‘Faye, you’re beautiful,’ I whisper in your ear. ‘You’re beautiful to me whatever happens. Try not to care so much.’
‘Try not to care so much.’
What are you talking about? Modelling is my life. My vocation. Of course I care so much. You are looking at me with condescension. As if my job is not real to you. What is the matter, Phillip? You never used to be like this.
I am on the way to the photoshoot; butterflies in my stomach. It is over a year since I’ve had an opportunity like this. At least, Phillip, despite beginning to bristle with disapproval these days when I talk about my job, you are being as helpful as usual; I suspect out of a sense of duty. You have taken Tamsin to school today and organised a place for Georgia in your workplace crèche. A new crèche experience for her. You have always been helpful but I used to think it was because you were as passionate about my work as I am. That is not true now. What will happen if you find out about Jonah? But you will never find out about Jonah. I will never admit the truth.
I push my worry about both you and Jonah away as I park my car. The trick is to develop a male brain, compartmentalise, I tell myself as I step outside to admire the vista of Bushy Park. Such a cold October day, almost no one else here. Grey sky, and grass so damp it looks as if it’s decomposing. I gaze across the park towards the make-up tent, by the woods, where we will do the filming, and see mist floating through the bare trees. The conditions will have an eerie effect on the photoshoot.
I walk along a muddy path towards the tent, wrapping my faux-fur jacket around my shoulders, and balancing on the tips of my new designer boots in an attempt not to damage them. Two men are standing outside it, drinking takeaway coffee, pointing at the trees beyond, nodding. They turn around as I approach.
‘Natasha?’ the one without a camera around his neck asks.
‘Faye.’
He consults the piece of paper he is holding.
‘Sorry,’ he says as he stretches his hand towards me. We shake. ‘Tim Turnbull, at your service.’
‘And I’m Pop – the man with the camera,’ his colleague says as he touches me lightly on the shoulder and pecks me on both cheeks.
‘Pop?’ I ask.
‘Yes, my friends call me that sarcastically because I look so young.’
I laugh, but my laughter sounds frail. I flash him my best smile. The one I practise a lot.
‘Well,’ says Tim-the-Director, gesticulating towards the tent, ‘do step inside to start make-up.’
I follow his instructions to find a young girl sitting at a plastic table sorting through a bag of lipsticks. She stands up as soon as I enter.
‘I’m Daisy. Super excited to meet you.’
Super excited. Dressed in black. Not wearing any make-up herself.
‘Do sit down and we’ll get cracking. I’ll need to remove all your own make-up first. I like to start with a blank canvas.’ There is a pause. ‘Try to relax.’
She wraps me in a black plastic gown and stretches a hairband across my forehead to pull all the hair from my face. I try to relax. But I cannot. Thinking about my body positions. My pout. Daisy rubs cream all over my face, with rough fingers. Then she rummages through a large leather holdall and pulls out a pot of foundation.
‘Bamboo beige,’ she announces, slapping her hands on her apron. ‘Perfect.’
Slapping on layer after layer of bamboo beige. This seems to be taking for ever, but my head has been pushed so far back I can’t reach to look at my watch.
‘Where did you train?’ I ask to pass the time.
‘The London School of Make-Up.’
‘Was it fun?’
‘Yes but please don’t talk – you need to relax your muscles so that I can deal with the crevices in your face.’
Crevices? My insides tighten. I didn’t know I had any. Age again. She doesn’t need to be smug about it. It will happen to her one day. She continues to massage and pummel. Foundation applied, now she attacks my face with brushes. A peculiar sensation runs across my eyebrows. My eyelids are being scraped by a knife. ‘Eyeshadow,’ she informs me. Just as I am not sure how much longer I can cope with this, she chirrups, ‘Nearly finished!’
Finally, finally after administering eyeliner and mascara, she brandishes a mirror in front of me.
‘There,’ she announces. ‘What do you think?’
‘Good,’ I reply. ‘But a bit heavy.’
My words hang in the air between us.
‘At your age it needs to be thick.’
Age. Age. Age.
‘I’m thirty-four years old,’ I snap.
Ignoring this information, she hands me a bag containing my outfit for the day.
‘I’ll step outside, give you space to get changed. Wait till we get to the woods to put the shoes on.’
She leaves. I unzip the bag and pull out a dress like gossamer. Soft grey silk, almost see-through, with matching underwear, and shoes with razor-blade heels that look as if they are made of candyfloss. I brace myself. Now I know why the make-up is so heavy. It’s necessary to disguise hypothermia.
I put on the underwear, pull the dress over my head, and fuss over its arrangement in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the tent. At least I’ll be able to keep my jacket and boots on until we reach the woods. I fling my jacket across my shoulders, stuffing my candyfloss shoes deep into its pockets. Time for my grand exit from the tent. I step outside and shout across to Daisy, Pop and Mike, who are huddled together sharing a roll-up with the heady scent of cannabis. They do not hear me.
‘Ready when you are,’ I announce more loudly this time.
Pop turns around. He sees me and waves. He throws the joint to the ground and stamps on it to stub it out.
‘Let’s go,’ he instructs. ‘Daisy, get the ice cream.’
Ice cream. I shiver inside. I’d forgotten about that. She disappears back into the tent and steps out with an icebox I hadn’t noticed earlier. We walk along the path to the woods. I have to tread carefully along the muddy path because of my boots and the length of my dress, so I am soon trailing behind the other three, who are striding out in their sensible clothes, well ahead of me.
Eventually, I catch up with them. They are smoking again. Cigarettes this time. I hold on to Daisy for balance whilst I pull off my boots, and slip the ridiculous candyfloss shoes onto my feet. They are not really shoes, just decoration. I pull off my jacket and hand it to Daisy. The cold air slices into me like a knife. The photoshoot starts. The wind picks up.
‘That’s nice,’ Pop says. ‘It makes your hair look fantastic.’
I try to smile as he instructs, through chattering teeth. I run through the trees – as much as you can wearing candyfloss.