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw The Muse stare at the men and then paled with relief as they focussed in on me instead.

  “Are you Willow Campbell-Delgado?” the taller of the two asked, staring at me, then staring at a document he held in his hand.

  “I am,” I replied.

  “Confirm your address for me please?” he asked.

  “Would you like my permanent address or my temporary one?” I responded with such clarity of thought that took me by surprise.

  The two officers turned to look at each other, confused by my accent and my response to their question.

  “Permanent address, please.”

  The taller of the two adopted a stern approach but was caught in mid-sentence as another branch of Homeland Security officers invaded the beauty hall floor. I looked over to see that once again Carlotta was directing the crowd of maybe five men in my direction. Within seconds, I was surrounded by a barrage of men who were all staring at me. I noticed at that point that my model had made a swift disappearance and who could blame her?

  But still, I stood with my feet stuck firmly to the floor as the officers talked amongst themselves, discussing what they were going to do with me.

  Off to my right, a tall man stepped out of the audience of onlookers and made his way towards the chief officer. His silhouette was unmistakable to me. It was Jackson.

  What is he doing here? He’s supposed to be undercover.

  Jackson was talking in an animated fashion, while one by one he handed out what looked like blown-up black and white photographs to the bunch of guards standing next to me. I had no clue what was going on.

  What’s he up to? I wondered, trying in vain to see the photographs with my own eyes.

  “Can I please see one of these photographs?” I asked a guard.

  The guard handed me a photo. It was a wedding photograph, taken at Clements Estate in Loch Lomond.

  Where the hell did he get those from?

  Then he turned and stared at me, pointing in my direction as he spoke to the chief guard.

  “So, as you can see from these images, this young lady really did love her husband and, in my opinion, she deserves to stay.”

  I was taken aback. Breathless. He would do this for me?

  “She is innocent of any misdemeanour. She married Rick Delgado because she was in love with him. Her wedding was the real deal.”

  I looked at Jackson and at the crowd of onlookers who had moved closer. The crowd had gathered tightly around us. I was aghast, yet still my feet would not move. I was frozen to the spot.

  “And who might you be?” the chief officer enquired as his underling ran a background check on Jackson.

  “Jackson Dart. Real name Andrew McCullough. I defected here in 2011 from the cruise ship Gallant en route to the Galapagos Islands. I was one of the cruise ship dancers,” he explained in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. He looked over at me and drew me a wry smile before handing over his paperwork.

  Two guards approached Jackson and handcuffed him on the spot.

  “Mr. McCulloch, you are under arrest for being an illegal immigrant in the USA. Come with us.”

  “Bloody hell! Leave him alone!” I shouted as a small circle of guards encroached on my space, indicating for me to remain quiet.

  The guards marched Jackson out

  I couldn’t believe they were taking him away from me. I hurt inside. Real bad. How can they do this? How could he make such a sacrifice for me? No one had ever done anything like this for me. I began to cry. Real, hard gobby sobs erupted out of me.

  “Leave him alone!” I shouted, feeling like I might be sick.

  A half-hour later, I was sitting in a desolate Homeland Security office space, awaiting the arrival of an immigration lawyer. They offered me coffee, but I refused. I kicked the wheels of my trolley bag, the bag that contained the detritus of my life including a burgeoning collection of professional makeup supplies. Word filtered back to me that Isabella had signed off sick from the competition and that in her absence, I had won the Makeup Artistry Competition by default. But it all meant nothing to me now that they had taken Jackson away.

  Each time an officer came into the room, I enquired to his whereabouts but was told in no uncertain terms that Jackson was in the process of being deported out of the country.

  The thought trickled through my mind that I might also be huckled to the airport and put on the first departing flight to Glasgow.

  “So, are they flying him to Dublin?” I enquired.

  “I expect so,” replied the officer. “All illegal aliens are deported back to the point of origin.”

  “But he left Ireland onboard a cruise ship. He didn’t leave from an airport.”

  “Then they’ll take him back to the port where he began his journey,” said the officer.

  “OK. Thanks,” I stored the information away for future use.

  Now, I knew where they were taking him; my black mood improved ever so slightly.

  I worked out that Jackson had been illegal for eight years. That was a long time to be living on your nerves. I wondered if he felt a tad relieved that it was all over.

  There was a stout knock at the door as the immigration lawyer, a tall woman in her early 40s entered the room accompanied by the chief Homeland Security officer. After polite introductions were made, the lawyer sat down opposite me.

  “Have you been treated well?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, not wanting to rock the boat

  She brandished a collection of paperwork including the black and white wedding photographs that Jackson had gathered.

  “Mrs. Campbell-Delgado, we have now spok
en to your husband,” she paused, “And after completing our background checks, we have decided that your marriage is indeed legitimate.”

  The lawyer stared at me, awaiting a reaction. But she did not get what she expected.

  I stared back at her and said nothing. Inside I felt like my heart was breaking. It was breaking for Jackson.

  “So, what happens now?” I asked, wiping a solitary tear off my cheek.

  “You are free to go.”

  I stood up.

  “Thank you,” I said, while staring at my feet.

  “I expect Mr. Delgado is waiting for you back at the apartment?” she asked.

  “I expect he is,” I replied, trying my best to look happy.

  So, now I must return to Rick and make pretend like everything is OK? I thought. For God’s sake!

  28

  Blush

  RICK TURNED UP to collect me. It was 8:30pm and raining. That’s all I remember of that day. We had gone straight to an Italian roast house and sat on barstools facing out onto the street.

  Rick was very apologetic about everything and we both concluded we had made a big mistake getting married so soon. We had got caught up on a romantic whim; caught up in the sweet romance of it all. If I were to be brutally honest, I had been looking for an escape and Rick had presented me with one. It had been hard to say no. Although part of me was pleased that I had been brave enough to say “yes” to his marriage proposal, I now know, looking back, we didn’t really love each other. We agreed to put the episode in the past and to try to continue as friends. Rick would move onto the couch and I would have the bedroom. I would have to give up my independence temporarily, which meant I had to hand in my notice at the Hell’s Kitchen apartment block.

  We carried on with that arrangement for the next few months while I saved up for a deposit on a larger apartment. Rick didn’t charge me for rent, out of guilt I think, but I wasn’t in the position to question his motive. Suffice to say the arrangement worked well in the short term.

  We had set a date for divorce proceedings to ensue after a year had passed. It all seemed very cold and calculating but deep in my heart, I knew it was for the best. It would be a release for both of us and the chance to eradicate a silly mistake. This arrangement came along with the surprising benefit of allowing me to regain a liking for Rick once more, although both Jackson and Jake were never far from my thoughts.

  By early the following summer, I was firmly ensconced in my slightly larger Manhattan apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. I had got to know the area rather well and enjoyed the proximity to the Hudson River. I had settled in well with my new colleagues at Barneys and I was preparing to take an Advanced Makeup Artistry certification at night school. I thought back to the conversation Jackson and I had that night in the dive bar when he had made me think hard about pursuing my dreams. He had been right all along. My success was down to me and to me alone…along with a sprinkling of fortitude.

  The Muse and I had stayed in contact and she had even offered me the opportunity to be her personal makeup artist if ever I decided to go freelancing in London. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was making real progress. It was a very tempting offer, but it would mean leaving behind everything I had built up in New York…and I knew more than most that this town was not an easy town to make it in. It had a habit of chewing you up and spitting you out at the first opportunity.

  As the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, it wasn’t long before I was offered a promotion to Lead Makeup Artist at Chanel and the opportunity to work backstage at New York Fashion Week.

  It had been one year since Mrs. G had been indicted and she was due for release. The organisers had stuck up the proverbial two fingers at the authorities and had chosen to mark the occasion by seating Mrs. G in the front row of the February shows at Bryant Park. How fitting then that the woman who had given me my first opportunity to work in the city would now be witness to my progress at the shows.

  As the shows began, the Chanel models paraded the housewares in true Chanel style. The prescribed makeup for the shows had been a mix of contemporary classic with a dash of futuristic flair – in other words, an almost impossible feat of makeup artistry was needed to pull off this daring look. I had hired Rose to be my first assistant, as one by one, we prepared and painted each elegant model who sat in the Chanel director’s chair. Rose was beyond herself with excitement at the challenge she had been given, and by all accounts, she kept her cool and did well.

  I, on the other hand, literally shook with fear until I managed to get a grip on myself. I told myself that all the challenges and hard knocks had been building up to this one amazing moment and that I deserved to be in this spot on this day. With my work done, and my models lined up ready to take to the stage in their finest Chanel garb, I took a breath as I saw Sandie Shaw take to the stage. There had been rumours that she would be singing live at the show, and there she stood in her trademark bare feet, surrounded by a sea of elegant, six-foot-tall models.

  The opening chords to “Cool About You” by the Jesus and Mary Chain filled the tent as Sandie sang the words to one of my all-time favourite songs. The models took to the stage and struck a pose as I watched on with Rose at my side. Mrs. G and I exchanged a glance. I knew I had won her approval.

  Later, as the shows wound down and the last remaining models had run off to attend the after-show parties that took place all around the city, I packed up the expensive arsenal of makeup tools and carefully put them away, secretly pleased with my accomplishment.

  Just then, as I was about to leave, Rose called through to me, “Willow! There’s some folks here to see you.”

  I glanced up to see Mrs. G enter the room, at her side stood Jake and a young blonde boy of perhaps eight or nine years old.

  “Hello stranger!” I ran to Mrs. G and hugged her tightly while looking over her shoulder at Jake and the boy. As I parted from Mrs. G, Jake stood forward, “Willow, long time no see. There’s someone you should meet.” I looked down at the little boy, then back at Jake. He winked at me.

  “Are you who I think you are?” I asked. The boy looked mystified.

  “Dunno,” he replied looking back at Jake for assistance.

  “This is Billy,” Jake beamed proudly.

  I looked at Jake and Mrs. G.

  “I heard through the grapevine about Billy and the extra work that Jake was doing to help out, so I made sure he got what he needed,” Mrs. G offered. “Good to see you are doing such great work, Willow, keep it up.”

  “Oh, I will, don’t you worry. I’m making some excellent contacts in the industry too,” I said.

  “I expect you are,” she said. “Now I’ll leave you lovebirds alone. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Billy, come with me. There’s some people I’d like you to meet,” Mrs. G took Billy by the hand and led him out of the tent, leaving Jake and I alone for the first time in ages.

  “That song she sang out there…did you pick it?” Jake asked, his eyes glinting under the harsh lighting of the backstage tent.

  “No. But it is one of my favourites,” I responded shyly.

  “Cool,” he said, staring at me, a second longer than necessary.

  He offered his arm, “It’s a nice day for a walk along the Hudson River.” I accepted, smiled and prayed inwardly that he wouldn’t take me for coffee at Gino’s.

  The End

  To my Stevie, Joe & Jamie.

  In loving memory of my dad, Harry Burns,

  who I spent the first twenty-one years of my life with.

  “Give Peace a Chance”

  John Lennon

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to:

  My ‘Warpaint Warriors’ who were always in the background urging me on to the finish line: My mum, Margaret, my brothers; Stephen and Craig, Helen, Susie Charleston Daisley, Toinette Campbell, Isabel Keenan, Denese Lovvorn, Tracy and Tommy
McArthur, Liza Cortijo, Lorraine Steele, Marion Steele, Caroline Farry, Melanie Tyler, Jane McCormack, Laura Donnan, Lorna Doyle, Jackie Lavery, Janet Oetterer, Christian Linton and Vini Margalli.

  My readers: Stacey Coyle, Danielle Keenan, Jackie Burns, Toni Burns, Charley Daisley, Kristine Humber, Karen Glen, Catherine Muir, Teresa Coleman, Joanne Lewis, Karen McDermott, Willis Middleton, Marilyn Anderson, Mary McKenzie and Hayley Myles.

  The professionals: Editor - Amy Tipton of Feral Girl Books, Teresa Rodriguez - Editor-in-Chief, Haute Living San Francisco, Mayte Rodriguez Cedillo - Editor in Chief at Traveler Publications, Professor and TV writer - Ann Marie Di Mambro at Glasgow Caledonian University, Stephen McDermott - Book Cover Illustration, Anne McManus at Shed Media and Molly Bolt for encouraging me to write this book. The teachings of Napoleon Hill.

  The soundtrack: Alicia Keys, Burt Bacharach, Karen Carpenter, The Mamas and Papas, The Jesus and Mary Chain and Primal Scream.

  The family: Stevie, Joe and Jamie who’s never faltering love for me and belief in me, made sure I finally finished this book.

  Thanks for reading Warpaint! Please consider leaving a review at my

  J.J. Maya Author page on Amazon.

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  © J.J. Maya 2020

  All rights reserved.

  J.J. Maya has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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