I winced, both because I knew I'd upset her and because I'd have even less time later. "No, it's okay. I'm sorry. Work's kind of crazy, that's all."
My eyes met the model's in the mirror as I began to reapply her foundation, and she smiled and whispered, "He's crazy."
The photographer, who called himself Hot Caramel though he was whiter than vanilla ice cream and only slightly warmer, was indeed crazier than the idea that Miss McLeod would win a teacher of the year award. But he was also hotter even than his name at the moment and my boss Chaz had been so delighted we'd snagged the psycho as our photographer for the entire week that nobody was allowed to criticize anything the man said.
Saying "Do you want a gloss or matte lip on the model?" apparently counted as criticism, though I hadn't remotely intended that. I'd actually thought she'd look better with a gloss, since the ad campaign was for a new luxury car and it made sense to me to have the model as sleek and elegant and shiny as the vehicle, but I'd asked anyhow because Hot Caramel had been complaining earlier about having no input into the look of the set. To thank me for my consideration, he'd torn me apart.
I smiled and nodded at the model, though I was still cringing inside at the memory of the world-famous photographer staring up at me since he was a full foot shorter than me and shouting, "Of course I do not want matte! What fool would? Gloss is the only thing that will save this mess. And it is a mess, because the rest of her face is making me want to vomit on my shoes, which are handmade by nuns in Italy so I don't want to do that. Remove it all and fix her right now or I will leave. Oh, yes, I will."
Chaz had almost physically thrown me from the room, hissing at me to shut up and straighten this out, and the model had followed and now I had mere moments in which to somehow turn the stunning forty-year-old even more stunning.
"I'll call later."
I'd almost forgotten Candice was on the phone, and I jumped, narrowly avoiding smudging the lipstick, the glossiest one I could find, that I was applying. "No, it's okay. Talk to me."
"If you're sure. I'm sorry about yesterday, by the way."
She and Ian had stayed overnight in the hotel where the reunion had been held, but since I lived just down the street I'd gone home instead and spent an awful night reliving the moment when Brent's wife pointed at me with a look of disdain. The only thing that eventually let me sleep was knowing I'd be able to talk it all through the next day, since Ian was going to take the care of his children back from his in-laws so Candice and I could have a rare relaxed kid-free lunch. But she'd texted half an hour before noon to say that Libby had a bit of a fever and she thought she'd better bail out. I'd said it was okay, of course, but I hadn't entirely meant it.
"I understand," I said now, though I didn't entirely mean that either. "How's Libby?"
"Just fine," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Turns out Mom was reading the thermometer wrong."
Pushing back a wave of frustration that she hadn't then told me we could have lunch after all, I said, "Good stuff. So, about the christening?"
"Mom and I are making all the sandwiches, but are you still okay to buy the drinks and the other stuff so we don't have to cart it all over?"
I stroked a blush brush over the model's beautifully high cheekbones, envy flooding me at the perfection of her bone structure. "Yup." We'd already agreed to all this, but I knew she was nervous about hosting a party that wasn't at her own place. "You still want me to order and pick up the cake, right?"
"Yes, please. And don't forget the Diet Coke, okay? Mom becomes a raging beast without it. A raging-er beast."
True, Candice's mother had raging-beast tendencies even when appropriately caffeinated, but I didn't have time to joke with her about that. "Will do. Anything else?"
"Nope. Thanks again for letting us use your apartment."
"No problem. Any progress on your bathroom renovations?"
She heaved a sigh. "None. Those contractors move slower than Miss McLeod."
I laughed, then made myself stop because it shook my hand and the model was flinching back from the mascara wand I was wielding. "No doubt. She was so obnoxious."
"More like a bitch. But I must admit, I felt sorry for her when Brent's wife pointed at her like that. That must have sucked."
Surprise flashed through me. "She pointed at--"
"Where is my model?" Hot Caramel bellowed from the set down the hall from my makeshift makeup room. "How long is this going to take? I know she was hideous to start with but still, I have not got all day."
The model leaned forward and examined herself in the mirror. "Am I done?"
"Candice, I have to--"
"I heard the yell, don't worry. Talk to you later."
She hung up before I could say goodbye, and though I didn't feel good about the abrupt ending of the conversation it did give me the split second I needed to notice that I had in fact only put my third eyeshadow color on one of the model's eyes.
I fixed my mistake quickly, and giving the model's face my full attention just made it even more obvious that in no way could this woman's face, made up or otherwise, ever make someone vomit. She wasn't a typical classic beauty but once you looked at her you just couldn't look away.
I wanted to, though, because she was about five years older than me and in five hundred years I'd never look as good as she did.
I'd had a few model friends in high school and they'd encouraged me to try it myself but I hadn't wanted to face the pressure of trying to make my looks match someone else's definition of perfection. Ironic, since I felt that pressure every day now since as a makeup artist I had to show that I knew how to fix all my flaws. My face was my portfolio, after all.
"There," I said once her eyes matched. "You look perfect."
She scrutinized herself again. "Do I?"
I blinked, surprised she wasn't sure. "Gorgeous. Go get him."
She gave a mock shudder, we both laughed, and she hurried from the room, somehow managing to move with grace and style despite the super-high heels she'd been given to wear.
I followed, stopping just outside the set door so I could hear Hot Caramel's reaction.
"Well, this is better," he said, sounding surprised, and I had exactly enough time to feel proud of myself before he added, "Now I only want to gag, not vomit," and crushed me again.
*****
The model for the afternoon's shoot, advertising a new yogurt that I personally thought tasted like it had been filtered through old sweaty socks, was late, and to my shock Chaz said, "Larissa, take fifteen for lunch. Whenever the model gets here we still need to deal with her wardrobe, so it should be fine. Keep your phone on though."
"Deal," I said, and took off before he could change his mind. I'd been at work since seven that morning with only one bathroom break, which had been interrupted by Chaz calling me to come meet the great Hot Caramel, and I was starving.
I left the decrepit industrial building Hot Caramel had insisted we use for the week's shoots "because the amazing atmosphere will inspire even you peons to greatness", and hurried to the nearby McDonald's. No time to look for another option, since Chaz could call me back at any time. He'd done it before, and since Hot Caramel was indisputably the boss of the set Chaz might well feel the need to assert himself against me so at least he'd know there was someone lower on the totem pole than him.
I was the dirt under the totem pole's base.
At McDonald's I ordered a salad with no dressing, then on a whim a sundae for dessert.
"Hot caramel?"
I gave such a fierce involuntary shudder that I dropped my wallet. "No," I said once I'd retrieved it. "Never. Strawberry, please."
I ate the salad fast so I could savor the sundae for a few minutes before returning to the nightmare that was my job. As the first bite of the ice-cold frozen treat slid down my throat, I pulled out my phone and checked my email. Maybe someone had offered me my own makeup studio and I wouldn't have to go back to work.
No such luck, unfo
rtunately, but I did have one interesting email, forwarded from my cousin Laura.
Greetings, all. Please forgive this mass message, but I've asked everyone I know to forward this to everyone THEY know. I'm a principal at an English-language elementary school in Kuwait and I am desperate for teachers. You don't have to be a certified teacher - if you speak English fluently and are able to come here immediately we can work something out. Salary starts at the equivalent of fifty thousand Canadian dollars a year and you'd need to sign a contract for the rest of this school year and all of next year. Email me right away if you're interested. (Just FYI - I'm eight hours ahead of those of you in Toronto, but I'm happy to talk to you at any time you're available.)
Thanks so much! I know Kuwait sounds like the end of the earth, but depending on how you look at it it could be the beginning. :)
Hope to hear from you,
Janet Wrigley
Janet wasn't the most Middle Eastern name I could imagine, but maybe they didn't hire their own for their schools.
I reached out for the delete button, but to my surprise I couldn't make myself push it right away.
Then I did. Of course I didn't want to go to Kuwait. I didn't even want to be a teacher, and if I did I wouldn't choose the land of sand and camels.
Plus, my life was screwed up enough at home without going overseas for new problems.
*****
I returned to the studio after only fourteen minutes away, wanting to make sure I didn't upset Chaz, but when I walked in he was mid-roar.
"--the hell is-- there you are! Larissa, God, you kill me sometimes. You have to be here when I need you!"
"But--" The word got out before I could stop it, but I bit back the rest of my retort. Nothing I could say would make a difference. "Sorry," I murmured, and fled to my dingy little makeup room with his disgusted grunt ringing in the air behind me.
The afternoon's first model waited there for me in a stunning ruffled dress that started out white and cascaded down through shades of violet to a deep regal purple at the hem. I'd felt pretty good about my black pants and tan sweater in the morning, but in her presence I felt dowdy, and jealous. I would never have felt right in that dress though I loved it at once, but she looked completely comfortable and like she'd been born to wear it.
Though I knew envying a model's appearance was utterly pointless, the contrast just made me more angry, and as I made myself smile and greet her then set about making yet another beautiful woman even more beautiful I struggled to push away my fury.
I hated apologizing when I knew I hadn't been wrong, but it was just part of working for Chaz, or for that matter for any of the studio owners I'd known over the years. They were 'artistic' types, which apparently meant they could be completely obnoxious and change their minds constantly and everyone around them had to excuse it.
No doubt that was part of why I wanted my own studio. I didn't just want it: I craved it with an intensity that made me shudder. But somehow it never worked out. More to the point, I always screwed it up. I'd been on the brink more times than I cared to think about. Story after story, but they all ended the same. Me stuck working for some idiot instead of finally going out on my own.
The email about Kuwait drifted into my mind, but I forced it out. Teachers were hired for their brains, not their looks, and I wouldn't qualify.
I finished making up the model, trying not to feel jealous. She looked a little like me, or at least like how I might look after a long vacation and maybe a touch of Botox. True, she was ten years younger, but I couldn't help comparing my face to hers and not liking the results. I'd been sleeping more and more lately but still didn't look or feel rested; maybe the Botox was a better bet?
When I said, "All done," the model glanced at her face and said, "Cool." She smiled at me without it reaching her eyes and walked out with her gorgeous dress swirling around her, not first asking for me to fix any 'flaws' like most of the models did, and I spent my precious few moments before the next model's arrival staring at my own reflection, lost in how nice it must be to truly like what you saw in the mirror.
I knew I was pretty. I'd have to, since that was basically all anyone ever said about me. Even my dad had followed up his jokingly phrased complaints that I wasn't the baseball-playing rough-and-tumble boy he'd wanted with, "She's pretty, though. Got to give her that."
I'd always known he didn't mean it as a compliment, however, since I looked like his mom and had her slender body and blonde hair and blue eyes. He'd hated his mother for being weak and flutteringly feminine, and that had rubbed off on his opinion of me. My mom and sister were built, as he said, like linebackers, and he clearly preferred their looks to mine.
Lots of other people had called me pretty and had meant it as a compliment, but I'd never really liked hearing it and once I'd become a makeup artist I'd realized why. In my world of models and Botox and Photoshop, 'pretty' was about on the level of 'smart enough not to get run over on the street'. Hardly rare. Not something that made you matter.
And also not something that got you many boyfriends. Most of the guys I met at work were more interested in my eyeliners than in me, and they didn't seem to have any straight friends with whom they could set me up. Not that I'd ever asked: it didn't seem appropriate to try to find a boyfriend that way. I'd had a few casual dates since Greg but nothing had felt right. Maybe it was my stupid crush on Ian getting in the way.
A model arrived then, cutting off my useless thoughts, and I spent the rest of the day working away on model after model. By seven o'clock, I had finger cramps and a headache from making my eyes focus for so long, and Hot Caramel's cry from the set of "The light is all wrong now, so after this last one we'll have to wait until tomorrow" was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard.
I heard stomping down the hall and Chaz stuck his head into my room. "Ready?"
"Two more minutes."
"You've got one," he said as he withdrew.
I worked as fast as I could, but the model blinked at the wrong time and my mascara wand bounced off her cheek. Getting rid of the black smudges and perfecting her blush again slowed me down, and Chaz was back, his face dangerously red, before I finished. He stood in the doorway, his presence doing nothing to calm my nerves or speed my work, until I finished, at which point he snapped, "Finally," and hurried the model down the hall.
Left alone, I wanted to curl up for a good cry and run screaming from the room all at once, but instead I began putting away my makeup so I wouldn't be yelled at for leaving a mess.
As I tidied and wondered whether I should leave a mess so they wouldn't find some other reason to yell at me instead, I heard a simpering voice in the hall. "Chaz, I'd be happy to help out tomorrow by doing a few models' faces if you'd like. I think you're swamping poor Larissa."
The only thing swamping me as she spoke was fury. Hayley had been hired as my assistant but she hadn't done a single thing to help me in the two months she'd been around unless Chaz was right there to see it. Otherwise, she talked on the phone and redid her own makeup and annoyed me so much I couldn't stand it.
Chaz said, "That's so sweet of you," in a tone that said he was wondering how she'd look naked, and I stormed out of the room before she could push me any further out of my job. "I'm fine, actually. I don't need any help."
Hayley, standing too close to Chaz with her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, blinked her big blue eyes at me. "But you seemed so stressed today and I'd hate to have that on my conscience when I could lighten your load."
If she had her way she'd lighten it to zero. I would not let that happen, especially not when pleasing Hot Caramel was a known ticket to running your own studio. He'd launched the careers of five makeup artists in his three years in the business, and I was determined to be number six. "My load is the perfect weight," I said, matching her sickly-sweet tone and letting my eyes dip to her butt, which I'd heard her complaining about multiple times on the phone.
She flushed, but Chaz said, "Well, I don
't know. You were running late this afternoon."
"Because the third model was half an hour late!"
He didn't seem to hear me. "Okay, Hayley, you can do two of them tomorrow. We'll see whose work Hot Caramel likes best."
His tone told me there'd be no discussion, so I forced back my fury and said, "I guess we will."
Chaz left, and Hayley shot me a smug grin and went after him.
I closed my eyes as a shudder of impotent fury shot through me at people who used their feminine wiles to get ahead and at myself for deciding long ago not to figure out how to do that and thereby putting myself at a disadvantage, then wearily finished reorganizing my makeup. Some of it belonged to me personally, and I put that stuff into two small cardboard boxes to take home with me. Not a chance I'd let Hayley get her paws on it.
Once everything I was leaving was perfectly arranged, I put on my coat and tossed my black purse over my shoulder and took a box in each hand then began to head out to the street and the subway station, making plans for a quick snack at home before going out to my volleyball game.
As I passed the makeshift conference room on the way out, a familiar voice froze me in my tracks. Then it made me want to run, but my moment of hesitation was fatal.
Greg walked out of the conference room.
Chapter Three
Our eyes met, and though I was paralyzed and probably looked it he smiled like I was his long-lost best friend. "Larissa! You look great, babe. Come here."
He pulled me into his arms, and the feel of his tall strong much-missed body against mine overwhelmed me. Since my hands were full I couldn't hug him back, which was probably just as well because I might not have been able to let go. I didn't think a day had gone by in the five years we'd been apart without me thinking of him, and the thought of losing him again now was unbearable.
Since I hadn't been able to lock my arms around him, though, he stepped away easily. "You really do look great. What's it been? Three years? Four?"
Toronto Collection Volume 3 (Toronto Series #10-13) Page 29