MAKE ME UP

A NEW JOB

I’ve pressed the intercom four times now, and there’s still no answer. I’m sure someone is watching me through the security cameras, and having a good laugh at my expense. BTC (British Transmission Co-operation) is one of the largest broadcasting networks on TV, and I had landed a job doing the make-up for three of the most popular interview shows. I’m happy that I have decided to set off early, because waiting for the barrier to rise has eaten into my head start this morning.

“How can I help you?” Came a voice through the speaker.

“It’s my first day, I’m a new make-up artist.” I replied, and with no further comment, the barrier lifted.

Finally, I manage to find a space that hasn’t been claimed by one of the celebrities, and race into the building with only two minutes to spare.

Chaos.

The set-up is a nightmare. People are rushing all over, presenters that I recognised from TV are having make-up blotted onto their skin as they walk onto the set. Backstage bedlam comes to mind, and all I want to do is get some systems into place, but knowing that might rub a few people up the wrong way, I curb my impulses.

A man wearing a suit, but with the knot of his tie already pulled down to his chest, greets me with a grunt. His lanyard says set manager.

“You’re the new make-up artist?”

I simply nod.

“Come this way and pick your station, we can arrange your security clearance when things calm down after the Carrie Chitham show has aired. Big interview today. It’s all hands to the mass.” He joked, clearly not seeing my frown that is caused by the lack of safety measures in place. After all, I could be anyone.

“It’s quiet now, because the next show won’t need to be prepared for another twenty minutes, so the stars will be in their stage rooms. Pick where you want to work for the day”.

The stations are almost as bad as the corridors. Liquid foundation is splattered on every surface, some is even on the chairs. The plethora of mark-up artists essentials have been scattered across the table tops, and many pallets of eye shadows and blushers are cracked from being thrown down with force. The other artists seem in no hurry to clean up, they are mainly gossiping, but I can’t hear what it’s about, and I can’t summon enough interest to ask. Picking the station at the furthest end of the room, I thanked the man, who still hadn’t introduced himself, and began to prepare my work area for the day. Seven make-up wipes, and a good coverage of Vanish ‘remove all stains’ cleaner, and I am now satisfied that at least my area is hygienic, if still a little more cluttered than I would like. Tabloids are strewn on the stool, and I pick them up to make space.

“REJECTED ON THE RED CARPET”

“LINKED WITH LINC”

“MY HELL RIDE WITH HUXLEY”

Glancing over the stories, in case I was asked anything about them, I couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the outrageous impossibilities of each article. My outburst soon caught the attention of the other women.

“Lincoln Huxley, treats women terribly. He thinks, because he’s a film star, he can do whatever he wants. I don’t see what’s so funny.” A pinched-faced, pouting woman criticises me.

“He seems like superman to me. If he managed to make it to the Venice Film Festival, a charitable cause in London, and a motorcycle club in California to dump three different girls all on the same night. He must have flown, breaking the heart of each of them with his superpowers. These stories are vague at best. That’s the problem with being a celebrity, people make up versions of you that are complete supposition.” I concluded.

Scarily, I could see the cogs turning in her brain like a clock with limited battery life, slowly slotting what I had said into place. Understanding that there is no comeback to logic, she turns on her uncomfortable looking heals, and joins her group of gaggling gossips.

“I’m such a people person” I mutter under my breath, but in truth I have no interest in making friends with people like them.

Methodically, I open the top box of my caddy, and stand up the products I know I will be using the most today. Every single item here was designed by me. The collection is the first of the two things I am proud of in my life, the second being my four by six inch flat, which is the first place I have ever lived by myself. Turning around, I jump, and hit my elbow on the tabletop, when I see someone sitting on the chair. No. It’s not someone. It’s Lincoln blooming Huxley.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you there”. I quickly amend.

“I’m sorry to have startled you”. He answers in his soothing, high-end London accent.

“May I begin?” I ask politely, and he looks at me with surprise, before giving a brief nod.

Tucking the cape into his collar to prevent any make-up staining his clothes, I see his shirt has the Huntsman label stitched into the back. It’s a designer, made to measure, tailors on Savile Row that is rumoured to be favoured by the royal family. Although I’m confident I won’t make any mistakes, I double-check he’s fully covered before I begin. Diligently, I select the foundation shade that I think will be the best match for him, and then add a darker pigment to it, to account for the bright lights in the studio that will reflect off his skin, and make him look pale. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, but I’m lost in my work, and pay little attention to his curious eyes. Eventually, he finishes his evaluation and asks his first question.

“Your accent isn’t from London, where are you from?” He asks, sounding interested.

“The North” I answer, broadly.

“The North is a big place”. He comments, hinting that he wants more detail.

“Not if you’ve lived there”. I reply, evasively.

Picking up on my unwillingness to answer honestly, he stops his questioning and smiles instead as if I have said something funny. I guess this is something I will have to get used to if I’m working with celebrities: either being totally ignored or being expected to give a brief autobiography every time someone plonks their arse in my chair. I’d prefer the former to be honest.

“You are all done, Mr Huxley”. I announce when I finally return my make-up brushes to their holder.

He inspects himself in the mirror, but seems shocked by his reflection.

“Usually, I feel like I’ve had my foundation skimmed across my face by the hands of an apprentice plaster, but this feels really weightless. I hardly feel like I’m wearing it at all”. He commented, still scrutinising the final version of himself.

“It’s my own brand of make-up. One of its USP features is the barely there effect, so I’m glad you noticed. It’s kind to the skin as well, so it shouldn’t become compacted in your pores when you take it off”. I explain, as if I’m trying to get him to invest in a make-up company that I don’t have.

Smiling, he reaches over to collect his suit jacket, he looks extremely formal, but I suppose it’s the perfect outfit for when you have to defend your moral character on a TV show watched by twenty-three million people.

“I heard what you said to your…colleagues. Thank-you for defending me, it’s not something I often hear, and it was refreshing for a change”. The actor, graciously acknowledged.

“It was an obvious observation, Mr Huxley. No need to thank me for taking the time to read something carefully”. I reply.

“It’s just Lincoln, and I’ll still thank-you for not buying into the hysteria”.

Having run out of words, I smile and shake his hand. He leans over to the tabletop, and picks up one of my business cards. Unusually, I feel both nervous and excited by our sudden proximity. He is undeniably handsome, and he smells incredible. Those feelings need to be suppressed. Although I know it will most likely be in his recycling by the end of the night, I can’t help but feel thankful that he has taken one, and I envision being called to do the make-up for the Oscars, after being recommended by movie star Lincoln Huxley. A girl can dream, right?

When he leaves, I notice that the other women are staring at me so intensely that I think they are trying to laser me into a pile of ash. Not that I care, someone had just complimented my make-up, therefore no-one would be raining on my parade today.