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I grabbed a round black Studio Tech foundation compact and opened it. Yup, it was still MAC NW25. Partly to kill time, and partly just in case he turned out to be lighter or darker than he looked in the newspapers and on television, I reached into my kit and pulled out NW23 and NW30. I should have checked in with Sophia, but we weren’t exactly speaking.

I’d commandeered one of the bay windows in the library to arrange my makeup, and then I’d pulled a wing chair over in front of it. It was my best shot at getting some decent light in this mausoleum. The gold and maroon velvet drapes appeared to have been there since the Boston Tea Party. The dark, leathery books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves didn’t look much newer either.

My cell phone vibrated and danced around inside my purse. I wouldn’t normally answer it while I was on a job, but because the client wasn’t there yet, I reached in and picked it up. “Hello,” I whispered.

“He’s off the phone now,” the housekeeper’s voice whispered back.

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I held out my cell phone and looked at it, then put it back to my ear. “Great,” I said.

“Can I get you some coffee?”

“Nope,” I said. “But thanks for asking.” My stomach growled. Mario had brought in breakfast sandwiches for everybody this morning, but I’d forgotten to grab one on my way out of the salon. Craig’s Lexus would probably have ended up wearing it anyway, so I supposed it didn’t really matter.

Off and on for the last hour, I’d been eyeing a huge library ladder on rollers that hooked over a brass track way up near the ceiling. I walked over to it. I put one foot up on the second rung, gave a little push, and lifted my other foot off the floor.

It was kind of like riding a very tall scooter. Maybe I could at least find a decent book to flip through while I waited. I wondered if Governor What’s His Name had actually read any of these, or if a decorator had found them for him. Massachusetts didn’t have a governor’s mansion, so this was probably just an overpriced rental.

I was halfway down one wall and picking up speed, when the housekeeper cleared her throat behind me. I figured it would be undignified to say
Oops
, so I just braked with my free foot and climbed off. I pulled my periwinkle tank top down to meet my chocolate brown capris. “Nice to see you again,” I said. Not for the first time I noticed that her upper lip could use a good waxing.

“He’s almost here,” the housekeeper said. “He said to tell you it only takes him four minutes.” I wasn’t sure that was something he should be calling attention to in an election year, but I knew my place, so I didn’t say anything.

6

C L A I R E C O O K

“He’s eating his eggs, then he’ll brush. Then he’ll have me call for the car. And then he’ll be in.” She looked over at the window where my stuff had been camped out almost as long as the dust in the drapes. “Are you sure you’re all set for him?” A man poked his head through the heavy wooden doorway.

He took a minute to look me up and down, in that creepy way at least one teacher in every high school in America has been checking out his students since the beginning of time. I glared at him. He was shorter and paler than the governor, or at least the way I imagined the governor, probably only an NW15. His lips were chapped, and his skin looked a little flaky, too. Moisture starts from the inside, so upping his water intake and adding some fish oil capsules would be his best bet. Of course, class starts from the inside, too, and as far as I could see, he didn’t have a prayer in that department.

He finally finished ogling me and put his hands in his pockets. “And what are you pretty gals up to in here?” he asked.

The housekeeper tugged at the waistband of her khaki skirt in a fruitless attempt to realign things behind her. “We’re just waiting to give the governor a little touch of makeup before his interview,” she said.

The man shook his head. “Makeup,” he said. “Better him than me, I guess.” He leaned back into the hallway. “Gals,” he yelled. “Free makeup in the library. Any takers?” The look I gave him should have curled his eyelashes, but he didn’t appear to notice. An anorexic blond with the wrong shade of hair for her complexion strolled in, gave me a bored look, then walked back out. The man followed her. The housekeeper followed the man.

I stood alone.

Sometimes the makeup artist is like a rock star. She’s the guru you’ve been searching for. She can help you change your Summer Blowout

7

looks and maybe even your life. Other times, the makeup artist is like a maid. The toughest part is that you never know which one it’s going to be when you walk through the door.

Clearly, I was not having a rock star kind of day so far.

I walked over to a shelf, closed my eyes, and grabbed a book.

I was hoping for a good one, but it turned out to be something boring about torts. Whatever they are. For lack of a better idea, I balanced the book on top of my head and took a couple of long, gliding steps. In health class back in sixth grade, we’d actually had to practice this to improve our posture. In hindsight, it wasn’t a bad idea. It’s not makeup, but good posture can go a long way toward creating the illusion of beauty.

And not to be depressing, but aren’t some of the best parts of life really just an illusion?

• 2 •

THE FUNNY THING ABOUT WAITING IS THAT YOU

wait and you wait and you wait. And then, suddenly, time speeds up like crazy, and you’re there.

The housekeeper walked in with the governor right behind her. “Three minutes,” he said.

“I’d heard four” slipped out before I thought it through.

“I don’t need much,” he said as he plopped down in the chair. I realized the book was still on top of my head, not that either of them seemed to notice. I dipped my head and caught the book with one hand, then handed it to the housekeeper. She walked it over to the exact shelf where I’d found it. Maybe she’d been a librarian in her last life.

I draped the governor in a black makeup cape. I applied some Laura Mercier foundation primer with a triangular foam sponge. I was happy to see that my first instinct had been right.

He was definitely a MAC NW25. I opened the compact fast and rubbed the other side of the sponge back and forth until it was coated, then started covering his face in long, quick strokes.

Even though I was in a rush, I paid special attention to his ears.

I mean, my reputation was at stake here. There’s nothing worse than turning on the TV to see some guy with red or white ears.

I grabbed my MAC powder blush in Angel. In an uncharacteristic lack of judgment, MAC had discontinued this shade, but I’d bought up enough to last me forever, as long as I was careful. Nars Orgasm is a great blush, too, but I didn’t want to

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give this guy the satisfaction. And Angel looks good on everyone, even politicians. I dabbed some right on the apples of his cheeks.

“That’s not blush, is it?” the housekeeper asked.

“Of course not,” I lied. “It’s only bronzer.” She nodded. “He likes a good tan.”

With guys like this, I’d learned to get the foundation and blush on fast and set it with some loose powder. Then, if I had time, I’d go back in and fine-tune. This guy could certainly use some concealer, since he had major dark circles under his eyes, and some serious discoloration at the inside corners of his eyes, not to mention the outside corners of his nose. But you have to pick your battles.

Sure enough, just a few pats with the powder, and he stood up. “Mirror,” he said to the housekeeper.

“He wants a mirror,” the housekeeper said to me.

I reached for my mirror and angled it up at the governor-running-for-senator. He nodded approvingly at himself.

When he looked away from the mirror, he seemed to notice me for the first time. He reached for my hand and shook it.

“I’d appreciate your vote in November,” he said. Then he turned and started to walk away.

I was tempted to leave the black cape on him. It might even help him win the election, since it gave him a bit of a super-hero vibe, I thought. But I grabbed it and pulled. A good makeup artist always removes the cape before her client goes on television.

GETTING FROM THE BACK BAY
to the new conference center in the South End was a nightmare, but at least there was 10

C L A I R E C O O K

plenty of parking. I grabbed a coffee on the first floor and followed the signs for the Summer College Fair.

“Sure, just stroll in whenever you feel like it, Bella,” my brother, Mario, said.

“Yeah, make us do all the prep work,” my sister, Angela, said.

“Nice of you to bring us some coffee,” my half sister Tulia said, as if I couldn’t see that she already had one right beside her.

I took a long slow sip of my coffee. “Nice to see you, too,” I said when I finished. “At least most of you.” My half sister Sophia looked away. Apparently her candidate hadn’t kept her waiting forever like mine had, since she’d managed to beat me over here. A sudden picture of Craig sitting outside with his Lexus idling so she wouldn’t be late popped into my head.

I pushed it away. I fumbled in my bag and pulled out a tube of Dolce Vita. Ha.

“How’d it go, anyway?” Mario asked.

I gave my lips a quick fix before I answered. “Asshole,” I said.

“Him or me?”

I smiled. Of all my siblings, Mario was my favorite. “Both.” Mario smiled back. “Did you airbrush him?”

“Nah,” I said. “I didn’t feel like carrying the spray gun.

I had to park way down the street.”

Mario shook his head. “He’ll be a mess on HDTV. Next time, use it, okay? I pitch us with cutting-edge airbrush makeup. It’s what sets us apart.”

I rolled my eyes.

Mario gave me one of his looks.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”

“Okay, but you’re going to have to use it in here. We’ll need to move fast.”

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Good thing I’d brought my airbrush stuff in with me. I knew Mario would never fire me, but he was definitely capable of making me run back to my car. “So, why exactly are they having makeup and nails at a college fair?” Mario shrugged. “Apparently it’s the new big thing to attract spoiled rich kids and their parents to higher education.

I hear they’ve got a massage booth and a fortune-teller, too.” The family business had grown beyond the small chain of salons owned by our communal father. We also did on-site television hair and makeup in the greater Boston area, plus weddings, funerals, and pretty much anything else that came in. Since my life imploded about a year ago, I’d been hitting the road as a makeup artist on the days I didn’t work at one of my father’s hair salons, usually Salon de Lucio, but sometimes Salon de Paolo, or one of the others. I needed the money, since I planned to stay single and reinvent myself in some totally fascinating though as yet undetermined way.

I took another long slug of my coffee and tried not to think, which was becoming one of my specialties. Mario combed his freckled fingers through his curly brown hair, then clapped his hands. “Okay, everybody. Here’s the deal. I got us our full day rates, plus parking and supplies, so keep track of your sponges and cotton balls, and make sure I get your parking re-ceipts. And I said we couldn’t work legally without disposable mascara wands, and I certainly wasn’t going to pay for them at thirty-nine cents a pop.” He smiled. “Eventually they caved.”

“You’re good,” I said. Mario was in charge of our on-site business.

“I don’t see why I have to do nails,” Tulia said. Tulia was a total flake. She also couldn’t makeup her way out of a paper bag, since she only moonlighted for Mario when she was maxed out on her charge cards. I gave Mario a look.

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C L A I R E C O O K

He put his arm around Tulia. “You’re lucky we’re letting you near the nails,” he said. “And remember, only the people who want light colors in your line. The dark colors go to Angela—she’s got a steady hand. And don’t forget . . .” Mario flipped through his stack of cosmetology licenses. “If anybody asks, you’re Joanne Dolecheck.”

“Whatever,” Tulia said.