Early Saturday morning, the make-up artist Siphiwe, a black woman so lean she looked like lines drawn with a calligraphic pen, arrived at the hotel right after breakfast to do Rae’s make-up for Flicka’s church wedding and the reception that night.
They set up in the master bathroom of the Empire Suite. Siphiwe arranged her pots of color and brushes on the caramel marble countertop. She ordered Dieter to bring in a dining room chair, and he obliged without comment. The soaking tub that Rae could see in the mirror behind her should have been described as a squared-off marble pond. The spigot and handles were gold.
The air brush machine whooshed as Siphiwe layered the scented pigments onto Rae’s skin. She felt like she was being encased in marble for display.
When Siphiwe had finished, Rae stared at herself in the mirror, afraid to smile, lest she crack the work of art.
“You don’t like?” growled Siphiwe.
“It’s amazing,” Rae said. She turned her head, and the beautiful woman in the mirror pivoted, too. The glamorous make-up drew up her brown eyes until she seemed mysterious and exotic. Her skin appeared flawless. On Rae’s best days, her very best days and there weren’t many of them, Rae thought that she might rise to girl-next-door pretty, but somehow the woman in the mirror was beautiful. Either that mirror was magic or Siphiwe was. “You’re a miracle-worker.”
Siphiwe packed her potions and brushes. “Good, then.”
“Yes! Thank you!”
“You have good skin. Good bones.” Siphiwe smiled with ivory teeth. “Don’t cry at wedding. Mascara will run.”
Rae caught a glimpse of Wulf walking through the hallway outside. He glanced in and saw her in the mirror, and his eyes lit up. He seemed like he was about to say something, but he must have thought better of it because he walked on.