Page 6

Probably not.

“Close,” I say, gesturing to her eyes.

She complies, though her lips keep moving as she prattles on. I brush on some eyeshadow, blending throughout, the colour accenting her skin just as I knew it would.

My phone rings, and I pause what I’m doing to fish it out of my bag.

Mother.

My gut twists as I remember why I’d chosen to drink too much wine last night. Feeling suddenly nauseous, I silence my phone and toss it back into my bag.

“Everything okay?” the woman asks.

“Yep. Close.” I gesture at her eyes again, and she does as she’s told. I apply a dark brown eyeliner to her lids, giving hera “makeup-less look” while still getting her eyes to pop for the camera.

“Good, because I was just thinking about how, two years ago, oh my god, it was the funniest thing, the reindeer they brought on set...”

“I gotta do your lips now, hun,” I interrupt, though I have to admit, my interest has been piqued.

She sets her lips in a relaxed, half-open pout, her throat bobbing just so. She has beautiful, full, bow-shaped lips, and I know exactly what to do with them. It takes me a few moments to apply dusty rose lipstick to her. She sits still, evidently well-practised from her time working on set.

“Okay, open,” I tell her, then turn her to the mirror.

She gasps so loud it makes me jump.

“Oh... my...lanta!Girl, you’re amazing. Look at my eyes!”

I begin threading my fingers through her hair. Where is Jimmie? I still don’t know what he wants me to do with this, although it would be a shame to straighten these natural curls.

The woman is still flattering me with all sorts of remarks, which I ignore, while I flag down the lead makeup artist—Simon Jimmie, who goes by his last name after his great-great-grandfather. Jimmie’s russet skin is accented with bold makeup, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. His long black hair is tied back in a ponytail, and his plain sage button-up shirt is contrasted by a colourful beaded necklace. I’d FaceTimed him once before during the interview process, but my phone screen didn’t do him justice.

Despite being a small man, Jimmie carries the aura of a person twice his size. Jimmie’s worked with Samuel L. Jackson and the late Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and learning from him is the only thing that makes this job worthwhile. Hopefully he’ll give me a good reference so I can further my career in the industry—and by further, I mean get me far, far awayfrom this holly jolly hell hole. Jimmie spots me and approaches, clipboard in hand.

“Hey, Jimmie, for her hair, do you want me to—”

“No, no, no,” he cuts me off. “This is all wrong.”

I look back at my work. She looks stunning. “What?”

“First of all, you’re late.”

“I’m sorry, it won’t—”

“First ones on set, last ones off. Understood?”

I nod.

“We don’t need you to stay today since it’s just blocking and promotional shots, but tomorrow and every day after you’ll be here the full day.”

“No problem,” I say, even though my stomach is curdling.

“Now, for your work.” Jimmie purses his hand as if he’s Italian and gestures at me. “She stands out way too much. The script makes it obvious, she has to blendinto the background. We can’t have her eyes popping like that, it’s distracting.”

“Oh... sorry?” I say, not quite sure what he expected.

“Youdidread the script, didn’t you?” Though Jimmie is small, he is fierce, and I find myself shrinking under his intense gaze.

“I haven’t got around to it yet, but...”