The California Club (22 page)

She's still not looking beyond our natural coloring. Hasn't she seen the wig changes in
Charlie's Angels
? Surely in Hollywood anything is possible.

'I want to be Marilyn!' Zoë asserts.

Vixen rotates her tongue stud and gives me a look as if to say: If you tell me you want to be Whoopi Goldberg I'm going to resign.

I try the diplomatic approach. 'Your suggestions are great but we were thinking more of classic Hollywood stars.'

'That's kinda old,' she sneers. 'But if that's what you want.' She thuds a hefty Book of Looks on to the counter and pushes it towards Zoë.

'What about Carmen Miranda?'

'Would you want a bowl of fruit on your head?' Zoë counters, not enjoying this girl's attitude.

'I take these two beauties!' A heavy Russian accent announces. It belongs to a sixty-something man with a lush sweep of white hair and expertly shaped eyebrows. Sending Vixen to prepare the Harry Potter costumes for the dry cleaners, he introduces himself as the shop owner, Boris, and apologizes for his niece.

'She's very skilled at the make-up but lacks charm,' he admits. 'Now! Let me see.' He studies our faces carefully. Something about his manner and the low rumble of his voice has us entranced. 'You want heyday movie stars, yes?'

We nod, hypnotized by his violet-lensed eyes.

'You would make wonderful Liz Taylor, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,' he strokes my jaw.

I purr appreciatively, 'Oooh yes, that would be lovely.'

'And you have Marilyn's curves, that is for sure.' He gives Zoë an appreciative once-over. 'You leave rest to me!'

Zoë claps her hands together with delight as he flips the Book of Looks around to face her. 'Okay honey, which Marilyn you want to be?'

First up is the iconic white flare-up dress from Seven Year Itch.

'Too obvious?' Zoë voices her concern.

'Little,' Boris acknowledges.

Next, pink satin and diamonds.

‘Too Madonna,
Material Girl
,' Zoë frowns.

'What about an outfit from
Some Like It Hot
?' I suggest, remembering the Hotel Del.

'The nude beaded dress?' Boris's eyes light up. 'I think it will stretch.'

'Oooh yes!' Zoë enthuses, envisioning herself sheathed and shimmering.

'Maybe you want to do mini-movie scene together? I could make you good Tony Curtis,' he tells me, 'you have his clear eyes, black hair, we could do a little dimple here …'

I bat his hand away as he goes to smudge brown eyeshadow on my chin.

'I want to be a girl!' I protest.

'Oh go on, La!' Zoë begs, taken with the idea. 'We could show Helen – how funny would that be? She could put a picture of us up at work!'

'Can't you come back and do that with Todd?' I frown as Boris tries to set a captain's cap on my head.

'No?' he looks plaintive.

'No!' I pout. 'Isn't there something we could do together as two females?’

We all pause for a moment and then Boris suddenly whoops, 'I've got it!'

He swishes down the rails and then flourishes two floor-length red sequined gowns: 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes!'

'Of course!' Zoë cheers, grabbing my arm. 'You get to be Jane Russell!'

'Gentlemen also love the ladies with the black hair,' Boris winks at me.

'Sold!' I cheer.

'We wouldn't even need a wig for you,' he says, sweeping my hair over to the side and flouncing it up, 'We set you just so.'

'This is so exciting!' Zoë squeaks. 'What do we do first?'

'Take off your clothes!' Boris announces.

I knew there'd be a catch.

'Or at least your tops.' I can't believe he's trying to negotiate a strip. Then he hands us robes and explains that he doesn't want to get any make-up on our nice outfits. Fair enough.

‘You want I play you the movie while we do the make-up?'

'Oh yes! And can we sing, ‘
We're Just Two Little Girls from Little Rock
!' Zoë requests.

‘Of course,' Boris complies. ‘Whatever makes you happy.’

As Boris pastes on a mask of foundation he tells us stories of Hollywood's first make-up artist – George Westmore – and how his six sons all followed his brushstrokes to create a dynasty of creative geniuses heading up the make-up departments at Paramount, Warner Brothers, 20th Century Fox et al.

‘They were responsible for taking Rita Hayworth's natural black hair and make it strawberry blonde!' he begins in his stilted accent, continuing with revelations that Shirley Temple's ringlets were supplemented by hair bought from a local whorehouse and how Errol Flynn turned up drunk to every make-up seating for the swashbuckling flick Captain Blood and even resorted to injecting oranges with vodka when Perc Westmore confiscated his bottles of whiskey, disguised as hair tonic preparations!

As Boris highlights our browbones he tells of how Marlene Dietrich taught Ern Westmore a nifty alternative to heavy black greasepaint – she held a lit match under the base of a china saucer until a smudge of pure carbon collected, then mixed in a little baby oil and used it as shadow around her eye!

'I love all this stuff!’ Zoë enthuses as Boris applies what look like the wings of a blackbird to her lids. ‘Tell me more.’

'Well, George Westmore was first to invent false lashes – he clipped tiny pieces of hair from a wig and pasted them on one strand at a time! That was back in 1917!'

'This is so relaxing,' I sigh, eyes closed, as Boris turns his attention to my lashes. I’ve never been able to apply them to myself so I can’t wait to see how they look. Maybe I’ll keep them on to see Elliot and flutter him into submission. ‘Have you ever had anyone fall asleep in a make-up chair?’ I ask drowsily.

‘Many times.’

‘What about the Westmores?’ Zoe prompts.

Boris chuckles as he tells us that Mont Westmore once went to Gloria Swanson's home to do make-up before filming and found her still in her bed… 'He was too afraid to wake her – she had such a dark temper – so he did the whole thing while she slept!’

‘So movie stars really do wake up with a full face of make-up!’ I laugh.

'Still, please!' Boris instructs, now carefully lining my lips.

‘Wow, Lara you look stunning!'

'No peeking please till I finish,' Boris scolds.

Zoë leans back in her chair, waiting her turn.

'Even in her eighties Ms Russell was a most striking woman,' Boris informs us. ‘Smart, bold…’

‘Who do you think was the most beautiful of them all?’ Zoe wants to know.

Boris thinks for a moment.

‘For me? Bacall,’ he decides. ‘Lauren Bacall.’

'That smoky voice!’ I just manage to squeeze out the words before Boris applies layer upon layer of lipstick so red and thick and luscious I suspect he's using strawberry Jam.

Boris finishes Zoë's face and our respective hairdos with precision flair then announces: 'Now the dresses.’

‘They weigh a ton!' I gasp, confusing the plunging V-neckline with the high side-split on the leg.

‘They say Ginger Rogers's gowns were so heavily beaded that they made her feet bleed when she danced.'

'Ouch!'

'Sequins is okay, just a little rash!' he smiles, handing us our jewelry – two diamond bracelets on one arm, three for the other. 'Turn around, I put on necklace.'

Again diamonds, surrounded by rubies. We pat the jewels flat.

'Earrings …' he continues.

I feel my lobes squish to the size of bottle tops from the metal clasp.

'You'll get used to it,' Boris consoles, sensing my pain. Then he takes Zoë's hand and slides a ruby ring into place, looking for all the world like he's her adoring groom.

'One final touch …'

He hands us each a red sequined cap sprouting white feathers, securing them on our crowns with a pin.

His eyes shine with pride. 'Ready for your close-up?'

Zoë takes my hand and squeezes it tight before nodding. 'First close your eyes!' he instructs as he guides us to the full-length mirror. 'Now open!'

I have a bit of difficulty as my false lashes have intertwined, lacing my lids closed but I can hear Zoë practically choking with delight. Boris rushes to my aid and carefully prises open my eyes. I get a rush of hysteria at the sight of the glittering vamp before me and twist around to admire the sumptuous alien form that has invaded my body.

'We look like real women!' Zoë giggles, hands traversing her ever more exaggerated curves.

'Sirens!' Boris corrects. 'What man could resist you now?'

He's got a point – the dresses seem to have a powerful sexual presence of their own, demanding a certain sassiness from the wearer. I find my shoulders hoiking back, a knee jutting forward and place a come-and-get-it-boys hand on my hip. How I wish Elliot could see me like this. In a whole new light…

‘Look at you blonde!' I exclaim, finally tearing my eyes away from my alter ego to gawp at a barely recognizable Zoë.

'Look at you bouffant!' Zoë reels at my big hair.

'I love it!' Gently I touch my roller-set. Amazingly it still feels like hair despite all the spray. 'We look properly glamorous!'

‘You’re a genius!' Zoë plants a perfect red cupid's bow lip-print on Boris’s cheek.

He looks dotingly back at her. 'You are something special, lady.'

'I know it says no photographs with your own camera but can we just take a quick one with you?' I plead.

'How can I deny you anything?' He gives a little bow.

I scrabble through my bag, emptying out the contents on the counter– map, scrumpled tissues, make-up, receipts, plane ticket, earring I've been missing for years, half-eaten Tootsie Roll and a spatula from an Immac kit (why?!).

'It's in here somewhere … Here we go!'

We lean in and grin as Boris instructs us to: 'Say sleaze!'

As I shove the mess back into my bag, Zoë remains lost in wonder at her reflection.

'This is what I wanted, Lara. To feel like a movie star, just once.'

I stop what I'm doing to look at her, feeling my heart swell again and affection radiate from my eyes – there is something so rewarding about seeing your friends blissfully happy.

'Camcorder ready!' Boris informs us.

And now we're going to immortalize this wonderful moment on film!

‘Ms Russell?’

‘Yes,’ I raise a sassy brow.

‘You have something stuck to your heel!’ Boris peers closer. ‘It looks like an airline ticket?'

‘Oh my gosh,’ my hand goes to my heart. ‘Imagine if I forgot this!’ Checking the details I read out loud: 'MISS LARA RICHARDS. LAX to FRESNO-YOSEMITE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. Yup, that's me. Going to see my beloved. Just the two of us and the wild wilderness—'

Suddenly I freeze. My eyes are on the departure time.

'Oh no.' I fill with cold dread.

'What?' Zoë yelps.

'What time is it now?' I ask, trying to remain calm despite the feeling that I'm being sucked into quicksand.

‘Just coming up to 4pm.'

'Oh no, oh no.' Underneath the pancake foundation I've turned a wispy Cate Blanchett white.

'Lara what is it?'

'My flight leaves in an hour.'

'No, you said 7pm….' Zoë takes the ticket from me. I watch as realization contorts her face. 'Oh shit.'

'I just saw the 7 in the 17.00. I thought—' I shake my head, foiled again by the 24-hour clock. I take a breath as my brain races trying to think of a way round this. I know Helen said it was the last flight of the day but maybe I could find another airline? Or would that break The California Club code? If I hired a car and drove, maybe no one need know? But it's a six-hour slog. Oh god, oh misery, oh Elliot! – slipping ever more out of reach. And then I feel my body slumping in defeat.

It’s over.

‘You can still make it!’

‘What?’ I look up at Boris.

'You are packed?'

'Suitcase is in the car.’ For what it's worth.

'You can, you can do it.’

‘Unless you’ve got a fully working replica of Chitty Chitty Bang-Bang out the back-‘

'Freeway is no good now but you can take Western Avenue most all the way.'

Zoe brightens. ‘It’s got to be worth a shot!’

'But we don't even know where Western Avenue is!' I protest.

'Is simple. I show on map.' Using the glitterstick he traces the path to the airport.

Zoë and I stare at the shimmering snail-slick, paralyzed by the prospect of negotiating unfamiliar roads at high speed.

'But maybe this flight is not so important?' he shrugs.

Suddenly we're animated. 'Oh yes it is!' we insist.

How could I even consider giving up without a fight?

'Well, then!' He makes a grand shooing motion with his arms.

'Oh my god!' we cry, lunging for the door only to find our stride severely restricted by the dresses. 'The costumes!'

'Quick, turn around!' I twizzle Zoë and fiddle frenetically with the sequence of hooks and eyes at her collar. 'Keep still!' I squeak as she kicks off her shoes, dropping three inches and causing me to catch the top hook in her wig.

'Aaaghh!' Zoë screeches as her head wrenches back. 'Undo the zip!' She panics, reaching around behind her, wriggling as if she's been doused in itching powder.

'Stop!' Boris bellows.

We look up from our grappling, startled by his vocal amplification.

'Much as I would love to watch you two ladies undress one another …' he smiles, savoring the moment for a millisecond longer than our schedule can allow. 'I trust you, so GO! You bring back tomorrow, okay?' He squeezes Zoë's elbow as he herds us to the door.

She reaches back and smothers him with a feather-up-the-nostril hug. 'I'll be here before breakfast, I promise – thank you so much!'

For a moment his face fills with transcendental bliss as his hugging hands discover her zip has descended as far as her G-stringed bottom. But before Zoë even realizes what's going on, he zips her back to decency.

'Tomorrow,' he concludes, eyes misting with delicious anticipation.

'I'll drive!' Zoë snatches the keys from my trembling hands as we do our hobbling version of a Benny Hill dash to the parking lot.

'You sure?' I frown. This surely isn't the best time for experimentation.