Face (16 page)

             
“I really can’t- I have to get home- Mum pregnant and all that...”

There’s
absolutely no way I’m going to enter a house full of Naturals on my own; I know my face says it too, and we walk the rest of the way in silence. By the time Cliff reaches his front door, the silver eighteen, nothing further has been said and the fedora has been replaced and tugged down low.

             
He turns his back on me to get the key in the door and I try to think of some words as a definitive ending for us. I don’t want to say thanks, and I don’t want to attempt a smile, I don’t trust my face right now. (
He was practically naked!
) Can you believe he’s actually trying to shut the door in my face, when a pair of bear-like arms encircle his chest from behind and lift him off his feet.

Chapter Nineteen

A face struggles over Cliff’s shoulder. It’s beaming at me, saggy skin hoisted towards the hairline, then it drops, like the guy ropes snapped under the weight.

             
“True! We’ve heard all about you.”

I flinch on behalf of Cliff. I mean, I thought my dad was embarrassing
.

             
“Come in, come in. You can’t stand there.”

Cliff’s dad
beckons, a giant rolling movement with hairy hands, towards the centre of Cliff. I realise I am standing the road, trying to leave. Cliff wriggles free.

             
“Hideous isn’t he?” Cliff says

Cliff’s da
d grips his son in another bear hug and suction kisses him on the cheek. I don’t know what my face is doing.

             
“Car!” Cliff gestures wildly.

I leap
out of the road and this forwards movement to save myself somehow becomes an acceptance. Cliff’s dad grasps my hand and shakes it. I look down at the hand, not up at the face. My own hand is encased.

             
“I’m Forest,” says the face that is Cliff’s dad. “Come and have a drink in the garden.”

The
firm hand hauls me over the threshold before releasing me. Forest’s broad back leads off, with Cliff’s leaner frame shielding me. This is going to be the fastest drink ever. (Seriously, call in the team from the Guinness Book of World Records.) Forest is tiptoeing like we’re in a cartoon. I could laugh, in a different situation, because he’s built like a bison. Forest moves to the left, raises a finger to his lips and gestures to the sofa; Cliff shuffles to the right, chewing on a nail. Both have exposed me to the living room. At first I don’t see her because she isn’t moving. From this angle she’s only a splash of pale hair and a glimpse of cheek tilted towards the garden. Both knees up and feet tucked neatly under. One palm rests open, fingers curled in sleep. Cliff’s Mum, I assume. I hold my breath. Please stay asleep.

I
take in the room which is bringing the outside in; the carpet reflects like sun on fresh grass, feel the individual fibres folding underfoot. Real sunlight blocks in through wide-open doors, the start of the raised lawn forming an unbroken expanse to the fence, the end of what’s theirs. A door to the left leads to a high-ceilinged kitchen; I spy one of those funky frameless spice racks, an assortment of jars defying gravity which only adds to my nerves. I look to Cliff: permission to move? I cannot look into Forest’s face.

             
“Dad. Get the kettle on.” Cliff says, at normal volume.

My smile blocks, but his mum doesn’t stir.
Cliff leads me around the bulk of his father, who is standing to attention and giving a salute. His face hovers fractionally above my sight line. I fold my shoulders in as I pass. Cliff’s bitten-down fingernails rest on my arm, the faintest of pressures guiding me. As we pass his mum I try not to stare at her face because I know I shouldn’t, but at the last minute I change my mind. I glance casually over my shoulder, then up and away to the ceiling rollers. Cliff’s contact with my arm ceases as we step out onto the lawn. Two sun loungers. We seize one each and create the correct space before sitting down.

             
“This is...” I’m searching a garden feature to compliment but all I can think of is Forest’s face.

             
“Welcome to the monster’s lair” Cliff says. “You like tea?”

I nod.

              “See? I remembered to check this time.”

             
“
Talk quietly
. Your Mum, remember?”

             
“Don’t worry, she’s not half as scary as him.”

This sun lounger
is too low and too reclining. Cliff’s running shoes are splayed and pointed at the sky. He’s fidgeting around gearing up to speak; can that boy never sit still?

             
“So-” Cliff begins, and up comes his face. “Put a scarf on it Dad.”

             
“There you go kids! I’ll leave you to it then.” Forest says.

He bends to place
two steaming mugs on the back step and the skin on his face slides, like fried eggs off a plate. We both pretend not to hear the wink in his voice. He chooses the armchair nearest the door, facing away. Like his orientation conveys privacy. Now my exit is double-blocked, both parents; this is your basic nightmare. Cliff and I start to rise in unison, but he’s faster, so I stand all formally to receive my tea like an award. It’s a relief to grasp some sort of prop. I take sips to look busy, each one burns.

“Dad’s trying to encourage me to take my scarf off for you, giving me this drink.” Cliff says. “I don’t drink tea in front of guests.”

Forest looms in close with a plate of biscuits and I almost drop the tea in my lap.

             
“Tempted to gobble these up myself, I’ll just take a couple.”

I stare hard at
the garden, determined to find a feature. The lawn stubble only serves to remind me of the shock of Cliff’s naked head. I accept a biscuit that I can’t eat, I’m creasing up. Like that face that won’t go away.

             
“Did you know,” Forest begins cheerfully, “Ultiface try to steal my son from me every year? This boy, this irreplaceable boy.” He moves behind my chair, seeming to address Cliff. “Free Enhancements for life, it’s the same offer every time.”

“
I’m like, son of C.O.F to them, or something. An ideal target.” Cliff mutters.

             
“I tell him:
your face is not for sale
!” Forest booms.

His
hand violently slices the air, a gesture meant to frame Cliff’s face. I look to Cliff for help, but Forest moves into my visual field, a heaving mass of expression. I can’t keep up with the creases, lines, folds everywhere, flesh like curtains. Scaffolding so deep it contains its own shadows. I wish he’d stop talking so that I could get a proper look, and try to figure out from his face what he wants, what he’s like.

             
“You’ve got a touch of the Original about you True...”

An awful expression
wedges on my face, that won’t release.

             
“It’s Maverick.” Cliff says quickly. Forest is not listening.

             
“I’ve offered to be the new face of Ultiface,” he continues. “Ultiface: Just Leave Yourself Alone, I’d call it. Special one-off edition! I told them they could even start out charging £24.99, see how long it took people to catch on. Flaws being all the rage these days.”

Laughter
seems to be required; I force two syllables. Without the endless stream of words, he’d look worn out, ready for recycling. No wonder he can’t stop. Now his eyes are doing something, I try to stick a label on it, but the expression sinks beneath sagging brows.
Help me, Cliff; how do we make him lose interest in us?
Cliff stares out across the lawn; I guess we have to wait for him to talk himself out.

             
“The Legend of Disappearing Dave...” I blurt, and accidently expand our time together. “...Was that C.O.F?”

Forest
’s face implodes. Laughter lines, is that what they’re called? His eyes are all but gone. Does it hurt to laugh like that?  Should I take over to encourage him to stop?

“
You remember Disappearing Dave? He was our first big campaign.”

             
“Everyone knows Dave.” Cliff adds in a monotone.

Disappearing
Dave was always on when I was a kid, and controversial; nobody had ever dared to suggest a problem with perfection before.

“
Dave went viral of course, got us masses of hits on the site. In fact, ‘The Legend’ himself is eighteen years old this week. Happy Coming of Age Dave!” Forest swings a toast and slops some steaming tea on the lawn.

“I
t started the insult, Marilyn, didn’t it?” I say.

“
C.O.F can certainly take credit for that.” Forest’s voice is now projecting to the moon. “People looked a lot more same-y when you two were born.”

“Dave forced Ultiface to get clever.” Cliff adds.

“
They had to launch the anti-bland,” Forest takes over, “designers began pillaging faces from history, Enhancements got a whole lot more varied and more subtle. Even my own wife saw fit to advise me that they’d won!”

I glance
towards the house in alarm, but there’s no sign of her.

“But m
ark my words, we’re coming full circle!” Forest’s voice builds.  “Imperfection is creeping back in, and it can only end one way:
Original
. Back to where we’re meant to be. The beautiful irony is, True, that Ultiface are propelling the change with their very own products! So we sit back and wait.”

Forest hooks his
hairy fingers behind his head and leans back into the air- to wait, I guess. The C.O.F sermon appears complete. (Does every passing guest get the extended version, I wonder. Or did I get lucky?)

“I’m the walking banner these days.” Cliff mutters.

So
me emotion jolts over Forest’s face before he lumbers back inside. Cliff watches the surface of his mug of tea. His brows are lowered, his eyes a stubborn grey. Plain grey, no tricks- and no great revelation either.

             
“So why do you wear the scarf?” I ask in the garden of overwhelming silence. It feels as if I can ask literally anything now.

             
“For a lovely holiday from all the staring.” Cliff laughs like clattering knives. “Livin’ the C.O.F cause 24/7. It’s long hours, y’know? Dedicated stuff.”

His grey eyes flit about.
I like anger. I turn onto my side. Cliff cradles his mug. The steam is gone but he makes no move to drink it.              

I
catch a female voice, swooping under the adamant tones of Cliff’s dad. It’s distant enough to know they have retired perhaps, to the kitchen. I tune in to her voice as it rises, and rises again. I can’t be sure, but I think she’s telling him to leave us alone.

             
“Mum hates the scarf. She always told me it’s all about how you use your face to communicate, how you make others feel?” Cliff says. “I mean, I can do a lot more with it than a newborn. Originals have time to grow into their faces, or something.”

             
“Oh, totally. It’s the same with Updates. You get two to three days of tight skin, of getting to recognise your reflection again. Smile Blockers take some serious work. As I may have demonstrated today...”

             
“I meant- I think Mum meant- over a lifetime?”

             
“You’ve got to find your face.”

Cliff turns onto his side, so that we are facing each other.

“Have you found your face yet, True?”

              “Oh, um, I don’t know... what do you think? Is it me?”

I look at him and my face dent
s.

“
I think...that... your face is going to entertain a lot of people.”

“
Entertain?
What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sudde
nly I am not at all sure of the meaning of those still grey eyes. A light breeze flips the edge of Cliff’s scarf. But it’s a smart fabric, a disguise. I’d need a hurricane for a hint at the contours of his face.             

Cliff
gets more
entertainment
from me than expected when I scramble to my feet and trip over the leg of his sun lounger and go flying and Cliff’s body tightens in expectation of physical contact. Luckily I am able to restrain myself.