Фиона Гибсон – The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018 (страница 13)

She blinks at our array of eye shadows, looking quite baffled. ‘Anyway, I’m thinking that make-up is somewhat necessary for such an occasion. It’s just expected, isn’t it, that one looks … polished these days? Could you give me some advice on that?’

‘I’d be delighted to,’ I say. ‘I’m Lorrie, by the way …’

‘Gilda.’

‘Don’t worry, Gilda, I won’t do anything outlandish. Neutrals are best when you want to look professional. So, I’ll start with our new primer …’

A small frown. ‘I have no idea what primers do.’

‘They just form a smooth base for make-up,’ I explain, ‘and contain tiny light-reflecting particles—’

‘I don’t want to look like a mirrorball!’

‘Oh, you won’t, because when I apply base over that …’

‘So base goes over the … what’s it called again?’

‘Primer.’

Gilda chuckles. ‘The base coat …’

‘Well, sort of …’

‘Like I’m a roughcast wall.’

I laugh, because she really is astoundingly beautiful and I don’t think she’s even aware of the fact.

She sits bolt upright as I apply a light cream base, and seems to be paying rapt attention as I talk her through the make-up. ‘I’m using this neutral beige over your lids,’ I explain, ‘and some darker brown close to your lashes and along the socket line – this gives an impression of depth …’

‘Not too much, please,’ she murmurs.

‘No, I promise it’s not a lot. Just a smudge of liner and some brown mascara, it’s much softer than black …’ I add blusher and a subtle brownish-rose lipstick. Although it is a full face of make-up, the effect is subtly enhancing.

‘So what do you think?’

Gilda swivels towards the mirror. ‘Oh!’ She regards herself for a moment.

Hell, she’s horrified.

‘Well, I have to say …’ She peers more closely. ‘Yes, I actually like it. Gosh, that’s a surprise. It did feel like an awful lot of stuff you were putting on …’

I exhale with relief. Although I always care, it seemed especially important that Gilda – a lipstick first-timer – was happy with my handiwork. ‘It probably did, if you’re not used to it …’

She hops down off the stool. ‘And I couldn’t be doing with all that every day, good lord no …’

‘No, of course not. But for a special occasion – for your presentation …’

‘Yes, quite. You know, I think I might have a go myself.’ She smiles. ‘I’ll take them, please.’

That’s a bonus. I didn’t expect a sale. ‘Which products were you thinking of? Here’s everything I’ve used today …’

I lay out the make-up on the counter, which she peruses carefully.

‘Oh, I’ll take the lot, darling. You’re very talented, I can’t quite believe how, well …’ She pauses and checks her reflection again. ‘… How damn good I look!’

‘You look wonderful. I’m so glad you’re happy.’

I ring through her purchases and watch her stride away.

‘God, she was gorgeous,’ exclaims Helena, who’s just returned from her break. ‘I’d love to be like that when I’m her age. It gives me hope. And wasn’t she pleased! Isn’t that a great feeling?’

‘It is,’ I say truthfully, because that’s what I love most about my job: seeing a woman light up with pleasure after I’ve applied her make-up. We get to know our customers a little, too, albeit for the short time they’re perched on our stools. We hear about new relationships, break-ups, difficult mothers, career triumphs and disasters – the whole range of life’s dramas. Making up someone’s face is such an intimate thing. Often, a woman opens up, more than you’d ever imagine.

‘You’re definitely coming out tonight, aren’t you?’ Helena adds.

‘Yes, of course. Looking forward to it …’ It’s Helena’s birthday today – her thirty-sixth – reminding me that I’m by far the oldest team member here. As one customer put it, ‘It’s nice to get advice from someone who understands mature skin.’ Ouch. She was right, though, and even our younger customers – barely twenty, some of them – seem to enjoy my rather motherly approach. I reassure myself of this on rare occasions when I panic about being put out to pasture.

At lunchtime, having picked up a sandwich, I install myself on a bench in the nearby tree-lined square and check my phone. Antoine has messaged again.

Hope you don’t mind me getting in touch, Lorrie. I knew it was you right away. You have hardly changed at all.

Oh, please – flatterer. Yet I can’t help smiling.

Where are you? Still in Yorkshire?

I take a fortifying bite of my sandwich and type:

Hi Antoine,

Lovely to hear from you. It was quite a surprise, I have to say. I’m in London – I’ve lived here pretty much all my adult life actually. East London, Bethnal Green. I live with my two teenagers and our lodger, Stu. Life’s really good. How about you? Where are you living these days?

I’m poised, waiting for a reply; I can see he’s online with his little green light on. There’s a burst of laughter from a group of young women all stretched out on the grass. Despite the cool breeze, their skirts are hoiked up to maximise tanning potential.

Life is good thank you, he replies. I live in Nice – very different from that sleepy place I grew up in, where nothing ever happened! Do you remember it? I have very happy memories of my time with you. :)

Hmm. So he likes a smiley emoticon. Could it be interpreted as flirty, or would that be a wink? I’m not au fait with the language of commas and dots. Another message appears:

I have two teenagers too, Nicolas and Elodie.

Lovely names, I reply.

Thank you, of course I think so! And yours?

I have Cameron, who’s seventeen – everyone apart from his grandma calls him Cam – and Amy, she’s fifteen. She spends every spare moment at basketball training. Cam loves music and wants to be a sound engineer – or at least he thinks so. It’s all rather vague at the moment.

They sound like great kids. Mine live with their mother in Paris so it’s a long way. But we see each other when we can. They are fifteen and thirteen and growing up fast. It’s hard to believe we were just teenagers ourselves when we met that summer! Do you remember?

Does he actually think I have no memory at all?

Yes, of course I remember, I reply, then add a smiley :)

Amy would be appalled. I’ve glimpsed her texts – they are littered with emoticons – but she reckons there’s a cut-off age (twenty) for their usage.

Having finished my sandwich now, I’m starting to feel slightly ridiculous, sitting here on tenterhooks for another message. I can virtually hear Stu, carping into my ear: ‘Your pupils are massive and you’re all flushed! Jesus, Lorrie, look at the state of you …’

Amazing wasn’t it? Antoine types. The best time!

Wow – that’s a bit … suggestive. Fragments of his long-ago correspondence – the spidery handwriting with its distinctly French-looking loops and curls – flutter into my mind as I get up and drop my sandwich wrapper into a nearby bin. I’ll never forget you, he wrote in his letters back then. I’ll always love you, my beautiful Lorrie.

I stop at the corner of the street. Five minutes left of my break. I type a message, feeling emboldened now.

Can I just ask what’s made you get in touch with me now, after all this time?

Hell, why not? I want to know what he wants, and I’ve been far too reserved lately. Take the date with Ralph. What possessed me to just sit there, being pleasant, while he told me I was clearly very fond of my cake? Why didn’t I say, ‘Actually, that’s incredibly rude of you and, while we’re at it, I really couldn’t give a toss about what Thomas Trotter is trying to “say” with his caged Brillo pads’?

I hover, staring at my phone like a fixated teenager. Perhaps Cecily was right, and Antoine is newly single and working his way through the list of all the women who’ve been in any way significant to him. Who would I have, if I was playing that game? Without David, there is literally no one. There have been others, of course – a few forgettables before I met him, then more recently Pete Parkin from the electricals department at work, with whom I had a brief thing about three years ago, until he left to take up a deputy manager’s position at Holland and Barrett. But he’d hardly feature on any list; in fact, I suspected we’d only got together because we were both lonely and ended up chatting at a work leaving do. We had absolutely nothing in common, and the sex, which happened just a handful of times – accompanied by the shrill squawks of his parrot in the living room – was a rather dismal affair.

I moved a few months ago, Antoine replies. I’m still sorting through papers and photos, trying to throw things away. Do you find it hard to let go of things?

Oh, yes. Our loft is stuffed with boxes and bags containing David’s possessions. His books, paperwork, numerous shirts with frayed collars that he refused to throw away: they’re all there, waiting for decisions to be made about their destiny.

Once, I got as far as packing up a dozen or so shirts for charity. I was halfway to the shop when I glimpsed a faded blue one poking out of the bag – the one David always took on holiday and threw on over a T-shirt when the beach turned cool. I pulled it out of the bag and briefly buried my face in it, certain I could smell his sun-warmed skin and not caring whether passers-by thought I was crazy. Then I hurried home and bundled the bag of shirts back into the loft.