Fur Coat No Knickers (15 page)

God, I
feel unusually powerful today.
Perhaps it was because I knew he was waiting around for me (for a change). It gave me the chance to have the upper hand.

I set myself a target
:
I’m going to make him wait at least an hour before I respond. Maybe even two hours. In fact I may not even text him till I land.
I managed about fifteen seconds before I responded just incase he got put off waiting… I was never very good at meeting targets anyway.

[Text to Travis]

Hello gorgeous. Will set off to airport in 10 mins. Can’t wait to be with you Xxxxxxxx

This time around, I was going to go less extreme in my choice of outfit. I opted to wear a very simple, figure-hugging, nude, woollen dress that sexually draped off one shoulder. Hoping the Big-Man upstairs wouldn’t notice, I had decided not to wear any underwear. I accessorised with a leopard print belt that pulled me in at the waist, a matching bag, along with brown boots complete with leopard print heels. All of which were courtesy of the fabulous Mr. Jimmy Choo. Even though these were from last year’s collection, they were timeless classics. I completed the effect by applying soft gold tones of makeup and lashings of lip-gloss. Stepping back, I pulled a few poses in the mirror and then excitedly left for the airport.  

I arrived in plenty of time, making a note of where I parked the car
this time. I also made sure to listen very carefully to the attendant who checked me in. (I wasn’t going to risk anything, given my recent experience).

It was unusually warm for the time of year
, yet the heating seemed to be on full blast in the airport. I began to regret wearing a woollen dress. I could feel beads of sweat appearing on my forehead and squelching under my armpits. Nonetheless, I teetered my way through to the departure lounge and waited to be called.
So far, so good.

With time to spare, I decided to take my obligatory walk around the
Duty Free section. As I idly wandered around, a flamboyant male makeup artist caught my eye. What intrigued me was the fact I could hear him bitching quite distinctly in a repulsed tone to what appeared to be his assistant;

‘… he was like a Monet, incredible from a distance, but
revolting
up close,’ he was saying in a heavy French accent.

Fascinated by his mystique and conversation, I lingered. Glancing through the corner of his eye at me, in an exaggerated ‘I’m busy’ fashion, he sighed and turned back to his assistant to carry on with his conversation. Not one to be easily put off, I approached the counter with slight apprehension.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, hesitantly. Without even acknowledging my presence, the man immediately raised his voice and along with his hand, right up to my face. It was a deliberate attempt to completely cut me off, the cheeky froggy fecker! Then, once he had decided he had finished his conversation, he lowered his hand, swiveled on his heels and with a snooty expression, sighed heavily at me.

‘How can I help
, Monsieur?’ he said, turning his eyes away from me to inspect his manicure.

‘Pardon?’ I said in horror, as I looked around for this ‘man’ he was addressing. Nope, the froggy fecker was most definitely addressing me!

‘Err, pardon… Madame?’ he said, his face utterly deadpan.

‘I’m
… I’m looking for some perfume.’ I stuttered as I tried to come to terms with his insult. Did he think I was a Lady boy?

‘Okay
,’ he snarled with wide nostrils. He couldn’t have looked more disinterested if he tried. ‘Daytime? Evening? Floral? Musky? Woody? Light? Spicy? Sexy…?’

With my confidence feeling severely knocked, I ploughed on, ignoring the slight lump in my throat;

‘Well… a sexy one. I’m meeting someone very, very special and I’m looking for something a little… provocative? What would you recommend?’

He offered no reply, tutting as he proceeded to make his way over to me from behind the counter.

‘Right, Madame, I am presuming you are referring to a fragrance?’

‘Yes
,’ I replied gingerly, as I took a step back in confusion and weighed up in my mind whether this guy was on something. What the feck else would I be referring to?

With an increasingly disgusted look on his face, his eyes darted over to his assistant.

‘Sacre bleu…’ he muttered. Then glaring back at me he gave it to me with both barrels while shaking his head vigorously. ‘Non-non-non. Madame, surely we need to sort
this
[waving his hand around my face] before we can deal with your [whiffing through his flared nostrils]… odour. But it’s okay, I understand
that
time in a woman’s life - those hot-flushes - it must be… difficult –
non?’

Is this man Satan’s very own PR?
I took a deep breath and tried to square my shoulders and verbally attack him back, but the words just wouldn’t come out. Instead, I found myself reaching round for the shoulder strap of my handbag and with a tight grasp, uncomfortably pulling it closer to me. The makeup on my face had obviously melted with the heat.

‘Please don’t leave me like this’ I blurted, suddenly desperate and convinced I must look like a complete horror.
How could I possibly let Travis down like this?

‘Can you fix me, like NOW?’ I begged
, panic stricken.

Silent once more, his eyes zoomed in at my boots
from last season.

‘Well
, I cannot work miracles my dear. But I am
ze
best, so I will do what I can.’

Empowered by his own self-righteousness, I watched him flick his perfect mane to one side as he turned to walk off. His exaggerated steps and thrusting of the hips made for a magnificent stride that any catwalk model would have been proud of.

‘Chantelle. Candice. Come,’ he demanded, summoning his assistants with a fierce snap of his fingers.

‘Yes Franc
,’ [pronounced ‘Fronk’] chorused two young women who came hurrying across.

‘You!’ h
e ferociously commanded to one of the girls. ‘Pallet. Now. And get me
ze
latest collection, we will surely need it. I am going to prepare,’ he announced with a sharp clap of his hands before propelling me into a chair.

As he and the assistants busied about me removing my existing
(albeit melted) makeup, I took some time to analyse my ridiculer. Despite the fact that he was a
complete
bitch, I was ever more curious about him.

He was incredibly beautiful, with amazingly high chee
kbones and a raven black, Vogue-esque haircut that complimented his perfectly chiseled features. He was tall and super-slim. There was no doubt about it, he had the ultimate size-zero waist; from which he draped a shimmering, studded black leather belt, complete with a pouch, overflowing with makeup brushes. His all-black outfit left nothing to the imagination; it consisted of skinny leather jeans (through which I couldn’t help noticing that his manly-hood was parked to the left) and a very tight fitting, deep V-neck t-shirt. Of course, Franc was more than aware of his superiority. We were mere mortals compared with this god-like, captivating creature of beauty. His sheer glamorous presence was intimidating to say the least.

While I was acutely aware I
severely disliked him, I also knew I wanted to be just like him. He was everything I was not. I was the woman, yet he was infinitely more feminine and sexy. He was effortlessly glamorous too - with such grace, beauty and confidence. Strangely, I wanted - no, in fact, I needed - to be liked by him.

Why
is life so cruel and unfair? How is it fair that I should have work so hard trying to look good, and yet still hate what I see so much?

I swallowed hard because I knew these thoughts were eating away at what little self
-confidence I had. I did what I always did and raised my emotional shield, burying my painful thoughts deep down where nobody could get to them - not even me.

I’ve always known I was different to
everyone else. I will never forget the light bulb moment when I decided to do something about my looks and change my life forever…

I was a schoolgirl at the time. I used to spend most of the day at school in sheer terror, or sobbing. The minute the bell
rang, I’d be up like a shot from my chair to make a run for it. But the bullies were fast - faster than me, anyway. I never asked why they did what they did.

‘You’re the runt of the litter
,’ they insisted. Then, using various terms of abuse, they’d explain just how totally un-cool I was; with my carrot-coloured, unruly and frizzy hair; my pale white skin, unfashionable clothes and, of course, the crazy, alcoholic dad.

I used to lie in bed holding my fluffy covered hot water bottle over the latest bruises and cuts and wonder
:
why don’t they taunt Laura?
We both had the same dad after all. Turns out, the answer was simple: Laura was beautiful and I was not.

Then, one night, I had an epiphany. I made a decision to physically change everything about me that was humanly possible. I would recreate myself to fit into society. I’ve spent the last twenty or so years doing just that, even though
- as my current experience indicates - I have never really managed to rid myself of that gawky teenager underneath my recreated self.

Willing myself to appear confident, I cleared my throat.

‘I need to look as good as possible,’ I said.

Without acknowledgement, Franc began pulling my face
into different lights (which was now bare of any makeup).

‘These lights Madame
… they do you no favours,’ he announced, after taking a step back.

I tried to figh
t back the tears. My worst fear… confirmed by an expert.

‘You should invest in some of the Botox,’ Franc pr
onounced, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world.

‘I’ve just had some
,’ I replied, utterly deflated. In fact, I’d had the maximum I was allowed. ‘But maybe it’s not all kicked in yet, it does take a…’

‘Hmmm,
I would ask for a refund,’ he interrupted. ‘It ’as obviously not worked.’

I bit my lip and dug my nails into my hands. I deeply regretted ever having come to the counter
. I just wanted to get up and leave.

‘However Madame, I can make you look
magnifique
with this new collection,’ he added in a slightly more humane tone. ‘It has just arrived from Paris.’

‘
Maybe this isn’t a good idea, I only have about twenty minutes before I board,’ I lied. I had nearly an hour, but I wanted to get away from this froggy fecker and his abuse as soon as possible. In fact, I wanted to report him. He was
so
rude. Better still, I wanted to deck him round the head with a breezeblock or two
.
Then
,
I would report him and get him fired.

‘Madame, you are in
ze
best hands,’ said Franc, tutting away my concerns. ‘I will create a work of art from you. You will look and feel
fantastique,
do not worry.’ With that, he pinched his fingers together and kissed them with a load of ‘
mwahs’
. I didn’t think people actually did that - maybe Franc wasn’t so cool after all.

Still,
Franc’s insults had clearly hit their target. I still felt in quite clear need of his help. I decided the best thing to do was let him work his magic. Maybe I wouldn’t report him. Not yet at least.

Strangely, as I indicated I would let him get on with the job, Franc became a little nicer. As I started to muse over how much commission he gets, my beautifully blow-dried hair was pulled back to within an inch of its life as the transformation began.

The makeover seemed to go on and on as he blended in
this
and rubbed in
that
. After half an hour, I nervously looked at my watch, knowing that it was nearly time for boarding.

It gradually began to dawn upon me that every passer
-by was staring at me, as they hurried to their flights. I even caught the sound of the occasional ‘wow’. My stomach butterflied and flipped with excitement.
God he must be doing a great job,
I thought. I wished I could see myself, but he’d positioned me well out of sight of any mirrors.

Finally, Franc
stepped back and, together with his assistants they
ooh'd
, and
ahhh'd
his ‘masterpiece’.

‘Can I have a sneaky look?’ I asked
.

‘Non!’
he snapped. Recovering himself, he smiled, ‘wait till I have completed my artwork. Just a few final touches…’  

‘I’m so excited. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done.’

‘Candice! Get ze mirror for ze gorgeous mademoiselle,’ said the evidently satisfied Franc, clicking his fingers impatiently.