Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel (21 page)

“Tonight we have a special surprise. Tonight, one lucky audience member will receive her own
free
starter kit!” The audience oohed appreciatively, and Mrs. Merrivel smiled benignly down at them. “Now, around the room you’ll see several Carrie Mae ladies at various tables. Feel free to ask them any questions you might have. They are displaying product samples that you may test, and every one of these ladies can help you sign the paperwork on your own starter kit!”

“Wasn’t that a wonderful speech?” the plump Carrie Mae lady cooed at the audience. “Why don’t we give Mrs. Merrivel a round of applause?”

There was a thunderous burst of applause, and Mrs. Merrivel smiled again and bowed slightly. Then she slowly exited the stage waving and smiling. It was a beauty queen’s triumphal walk. Nikki found herself looking for the tears and tilted crown.

“Mrs. Merrivel will be at the front booth to answer questions and sign copies of her self-help book,
Work Made Fun Gets Done
, which can be purchased for ten dollars Canadian. If you would like to enter the drawing for the starter kit, please talk to one of the ladies around the room. We’ll all be happy to help.”

Nikki nearly laughed out loud. There was no way she was going to enter that drawing. She was never going to work for Carrie Mae. And with that firmly decided she stood up, straightened her skirt and collected her purse from the floor, and then turned expectantly to her mother. The speech was done. It was clearly time to go.

“Wasn’t she marvelous?” asked Nell with excitement.

Nikki’s heart sank. She knew that look in her mother’s eye.

“She was a very polished speaker,” said Nikki in her most noncommittal tone.

“She’s a very polished person,” said Nell, choosing to ignore Nikki’s apathy. “I want to look at some of the booths. Be a darling and go get one of her books for me.” Nell produced money from her pocketbook, and Nikki reluctantly took the bill. There really wasn’t any point in fighting with her mother now. They still had to drive home.

“And make sure you get it signed,” Nell demanded as Nikki trudged away.

She put herself in line for Mrs. Merrivel’s book and, looking around, realized that she was the only single person in line. She felt a bit embarrassed, as if she should somehow have known to bring an extra person. She also realized that her outfit was a tad too smart for the crowd. She shouldn’t have matched her shoes to her purse. The effect was too perfect, and made her feel uncomfortable amid the casual atmosphere of mothers and friends.

Nikki took refuge from her embarrassment by examining the crowd, detaching herself from it. The woman in front of her was talking animatedly in Quebec French to a woman with a sandy blond braid. The blonde was nodding in the right places, but was checking out the cleavage of a passing brunette. The first woman grabbed the blonde by the chin and kissed her on the lips.

“Pay attention to me,” she said in English, and the blonde nodded obediently. Nikki was amused by this public display of affection, and mentally reclassified the blonde from friend to significant other.

They finally reached the front of the line and the crowds parted. Mrs. Merrivel was seated at a draped six-foot table behind
a mound of books. She was signing them rapidly, with her beauty queen smile firmly in place.

Just as the Quebecois woman approached her turn at the front of the line, an oversize woman in a cashmere sweater, carrying an armful of purple bags, pushed her way to the front of the line and beamed vaguely at everyone.

“You don’t mind, do you? I’m in a hurry.” The woman gave an aggressive smile to the line without really seeing anyone in it and then turned her back to them. Ahead of Nikki, the Canadian woman began to exclaim loudly and at length in French.

“What does she want?” asked Cashmere Sweater to the line in general.

“She says she minds very much and she doesn’t care how big a hurry you are in. You can wait in line like everyone else,” said Nikki dryly.

“If you don’t like it you can complain to the hotel staff. I’m staying here,” Cashmere Sweater said, pushing past the two French Canadians and addressing Nikki.

“She said it,” said Nikki, affronted, pointing to the Canadian. “I just translated.”

“Oh, you think you’re so special ’cause you speak French or something?” the woman demanded, poking an accusatory finger at Nikki.

Nikki found that her hands had clenched themselves into fists. She was overcome with the desire to punch the woman in her oversize nose. Just then, the Canadian woman poked Cashmere Sweater in the back. Cashmere Sweater whirled around to glare accusingly at the smaller woman.

“If you have something to say about the French language, I suggest you say it to me,” the Canadian said in English.

“My girlfriend will kick your ass,” the blond Canadian added, and at this comment, Cashmere Sweater’s face went beet red.

“What are you? Some sort of French lesbians?”

“French-kissing lesbians,” the blonde corrected. She stuck out her tongue, which was pierced, and wiggled the stud.

Cashmere Sweater looked apoplectic. For a moment Nikki thought Cashmere Sweater was going to attack the Canadians, but at the last second she collected her bags and flung herself away from the line.

“This is ridiculous,” she said as she left. “I am above this.”

“Well, that was just weird,” said Nikki to no one in particular.

“
Très étrange,
” agreed the blonde, giving Nikki a smile.

“Ladies,” Mrs. Merrivel said from the table, “if you’re done baiting the wildlife, perhaps we can move the line along.” The two Canadians giggled and presented their ten dollars to the Carrie Mae lady who was acting as cashier. Mrs. Merrivel signed their book with a flourish and handed it over. The girls left with a wave to Nikki, which she blushingly returned.

“Well, Nikki, how did you like the speech?” There was a distinct twinkle in Mrs. Merrivel’s eye as Nikki presented her book to be signed.

“Er . . . it was very interesting. My mother really liked it.”

“Oh, good. Whom shall I make this out to?” she asked, changing the subject.

“To Nell Lanier, L-A-N-I-E-R,” said Nikki, and then added, “my mother.”

“Does she speak French, too?”

“A little,” Nikki said, glancing around the table.

“Languages must be more your thing, then? Didn’t you say you graduated in linguistics?”

Nikki blushed. She hadn’t thought Mrs. Merrivel had been sit
ting close enough at the restaurant to hear all the details of her life.

“How many languages
do
you speak?” asked Mrs. Merrivel, her pen hand hovering above the blank page.

“Four, well, five if you count Latin,” Nikki said, wishing the conversation would end and Mrs. Merrivel would sign the stupid book.

“Ah, Latin. I nearly flunked that class myself, but I appreciate that someone can understand it. Personally I always think it looks like garbled Spanish.”

“All the romance languages kind of look alike,” agreed Nikki. “I suppose, being from California, that would be the one you’d think of first.”

Mrs. Merrivel blinked and then smiled. “You’re quite right. I am from California. I don’t think I mentioned that, did I?”

“You use some pretty common California speech patterns,” Nikki said, feeling like she’d finally managed to put the other woman on the defensive for once.

“How exciting. Just like Henry Higgins,” Mrs. Merrivel said, and Nikki winced. Linguists were a little sensitive about anything
My Fair Lady
related. She glanced around, wishing that she could just get her book and leave now. Apparently the cashier agreed with Nikki, because she gave a polite cough and glanced significantly at the line of impatient people behind her.

“Well, here you are, Nikki,” said Mrs. Merrivel, holding out the book. “I hope you win that starter kit.” Nikki nodded awkwardly and took the book.

Exiting the book line, she found her mother deep in conversation about lipstick colors. Nikki stood waiting, while the Carrie Mae lady selling the lipsticks was arm-wrestled into accepting an expired “buy one, get one free” coupon for Nell’s purchase.

“I put your name in for the starter kit drawing,” Nell said to Nikki as they walked away from the booth. Nikki tripped over her own feet.

“I don’t want the starter kit, Mom,” she said, regaining her balance.

“Nonsense. You didn’t get that job and you’ve got to earn a living some way. Tutoring and temping will not pay your bills forever. And you can make a real career out of this Carrie Mae thing.”

“What makes you think I didn’t get the job?” Nikki asked defensively.

“Because if the interview had gone well you would have told me.”

Nikki writhed under the truth of the statement. “You can still look for a job, but this makeup selling stuff is a snap. I have a friend who sells candles and she always has loads of cash.”

“I don’t want to sell Carrie Mae,” Nikki said, hearing the whining in her own voice, even though her mother ignored it. She glanced around the room, quickly calculating the odds at about three hundred to one. She could live with those odds.

She followed her mom around to booth after booth, collecting free samples and carrying Nell’s purchases. The circuit of booths had almost been completed when a small gong sounded over the buzz of voices.

“All right, ladies,” a cheerful Carrie Mae lady said from the stage. “It’s almost time for the starter kit drawing.” There was a renewed hubbub from the crowd, and the Carrie Mae lady shushed them. “If you’ll all gather round, I’ll have Mrs. Merrivel give the ticket drum a spin. You all have your tickets, right?”

Nell produced a small blue ticket stub and handed it to Nikki. She peered at the ticket over the mound of packages in her arms and read the number 91724. Nell’s aggressively perky handwrit
ing was scrawled across the ticket where she had filled in Nikki’s name and phone number.

“Come on number 82563,” Nikki prayed, picking a random number.

“That’s not our number,” said Nell sharply.

“Must have misread it,” mumbled Nikki.

Mrs. Merrivel cranked the ticket drum and, inside their wire cage, the little blue pieces of fate whirled like snowflakes in a snow globe. Reaching into the cage, she wiggled her hand about dramatically, and Nikki felt the crowd tense. Finally Mrs. Merrivel withdrew one blue ticket and handed it to the MC.

“The winner of the complete starter kit is the holder of ticket number . . .” The MC paused dramatically. “Number 9-1.” A pause, to allow a few groans. “7.” A few more groans and Nikki’s palm began to sweat. “2.” Rising excitement from the crowd. Nikki was feeling faint. “And the last number is 4!”

Nikki stared at her ticket in disbelief.

“That’s right,” said the Carrie Mae lady, “Number 91724!”

Nell grabbed Nikki’s hand and inspected the ticket.

“91724! That’s it!” Nell shouted. “We won! We’re the winners.” She was dragging Nikki toward the front of the room, her hand clamped over Nikki’s in a viselike grip.

“It looks like we have a winner, folks,” the MC said with a giggle. “But don’t let that disappoint you. We’ll be giving away plenty more prizes.”

Nikki and her mother were ushered onto the stage. Someone took their packages from them. There was a pause for a photograph as Nikki shook Mrs. Merrivel’s hand while holding a franchise certificate.

“I look forward to hearing of your progress. Feel free to call me anytime,” Mrs. Merrivel said before walking off. Nikki’s eyes
followed her of their own volition, watching her gliding stride with suspicion. Two effervescent Carrie Mae ladies took her place, distracting Nikki with their help. Nell hovered in the background, rubbing her hands together in delight. Nikki felt a little sick, and she had a sudden desire to be back in the peaceful sunlit restaurant, with Z’ev twirling his knife to reflect the sunshine. The moment now seemed the very essence of peace and quiet. Nikki signed some paperwork and was given a name to contact when she returned to the States. But even then she wasn’t allowed to leave. Twelve women had purchased their starter kits that night: Nikki was lined up next to them and photographed until her jaw ached from smiling.

“Can we go back to the room now, Mom?” she asked, when she was finally allowed offstage. “I have a bit of a headache.”

“Yes,” Nell agreed, clutching the silver gray starter kit. “Let’s go up to the room and look at what we’ve won.” She led the way out of the ballroom and up the stairs.

“I wonder,” said Nell. “What were the odds of your winning that drawing?”

“Lots to little, I suppose,” Nikki answered.

“Stroke of luck, though, all the same,” said Nell.

“Yeah, real lucky,” agreed Nikki as the elevator doors opened, although her tone suggested the opposite. Nell was used to ignoring subtleties, however, and probably didn’t trouble herself over this one.

THAILAND I

Going the Distance

The next thing Nikki remembered was Val kicking the couch.

“Wake up, Red. You ain’t no princess and this ain’t
Sleeping Beauty
. Time to go to work.”

Nikki struggled upright and stared, befuddled, around the room. Sunlight streamed through the windows. A blanket had been tossed over her sometime in the night.

“Work?” she repeated, realizing she hadn’t washed her makeup off the night before and regretting it.

“Right. Work,” Val repeated mockingly. “Thailand, remember? We have to go rescue the girl. Don’t want to be late for your first mission. Hurry up.”

A far too short while later, Nikki was following Val through the sprawling warren of LAX, occasionally tripping over the carpet or her feet or nothing at all. Her head was splitting and her eyes felt as if they’d been taken out, rolled in dirt, and then put back in the sockets. She kept her sunglasses on for most of the airport process, taking them off only when the luggage screener demanded
it. He’d run the glasses through the machine and quickly handed them back without any comments and with a carefully expressionless face.

They waited at a bar for their flight to board. Nikki had turned down the offer of a screwdriver so firmly that Val had laughed. Nikki grimaced, but stuck to her guns and had straight orange juice.