MAKE ME UP

SUCCESS AT LAST

I am the world’s worst daughter. September came, and September went, and I avoided the monthly check-in with my parents. When they called, I let them go to voicemail, too mad, at my mother in particular, to try to pretend I wasn’t. October is here, and I’ve finally decided to bite the bullet. It doesn’t ring very long. I wonder if they have been waiting for me to get in touch.

“Hello mum, how are you?” I ask her.

“I’m good dear. Your father retired this week, so I’ve been letting him get on with the list of jobs around the house”.

Silence falls between us, because I’m desperate to ask how many of the ‘jobs’ Tim has helped out with, and she’s desperate to avoid mentioning him at all.

“Let me speak to my girl”. I hear my dad call from a distance, and I’m thankful for the change of speaker.

“Hello, my darling, how are you? Do you have enough money? Do you need anything?” My dad asks me.

“Stop mollycoddling her!” My mum reproves my dad, he simply ignores her, but I can tell he’s put the speaker on.

“Will you be home for Christmas? I have a new gluten-free stuffing recipe that I want to try”. My mum asks, and I can practically see her writing the notes down.

“Bit early to be organising Christmas, isn’t it? I mean the decorations aren’t even out yet?” I tactfully avoid answering the question.

“The decorations are up in our house, dearest. Tim put them up the other day”. My dad tells me, clearly unaware of what caused the argument between my mum and me in the first place.

“I actually don’t think I will be home for Christmas this year,” I tell them, knowing that Tim would show up.

“Why darling?” My dad says, sounding absolutely crest-fallen.

“I can’t trust that you both won’t invite Tim round, and I really don’t want to see him”. I explain, sparing my dad the real details.

“I’ve already invited him, but he said he couldn’t come. He didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable”.

“How big of him”. I mutter sarcastically, a little hurt that she had invited my loathsome ex, before her own daughter. “Tell him it’s no skin of my nose, I have other plans”.

“I’m sure he’d forgive you if you asked him to”. My mum says, and I feel as if I could cry.

“I have not done anything that I would need forgiving for”. I almost whisper, sick of the same conversation.

We talk about telly and books that I have read, before I tell them I have to go. My dad didn’t really say much after I dropped the Christmas sack of bad news on him.

This month’s treat has been a little TV. It’s only slightly bigger than a postcard, but I’m proud that I have been able to buy such a luxury. With the job at the film studio, and the incredible amount of work that I am getting from the drag performing community, and some of the celebrities that Lincoln passed my card on to, this is the first month that I can remember having such a healthy disposable income. One of my new friends, who comes to me for his make-up and to Luis for his outfit, works in marketing by day. While we were talking, he suggested different ways I could advertise my business without using social media. The next day, in thanks for fitting in a last minute appointment for him, he had designed and printed ten thousand posters listing my services. These were now adorning every notice board I could find, not only in residential areas, but also in the clubs that my new friends performed in. October’s diary was completely full, and November looked super busy too. Soon, I’ll have saved enough to get the car fixed.

Mostly, my nights have been taken up by Lincoln. Not in the dirty way, but rather filled with new experiences and opportunities to get to know each other properly. Our second date was at an art museum, after I had casually mentioned how make-up and art had some similar links. He had the curate open the museum after hours, and was waiting for me in the Impressionist era. He certainly did leave an impression, because he slipped his hand around my waist and rested it on my hip, and it stayed there for the entirety of our self-guided tour. Somewhere between the Renaissance and Neoclassicism period, he kissed me slowly, his thumb running along my jaw line and pulling at my lip when we detached. That was the last of our nervous kisses. Date three we started that way, just before he led us onto a boat on the Thames that was set up with a candle lit supper. We shared our dessert off each other’s spoons, and it was the first time I felt like I was in the movies, with my movie star. I sat on his lap as we looked at the sights lit up. We’d explored the shape and feel of each other’s bodies, but we’d stopped at heavy petting. Despite every part of me wanting to be with him, I know I have to tell him about Tim, because he needs to have the chance to reject me if he isn’t comfortable with the hold my past mistakes have on me. Next date, I’ll tell him, even though I’ll cry when he says it’s over.

The ten o’clock texts are as regimented as ever. Some are an update of his life, a picture of his lunch, a house he just sold, a house he’d like us to start a family in. Other times there are long messages begging me to come home, promising he will find me, talking about us being soul mates. Change has happened though. Where I used to fear them and read them immediately, I’ve started to wait. Only for a few minutes, but it’s enough to feel like I’m gradually getting a bit of control back. I think of him checking his phone and becoming frustrated, and somewhere in my musing I came to the conclusion that this is all he had in his life, he’s chasing a past that will never come back, and I’m finally making a life I always dreamed of. At two minutes past ten, I open the message, then put my phone on charge. I know now that I have to figure out a way to get out of his power, because I have someone to fight for now.