Heartless (6 page)

A
ce

“
W
ho are you
?” I stand in the doorway of my dressing room Wednesday morning, half-regretting my decision to agree to co-host Smack Talk for the rest of the week.

A woman with wavy lavender hair fastens a belt around her waist and gives me a bright smile. “I’m Topaz. I’ll be doing your makeup today.”

“Where’s Aidy?”

She lifts a brow. “Aidy filled in for me yesterday. She won’t be back.”

Topaz points to the chair that centers the room. “Let’s get started. Stacia’ll be in here soon, and you’re live in thirty.”

All last night I thought about texting Aidy, asking her how she knew what the crazy woman with the journal was wearing and expecting her full confession. I wanted to know how she knew who I was, if she followed me to the pizza pub, and if she knew I was co-hosting Smack Talk and somehow arranged to cover for her friend.

“She won’t be back?” I ask as she fastens a smock around me, wanting absolute clarification. I have her number, and I suppose I could text her and ask her to meet me, but I was assuming I’d see her in person today, and I didn’t want to make things any more awkward than necessary.

Topaz presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Nope. Did you need to get a hold of her for something?”

“I have her number.”

She blends foundation into my skin and then sweeps a bushy brush across my forehead, her mouth spreading wide. “You do, do you?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You sure?” Her voice trails upward.

Next, she dusts powder across and under my nose, and I fight every urge to sneeze.

“Positive,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“Whatever you say.” Topaz turns, her back toward me, and digs around in her makeup case.

“Sorry I’m late.” Stacia rushes through the door, depositing a bag near my feet. Crouching down, she unzips it and pulls out a brush and a handful of products. “Michael decided he needed a haircut today before filming, so . . . whatever Michael wants, Michael gets.”

Topaz chuffs. “He’s the reason we’re here, so we can’t really complain.”

Stacia doesn’t smile. “Had I known he wanted a haircut, I’d have come twenty minutes early today. The man’s got my number. You think it’s too much to ask him to actually use it for something other than . . .”

She stops, her gaze flicking from Topaz to me and back.

“I’m sorry,” Stacia says, cheeks glowing red. “This is inappropriate.”

I look away. “Don’t mind me.”

“You done here?” Stacia says to Topaz as she points at me.

Topaz looks me over, her chin pointing forward. “Yeah. I’m done.”

It takes all of five minutes for Stacia to finesse my hair into shape, and by the time she’s finished, Blake is waiting, clipboard in hand, to take me to the set.

I pull my phone out of my pocket to silence it as we walk, and for a moment, I think about sending Aidy a text filled with questions.

“You ready?” Michelle greets me on the other side of the swinging doors, and then she hooks her arm into mine. “Silence that, will you?”

A
idy

I
press
the buzzer to apartment 3C in an old post-war building on the Upper East Side Wednesday evening. I’m fifteen minutes early, but if I’m lucky, my client won’t mind.

“Hello?” A voice comes through the speaker.

“Hi, I’m Aidy with Glam2Go. Here for your appointment,” I say, leaning in.

“I’ll buzz you.”

The speaker goes dead and the door buzzes. Heading in, I climb three flights of stairs. The hallways are narrow and painted in a depressing shade of gray, but the carpet looks fresh. Rounding the corner, I spot her door on the left. Pausing a moment, I rap lightly.

The door swings open almost immediately, and a barefaced woman in her mid-forties stands before me, dressed in a cherry blossom-covered robe. She pats at her face and smooths her dark blonde hair behind her ear.

“You’re early,” she says, a bit of a chuckle in her tone.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you’re fine. Come on in. I’ve got a spot at the table for us.” She holds the door open and motions toward the kitchen table. “It’s right by the window. I thought you might want natural light.”

“It’s perfect.”

“I’m Helena,” she says. Her hand slides down the lapel of her robe, and the more I study her face, the more it seems to make her nervous.

In my mind, I’m mentally choosing colors and deciphering how best to accentuate her beautiful green eyes and high cheekbones.

“Can you do anything about this?” She laughs nervously and points to her nose. It’s large with a bump down the middle and definitely not something easily hidden. It anchors her entire face, though she’s still a very attractive woman.

I smile and nod. As a woman, I know first-hand how we all have our hangups. Some of us tend to fixate on things we wish we could fix, things that make us feel less-than. Some of us forever obsess over things men in our lives have deemed as flaws.

“Helena, can I just say that I think you’re absolutely stunning.” I mean it. One hundred percent. I hope, twenty years from now, to look half as beautiful as she does.

Her expression softens and her brows lift. Helena’s shoulders relax ever so slightly and she sinks down in her kitchen chair. When her eyes lock into mine, her cheeks turn a light shade of pink.

“You’re so sweet,” she says. “But I still want you to focus on this monstrosity.”

She points at her nose once more, and I move her hand away.

“I’m going to focus on those beautiful emerald eyes of yours,” I say with a smile. “And those to-die-for cheekbones. And your skin. It’s flawless. I don’t see a single wrinkle anywhere.”

Helena smiles, her eyes glassing over. “Nobody’s ever said those things to me.”

I frown, hoisting my makeup case on her table and grabbing colors. “I find that extremely hard to believe.”

“My ex,” she says, “Harold, he always used to tell me I should get a nose job. But I’m terrified of surgery. I don’t like going under. And I’m afraid I’m going to be one of those women, you know, those plastic-looking ones you see in L.A.? They think they look great but really they look like freaks.”

“You made the right choice, Helena. For sure.”

“He was always pointing it out,” she says, “saying it needed its own zip code.”

I make a disgusting noise in the back of my throat. “That’s terrible. Did you put him in his place? Please tell me you did.”

“Sure did,” she says, sitting up tall. “I divorced his sorry ass.”

I hold my palm up, suggesting a high-five, and she meets it with a hard smack.

“But now, here I am.” She sighs, staring straight ahead into her kitchen. Her apartment is modest, and I’m guessing it’s a one-bedroom. There’s not a lot of color or any photos or personalized decorations that suggest this is more than a furnished, temporary rental. “Trying to get back out there again.”

“Have you been dating much?” I color-match her skin tone to one of my sheer foundations and squirt a blob on the back of my hand. She doesn’t need much, just a few places to even out her complexion.

“Oh, honey, no,” she says. “I hear it’s rough out there. Not for the faint of heart.”

“You heard correct.” I roll my eyes. “I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from dating this last year. Focusing on my business instead.”

“Good for you.” I feel her watching me, studying, and her lips quiver like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should. “Can I just say something?”

“Of course.” I grab a pot of cream blush in a shade of dusty rose and snap it open.

“I never had a daughter,” she says. “Or any kids for that matter. So I feel compelled to pass along a few words of wisdom, if I may.”

“By all means.” I pat the blush on top of the apples of her cheeks, leaving room for some highlight and contour above and below.

“Don’t stay married to your job too long,” she says. “One of these days you’re going to wake up and you might be lonely, and you’ve squandered the best years of your life away for the one thing that can never love you back.”

I nod, focusing on the curve of her cheekbone as she talks.

“I mean, Harold has his faults, but I wasn’t perfect either,” she says. “We loved each other like hell. The first twenty years were fire and ice and magic, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. In the end, we just weren’t meant to last. We got mean, you know? That’s when you know it’s time to hang it up and go home.”

I’m not sure what to say. I’ve had clients who like to vent, and they like to project, or they see part of themselves in me and that makes them open up to a complete stranger more than they normally would.

“Anyway, I look at you and I see this light in your eyes that you only have for so long,” she says. “You’re young and beautiful and smart and nice. I’d hate for you to spend the next twenty years married to work when you could be fighting and screwing some hot piece of ass. Believe me, when the work loses its flavor, and some day it will, you’re going to wish you had some hot and spicy memories to keep you warm at night. Everyone needs someone who makes their blood boil and their panties melt.”

I laugh.

“God,” she sighs. “Believe it or not, Harold used to be something wonderful to look at. And then he got bald. And fat. And mean. But at least I have the memories, right?”

“So who’s your hot date tonight?” I switch gears, consulting my eyeshadow palette. They’re mostly taupes and browns, but they’ll make for a killer smoky eye and bring out those emerald greens of hers.

She smiles with her eyes and tries to tame her excitement. “His name is Brad, and he’s an accountant. A CPA actually.”

“Very nice. How’d you meet?”

“We haven’t actually met yet,” she says. “We’ve been texting through this dating app. It’s weird to me, but it seems to be the way everyone meets these days. Anyway, we’re meeting for dinner at this Italian place in Little Italy. Starting with dinner and going from there.”

“Do you have anyone to call you partway through? You know, if the date is going bad, you can say you have an emergency and have to bail?”

She looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “Do people actually do that?”

My jaw falls. “Um, yes. I do it for my friends all the time.”

“And their dates fall for it?”

I shrug. “It’s not like it matters. They’re not getting a second date.”

Helena laughs. “That’s kind of sad.”

“Then they should be better dates.” I move to her eyebrows, which appear to be slightly overplucked and have seen better days. I’m guessing she fell victim to the “Skinny Eyebrow Craze of the Early 2000s.” Fortunately, they make products for that. I grab some brow gel and start filling them in. “So what are you wearing tonight on your hot date?”

Her face lights up. “I splurged. I went to Bergdorfs and spent the kind of money Harold would’ve shat a brick over. Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind sticking around while I try it on? I could use an honest opinion. The saleslady said it looked great, but you know how salespeople are.”

“I’d be happy to.” I finish her makeup and she ducks off to her room, closing the door and telling me she’ll be right out.

When she emerges, she’s dressed in a curve-hugging bandage dress. Her breasts are sky-high and her long legs are freshly waxed and smooth. Her arms are toned, Pilates I’m guessing. I never would’ve guessed Helena was hiding this banging of a body beneath an old ratty robe.

Sliding her hands down the front of her hips, she sucks in a deep breath. “So, Aidy? What do you think?”

My jaw hangs. “Um, you look like a freaking supermodel. Seriously. I could put you on a billboard in Times Square right next to Cindy Crawford and Christy Turlington and no one would think twice.”

She swats her hand at me. “Oh, stop.”

“I mean it. Brad the Accountant is about to have his world rocked, and he’s not even going to know what hit him.”

There’s a full-length mirror in the middle of her hallway, leaning against the wall. She stops before it and examines herself, her expression fading from excitement and morphing into pure, unabashed fear.

In slow-motion real time, I watch as her eyes glass up and thick, mascara-colored tears slide down her perfectly made-up cheeks.

“Helena, Helena,” I take her aside, sliding my hand down her arm. “Stop. Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

She pushes me away, tearing at the dress, trying frantically to get it off. Her creamy skin fills with red blotches and she gasps for air.

“Get it off,” she says, breathless and panicked. “I can’t . . . I can’t do this . . .”

I tug the zipper down her back and escort her into her room, where she lets the dress fall to the floor and reaches desperately for her robe. Covered and hunched over on the side of her bed, she buries her face in her hands.

“What’s going on?” I ask, taking the spot beside her. I rub my hand across the small of her back, which sends her into an immediate state of inconsolable sobbing.

I sit with her, not saying a word, being the surrogate friend she so clearly needs in this moment, and when she finally comes up for air, she turns to me, her face a ruined mess.

“I can’t go out there,” she says. “I can’t look like this and wear this dress and pretend to be someone I’m not and hope that this complete stranger will love me half as much as Harold did.”

Helena sobs into her hands again, her shoulders heaving with each ragged breath.

“Clearly you’re not ready,” I say. “And that’s okay. Don’t feel bad about it. Brad will understand.”

She snorts. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

“You know,” I say, “I’ve lived in this city for five years now, and you know what I’m starting to realize?”

“What’s that?”

“This place is full of people faking it. Everyone’s pretending to have their shit together, but very few actually do,” I say. “You know that saying, fake it ‘til you make it?”

“Yeah.” She reaches toward her nightstand to grab a tissue, and I spot a half dozen wadded up tissues beside the box.

“Can you do that tonight?” I ask. “Can you fake being the confident, beautiful woman I know you are underneath all these tears?”

Helena laughs, sitting up a little straighter. “I don’t know, Aidy.”

She rises, moving to the dresser mirror and dabbing the black streaks on her cheeks.

“I’ve ruined the beautiful makeup job you did,” she says.

“You didn’t need it anyway,” I say with a wink. “But I can do a touch up on the house. Only if you want . . .”

She turns to me, her expression undecided.

“But if I fix your makeup, I’m going to expect you to go on this date,” I say, injecting the kind of tone I’ve seen my sister use on Enzo.

Helena glances back at her reflection, gathering the lapels of her robe in one fist. I watch as she drags in a hard breath and lets it go.

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s do it.”

“Good.” I stand, clapping my hands together. “Let me grab some makeup remover. I’ll be right back.”

Leaving her room, I make a mad dash to my cosmetics case on her kitchen table, rifling through the myriad of products in search of the small and oh-so-necessary bottle of makeup remover I keep on hand.

Gone.

Shit.

I search again, wondering how the hell I’m going to explain to my brand new client that I showed up without all the necessary tools for the job.

An electric wave of panic sears through me until I recall passing a CVS on my way here. It’s just down the street, situated right on the corner.

“Helena?” I call out.

“Yes, Aidy?” She peeks her head out from behind her bedroom door, and I catch a glimpse of her bare shoulder.

Good, she’s getting dressed again.

“I need to run to CVS really quick. I’ll be back in five,” I say. “Or ten. At most. Please tell me you won’t change your mind before I get back.”

Helena nods and gives me a thumbs up before waving me out. I grab my purse, leaving all my products scattered across her kitchen table, and make a mad dash down the hall. Flying down three flights of stairs, I nearly knock over a middle-aged man carrying a bag of groceries.

“Sorry,” I call out, but it’s too late. I’m already outside, feet on the pavement, running in ballet flats toward the brightly lit CVS sign a block away.

Inside, I’m bathed in fluorescent lighting and an overwhelming amount of aisles, but fortunately a smiling face points me toward the makeup section. I grab a bottle of drugstore makeup remover and make a beeline for the checkout line.

It’s a mile long, wrapping all the way to the photo department. I never knew a drugstore could be this busy on a Wednesday night. Sighing, I check the time on my phone. It’s already been six minutes, and it’s going to be at least ten more judging by the length of this line.

Mumbling under my breath, I grip the bottle of makeup remover and sit tight. The line moves ahead, and I’m washed in relief that things might not move so slow after all. Grabbing a magazine from a nearby rack, I flip to the middle to read about the latest Gwen and Gavin drama and fully concur with the rest of America that it’s his loss. I flip through two pages before realizing the line still hasn’t moved. By the time I glance up, I see the light above our checkout lane is flashing and the cashier is paging a manager. A red-faced, scowling patron stands with one hand on her hip and a fist full of coupons in the other.