Face

by Brighton, Bridget

  “So-” Cliff begins, and up comes his face. “Put a scarf on it Dad.”

  “There you go kids! I’ll leave you to it then.” Forest says.

  He bends to place two steaming mugs on the back step and the skin on his face slides, like fried eggs off a plate. We both pretend not to hear the wink in his voice. He chooses the armchair nearest the door, facing away. Like his orientation conveys privacy. Now my exit is double-blocked, both parents; this is your basic nightmare. Cliff and I start to rise in unison, but he’s faster, so I stand all formally to receive my tea like an award. It’s a relief to grasp some sort of prop. I take sips to look busy, each one burns.

  “Dad’s trying to encourage me to take my scarf off for you, giving me this drink.” Cliff says. “I don’t drink tea in front of guests.”

  Forest looms in close with a plate of biscuits and I almost drop the tea in my lap.

  “Tempted to gobble these up myself, I’ll just take a couple.”

  I stare hard at the garden, determined to find a feature. The lawn stubble only serves to remind me of the shock of Cliff’s naked head. I accept a biscuit that I can’t eat, I’m creasing up. Like that face that won’t go away.

  “Did you know,” Forest begins cheerfully, “Ultiface try to steal my son from me every year? This boy, this irreplaceable boy.” He moves behind my chair, seeming to address Cliff. “Free Enhancements for life, it’s the same offer every time.”

  “I’m like, son of C.O.F to them, or something. An ideal target.” Cliff mutters.

  “I tell him: your face is not for sale!” Forest booms.

  His hand violently slices the air, a gesture meant to frame Cliff’s face. I look to Cliff for help, but Forest moves into my visual field, a heaving mass of expression. I can’t keep up with the creases, lines, folds everywhere, flesh like curtains. Scaffolding so deep it contains its own shadows. I wish he’d stop talking so that I could get a proper look, and try to figure out from his face what he wants, what he’s like.

  “You’ve got a touch of the Original about you True...”

  An awful expression wedges on my face, that won’t release.

  “It’s Maverick.” Cliff says quickly. Forest is not listening.

  “I’ve offered to be the new face of Ultiface,” he continues. “Ultiface: Just Leave Yourself Alone, I’d call it. Special one-off edition! I told them they could even start out charging £24.99, see how long it took people to catch on. Flaws being all the rage these days.”

  Laughter seems to be required; I force two syllables. Without the endless stream of words, he’d look worn out, ready for recycling. No wonder he can’t stop. Now his eyes are doing something, I try to stick a label on it, but the expression sinks beneath sagging brows. Help me, Cliff; how do we make him lose interest in us? Cliff stares out across the lawn; I guess we have to wait for him to talk himself out.

  “The Legend of Disappearing Dave...” I blurt, and accidently expand our time together. “...Was that C.O.F?”

  Forest’s face implodes. Laughter lines, is that what they’re called? His eyes are all but gone. Does it hurt to laugh like that? Should I take over to encourage him to stop?

  “You remember Disappearing Dave? He was our first big campaign.”

  “Everyone knows Dave.” Cliff adds in a monotone.

  Disappearing Dave was always on when I was a kid, and controversial; nobody had ever dared to suggest a problem with perfection before.

  “Dave went viral of course, got us masses of hits on the site. In fact, ‘The Legend’ himself is eighteen years old this week. Happy Coming of Age Dave!” Forest swings a toast and slops some steaming tea on the lawn.

  “It started the insult, Marilyn, didn’t it?” I say.

  “C.O.F can certainly take credit for that.” Forest’s voice is now projecting to the moon. “People looked a lot more same-y when you two were born.”

  “Dave forced Ultiface to get clever.” Cliff adds.

  “They had to launch the anti-bland,” Forest takes over, “designers began pillaging faces from history, Enhancements got a whole lot more varied and more subtle. Even my own wife saw fit to advise me that they’d won!”

  I glance towards the house in alarm, but there’s no sign of her.

  “But mark my words, we’re coming full circle!” Forest’s voice builds. “Imperfection is creeping back in, and it can only end one way: Original. Back to where we’re meant to be. The beautiful irony is, True, that Ultiface are propelling the change with their very own products! So we sit back and wait.”

  Forest hooks his hairy fingers behind his head and leans back into the air- to wait, I guess. The C.O.F sermon appears complete. (Does every passing guest get the extended version, I wonder. Or did I get lucky?)

  “I’m the walking banner these days.” Cliff mutters.

  Some emotion jolts over Forest’s face before he lumbers back inside. Cliff watches the surface of his mug of tea. His brows are lowered, his eyes a stubborn grey. Plain grey, no tricks- and no great revelation either.

  “So why do you wear the scarf?” I ask in the garden of overwhelming silence. It feels as if I can ask literally anything now.

  “For a lovely holiday from all the staring.” Cliff laughs like clattering knives. “Livin’ the C.O.F cause 24/7. It’s long hours, y’know? Dedicated stuff.”

  His grey eyes flit about. I like anger. I turn onto my side. Cliff cradles his mug. The steam is gone but he makes no move to drink it.

  I catch a female voice, swooping under the adamant tones of Cliff’s dad. It’s distant enough to know they have retired perhaps, to the kitchen. I tune in to her voice as it rises, and rises again. I can’t be sure, but I think she’s telling him to leave us alone.

  “Mum hates the scarf. She always told me it’s all about how you use your face to communicate, how you make others feel?” Cliff says. “I mean, I can do a lot more with it than a newborn. Originals have time to grow into their faces, or something.”

  “Oh, totally. It’s the same with Updates. You get two to three days of tight skin, of getting to recognise your reflection again. Smile Blockers take some serious work. As I may have demonstrated today...”

  “I meant- I think Mum meant- over a lifetime?”

  “You’ve got to find your face.”

  Cliff turns onto his side, so that we are facing each other.

  “Have you found your face yet, True?”

  “Oh, um, I don’t know... what do you think? Is it me?”

  I look at him and my face dents.

  “I think...that... your face is going to entertain a lot of people.”

  “Entertain? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Suddenly I am not at all sure of the meaning of those still grey eyes. A light breeze flips the edge of Cliff’s scarf. But it’s a smart fabric, a disguise. I’d need a hurricane for a hint at the contours of his face.

  Cliff gets more entertainment from me than expected when I scramble to my feet and trip over the leg of his sun lounger and go flying and Cliff’s body tightens in expectation of physical contact. Luckily I am able to restrain myself.

  I grit my teeth in my entertaining Maverick face, and leave through their living room, past the kitchen and Forest’s broad back, straight through to the hall where I get my fingers on the cold metal of the front door handle. I don’t know if Cliff’s Mum is watching but I’m desperate to avoid another face-to-face, information overload. Forest bellows goodbye when I’m crossing the road and I raise a hand to the shadows in the window. He’s pretty cheerful for an extremist.

  Chapter Twenty

  Seven is late and that’s totally fine, it’s normal, I get the tickets, she pays me back with a touch of her cash card against mine and we go in, arm in arm. We’re at the front because we hate the seats that drop and make the kids shriek over the top of Rex Rayne’s best lines. We also hate noisy snacks; no one holds popcorn in our vicinity. When Detective Rex Rayne joins us, sleeping attractively in a tight white t-sh
irt in the dawn light, Seven smuggles me the look, green flecks still warm. The reply on my face is easy; it’s blissful not to have to constantly monitor myself. She sits perfectly poised, her face awash with artificial light from the screen.

  For the first time it occurs to ask myself: in going Maverick, what have I lost? Seven’s SexyFace feature smile is a weapon of self-defence. School rumour is, you get away with more, charm-disarming authority. But it only works if you get the eyes to match in the vital moment. This is easy for Seven; a Smile Blocker like mine needs to stay away from trouble. She turns and her face still works, she gives me that rush of warm familiarity. I barely need to look at her to feel it. Only my face entertains. Like some kind of joke.

  First touch of our green buttons.

  “Good choice,” Rex gets that creeping smile. “I’m going in.”

  He emerges toned and glistening from the pool to enter the house, on the tail of the woman with a gun. Seconds later he re-emerges at a sprint, pursued by the same four women, guns blazing, and I’m invited into his swimming pool all over again because their legs are scissoring over our heads. Last time this happened, Cliff had just loosened his scarf to eat popcorn. Seven elbows me in the ribs.

  “Bet it’s her” she whispers.

  I shake my head extra slow- there’s an increased need for mime over the raging gunfire. The shooter on the far left, the one with a glint of humour in her eyes, the one you start to warm to- she’s not The One, after all.

  Rex utters some cringingly bad dialogue, Seven responds with a mocking laugh. Usually I would stick up for Dollar under my breath- he didn’t write the script after all- but he doesn’t need me. The wrong woman is disappearing fast across the powder-blond sand out the back of Rex’s beach house, and heading for a speed boat which contains three threatening men. The wrong woman offers Rex a lingering over-the-shoulder glance. These kinds of decisions usually get Rex into trouble.

  “What d’ya think? Do I follow her?” Rex asks us.

  There’s a frantic rattle, the sound of True’s manicured nails against the green button because True wants her money’s worth, and so do I. Rex gives us his look, like, really? As if we’re all crazy. The green button has delivered the right result; he won’t be incurring the wrath of Seven. (She has been known to shout at Rex.)

  “I hope you know what you’re doing” Rex says. “My plane leaves in ten. You know I’ve gotta get to the airport, right?”

  Rex wades into the impossibly perfect shallows. (The shirt remains in place- for now.) The speedboat revs a taunt and skims away, leaving Rex Rayne stranded in its wake. Seven tuts, despite the fact that technically, we are to blame for his humiliation. But hang on, all is not lost: here comes the scuba diver, a shapely figure in a wet suit emerging from the darker depths. Rex shades his expectant eyes against the white sun. The diver (whose name will shortly turn out to be Rose) rises to her feet and reaches for her mask. You’ve got to get the face exactly right, to share the big screen with Dollar. A first impression to compete.

  She unmasks.

  “She’s The One.” I say carefully into Seven’s ear.

  Almost two hours in and I am proved right: Rex Rayne is loved up, renting out to Rose the besotted face I prefer to consider is reserved for me. Their body language is all the usual claustrophobic stuff; Rex is delivering his lines to her like he’s become aware of his lips, their impact. Something of this process reminds me of Mum and I fumble in the dark for my phone. Switch it on.

  Thoughts of Mum make me nearly miss the important bit. Rose maintains a searching kind of eye contact with us; this is the turning point, these eyes are a sign of the twist to come. It’s like she’s become aware of Rex’s back-up team and she’s sizing us up, issuing a silent challenge; will we see through her, before it’s too late? Poor Rex has been fooled by a face. Her deception seems so obvious when you’ve already seen how this ends... Bad Rose scrambles out of the window (again) with the package under one arm. We’ve got to get Rex to the airport. I attack the green button, it’s our last chance.

  Tragically we fail to help Rex dismantle the bomb and ten minutes later the plane goes down, along with the whole back row of the cinema. Bad Rose screams her final scream. The plane lands in a familiar fireball and the cinema fills with smoke. (Rex we understand to be immortal.) Seven applauds the final explosion. She always prefers the clear-cut endings.

  “You and your bad decisions.” Rex growls, mesmerizing as ever against a halo of flames. Cliff said that line exactly right.

  Seven turns to me after Rex’s parting hook has been replaced by credits.

  “So how did you know Rose was The One?”

  “Oh...I just...I must have read it somewhere.”

  I busy myself with skim-reading a new text from Mum. Seven places the palm of her hand over my lower face.

  “Don’t do that freaky Blocker thing! You’re scaring me.”

  I peel her hand away and raise my voice over the frantic whirr of the extractor fans.

  “Mum’s in labour! I’ve gotta go.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The front door bounces back in my face and I get my hand out just in time to avoid a smack. I ease it open and crane my neck around to check the blockage. It’s Mum’s hospital bag, bulging with newborn nappies and Mum is walking strange circles in the kitchen. One elbow is jutting and it strikes a corner as she passes. She stops cursing on spotting me, leans heavily on the worktop.

  “Today’s the day.” she says. “I’ve been trying to get through to you.”

  “Sorry-I was at the cinema I had my phone turned off.”

  Today is the first day I forgot about Mum. Blame Rex Rayne.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I’ll get Belle.” I say

  Belle lives next door. This is the part of the plan that involves me: fetch Belle fast. I’m vital in the early stages and I was out. I turn to flee the scene.

  “Wait. I’ve spoken to Dad.” Mum rolls her eyes to the ceiling, draws a nasal breath, making me wait for the punch line: “He is on his way over.”

  The superhero flying in to save the day at the last possible minute! After which he presumably exits the scene in glory, to return to his lair. Why would she choose Dad over Belle, over me?

  Mum lets me time the contractions, which helps, I stop thinking up questions I can’t answer or ask right now. The first two are three minutes twenty seven seconds apart. Three minutes fifty-one seconds. Three minutes forty five seconds.

  “What does that mean? Shouldn’t they be getting quicker? Can I get Belle now?”

  “Keep going.”

  Three minutes and...Mum makes a low moaning sound. A dinosaur has entered the kitchen.

  “I missed one!”

  “Get a pen, we’ll write them down.”

  Old Mum has made a reappearance in the nick of time. We don’t need Dad. I hope she chucks him out for the actual birth. I scribble digits like a medical professional and then I notice the stepladder in the corner.

  “Tell me you haven’t been climbing ladders today, Mum.”

  “I was only going to unlock the back wall of the study, elongate it to use..” Mum expels air, “... as a playroom. Move it back to how it was when you were small.”

  Her words are a bit of a slap. She asked me to move that wall ages ago.

  “That ladder is my lucky charm. I was planning to test my balance on the first rung, and that’s when I got the first twinge. I never actually left the ground.”

  “I’ll do it when you’re at the hospital, promise.”

  Mum smiles as if I made the most generous offer in the world. As if I’m the perfect daughter.

  “I’m going to ask Dad to do it on another day.”

  Mum purses her lips, her new lips, I hope they help somehow. Her cheeks flush.

  “Do you want a glass of water?”

  Dad told me to offer her drinks. Downing several glasses now might make up for it, my forgetting. My fe
et have carried me closer to Mum, and we stand facing each other over the hot and cold taps. Two dirty breakfast bowls and half a dozen mugs stand between us.

  “No water.” she says

  Mum is wincing now, and I can feel my whole middle section tighten, no joke. The closer I follow her face, the greater the transfer. I never was meant to accompany her to the hospital, but neither was Dad.

  “Is it really hurting a lot?”

  “Tell me about your day until Dad comes.”

  “I went to the cinema to see Rex Rayne: The One...” Mum’s mouth is twisting into a smile that isn’t, so I continue in a single breath. “We made his plane crash at the end it was hilarious he gave us all a warning, you know how he does: you and your bad decisions. He fell in love with this woman- I won’t tell you which one she is in case you go.”

  I ache for her to ask me who I went with, not today but yesterday, so I can hold something back from her, revenge. Evil thoughts, tuck them away for later.

  “Poor old Rex Rayne always falls for the wrong woman.” Mum says.

  I walk around the worktop and startle Mum by trying to hold her hand.

  “Do you want me to come to the hospital? Cancel Dad?”

  It was one of our usual discussions that meandered off and powered down, the unsaid overshadowing the actual words. Mum wanted a home birth but one look at my twisting face and she gave up on that. All the blood and gore, I mean, why not get somebody else to mop it up? One of us had to be practical. Mum said labour can go on for a whole day, or more, and things might be said that she’d regret later, on account of the discomfort. So I never made it, even in theory, into the car bound for the hospital. Let alone the part with all the blood and gore. Seven says giving birth squeezes out all the poo along with the baby, and if that’s true, I would definitely want Mum to be given the option of letting it all go somewhere private. Mum takes her hand back. We stand closer than we have done for months, bump to belly. It is only me who is frightened.