MAKE ME UP

BRAVE THE BUFFET

The new job is amazing. When I was in college, I completed a unit in theatrical and special effects make-up. It was the least attended course, but I loved seeing the evolution of the character as the prosthetics were put on the actors. Nervous college performing arts students would sit down on my chair, and by the time they left, they would embody that character, even their walk would change as they headed for the stage. At Willow Woods Studio, I go to the actors’ trailers, and feel as if I am part of a process. The room is usually quiet, and I transform the actor’s outside, while they transform their insides. Best of all, my inbox isn’t only full of Tim’s taunts lately. Flirty texts with Lincoln are becoming a common place. I tell myself it’s harmless fun, but I know that’s a lie. Occasionally, I see him walking on set, and my stomach clenches with excitement. There’s nothing harmless in the looks we give each other. Plans are being made with Luis and my social calendar is starting to look busy. My laughing emoji has never been used as frequently.

Half dreaming and half praising my good luck, I hear my phone buzzing on the floor. Scraping my hand across the new rug I recently treated myself to, I feel around for the cold, smooth face of my insistent alarm.

I’m late.

Farcically, I try to put a leg through a pair of leggings, while putting my head through the arm of my sleeve. Despite knowing it was a bad idea, I was home late last night because I earned a little extra money by doing the make-up at a pamper party for a daytime celebrity’s daughter. It had ended by eight, but the venue was quite a distance away from central London. Skipping breakfast, I dashed to my car, and turned on the ignition. Old faithful sounds like a locomotive, chuckling at my efforts as I fail to get the engine to turn over. Determined not to be late, I run to the dreaded underground and ring for help.

“Hey Luis, I need help. How do I get to the studio via the underground?”

“Old Betsy, finally breathed her last,” he deduced, laughing at my plight. “It’s easy, just go to the blue-line, wait for eight stops, then get off, and it’s a five-minute walk from there”. He summarised, before we were disconnected. Victorian engineering did not appreciate the need for phone signal.

Sweating, I just about make it to work on the wrong side of my starting time. Vickram’s tutorial about the effect we will be creating today for all the extras has already started. Keeping my jacket on, I watch carefully as he uses only make-up to make the model seem to age. It is completely counter-intuitive to make someone appear older, make-up usually is needed to create the opposite effect, but I am fascinated by the beauty of it nonetheless.

By lunchtime, the fascination has worn off. Thirty-five extras have traded their baby faces for an older visage, and my stomach has started to protest about missing breakfast. Braving the buffet, I peruse the options hoping that there is a salad I can have that doesn’t contain a dressing, but as my mother says, ‘hope makes fools of us all’. Perplexed, but too hungry to turn away, I ask the server behind the hot plate.

“Excuse me, is there a gluten-free option? I was told one could be provided if I asked for one”. I inquire, and the lady beams at my question.

“We have some in the back. I’ll serve your dish and meet you at the till”. She runs off excitedly.

On my plate is beef in a glossy brown sauce, with pepper and broccoli, and a portion of rice.

“It’s beef in black bean sauce. Made in a separate area of the kitchen to reduce the risk of contamination”.

Call me gullible, more accurately, call me hungry, but I dived into my lunch like I’d been on hunger strike, and take the cheerful woman’s word at face value.

“It looks like you enjoyed that,” Lincoln laughs, and I immediately feel shy. “It’s good, you’ve been working hard all day. You didn’t look in my direction once. It’s a shame because I’ve been meaning to ask you something…are you OK? You don’t look very well”.

I am not OK.

Sharp pains in my stomach distract me from whatever Lincoln was saying, and I immediately realise what had happened. I look at my empty plate in horror, and then at Lincoln.

“You look really pale, are you sick?” Lincoln asks, concerned.

“I have celiac disease. I think there was gluten in this,” I point at the offending plate, backing away from it as if it is about to explode, but that’s silly because the real explosion will be taking place from my rear end any second.

Storming up to the same server, I try to calm my tension, but the sweat dripping down my neck makes it hard.

“Did you use thickener in this recipe?” I ask her.

She nods, not understanding my annoyance, especially since it appears as if my plate has been through the dishwasher already.

“There’s gluten is that,” I explain to her.

“Oh I thought gluten just meant no bread or wheat. Will you be OK?” She asks.

I shrug. What’s the point in making her feel worse?

The pain is excruciating now. I stumble to the bathroom. The wave of nausea makes me feel dizzy, and the sweat is dripping off my face as the stabbing sensation in my stomach increases its pace. I know this is my body trying to protect me, but I really resent it at the moment. When I’m finally given a break, I throw cold water on my face, relishing the relief.

Surprisingly, Lincoln is waiting outside the ladies’ bathroom door. Immediately, I’m embarrassed, he must have heard my retching. I’ve gone from bringing sexy back, to attending her funeral.

“I’ve arranged for my driver to take you home. He’s very discrete, so don’t worry if you need to use the ice-bucket on the way”. He smiles, and takes my elbow, leading me to his vehicle.

I know what you are thinking, and you’re right, there are only a few ways my day could get worse at this point. Luckily, my intolerance to gluten found a way to humiliate me further. Just as I lean forward to get into the car, the loudest flatulence bursts from me, too showbiz to be ignored. In times like these, all you can do is put your head in your hands, and hope that the world will swallow you whole, arse first. Instead, the most joyous laugh shatters the awkwardness.

“Don’t worry, it’s our secret”. He whispers, before closing the car door behind me.

After two stops, one at a supermarket, and the other at a coffee shop, to relieve the worst of the symptoms, the kind driver finally drops me off at my flat, driving off with the windows wide open. Have you ever noticed how, when you’re in a rush, everything moves at an incredibly slower pace than normal? Sprinting to my door, I fumble with my keys, my clothes are sticking to me, and my entire body is clenched, trying to keep the inevitable at bay.

“Are you OK?” Luis calls out as he appears from the stairs.

“Gluten!” I yell, as I finally push my front door open, and run to the bathroom.

I hear the wheels of my caddy being pulled into my living room.

“I’m going to head to the shop to get you some supplies. You do what you got to do, girl.” He encourages me, and I can’t help but laugh amid my groans.