Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel (20 page)

“You picked just the right career for yourself, then, didn’t you?” Val said. “Here’s my sushi place. Wait here. Won’t be a minute.” Val jogged into the restaurant and returned a few minutes later with carefully bagged boxes, which she dropped neatly into Nikki’s lap.

A few minutes later they pulled up in front of a small house that unexpectedly made Nikki long for Washington. The Craftsman construction of thick, square beams and geometric design looked very much like the first house her mother had rented after the move to Tacoma.

The neighborhood seemed strangely quiet after the rushing wind of a moving convertible. Val walked to the rear of the car. Opening the trunk, she tossed Nikki her backpack. Nikki managed to catch it and swung it up onto one shoulder without dropping the food.

“You’re selling your house?” asked Nikki, walking past a Realtor’s sign.

“Sold, actually,” Val answered, glancing at the sign as if she’d forgotten it was there. “As of yesterday. I’m never home enough to take care of it. Besides it was more my ex-husband’s taste than mine. High time I was moving on.”

Once inside, Nikki could see that Val hadn’t been kidding. Her style was modern and chic and very New York, all black leather and minimalist. Set against the comfortable, Craftsman, exceedingly West Coast house, the furniture seemed out of place. The pull of these two flavors gave the house an uncomfortable edge, as if Nikki had just walked in on a couple in the middle of an argument.

Val dropped her gym bag next to a pile of boxes, grabbed the food from Nikki, and walked into the kitchen. She dug into one of the boxes and pulled out chopsticks.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said without turning around. “Spare bedroom’s down the hall. Do you want some sake?”

“Um, sure,” said Nikki. She’d had sake only once before, and didn’t remember it as being too bad. A little sake before bed couldn’t hurt.

Nikki wandered down the hall to the back bedroom, which doubled as an office. Packing had begun in here as well. The bookshelves had been cleared of books and knickknacks. Four boxes stood by the door with
GOODWILL
written on them in crisp block letters. Nikki shook her head. As a longtime poor person, she knew that good money could be made selling books to used-book stores. Donating them was a waste.

Nikki sat down on the bed/couch and let her backpack slide down her arm to the floor. She felt tired and stupid and altogether unprepared for whatever lay ahead. Wearily, she kicked off her shoes and left them sitting in a jumble next to her bag. A large calico cat entered the room suspiciously. It was on the tubby side and waddled a little as it crossed the room. It patted Nikki’s bag with a delicate paw and then sat down, a small roll of fur covering its hind feet. The cat was slightly cross-eyed, which gave him a Mad Hatter sort of glare.

“Don’t pee in my shoes,” said Nikki, but the cat only stared at her harder.

“You coming or what?” Val yelled, from down the hall.

“Coming,” Nikki yelled back, and with an effort stood back up and set herself in motion. Val had laid out the sushi boxes on the coffee table and provided two plates and two sets of chopsticks. She was already settled in, sitting on the floor in front of the couch.

“So what’s with all the languages?” she said, changing channels. “I thought linguists just studied languages. I didn’t think they had to learn twelve of them.”

“It’s not twelve,” said Nikki self-consciously. “My dad spoke French, and I just sort of branched out from there. And the romance languages aren’t that far apart, really.”

“So I hear,” agreed Val, settling on
Mythbusters
, and leaning back against the couch. “So your dad spoke French. What’s his deal?”

“He’s Quebecois,” Nikki answered, noticing, too late, that Val had steered things onto a conversational fork Nikki didn’t really want to go down. “We always spoke French when I was little. Or at least he and I did. Mom wasn’t into it much. She’s American, but I was born in Canada, actually.”

“Why’d you guys move?” asked Val, pouring a small glass of sake for Nikki and pushing it toward her.

“My folks broke up. Mom got custody; we came back here. Not a lot to it.” Nikki smiled weakly and reached for the sake.

“And your dad stayed in Canada?”

Nikki shrugged. “I doubt it. He liked to travel.”

“And your mom doesn’t?”

“Not really. I think maybe she just worries when I travel.”

“She doesn’t want you to be like your dad.” Val’s eyes were half closed, but her gaze seemed twice as sharp for all, or maybe because of, her lazy appearance. Nikki took a gulp of sake, avoiding Val’s stare.

“I guess,” said Nikki with a shrug.

“You want another drink?” Val finished her own sake in one long swallow.

“Oh, no, I really don’t want any more.” Nikki was relieved to be away from the subject of her parents.

“Nonsense. You have to keep me company. Besides, I’m not packing my entire alcohol collection. We might as well drink it now.”

“Oh, sure, of course,” Nikki said.

“And try the mahimahi. It’s really good.”

Dinner and the sake bottle progressed.
Dirty Jobs
came on, and Nikki decided that Mike Rowe was even funnier with a half a bottle of sake in her.

“So, how did you meet Mrs. Merrivel again?” Val asked, returning from the kitchen with another bottle of sake held in an oven-mitted hand. “She didn’t really just pick you out of the crowd at a recruiting meeting, did she?”

“No, it wasn’t quite like that,” said Nikki.

“Somehow I didn’t think so. So what was it like?”

“No, I . . .” For some reason Nikki was reluctant to tell Val about Z’ev. “It was just kind of a weird coincidence. I went to lunch with a friend at this restaurant, only it turned out Mrs. Merrivel was eating there, too.” Val’s eyes narrowed. “And then later, at the meeting, Mrs. M recognized me from the restaurant.”

“And that’s when she recruited you?”

“Well, no. That was later. After the thing. Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Not really. What thing?”

“After I won the thing,” said Nikki. “I don’t really want another drink. I do dumb things when I drink.”

“Well, then you have to have another drink,” Val said with a grin. “And tell me about winning the thing.”

CANADA

The Face of
Carrie Mae

Nikki opened her mouth to say something back, but found that she could manage only a small gasp. Z’ev was walking away. He had kissed her and he was walking away and she had no idea what to do.

“I hate it when they do that. How are we supposed to fight back?” said the woman in the blue suit.

Nikki shook her head, still unable to formulate words.

“You know, I’d think you were following me if you hadn’t gotten here first,” said the woman, easily climbing the stairs to the main door of the hotel. “Funny coincidence our being at the same hotel. You know,” the woman continued when Nikki didn’t contribute to the conversation, “maybe you’ll think I’m rude, but I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation.”

Nikki blushed scarlet, and the older woman laughed, but it was a good-natured sound. “Not to worry. I won’t say anything about
bathrooms, but I was trying to figure out how long you and that young man had known each other.”

“We’d just met,” mumbled Nikki, blushing again.

“Ah,” said the woman, nodding sagaciously. “I was wondering. That explains a lot, actually. And yet that other man thought you were married. I’m Miranda, by the way.” She tucked her arm through Nikki’s and led her into the lobby.

“They were business associates. There was supposed to be a girl, but she got stuck in traffic, and he didn’t want to explain . . .”

“Yes, but my dear, you didn’t
know
him. You must be more careful.”

“I know, but . . .” Nikki trailed off again, unable to think of a decent rationale. Miranda had a sweetly understanding expression that verged on grandmotherly.

“Oh, well,” said Miranda, patting Nikki’s hand. “It came out all right in the end. And you were very convincing as a couple.” Miranda glanced at her watch, and Nikki gasped as she caught sight of the time.

“I’m going to be late for that horrible seminar! My mother is going to kill me!”

“Are you going to the Carrie Mae speech?” Miranda’s expression had sharpened into curiosity.

“Total waste of time. But my mom insists,” Nikki said, making a face. “And now I’m going to be late.”

“You never know, you might hear something interesting. You’ll probably still be in time for the main speaker if you hurry. The ballroom’s down the hall on the left,” Miranda said, pointing the way.

“Thanks!” exclaimed Nikki, hurrying with tiny steps down the hall in her narrow skirt. She approached a woman sitting behind a six-foot table next to a large Carrie Mae sign awash in purple-and-
silver butterflies, as the sound of applause echoed from behind the closed ballroom doors. The perky Carrie Mae lady leaped from her seat with a smile spreading over her face.

“Hey there, lady!” she exclaimed with exuberance. “Are you here to hear Mrs. Merrivel?” She seemed genuinely excited by Nikki’s presence and oblivious to her use of homonyms.

“Uh, yes,” Nikki replied, feeling altogether unnerved by the woman’s excitement. “I was supposed to meet my mother, Nell Lanier, but I’m running late . . .” She trailed off, unable to concentrate under the high-beam glare reflecting from the Carrie Mae lady’s teeth.

“Oh. Well, hopefully we saved you a seat.” The woman produced a clipboard with a seating chart and began to scan it. Something about the way the woman said “we” bothered Nikki, as if she were part of some huge collective.
Resistance is futile
.

“Oh! Yes, there were two seats reserved, and it looks like your mother is already inside. I’m so glad. Please come with me.”
You will be assimilated.

Nikki nodded, following the woman into the ballroom, her thoughts scattering in the face of persistent cheeriness.

She spotted her mother’s blond hair before her purple-clad escort had reached Nell’s seat, and she took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself. The Carrie Mae lady indicated the empty seat on the aisle and then waved goodbye with a rigorously happy gesture before disappearing back the way she had come.

Nell looked up at Nikki and gestured emphatically to the seat. Slipping into the empty chair, she received a glare from her mother. Z’ev’s kiss was still buzzing on her lips, and for a horrible moment she thought her mother could see it, pinned there on her lips like a brilliant butterfly or a scarlet letter
A
.

“You’re late,” her mother hissed. “You turned off your cell
phone!” The second statement was even more ferocious than the first.

“Had to, for the interview.” Nikki gave an apologetic smile and made a deprecating gesture with her hand. Nell snapped her head back toward the speaker.

Nell’s top was a geometric collage of bright colors and featured a deep V-neck front that introduced the world to her cleavage. Nikki always considered her mother’s taste bizarre. Nell’s closet looked as if someone had managed to cross-reference a hooker and the Gap. She was never entirely sure how Nell managed to leave the house each morning in anything resembling professional attire.

Nell was ignoring her now, and Nikki took the momentary respite to pull out her compact, discreetly checking her lipstick for any telltale marks or smears. Fortunately Z’ev seemed to have left her unmarred. Tucking away the compact, Nikki was surprised by a gust of laughter.

“Well, you know,” the speaker was saying, “if I were going to have a diamond watch, of course, I would want earrings to match.” She looked around the crowd as if to say, “Well, duh.” The woman was on the plump side, with a round face to match her figure.

The crowd beamed their approval at the woman. Nikki shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position where the ergonomically correct chair didn’t press into her shoulder blades. No one else in the crowd seemed uncomfortable, and she had a sudden feeling of isolation. She felt as if she had arrived too late to a comedian’s gig, well past the point when the audience has gelled and their laughter is contagious.

The plump speaker was still marching across the stage talking up the advantages of Carrie Mae. Nikki admired her ability to give such a high-energy performance in four-inch heels. Her own
feet were aching from an entire day spent in heels, and she wondered if anyone would notice if she slipped them off.

“So, this is Mrs. Merrivel?” Nikki whispered to her mother. Nell shook her head. “No, she’s the event organizer. Mrs. Merrivel’s on next.” Even as Nell spoke, the woman wound up her speech and called for a round of applause as she introduced the keynote speaker.

“Miranda Merrivel, everyone!” The woman clapped enthusiastically to get the crowd going, and Nikki’s heart sank as Mrs. Miranda Merrivel, the thin, petite woman of indeterminate age in the electric blue suit, strode onto the stage.

“No wonder she knew the way to the ballroom,” muttered Nikki, and then she smiled weakly at Nell’s suspicious glare.

Forty-five minutes later she had a headache. The ballroom was hot, crowded, and overwhelming with the competing smell of perfumes and hair products. Mrs. Merrivel, Nikki had decided, was suffering from some sort of split-personality disorder. She had gone from being sweet and understanding in the lobby to a number-crunching supercharged saleswoman on the stage. Stage Mrs. Merrivel was Carrie Mae—the company. Stage Mrs. Merrivel needed a riding crop and an enormous American flag behind her. She was Patton in a blue suit and pumps.

At first Nikki had been interested by Mrs. Merrivel’s fervor and obvious belief in the company. She had rather liked the idea of a female-powered organization, but Carrie Mae was obviously just like any other company, worse, in some ways, because the real money was not in selling makeup but in recruiting a sales group. It was a pyramid scheme dressed up in a “help women” philosophy and its own charity foundation.

An apparently spontaneous round of applause pulled Nikki back to the speech just in time for her to hear Mrs. Merrivel’s con
cluding thoughts. Nikki suspected that one of the Carrie Mae ladies sprinkled throughout the crowd had started the ovation, but Mrs. Merrivel quieted the audience with a gentle hand as though it were genuine.