Falsies (The Makeup Series Book 1)

by Olive East

  “I’m sorry, really I am. I’m just really, really, really nervous.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Which?”

  “Either.”

  I pulled my hair free of the low, messy ponytail it was in and shook it loose. I hadn’t brought any makeup with me because I didn’t think I’d need it, but luckily I had my lashes on, as always, and I thought I looked okay when we left his house.

  I gave him the best smile I could and said, “Let’s go.”

  Brooks gave me a marvelous smile in return, and before I could stop him, he kissed me hard on the lips. Like all of our encounters, the kiss went from sweet to pure steam in a matter of seconds. He plunged his hands into my hair and pulled me mostly out of my seat and on top of him.

  We were crouched down by the side of the car while Brooks’s hands roamed all over me, but I couldn’t forget we had an audience. I broke away.

  “Your family is right there.”

  He kissed me again and tugged at the neckline of my shirt. “Maybe we should meet them the same way we met your mother.”

  I laughed at his little joke but really just wanted to die. Could a veterinarian prescribe something for human anxiety?

  “No.”

  He pulled me up along with him and firmly grasped my hand. As he led me toward the inconspicuous door at the back of the house, I wondered how I was going to impress people I couldn’t confuse by having sex with their son. Before he even reached the handle, the door flew open and a very kindly looking older woman called his name.

  “Oh, Villiam.” A slight accent and her muted blue and red patterned dress suggested she was from another time and place.

  He dropped my hand to embrace the woman as she spoke quietly into his ear. She was short and compact and had the hands of someone who had worked all her life. Though she was older, her hair still held on firmly to its light brown color, and she smelled faintly of fresh baked goods even at my distance. They looked nothing alike, but I didn’t care because I already felt comfortable around her.

  “You haven’t been by for veeks,” she scolded. “Vhere have you been?” I decided her accent was Russian as she turned to seemingly, if not really, notice me for the first time. “I think I know vhere,” she said as she appraised me.

  Her expression was hard to read.

  “Marta, this is Ollie.”

  It wasn’t lost on me that he offered Marta no explanation as to who exactly Ollie was. She muttered something in Russian that I understood even with a language barrier, and my first impression of her vanished.

  I never got anything right.

  “Hi,” was all she eventually offered.

  Brooks picked my hand back up as we entered the kitchen of the lavish home. I studied his face for an indication of what I’d gotten myself into, but he was giving me nothing in return. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at me.

  The small entryway led directly into a particularly expansive kitchen. There was enough space on the almost-white countertops for even the most adventurous chef to test out his skills.

  Our odd trio came to a halt at the wide archway dividing the kitchen from a suffocatingly formal dining room. I vowed to myself right then and there that, even if I was ever invited to, I wouldn’t eat in that dining room. It was entirely possible that no one ever ate in the room of blindingly white chairs and smudge-free glass table top. I wouldn’t.

  “Is Mom home?” Brooks asked, pulling me into the moment and out of my thoughts.

  I shot him a look of complete and absolute horror. Not only was this little visit a surprise to me, it was a surprise to his parents. I attempted to shake my hand free from his, but he caught my fingers and held on to me more firmly.

  If he let me go, I really think I would’ve ran back to the car; I noticed he had left the keys in the ignition.

  “Da,” Marta told him. “Ya poydu.” She took off in the direction of an equally formal gold and white living room.

  “Spasibo,” he told her casually. Like it was common for him to speak Russian and to show up with random girls in his parents’ home.

  I turned on him in an instant. “Why didn’t you tell them we were coming? And since when do you speak Russian?”

  He sighed and rested his free hand on my cheek. “I don’t, just a little. I speak Marta, really. And because I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come and I didn’t want to have to explain your absence.”

  Those words had the ability to soften me instantly. After all the disappointments I’d had in my life, I perfectly understood what he meant, and it pained me to know he wasn’t sure if he could count on me.

  “I can’t believe you are housekeeper-rich.” That got a laugh. He visibly calmed down, the tension leaving his shoulders, and stroked my smiling cheek. “Speak any other languages?”

  “Jag är så kär i dig.” He looked triumphant when he said it and gently pulled my face to his.

  “Swedish? Is that what that was? You speak Swedish too?” Our lips were so close and the sense of peace that fell around us was as real as the house. “Tell me what you said,” I whispered.

  I had a decently good idea of what he said, because I did spend some time in the country, but I wanted to hear it in English.

  He ignored me to close the gap between us. I thought I was in for one earth-shattering kiss until his mother rounded the corner, clearing her throat. He went rigid and dropped his hand from my face as I forced my eyes to look up from the white marble floor.

  “William.” She sounded cheery in a way that I knew she didn’t have to practice at. Unlike Marta, she spotted me instantly and headed for me before saying anything else to Brooks.

  “Hello, darling.” She sounded exactly like Mrs. Howell from Gilligan’s Island. She looked a little like Brooks, with the blue eyes and blond hair; she too was exceptionally tall. She clasped my hand with both of hers. “I’m Mrs. Brooks.”

  She tucked a pale curl that had escaped from the rest of her upswept hair back in place and glanced quickly between Brooks and me. “I’m Ollie.” I tried to sound refined in same way.

  Mrs. Brooks’s attention momentarily left me so she could offer her son her cheek to kiss in double European style. Even though it was only a little after ten o’clock on a Saturday, she wore crisp khaki pants and a white cotton blouse. She was definitely the kind of woman who was presentable at all times.

  “To what do I owe this lovely visit?” She looked and sounded pleased we were there, but somehow I just knew she wasn’t. But that was probably because I was an avid faker myself. And to be fair, maybe she was happy to see her son.

  “I wanted to get the keys to the lot and for you to meet Ollie.” I was happy Brooks finally decided to speak, but what I was really waiting for was for him to tell someone, anyone but me, I was his girlfriend.

  “Ooohhh.” She said it in a long, drawn-out and high-pitched way that sounded extremely happy. “Well, I think your father is the only one who knows where those silly things are. Honey?” she called into the direction she’d just come from. While Brooks’s attention was momentarily behind him, she gave me a look that so clearly said “Why you?” that I almost thought I heard it. “Can you come in here?”

  For a few moments, we stood completely enveloped by awkward tension I wasn’t sure anyone else felt.

  When Mr. Brooks finally came into view, it was like I was looking at my Brooks twenty-some years in the future: same height, same eyes, same strong jaw, and though his hair was graying and shorter, it was identical in texture. He smiled at me instantly, and if he didn’t like what he was looking at, he did a nice show of hiding it.

  “Hello, William.” They clasped hands and I thought I heard a clap of thunder from two gods greeting. “And who is this?” I couldn’t help but notice how similarly he was dressed to his wife. Was there some kind of rich-person dress code?

  “This is Ollie,” he told him. And just as I was about to give up on being given a title, he added, “My girlfriend.”

  Ev
en though Brooks’s dad was shaking my hand, I couldn’t help but gauge his mom’s reaction. Just as I suspected, she didn’t seem thrilled. The look probably only lasted a second, but her mouth turned down and her eyes tightened in a moment of pure panic.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Brooks,” I told him, only kind of meaning it.

  “Doctor,” Brooks modified quietly. I should’ve known.

  “Alan,” Brooks’s dad further corrected. “Please, come sit.”

  He ushered us all into the living room, where I sat as delicately as possible on the posh sofa and Brooks sat a little too closely next to me. Mrs. Brooks—who didn’t tell me to call her by her first name, so I had no idea what it was—ventured off, mumbling something about finding Marta.

  “So.” Alan smiled, sitting across from us in a chair like a throne. “What’s up, guys?” He had one arm casually across the back of the chair and one foot resting on his knee, all while looking so much like his son it was disorienting.

  “I wanted to take Ollie to the lot.”

  Alan’s smile grew to almost megawatt levels. “I should’ve known this wasn’t just a get-to-know-you visit.”

  “Maybe another time.”

  “Well, I can get the keys for you, but you have to stay for at least one drink.” Alan turned to speak to only me in a conspiratorial way. “I’d bet any money Gwendolyn and Marta are making some Bloody Marys.”

  Somehow, I had just known her name was Gwendolyn. I don’t think a likeable Gwendolyn has ever existed.

  A quick glance at Brooks told me he wasn’t excited about the prospect of staying any longer than necessary. I didn’t want to stay, but I didn’t want to be rude either. I cast my eyes down to my hands, which had suddenly turned endlessly interesting.

  “One drink. But we’ll just have water and then we really have to go.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Alan asked with the lift of a blond eyebrow. He was sitting so casually in such a proper room that I wanted to mentally transport the three of us to a restaurant with sawdust on the floor where we could all relax.

  Gwendolyn called Alan into the kitchen then, which led me to wonder why the housekeeper wasn’t enough help. There were two grown-ups, one of whom could probably rival Martha Stuart, living in the house. Who was making the mess?

  I turned to Brooks. “What’s going on?” A bit of a laugh crept into my voice.

  “I’m sorry,” was all he said as he placed his hand on my knee.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, I was dishonest, and I know better than to lie to you.”

  I exhaled, and all the anger from before melted away. As I studied him sitting on his parents’ elegant couch, in their elegant house, in their elegant neighborhood, he seemed out of his element. It was a way I wasn’t used to seeing him, and while his calm confidence had always drawn me to him, I found him so endearing while failing.

  Even someone like Brooks let his parents make him feel like a small child.

  “Don’t be,” I finally had an opportunity to tell him. “You’ve already met my mom.”

  “I know, and I convinced myself that justified bringing you here unannounced, but it doesn’t, it really doesn’t.”

  “Believe me, you could do a lot worse than wanting me to meet your family.”

  “I just had to bring you here, you know, to show you—”

  Alan and Gwendolyn, who I bet never tolerated being called Gwen, reappeared before he could finish his thought. As Alan predicted, she was carrying a silver serving tray with two thick red drinks, each garnished with a celery stick, as well as two tall, clear glasses.

  Mrs. Brooks passed them around before sitting down—actually, it was more like hovering—on the chair next to her husband.

  I took a sip of my drink, trying my best not to spill or slurp. Of course it wasn’t a typical glass of water. It had crushed ice and tasted more like mineral water, but the real kicker was the pieces of vibrant yellow and fresh green lemon and lime floating in it.

  So help me, it was amazing, and Mrs. Brooks’s hawk eyes noticed my reaction to her scrumptious glass of water and that earned me a real, albeit half, smile.

  Brooks became mute again.

  “So, Ollie, tell us about yourself.”

  That’s such an awful, job interview kind of question. All my words vanished as a wave of anxiety washed over me. “What would you like to know?” I smiled and took another sip of the drink, determined to keep a straight face and thankful for the water to have as a distraction.

  “What do you do for a living?” Brooks’s mom asked. She wasn’t messing around.

  I wanted to ask her what she did for a living—or perhaps tell her I was an exotic dancer just for the priceless reaction—but instead I told her the truth.

  “I’m still in art school.” Something I couldn’t distinguish flashed across her face. I wanted to say it was a pleasantly surprised expression, but I couldn’t be sure—that was quite possibly wishful thinking.

  “I don’t want to know about what the girl does, I want to know who she is,” Alan told his wife.

  “Well, don’t you think they’re one and the same?” Gwendolyn quipped back. He extended his hand to rest his palm on her arm.

  “I’m also working on an internship.” I said it because I wanted to sound like I had a lot going on, but I regretted it. These people didn’t have tattoos, but then again neither did I. An internship at a tattoo shop wasn’t going to impress them.

  “Oh.” Gwendolyn seemed impressed. “At one of the galleries downtown? I was just at the Warhol yesterday afternoon.”

  “Sort of.” Why oh why did I open my mouth? The ice in my glass began to rattle.

  “She’s interning at Young and Beautiful,” Brooks said. “It’s the most prominent shop in the entire state, if not the tristate area, has been featured in a few different television specials, and Ollie is extremely talented.”

  I smiled at the affection his voice held. I had no idea he knew that much about the shop, even though I should’ve known he’d do his research, but he was proud to tell his parents.

  “Now that is interesting,” Alan said, taking a swig of his drink and leaning forward. “I’m a big fan of the art form. It is one of the oldest art traditions globally.”

  “It is,” I piped up and sat forward too. “Even Neanderthals were tattooing.”

  “Right. It transcends time.”

  “It’s unifying and beautiful when you think of it in those terms.”

  “Oh, I like her,” Alan told Brooks with a wink that wasn’t tacky at all.

  “Me too, Dad,” Brooks answered. “A lot.” My heart swelled, and I smiled while doing my best to avoid old Gwenny’s stare. “But we really have to be going. Can I have the key?”

  “Of course you can.” Alan stood and so did Brooks. I followed suit. “I’ll just go get it.” He turned like he was on a mission, then stopped and swung back around. “Actually, I keep the keys in my den, which is also where I keep my Philip Pearlstein. Would you like to see it, Ollie?”

  “I’d love to.” I smiled.

  Before he could change his mind or anyone else said a word, I followed Alan out of the room and down the back hall. While carrying my water glass with the same attention I’d pay to a small child, I was racking my brain for information on Philip Pearlstein. In class we discussed all Pittsburgh artists, but I couldn’t remember if he was the guy who did the nudes or the urbanscapes. It was necessary for me to impress Alan. I couldn’t let him out-art me, so I tried to think of anything I could say to sound like I knew everything.

  The trip to the den was much too short to come up with anything significant, but my worry about not being able to tell which artist he was referring to was unnecessary. As soon as I turned into the room, a moderately sized pair of surprisingly perky breasts greeted me. Pearlstein was definitely the artist who paints nudes.

  Lying Female Nude on Purple Drape was a piece I remembered well, because unlike a lot of Pearlstein’s su
bjects, this woman had a rather perfect body. Her pale skin was flawless, and we only got a glimpse of her light brown hair. She wasn’t doing anything provocative, but it was obvious she was a sensual woman.

  “What do you think?” Alan asked as he rested his hip against a dark and polished wooden bookshelf to our right.

  “Wow,” I answered without having to fake it. “There’s a huge difference between seeing art on a screen and in person.”

  “I must admit I love to show this piece off.”

  A quick glance around the room told me he had a lot to show off. The books on the floor-to-ceiling shelf were the leather-bound, gold-writing kind that only older people seemed to know where to get, and various small sculptures and paintings took up all other available space. The floor was a dark wood, a stark contrast from the white everywhere else, with a large ornate rug in the middle of the room. Did I even smell the lingering scent of cigar smoke? That couldn’t possibly be allowed.

  It was all overwhelming. I didn’t know how to act around this kind of dad. My dad hadn’t really collected anything except stamps in his passport, but he appreciated everything, meaning a conversation with him was effortless. With my dad it was so easy. He’s so friendly and so kind and so easygoing.

  Was. I had to remind myself. He was those things. Not anymore. Now he was nothing but a memory.

  Those thoughts made me regret that I hadn’t insisted Brooks come along with us. I had nothing to talk about with the man except the glaringly naked woman hanging on the wall across from us, and all I could think about was how I wished my dad was around to meet Brooks. I’d never experience the thrill and excitement of having my dad meet the man in my life.

  “You should,” I said, flashing him a terrible smile. “She’s stunning.”

  “She is.” Alan came to stand next to me in the middle of the room. “But I’d like her better in the bedroom. She doesn’t quite…fit here.”

  “Really? Granted, I haven’t seen your bedroom, but I think she looks perfect in here.” The painting’s muted color palette was a bit off from the rest of the décor, but I’d bet my last dollar this was the only room Alan was allowed to decorate in his own home.