MAKE ME UP

WASN’T LIFE EASIER?

Friday is finally here. Racing home, I have to make it to an appointment in my apartment building today. Three floors below me, a group have asked that I fix the make-up for a birthday girl and her friends who are hitting London town tonight to celebrate. I knock on at exactly eight o’clock as agreed. The wine is already flowing, and I can see empty bottles lined up on the kitchen side. After an hour of deliberating on what make-up style they want, and holding up numerous images that are completely different from each other, I finally have two of the friends happy with how they look, and thanking me profusely, apologising for not being ready for me. Worry starts to make me nervous. Ten o’clock is drawing ever nearer, and I know my nightly text will be coming soon. Keeping busy is suppressing the build-up of dread I usually feel, but in the back of my mind I know I need to get through the last two women quickly. The next one is much easier, as she has a clear idea of what she wants. By the time I had finished, her eye make-up was looking ‘striking’, as requested.

It’s now half past nine, and the birthday girl staggers to the bar stool.

“Can I have a smoky look?” She slurs, while slurping.

I smile, and begin, even though she keeps turning her head to talk to her friends, and I have to be mindful not to make her look like a zebra if my black shadow accidentally swipes across my moving target, straight into her hair line. Finally, the foundation is applied. She’s telling me to hurry up, even though I was supposed to finish an hour ago. Lashing the mascara onto her eye, I have to keep reminding her to look up. The last thing I need is for her to smudge it mid-application. It’s five minutes to ten on the kitchen clock, but I hear my phone vibrate. It’s too risky to ignore. What if Tim texted early? Unlikely, he’s a stickler for time. Buzz. It vibrates again, just as I am about to apply the lip gloss. Luckily, she holds up her hand to stop me while she gulps her wine. I take my phone out of my back pocket, and read the messages.

“Wasn’t life easier when we were together? Let me look after you again”.

“You have five minutes to show me you are reading this message, or you know what I’ll have to do.”

.

I make sure that the read sign is on each message, and then I replace my phone in my pocket. I realise that the clock on the kitchen wall is five minutes behind, which seems likely, since punctuality isn’t something these ladies value highly.

Picking up the gloss, I’m shocked to see that the birthday girl’s expression is suddenly angry, but she says nothing. Once I have held the mirror up, she nods, and jumps down from the stool. Naturally, I begin to pack up. Her friends are gushing over how beautiful she looks, and in turn I think about how this is the best part of my job. The confidence that these ladies are leaving the flat with is almost transformative, from the very drunk but slightly nervous women I met when I first arrived to the catwalk models in front of me now. Make-up has made them feel empowered, and when they eventually leave the flat tonight, I hope they are the last ones dancing when the bouncers are shutting the clubs down.

“Here’s your p*****t, it is ten pounds short. You checked your phone, making us late. I thought it was unprofessional, and it left me dissatisfied with your service,” the birthday girl explains, as well as she can, while her drunk tongue fumbles over the syllables.

“Thanks, I really appreciate your feedback”. I respond, but that’s not what I’m really thinking.

Her friends have the decency to look embarrassed, but as I’m pulling my caddy towards the door, one of her friends sees me out, and promises to tell her other friends about her excellent experience. It doesn’t put the ten pounds in my pocket, but I thank her anyway.

The party girls are locking their door, while I’m waiting for the elevator up to my floor. I never usually ill-wish people, but if the birthday girl loses her keys tonight, I won’t be feeling sorry for her.

Warming up some noodles, I think about what Tim asked. Was life easier with him? Absolutely, I was a kept woman, and he ‘fixed’ everything, all the problems I had were simply handled. Was I happier, while he was kindly pulling my independence away? Absolutely not. Even my worse days in London, where I’m told off at work, and robbed of a hard-earned ten pounds, are still better than my life in the Lake District, where I was slowly turning into the world’s most expensive manikin.

I put the money in my pillow case. That makes the total five hundred and forty-five pounds. It should be more, but on occasion I’ve had to dip into my cash in hand savings pot to pay the rent. It had been my intention to save up for a better apartment, but since talking to Lincoln I can’t stop my mind from fixating on giving my dreams one last chance. Admittedly, I still have a lot of saving to do, and therefore a lot of time to think about it.

In my opinion, the best part of the day has arrived when I unclip my bra, and let the torture device fall to the floor, the relief as my breasts drop is the greatest sensation in the world. The inventor of the underwire was clearly a masochist, or simply never tried their own product, and I’m inclined to go with the former option. I rummage through my clothing rail, and put on a very old pair of jogging bottoms, and a tank top. I tip my noodles into a bowl, pour a glass of water for myself, and take some emergency biscuits from the cupboard, which I always have stocked up for the inevitability of needing something sweet at the end of a rubbish day. Taking my snacks, I sit up in my bed and devour it all. It is still a bit of a novelty for me to eat in this way. Tim would always demand that we had a home-cooked meal at the dining room table every night, unless we went to a restaurant. We never had takeaways. The only acceptable bed wear was a négligée, which would always cling to my skin, ride up my legs, and wrap round me like a vicious anaconda, waking me multiple times in the night. In my London life, I break all of Tim’s ‘rules’, and comfort is the outcome of my actions.

Was my life easier with Tim?

No. It was as restrictive as my underwired bra, and as suffocating as the négligée that tried to strangle me each night. I leave the pots on the floor by my bed, deciding to wash them in the morning. Another one of Tim’s expectations to be broken. I find that making my own rule book helps me slip off to sleep, effortlessly.