MAKE ME UP

LATE NIGHT

Work has been busy this week, but never more so than on the Wednesday morning when the managers were offering overtime with a double pay rate because of an interview happening in the evening. Needless to say, I was the first to offer my services. Strangely, the late night interview had been top secret all day, although the possibilities became more far-fetched as the day went on. Eventually, snippets of the true reason we were all here trickled through to the humble make-up department. Lincoln Huxley’s ex-girlfriend was coming in to do an ‘ask me anything’ interview about her relationship with the international film star, and spill the most intimate details of their time together.

Unreasonably, I know I am jealous, but not because they were a couple. I’m infuriated that they shared private and loving moments together, and rather than hold on to them as precious memories, she’s going to cheapen them by sharing them with the world. I’m jealous because she had beautiful experiences, and she can’t even appreciate them for what they are, a sign of the trust they once had. The betrayal is too much like my own experience. If BTC are trying to keep it secret, it can only be because Lincoln and his team don’t have a clue that this is planned. If I tell him, I could lose my job, but that caution doesn’t stop me from texting him, giving him a warning from a friend, who puts a kiss at the end of her message. Deciding I have done my part, I put my phone in my caddy, and prepare some of the daytime TV stars for their close-ups. As promised, the evening is even busier than the day, and my hand is cramping up from holding the make-up bushes in my hands for so long. Across the room, I can hear my colleague talking to a young woman, who is dishing the dirt on Lincoln, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out she is the ex, but if she doesn’t stop soon, there will be no surprises left to tell the interviewer. Soon, it dawns on me that she is using the other make-up artists to practise what she is going to say, from this I can deduce she is lying. People don’t need to practise telling the truth.

Raised voices fill the hallway, and the artists’ blending comes to a collective pause, so we can seek out the commotion. Executives burst into the make-up room looking perplexed, and head straight to the chair where Lincoln’s ex is sitting.

“Lisa, we need to confirm some details about your story with you. You need to be very honest, because lies could cost us a lot of money, and potential time in prison. Where were you on Christmas Eve last year?” They ask, patiently.

Nervously, she looks around, seeking somewhere private to answers their questions. The irony isn’t lost on me that she is prepared to invade Lincoln’s privacy, but feels embarrassed when she has to wash her own laundry with a far smaller audience.

“Linc and I had a date in November. It was arranged by mutual friends, and then he went on a shoot, and he said he would arrange something when he returned. I didn’t hear anything from him. He was at his home for Christmas Eve, so I went to his place to surprise him. When I got there, he said that he hadn’t invited me, and his family were round. I said it would be a great chance to meet them, but he became defensive and rude, and said that, as far as he was concerned, we’d had a lovely meal, but we weren’t compatible and that our friendship had come to an end”. She answered, as if her behaviour was normal.

“How did you get into the grounds?”

“The security wouldn’t let me in, so I had to climb over the garden fence”. Oblivious to the joint horror her words were causing among the executives.

“Have you ever been intimate with Mr Huxley?” The profusely perspiring producer asked.

“I went to his flat in London early for our date, and he was coming out of the shower with a towel wrapped around him. I made my advances then, but he declined my offer. I just wanted him to be punished for leading me on, so I thought if I told you about his tattoo and made up that we had shared a bed together, he would get what he deserved for how he treated me”.

Everyone was silent at her admission. A few of the executives had their heads in their hands. Delusion and destructiveness were a dangerous mix, but it seems it would be her own downfall today.

“Cancel the interview”. The big wigs call out as they leave the room, looking crestfallen.

Security come to escort Lisa off the premises, and we are all told to pack up.

Contrasting with my normal working conditions, my area looks as if it has been a canvas for some contemporary art exhibition. Unable to leave it in such a state, I clean up the mess and make sure it is pristine for tomorrow. Lost in my task, I realise that I am the last to leave, and even worse, it is five minutes to ten. I reach into my pocket for my phone to await the inevitable text. I realise it isn’t there. I look over the worktop, I drop to my knees to look on the floor, and I look at the bin as if it is a thief and tip out the contents on to the carpet, looking for my phone. It’s gone. Cold sweat drips down my back. The panic is swelling up inside me, and I can feel the pain as a lump forms in my throat. What am I going to do? I won’t be able to read it, and then he will tell them, he will tell everyone. My hands are shaking, and my breathing is laboured. I think I’m having a panic attack, but that is a secondary concern next to finding my phone.

“You have saved the day again. I have just been speaking to the executives and… Christ Gem, are you OK? What’s wrong?” Lincoln Huxley, says from the doorway, rushing forward to kneel in front of me.

“I can’t…find…my phone…” I squeeze out through each laboured breath.

He places one hand on my knee and taps his finger rhythmically like a heartbeat. I focus on only that sensation, and it does calm my breath a little. His other hand fishes out his phone from his jacket pocket and rings my number. The caddy vibrates, I fling the cases open, looking for my mobile phone. It’s ten past ten now.

“I hate starting the day without you, but finishing it without you is ten times worse. Tim XXX”

Then I read the message from the real Tim.

“Read my message, or you’ll regret it. You have to half past”.

I check that both messages are read, and then collapse to the floor exhausted. Slowly, my nerves calm, and I look up into Lincoln’s very concerned face. I’m mortified. Blundering, I pack up and walk out of the door. Everything is muffled. I’m not sure what excuse I give to him as I pack my things away. I don’t know how I’ll ever look him in the face again. My toes curl at the thought of him seeing me so vulnerable. I stuff the last of everything back into the bag and throw a quick ‘night’ in his direction. He nods, torn between wanting to follow me, and knowing he has to let me go.

Home at last, I try to pull my keys out of my bag, but instead I drop them on the floor. It’s such a minor thing, but it doesn’t stop me shouting ‘f**k’ at the top of my voice in sheer frustration. I never heard the door open, but Iona is crouching down next to me, picking up the bunch of keys.

“You look like you’ve had a day from hell. There’s a pizza with your name on it at my place if you want to talk it over”. She offered.

I brush the angry tears from my face, and smile as I take my keys from her.

“Unless it’s gluten-free, I doubt it will have my name on it, but thanks for the offer. I think I just want to put today behind me, and start tomorrow afresh”. I answer, a little upset, because if it hadn’t been for the shittiest day ever, I’d have loved to have taken her up on the offer.

God knows how badly I need a friend right now.

“If you need me, just knock on.” Iona smiles, and I do feel a little better.

Still, when I get inside my flat, I fix the locks in rapid time, and double check them, before I skip supper, and go straight to bed.