by Flynn, Mac
"That'll work for all of a couple of days because I have to shower some time," I reminded him. "That, or I'll permanently be smelling like my last escape perfume."
"That's a problem they'll have to solve for us. Maybe they'll be able to give you a few tips to hide your identity," he pointed out.
I slumped down in my chair and scowled at him. "Did I ever mention I don't like makeup?"
"Never."
"Well, I don't."
"Do you want to get to your classes?"
"I'm starting to question that."
"Then I win."
My eye twitched. I don't know what I'd just lost, but I didn't like losing. "What?"
"If you drop your schooling then all you have left is to work for me," he pointed out. "So that means I win."
My mouth slowly dropped open and my eyes narrowed. "Oh no, I said I wasn't ready for full-time employment and I mean it."
"No, you said you weren't ready for marriage."
"With you as my husband that would be a full-time babysitting position."
"Touche, but if you don't agree to at least try out my idea then what other choice do you have?"
I sighed and shrugged. "Fine. What have I got to lose?"
"Your dignity?" he teased. I scowled at him and he held up his hands. "Just kidding, I swear."
"Well, you'll be laughing all the way to the theater," I promised him.
Now it was his turn to frown. "Pardon?"
"You think I'm going to go to the theater alone? I'm taking you along as my guarantee that they're going to suck up to me and give me a disguise."
He cringed, and grabbed a paper and pen off his desk. "I'm sure a letter from me will work-"
I stood and slammed my hand down on the paper. "Oh no you don't. The papers have one thing right, and that's that we're in this together, so you're coming with me."
"We've had this discussion before. I rarely go out in public," he reminded me.
"And that's probably why so many people are interested in knowing what you're doing. You're so secretive that you're practically a living ghost," I countered.
John raised an eyebrow and gestured to his pale self. "I am a living ghost," he pointed out.
"Then let's upgrade that to a phantom and see if people still want to read about you in these magazines." I strode around the desk and pulled him from his desk. "Come on, the theater department isn't going to wait for us."
John grudgingly let me drag him out into the hall. "It will if they want me to continue my patronage," he grumbled.
After the usual cover up with John's clothes, and depositing mine in the wash and fitting his clothes to me, I drove him to my campus. He directed me to a large old building off to the side of the campus. It was made of bricks and white marble, and had more elegance than all the dozen new buildings combined. The front doors were propped open, so I quickly pulled John out of the sun and into the darkened theater lobby. We heard voices through a pair of doors off to the right, and followed them into a hall that followed the entire length along the theater building. There were doors along the right, and these were the dressing rooms.
People wandered to and fro, most in a half-costumed state. Judging by the white powder wigs and colonial outfits, I guessed they were doing something kind of old. A woman about my age who held a clipboard and pen in hand yelled orders to everyone, though when she noticed us her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed together. She stomped over to us and stuck her face into John's. Well, almost. She wasn't quite as tall as him, so she ended up with her nose on the collar of his heavy overcoat. "Too much makeup!" she hissed.
I snorted, and the woman turned on me. "And why aren't you in costume? The rehearsal is about to start!"
I got another look at the chaos behind her and hoped she was misusing the phrase 'about to start.' "Um, we're not really with the company," I told her.
Her face flushed with an angry red and her hands tightly grasped the clipboard and pen. "Then what the hell do you think you're doing here?" she exclaimed. John opened his mouth, but she thrust her finger in his face. "No excuses! This is a theater, not a tourist destination! If you want to watch a show then you will need to buy season tickets or a ticket at the door when the play opens." She gestured to the chaos. "As you can see the play isn't open, so out!"
"But we're-" I began, but she thrust her glaring face into mine.
"Out!"
"Stephanie, I think that's enough." The woman in front of us swirled around and we all noticed a middle-aged woman walk through the chaos toward us. She had a calming effect on the actors, who stopped their panicking and returned to their dressing rooms. The older woman smiled at John and me. "What can we do for you?"
"They're not with the company, Miss Hampton," Stephanie protested.
"That's quite all right. We wouldn't mind having a small audience for the rehearsal," Miss Hampton calmly replied.
"I'm afraid we're not that, either, Miss Hampton," John spoke up. He held out his gloved hand to her. "My name is John Benson." Stephanie's face paled and Miss Hampton's registered shock.
"Mr. Benson?" Miss Hampton guessed, and John nodded. The theater manager smiled and eagerly shook his hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet our long-time benefactor, but what brings you here?"
John gestured to me. "My friend here needs a disguise."
Miss Hampton cupped her chin in her hand, looked me over, and glanced back to John. "A disguise? This isn't for anything illegal, is it?" she teased.
"No. I'm afraid she's been having some problems with unwanted attention-"
"You mean the magazines?" Stephanie interrupted. Everyone turned to her and she sheepishly grinned. "Sorry."
"Magazines? So she needs to elude reporters?" Miss Hampton guessed.
"Exactly," John agreed.
Miss Hampton furrowed her brow. "That will be a challenge, and I'm afraid at present we haven't time to assist you. The rehearsal is about to begin and we need our makeup artists on hand for the actors. However, if you and Miss-"
"Trixie," Stephanie and I replied at the same time.
"If you and Trixie would like to watch the performance then we can help you after the show."
John's face told me he'd rather jump off the catwalks above the stage, so I elbowed him in the side and he put on a false smile that wouldn't have fooled a child, much less these stage pros. "We'd be delighted to watch the show," he ground out through his teeth.
Miss Hampton raised an eyebrow. "Of course, you can always come back at a later time and we can see what we can do," she suggested.
"We'll be happy to wait," I spoke up. "Where do you want us to sit?"
She gestured to the door through which we'd come. "Just go back into the lobby and through any of the two double-doors to your right. Those will lead into the theater seats, and from there you can choose any seat you'd like. I recommend the middle section close to the stage."
"Sounds great. Thanks." I wrapped my arms around John's own and hauled him back through the doors. I could hear him grumble beneath his breath and I rolled my eyes. "I'm sure you've been through a ton of real plays, so you'll survive one rehearsal," I scolded him.
"No, I haven't," he replied.
I was surprised. "No fancy parties or plays?" I wondered, and he shook his head. "You really have led a sheltered life, but I'm going to fix that starting with this rehearsal."
He looked and sounded alarmed. "Fix it? Fix it how?"
"By completing my initial mission and getting you out to see and meet people," I told him. During all this talking I led him through the lobby and into the theater seats. I took Miss Hampton's advice and guided us to the center seats. John opened his mouth to object, but I pushed him into a chair and plopped myself down beside him. "No arguments, mister. If you want me as a wife then you're going to have to get used to other people, too."
John scowled. "That's a hard bargain," he protested.
I sweetly smiled at him. "But I'm worth it," I cutely replied.
> I was saved from his retort by the call of rehearsal time.
CHAPTER 7
I enjoyed the rehearsal, a production of the musical 1776, and John mostly behaved himself. There were only a few times where I had to silence his grumblings with an elbow to the ribs. When it was finished Miss Hampton came up the aisle to us and looked us over. "How did you like the performance?" she wondered.
"I thought it was great," I replied.
"It was very professional," John diplomatically answered.
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Benson," Miss Hampton returned. She glanced over to me, and gave my person a critical eye. "What sort of disguise were you wanting, Trixie?"
I shrugged. "A good one?"
Miss Hampton chuckled. "That would definitely solve your problems, but did you have any suggestions for the change?"
"It has to be simple for her to apply the cosmetics herself," John spoke up.
"So this is a daily application rather than a single instance?" she wondered.
I sheepishly shrugged. "The reporters probably aren't going to let up anytime soon."
"Then I have just the artist for your dilemma. He'll be able to set you up with some useful tips and just the wig you'll need."
"He?" I repeated.
Miss Hampton smiled and gestured for us to follow. She led us backstage to the lower part of the dressing room hallway. There was a large room off to the side where much of the makeup took place, and Miss Hampton guided us to a young fellow in the back who was removing some of the makeup from a colonial woman. He was taller than John, but had a thin frame and long, delicate fingers. "David, these nice people need your help."
"In a minute, Miss H. I just need to finish with Leslie here." He helped carefully her remove her wig and he carefully set the wig on a stand close by. The girl left, and David turned his full attention on us. "What can I do for you?"
Miss Hampton directed his attention to John and me. "This young woman needs a disguise, and she needs to be able to apply it daily without your help."
He raised a brow. "A disguise? How thorough are we asking for?"
I stepped forward. "Thorough enough to fool reporters who have my face engraved on the back of their eyelids," I told him.
"That sounds serious, but not in line with any of the productions we're working on," he pointed out. He glanced at Miss Hampton with a questioning look. "Is this a proper use of school resources?"
John came up beside me with a smirk on his face. "I'll pay for any necessary materials, and your time."
David wasn't impressed. "Who are you?" he asked him.
"This is John Benson, David. He's the theater's largest patron," Miss Hampton explained to him.
"Second. My Uncle Cecil is the largest," John corrected her.
David folded his arms across his chest and frowned. "The amount in someone's bank account doesn't matter to me."
I didn't want to have to do this, but he left us with no choice. I clasped my hands together and put on my best puppy-dog eyes with pouting, quivering lips. "Please? You'll be doing me a really big favor, and I promise John-er, Mr. Benson will give more money to the theater."
"You don't have that kind of authority," John protested.
One glare from him and he snapped his mouth shut. I turned back to David with my puppy face. "Please?"
David glanced around at our faces and sighed. "All right, but only this once and you'd better a good student."
I stood at attention and saluted. "Yes, sir!" And thus began my long road to a great life as a professional makeup artist.
Just kidding. I stank to high heaven, but David was incredibly patient with my stupidity. Under his direction I applied and reapplied the makeup, casting my face in so many layers that I worried my weight gain would force me to buy a new wardrobe. Speaking of wardrobes, David gave me a few very plain skirts with white shirts to wear. I held one up and wrinkled my nose. "These look like the uniforms I had to wear at the diner."
John had been distracted by Miss Hampton as she wrangled him into talking about shared interests, but when the outfits were presented to me he thought it his duty to approve or disapprove of them. "You were rather good-looking in those," he told me.
"Behave, or you'll see me wearing one again," I warned him.
Miss Hampton stood to the side and hid her smile behind her fingers. "Would it be prying if I asked what the reporters have reported about you?'
"Yes," was the response from both John and me.
"I have a few copies of them," David spoke up, and he tossed a few to her.
"Are we almost done here?" I asked him.
"Just about." Between his time torturing John and me he was working up a long, black-haired, gray-speckled wig for me to wear. With a few more adjustments he had one perfectly fitted to my head. "You have to set this wig on a mannequin head every night and brush it, but very carefully or the hairs will fall out."
I looked in a mirror and didn't recognize myself. Gone were all my dimples and blemishes, and in their places were new wrinkles and crowfeet. The wig fit perfectly to my head and perfectly covered my natural shine in its long, thin tendrils. The dress was a little ill-fitting and made me look, and feel, fatter than I really was. To sum up I'd aged twenty years in twenty minutes, and couldn't have been happier.
Miss Hampton held up one of the magazines and compared the faces. "She looks wonderful, David, or rather, less beautiful," she complimented her student.
David smiled and admired his own handiwork. "I must admit this wasn't as hard as I expect it to be, even teaching her."
"Hardy-har-har," I replied, but I was pleased. All it would take to resume the look was the wig, some deft makeup, and the outfit, and I would go from young me to old me.
"There's one problem," John spoke up. "What about her voice?"
I straightened, coughed into my fist, and spoke in a voice that was a cross between crunching gravel and a frog croaking. "How's this?"
The three of them stared at me in shock, and then they all burst out laughing. Miss Hampton was the first to wipe the tears from her eyes. "That is brilliant, Trixie. I'm sure it will work just fine."
"But how long can you keep that voice?" John wondered.
"Not for very long," I admitted, returning to my own voice. "It's kind of a strain on the vocal chords."
David shrugged. "That should be enough for your reporting admirers. They won't be looking for the old you, not the new you."
"You mean the young me," I teased.
He smirked. "Yeah, that."
John turned to Miss Hampton and shook her hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hampton."
"And it was a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Benson," she returned.
"John, if you please," he insisted.
"Well, John, if you ever need our help you know where to find us," she told him.
I held up the costumes and wigs. "Did I need to pay for these?"
Miss Hampton laughed. "Only if you don't plan to return them."
I glanced at John with an uncertain look on my face. He had one, too. "I don't really know when we'll be done with this mess, but I promise I'll bring them back in the same condition."
"Why don't you sign a receipt and we'll leave it at that?" Miss Hampton suggested. I signed a receipt stating I took the items, and a copy was given to me and left with them.
Then John and I said our goodbyes and left, though without me wearing the disguise. It wouldn't do to be seen with John in the false me. The ruse would've been guessed and then all our hard makeup work would've been for nothing. We reached the car without a sign of reporters, which showed how paranoid we were, and drove off back to his house.
We returned home to find the familiar black car out front once again. I glanced at John, who shrugged. "I rarely know why he's here until he tells me," he told me. I followed John inside and we found Cecil in the living room chair with Sassy on his lap. John glared at the traitorous feline, who smirked back and whipped its tail at h
im. "Do I need to set up a room for your comfort, Uncle?" John asked Cecil.
Cecil lowered the magazine he'd been reading and revealed his smile. "As much as I appreciate the kind offer I much prefer my own apartment in the middle of the city. It's much more private."
John gave him a disbelieving glance. "How is that more private?"
Cecil tossed down the magazine he'd been reading, and it was the one that showed my car and my picture. "It appears your relationship is progressing quite well, at least according to the magazines."
I grabbed the magazine and scowled at the byline name. It was Andy's real name. "That jerk is going to use everything I told him in his trashy articles," I grumbled.
"And other things you didn't tell him if he has holes to fill," Cecil quipped. "This Mr. Parks is known for his flamboyant imagination. He's no doubt hoping this will garner him a great deal of attention at the Reporter's Dinner in a week's time."
I threw up my arms. "Great, I'll be the talk of the dinner," I replied.
"With your disguise there will be fewer talk and few of these articles to worry about," John comforted me.
"Disguise?" Cecil wondered.
"The theater department rigged me up a wig and showed me how to put on makeup so I could hide myself," I explained to him.
Cecil chuckled. "That's certainly going to great lengths for privacy, but shouldn't you put the rumors to rest by proving them right or wrong?"
John scowled. "What rumors?"
Cecil tapped the front of another magazine that wondered whether there was a future with a diamond ring or a broken heart. "Whether or not you are a couple. Surely just a little interview or-"
"Absolutely not," John bluntly refused. "We will not be put under the microscope for the entertainment of mass readership, nor will I put such pressure on Angel to make the decision regarding our relationship."
That last bit surprised me, and I whipped my head over to him. "Really?" I asked him.
He turned to me with an unwavering gaze. "Yes. I won't have anyone else pressuring you to accept or reject my advances." I rolled my eyes. He'd made an exception for himself about trying to convince me to marry him.
Cecil smirked and stood, disturbing Sassy from his lap. "Very well. I won't make the suggestion again, but even a wonderful disguise won't last forever." He swept out of the room and we heard his car drive down the driveway.