Part 22 (1/2)
There was a lone metal chair sitting in the tiny change s.p.a.ce, and a wire hanger, bent out of shape, balancing from the seat back. A mangy-looking chartreuse scarf had been folded over the hanger, and Mak could read the label from where she stood: 100% Polyester. Made in Hong Kong. Fas.h.i.+on TV's Jeanne Becker once described the colour as ”fas.h.i.+on designer green”. Today it didn't look very fas.h.i.+onable.
She stripped off the black athletic top and shorts she had just modelled, and for a moment stood naked, save for a bland, skin-coloured G-string-the uniform model undergarment. She took the change scarf off the hanger and placed it over her head and face, using it to s.h.i.+eld the white sports bra from her make-up while she slipped the final outfit over her head.
When she was changed, Mak walked up to the make-up mirror and bent over to move the Lycra into place. She liked the style of the Nike work-out gear, and thanks to her running regime and recent hours spent in the gym, she was looking suitably fit to wear it. Makedde had also slapped on a careful coat of Clarins self-tanner the night before to combat the impending moon tan that marked the approach of every Canadian winter. Now her skin had a subtle golden glow that contrasted well with the stark white top. Hours spent sitting in libraries and at computer terminals could be hazardous to one's modelling career. Preventative measures were necessary.
She pushed a lock of long golden hair behind her ear and looked at herself in the mirror for a moment. She was worried that her lack of sleep and other troubles would get back to her agency, but the only visible clue that Miss Makedde Vanderwall wasn't the picture of health was her slightly bloodshot eyes, which no longer responded well to Visine, and the barely noticeable under-eye circles. Mak was relieved that she didn't look much worse. She had donned a layer of concealer before arriving at the studio, and more again while she was being made up for the shoot. She was exhausted, but she and Elizabeth Arden were conspiring to hide that fact. Starbucks were in on it too. She was up to five Venti lattes on some days; fully five times her normal, pre-insomnia dose.
She doubted that concealer and caffeine would fool someone like Dr Ann Morgan though.
Therapist. The-rapist.
d.a.m.n, Mak. Stop it. Think about clothes. Think about modelling. Or rather...stop thinking.
Just when Makedde finally managed to steer her mind back to the job at hand, the door blew open beside her, and a waft of smoke and cold air blasted in. It was Monica, the make-up artist.
”Have a seat and I'll give you a touch-up,” she squeaked in her candy-floss voice. She made Melanie Griffith sound butch.
Mak looked at her watch again-four-thirty on the dot. Hopefully there'd be no traffic.
As if in slow motion, Monica popped a wad of Dentine gum in her painted mouth, put one hand on her hip and contemplated her palate. Purple ringlets hung over her eyes, and she flipped her head to one side in an attempt to move them. They promptly flopped back to blur her vision. Eventually she turned her hands to Makedde's face, pointing her fingers outwards and running her thumbs along Mak's high cheekbones. After some pointless pawing and fussing about, every movement executed with irritating deliberation, something deep inside Monica evidently concluded that the best course of action was to reach for the powder puff...slowly.
All this seemed to confirm Mak's suspicions-Monica was straight out of make-up school. She had disappeared without a trace hours before, and Mak could only hope she would disappear again, very soon.
”I'm in a hurry,” Mak said firmly. She could feel a headache coming on.
Monica seemed not to hear. She pummelled Makedde's face with a soft powdery puffball and said, ”I think they want hair up for this one.”
Oh, good Lord.
Mak tried not to roll her eyes. ”I have to leave in-” she looked at her watch again ”-twenty-six minutes.”
Without warning, her hair was. .h.i.tched upright into a tight ponytail. Her eyes watered, and the impending headache made a grand arrival.
”G.o.d, it's so thick!” Monica exclaimed, pulling and yanking.
Makedde had big hair. It wasn't flat and bone-straight like her sister's. She knew that. She woke up looking like Linda Evans in Dynasty every morning. It might have been great if she were born a decade earlier, but she had spent most of her career trying to flatten her blonde mane. Now it was the new millennium and she finally had it under control-which of course didn't mean that others did. Especially this girl.
”That's okay, I'll do it.”
The make-up artist continued her fruitless pulling and combing.
Deaf as well as inept. Fabulous.
”Honestly, I'll do it myself,” Mak repeated.
The hands continued to struggle.
That's it!
Mak turned her head sharply, hair follicles just barely holding rank, and gave Monica a long, hard look. The hands let go. She thought she actually saw a glimpse of fear in her eyes.
I've been doing this for twelve b.l.o.o.d.y years. I think I can manage a simple ponytail, thank you very much!
In no time at all Mak had brushed her own hair, thrown it into a high ponytail and secured it in place. She took one last look in the mirror, touched up her lips with a fresh coat of gloss and strode off towards the backdrop. Monica was speechless and looked on the verge of tears. Out of the corner of her eye, Mak saw her rush out the door.
CHAPTER 33.
Mak stepped out into a rainy street in downtown Vancouver and crossed to her car. She stole a look at her watch-it was almost five. If she hurried, she might still make it.
As much as she was dreading the meeting, she didn't want to be rude considering Ann was so generously offering her valuable time. She wasn't looking forward to discussing her recent past with anyone, not even a professional, but the time had come. Lack of sleep was affecting things with her friends and family. G.o.d, she had even used Roy to try to get over Andy and it hadn't even come close to working!
d.a.m.n.
Makedde gave Zhora a pat, unlocked her and jumped in. She threw her model bag onto the cracked, white leather bench seat.
Driving through the city towards the Burrard Bridge, she kept asking herself the same questions. Am I going crazy? Do I really need a shrink? Why can't I stop these nightmares? Why has Andy come back into my life?
She made good time across the bridge and down West 4th Street. When she saw the unmistakable giant cutlery at the door of Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, she slowed down, keeping one eye on the street names and declining numbers. Mak had to circle the side streets several times to find a decent sized parking spot for Zhora. After hoofing it up a small hill to get back on the main street, she steered herself towards the clinic.
DR A. MORGAN, M.D., FRCPC. Psychiatrist Psychiatrist. I can't believe I am doing this.
Her name was one of three doctors on the small sign. Mak pushed through the single door to the clinic and glanced at her watch as she walked up to the reception desk. It was one minute to the hour.
The reception area was clean and modern. A curved dividing wall separated the waiting area from the reception desk at hip level. Mak saw a neatly combed black ponytail s.h.i.+fting back and forth beyond the divider, and heard the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. When she got close, the receptionist looked up. She was a beautiful woman, mid-thirties, with flawless j.a.panese features enhanced by glossy lipstick and expertly applied black eyeliner.
”May I help you?”
”I have an appointment with Dr Morgan.”
”Mak-eddie Vanderwall?”
”Ma-kay-dee,” Mak corrected her.
”My apologies. Please take a seat, Makedde.” She relayed the name perfectly the second time, and went back to her typing.
Mak looked around her. There were two long leather lounges perpendicular to each other in the waiting area. A severely underweight woman sat on the far corner of one next to a potted fern, reading People magazine. She wore her hair in a tight bun and was dressed in a neatly pressed beige suit. Her n.o.bby, nyloned knees protruded from beneath her hemline like two chicken drumsticks stripped of the meat. A brown and gold scarf was arranged carefully to mask her thin neck. Mak felt a twinge of sadness for the woman and then chastised herself for her unwelcomed pity. Who was Makedde to say that this woman's visible problems were any worse than her own hidden ones?
A square table between the couches held a stack of earmarked magazines. Mak grabbed a Time off the top and chose the opposite corner of the lounge to wait for her appointment. She flipped through the magazine slowly, her eyes barely registering the pages. She was lost in thoughts-the ”incident” in Sydney, Andy, Roy, her father and her mother.
She imagined Ann making calculations in her head. Let's see, disastrous affair = ten sessions. Death in the family = twelve sessions. Death of a close friend = twelve sessions. Serial killer =...How many sessions is it for a serial killer, again?
The sound of movement coming from the clinic corridor distracted her rambling thoughts. It was Ann, making her way toward the waiting area. She wore a dark, semi-casual pant suit with a cream-coloured silk blouse. She looked very smart, and a bit more formal than she had at the dinner table. Mak was nervous, but it was still a relief to see her. She had come to a.s.sociate Ann with a last chance for sanity.
”Good afternoon, Mak. Nice to see you.” She shook her hand. ”Would you like to come this way?” Ann led Mak down a corridor to an office behind the second of four doors.
”It's just through here, Makedde.” She held open the door and let Mak walk in first.