Lilah Wild

Beef Wellington, thought Candace.

Her stiletto heels clacked along the Boulevard sidewalk as she rehearsed the night ahead: her dining room table, surrounded by a small corps of investors, hostessing duties played to perfection. Beef Wellington was not on her menu, but the image wouldn’t leave her alone. Filet mignon baked in pastry, ludicrously extravagant and so hard to get right...it was an intentionally difficult dish from her mother’s generation, picked to show the boss just how well a rising star’s wife could cook, a challenge that proved a family’s smooth fit with corporate culture. Taste this pâté. Crunch through this puff. Know that we are the right kind of people, we deserve to ascend.

What an old-fashioned display, what an adorably vintage way to show your worth, she snorted to herself—kitchen skills, ha!—as she opened the double glass doors to Jolique.

She was immediately assaulted by loud, sugary pop beats and the florals of a hundred perfumes, the signature sensory overload of the cosmetics megastore, packed with its signature crowds. Everywhere, the hot pursuit of beauty was underway. Aisle after aisle offered an excess of bright colors, quick solutions, irresistibly cute little packages. Shoppers paused before shelves of the latest products, their arms swatched in slashes of lipstick, their feet choking any hope of smooth passage. Guaranteed promises glittered like grails in a maze. So many, many grails.

Candace was here for the purchase of transformation. Nobody expected her cooking to be great, not anymore, when the best culinary skill one could flaunt was the choice of a highly elite caterer. No. The demands were different now. The language of good taste, expressed through her tastes in couture, certainly. The discipline of yoga, tightly sheathed by that couture. The self-control of dieting, a hard one, as a stomach growl punched through her willpower and demanded more than just the glass of grapefruit juice she’d had for breakfast. There had always been appearances to aspire to, she'd known that ever since her mother had pushed her onto the social stage and commanded her to climb. The appearances had merely evolved since the time of the decadent little meat cakes. Her manicure, her living-room sofa, so many choices would be judged during cocktail hour, all the details that told if you belonged. Jolique's array of seemingly infinite choices made her head swim; she needed someone to lead her past all the potential pitfalls and make her face up into the night's dazzling centerpiece. It was the last errand on her list, before the mad dash home to dress up, set the scene, and welcome her guests with a fearless smile.

The staff were outfitted in their smart Jolique lab-coats, canvases of tailored black that showed off each employee's specialty: liquid liner winging up towards an arched, powdered brow in a perfect cat's eye, lipstick applied in a gradient red-to-black fade like the edge of a rose. Toolbelts of brushes rode low along their waists, fluffy brushes peeking from their tiny holsters. They were salespeople, but salespeople steeped in glamour. Their immaculately drawn faces demonstrated their power. Their knowledge would whisk her straight to what she needed, and Candace had no time to waste among the idly browsing hordes.

Most of the artists were trapped in clusters of customer questions, and the free ones were quickly accosted. She tried to catch the orchid gaze of a professional bombshell, but was passed by for a trio of shrieking teenagers. Another walked by with firehouse lips, who did a quick admiring sweep of the eyes to Candace's trinity of shoes, bag, and hair, but kept going. Normally Candace couldn't make it five feet past the entrance without an artist swooping down on her. Today, well, it was a madhouse in here. She'd ascend to the realms of skincare and perfume, and probably have better luck finding someone. She passed by the cattle chute of the register, couldn't help but glance at the overpriced impulse purchases, and climbed the stairs to the mezzanine.

A security guard clad in the store's same fashionable black nodded at her as he monitored the chaos below, but it wasn't much better up here. She tried to make her way past a display of moisturizers, but the route was blocked by a bridal party. She turned around, and maneuvered through mists of fragrance, coughing as she pushed her way through the jagged terrain of other customers' handbags, mesh shopping baskets, and oblivious elbows. Cuts of tenderloin, Candace hungrily snarled to herself, look at us, dressing ourselves up in truffles, splashing ourselves with wine, too many delicacies crammed into the chic glass candybox of Jolique.

Another artist walked past her, heading straight for the bridesmaids. A tiny knot of failure began to coalesce beneath Candace's powerhouse emblems, the brand-name armor not shining through enough. A diamond flash of attitude blasted it apart. She had spent a lot of money in Jolique, qualified for their little VIP gifts countless times over, and it was obvious she was here to spend much more. Why weren't the salespeople fighting to wait on her? They were artists, yes, but retail was retail, and their first job was to serve the customer. She looked around for a manager, but everyone was in black, no way to tell a higher-up from an associate, a flattering shade from a terrible one, it could get so confusing in here—

“How many faces do you have?”

Candace spun around. A nymph in a Jolique uniform smiled at her. A blonde bob framed her glowing face and her eyeshadow blazed orange, matched perfectly to her lips. It was like being beamed at by a benevolent little sun.

Candace was about to protest. No, no, I want to be waited on by somebody normal, but the artist was analyzing her bone structure, bathing her in a haze of sweet chatter, guiding her over to the one vanity that was not taken up by other customers. Personal attention, finally. Candace exhaled, as she sat down on the makeover stool.

Atop the vanity, more tools of the trade: alcohol to sanitize, makeup remover to erase, a platter of wands and sponges and bits of foam on sticks to conjure gorgeous illusions. A box of tissues stood by, awaiting mishaps and rejections. Candace faced the mirror, large and round and ringed in lights, and presented the blank parchment of her face, ready for the artist’s calligraphy of color and shadow.

“…such beautiful skin. You are so lucky, really. There are so many people who come in here, they have cystic acne, or flushing, or they’re prone to breaking out all the time. They’re coming in to cover themselves up, they want concealer, they don’t get to have the fun of colors, you know? It’s like they don’t get to have faces at all. I’m Serena, by the way…”

Serena's hands danced around the table in a nimble ballet, readying brushes and swabs and cotton pads for the ritual. She pulled a square silver box from a pocket over her heart, and set it down in the center of this momentary altar. Candace had meant to ask for a tasteful palette of neutrals, the most appropriate yet fashionably on-point colors for business, but she found herself melting beneath the heat lamp of Serena's undivided attention. The noise, the crowds, the blasts of shrill floral scents, all receded behind her cheerful voice.

“But you, you could go swimming, and get out of that pool without a care in the world. You could wear anything…”

And before Candace knew it, one of her eyelids had been turned blue. Not what she wanted at all. At all. And yet…the sharp word rising in her throat was stilled by genuine curiosity, as she gazed into the lighted mirror. Blue eyeshadow was another relic from her mother’s heyday, notoriously difficult to pull off with any dignity, an eternal joke of the fashion industry. But the way her eyes were peering through the hue of silvered skies, veiled through a cool shimmer, it looked…good.

“…this is called Moonlit Mermaid. It’s really great for those night looks, you know? And normally I wouldn’t pair it with something so dramatic for your mouth, but your features, ohhh, you are just so blessed. I have to see if I can make it work on you. It’s called Vermilion Vampire…”

The shimmering blue and deep matte red should have battled against each other. Violently. They should have left Candace looking like a clown. Theatrical colors way, way beyond the workday, shades she had never considered for herself, ever…

Where was this strange harmony coming from? The palette itself, the challenging hues emerging one by one from the little silver box? The gentle yet clever hand that miraculously knew how to wield them? Fingers muscled from countless tutorials, cosmetics fortified with carefully researched ingredients, this was a rare individual whose mind and body were rich with study, Candace sensed. Someone whose every choice, no matter how tiny, held some degree of consideration behind it: someone she would love to work with, a perfect hire. The certainty with which Serena painted was amplified by the sleek silver rings on her fingers, arcane symbols of angles and lightning bolts, quirks of uniqueness. And her voice wove a comforting cocoon around the vanity, a tapestry of soothing words that walled off the frenzy of Jolique. She understood well the importance of all the little details.

“…we definitely can’t do rouge, that's too much for even me to pull off, but I do want to give you an overall glow. This is called Fire Faerie…”

A thick plump fluff glided across Candace's cheeks, leaving behind a golden powder. The brushes honed in on her features like soft lasers, reached down past all the expectations and demands and appropriate beige blazers, and found the shapes of her shadows with ease. A salesgirl’s hands zipping up the back of a business-casual dress, a manicurist's fingers cradling her still-wet French-tipped nails, moments of closeness abounded in the business of beauty. But makeovers seemed the most intimate of all: a bare face, a fingertip steady against a trusting cheekbone, the smallest of caresses as one person made another look better. Serena's tangerine eyes studied Candace like a work of art as she measured, blended, evened out. The regard, so different from the respectful distance that professionalism mandated in her day-to-day life, was intoxicating.

“Here. You can see yourself closer.” Serena presented Candace with a hand mirror.

She looked beyond merely beautiful. She looked astonishing.

It was like some advanced technology in duochrome shades, the kind where your skin was pink at one angle, green when you moved an inch. Candace was the mermaid, cool and collected within the tempest of an overwhelming workday. But then she was the vampire, irresistible, sinking sharp sweet teeth into the wallets of willing clients. And then the faerie, laughing through it all, relishing the summer bonfire of midnight oil. She was something else, every time she turned her head. What would have been cartoonish on another face worked in perfect synchronicity on hers. A conjunction of facets that seemed brand-new to her, but a puzzle that had been waiting inside her all along, that might have been completed years ago—if only she'd encountered Serena's talent then! No top-shelf props, no luxury totems, the miracle was animated by nothing more than the raw stuff right in her skin, blooming with all her drive and determination, shining up from her freshly astounded soul.

Maybe this was how she should present herself tonight, this strange but intriguing Candace-creature, defying expectations, maybe show off some memorable quirks of her own in front of the investors. Not just a producer of results, but a personality. A luminary.

Serena picked up a spray bottle, a fixative mist to keep the colors from sliding away, and smiled down on her creation.

A ringtone interrupted from Candace's bag.

She looked down and rummaged around for her phone. It was essential to her career that she looked good, in all ways, and that included being ready at all times. Even if it meant a deference to someone else's desires instead of her own. Even if it meant being horribly rude to a retail worker waiting on her. Even if it meant being leashed to her phone, instead of living in the moment.

She had her thumb on the answer button when she glanced up at Serena.

The artist had frozen, the bottle paused in her hand. Her smile was gone. Her sunny eyes had gone somber, silently imploring Candace not to answer.

Her thumb slid into position almost by pure reflex, so conditioned to the summons, her eyes crinkling apology and her voice chirping Hello.

All the colors immediately dropped a degree of luminosity.

A different Candace started to surface as she spoke to the voice at the other end of the line. The expression she wore when aggravated took over, a bad-twin flipside that revealed little conduits of displeasure etched into her skin. She had taken herself away from the gift, and every word to the person who was not here, not in this present place of metamorphosis, shattered the glamour further.

She saw Serena gathering up her tools, putting the colors back into the box, and concluded her call quickly.

“I'm so sorry. Where were we? I'd definitely like to take the kit.”

Serena paused, and gazed down at Candace, and smiled sadly.

“I almost got you there. I was so close.”

Candace looked back down at the mirror, and gasped. This secondary face was showing through the paint, the façade unravelling its patchwork. Mermaid blue, meant as a calming force against the frustrations of her career, was now the skin of a blood-hungry shark that would never, ever know a moment of rest. Vampire red, a charm to conquer the tension of every meeting with charisma and wit, had become a slash of dried blood around the mouth of a hyena, driving every friend away. Faerie gold, innocence, the wonder of play, the reason for all this work in the first place... the metallic scales of a predatory snake, forever unsated. Her companion animals had turned on her.

She threw down the mirror.

“What the hell is this—”

But the artist had vanished.

Candace scanned the crowds for that blonde bob, but all she saw were other shoppers getting their faces painted, or squeezing plumes of perfume onto wrists. The heat lamp had gone out, and she'd been left by herself.

She glanced at the large round mirror, and stared hard at this other face she'd unwittingly been carving into her features. The azure and crimson and bronze, so lovely just moments ago, sat atop her skin like sparkling smudges. The prestigious logos of her outfit began to clash wildly with each other, heels versus bag, without her confidence to hold them together. Her reflection presented the unappetizing costume of trying too hard, and she had to be knitted back together again. She needed Serena, now.

Candace jumped up and startled the artist at the next vanity, who'd been demonstrating mascara to a septuagenarian with a stunning map of laugh lines. Brushes fell from his hands.

“Hey! What are you—” Violet-shaded eyes shot daggers at Candace, and then visibly recoiled.

“Where did Serena go? The girl who was just working on me?”

“I've never seen that girl before in my life,” he said, picking his tools up from the floor. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“But she had on a uniform!”

“Ask a manager. I’m really busy right now.” He turned his back on her, and stepped further away, putting as much distance as he could between them. The woman in his chair stared openly at Candace. Heads swivelled in her direction as her face colored with heat. They could all see. Through the cracking cake, down to the furious meat.

Someone took her arm. She looked up into the stern face of a security guard and was led out of the crowds, over to the window.

“We can’t have you disrupting the other customers,” he said, toneless, almost bored, until he got a look at her face.

“I need to speak to Serena, she works here!”

The guard’s features creased with slight revulsion as he shook his head. “Serena? There's nobody here by that name.”

She broke away from the painful scrutiny of his gaze and glanced down at the sidewalk, and caught sight of a blonde bob, silver-ringed hands wadding up a Jolique lab-coat and tossing it into a trash can.

“There!” She pointed down at the intersection. The traffic light changed, and the orange face proceeded to cross the street within a swarm of people. “That’s Serena! The blonde!”

The guard looked down, and let out a sigh. “I don't see any of our people down there. I'm sorry, ma'am. You should go home and lie down.”

Candace's breath came quicker, as the horror dawned on her.

“Get me a manager!”

“All right, I'll say it less nice: you're being asked to leave.”

“What the—you know I can sue you for this, right? I can sue you for letting in an imposter, not vetting your people, don’t you throw me out—”

Her panic was cut short by the ringing of her phone. She fished it out of her handbag and glanced at the name. And the time. Oh, shit.

In her right hand, the future, the dinner clock had counted all the way down and one of the guests was calling her, wanting to know where she was. To the left, the advancing forms of two more security guards were coming for her. Throughout, a storm of noxious cologne made its way through the mezzanine.

Caught between righteous consumer anger and career showtime, scared out of her mind, and trying not to gag, Candace felt the trace of Serena's deft fingerprints all over her face. A stranger, not a salesperson at all, but...those orange eyes. They'd seen something in her and plucked her from the crowds for some surreal and breathtaking experiment, hands so enchantingly kind, a dormant trio of selves conjured up within tiny silver bolts of lightning. And better than anyone who worked here for real. Like that famous violinist who'd left the greatest concert stage in the world to busk on the street, just to see who'd stop and notice how well he played, amid the noise and haste...what else had been waiting for Candace within her internal landscape, the oceans and castles and woods and untold other worlds that glimmered behind her skin, wild spirits ready to be summoned by the palette, if only she'd just put down her phone...

Pure fear gave way to the agony of a blown deal. A poor performance before the waiting investors was only one pang in a much deeper loss, now. The mermaid had swum away, and the vampire had flown off.

She raised a hand to touch the glass, and even as the guards reached her, Candace turned her burning eyes towards the Boulevard, frantically searching the crowds for that bright yellow hair. The faerie's gold still splotched her cheeks like the dust of foreign coins, a blessing rescinded, as she ached to be back within that radiant concentration, never so alone as all of her faces softly dissolved.

 

M is for Makeup