Painted Faces (13 page)

We're not normally so snippy with one another, but I'm still annoyed at her for being a bitch to Nicholas, and she's still annoyed at me because Nicholas' penchant for dressing up as a woman hasn't caused me to write him off as a freak. It's also getting on her goat that Nicholas has been paying far more attention to me than he has been to her.

We've been friends since we were sixteen, and over the course of the nine years that have passed since then Nora has never been overlooked by a man in favour of me. I'm the one who guys like to have as their friend. She's the one they want to lure into bed. It's always been the way of things. I can't really blame her for being a little muddled up over the recent turn of events.

“
So, where were you all morning?” she asks, her eyes still glued to the screen of her laptop.

“
Out having coffee with Nicholas. We went to the park and guess what? I saw a woman there with a ferret. She had it with her as if it was the most normal thing in the world. I was well impressed.”

Nora scrunches up her nose at me. “You were impressed because she had a ferret with her? Is that even legal? I thought those things could bite you and give you rabies.”

“
Don't be so melodramatic. Besides, this one didn't bite. He even let me pet him and he kept running in and out between my legs like a four year old all jacked up and hyper on sugar.”

One end of Nora's mouth turns up in a half smile. “I hope you're going to have a shower after that, who knows what kinds of fleas it might have left on you.”

I throw my head back and roll my eyes. “I'll take my chances. Oh, I have other news,” I continue.

“
What's that?” Nora asks, as her fingers are tap, tap, tapping away at her keyboard.

“
Nicholas offered me a job working as the assistant for his shows. You know, helping him choose his outfits and putting on his make-up. How cool is that?”

Suddenly her tapping ceases and she looks up at me. “Are you serious?”

“
Yes, why wouldn't I be?”

“
Um, one because you already have two jobs, two because you have no experience in that area, and three because, well, it's just a little odd, don't you think? Why would he offer the position randomly to you when he could do a couple interviews and hire someone who actually knows what they're doing?”

Her reasons disgruntle me. “Maybe he doesn't like doing interviews,” I say. “And for some reason he thinks I'm the funniest person ever, he said he likes having me around.”

I add on this last bit to get a rise out of her. It's not very successful. She lets out a derisive snort. After having lived with me for almost three years, she finds what other people would term 'funny' as me being an irritating, loud mouthed bitch.

“
Perhaps he's laughing at you, rather than with you,” Nora suggests with a cheeky grin.

“
Meh. I'm not bothered either way.” I lie “You should see his apartment. It's chock full with boxes of wigs and women's clothing. I can't wait to have a look through it all.”

“
You really need to find yourself a decent hobby Fred,” she remarks, returning to her bitch-fest with Saoirse. Her comment makes my stomach sink to the floor, like when you pop a balloon with a pin.

Telling myself that my interest in Nicholas' woman clothes is perfectly normal, I make a sandwich for lunch and head into my bedroom for a bit of a lie down. I open my window and let the city noise drift in.

I tend to get a little antsy when it's too quiet. It's like my brain has made this strange evolution that helps it to adjust to the stress of living in a city. If there isn't at least some kind of ambient noise in the background I get freaked out. My favourite is the hum of the oven as it's baking a cake or a nice lasagne. That way you get the comfort of the noise and the prospect of a bit of grub on the horizon.

The sounds of traffic and people talking patter in through my window. I finish eating my lunch and then lie back on my bed, slipping off my flip flops. Before I know it I've drifted to sleep and I'm dreaming of Nicholas wearing boxer shorts, high heels and a lacy black bra over his muscular chest.

He's wearing make-up too, but not much; a little mascara and some dark lipstick. For some reason I am incredibly turned on by the sight. He's half boy, half girl. All gorgeous. His hair is messy and his eyelids are lowered. Bedroom eyes, my aunty Margaret would call them. She reads a lot of erotic romance novels, so she's always coming out with these random phrases that you'd never use in real life.

I'm lying on his bed, and it's the one I imagined he had when I thought of him and the Italian woman Dorotea having sex, draped in midnight black silk sheets. I don't know why I subconsciously think that silk sheets are sexy, because in reality they'd probably be really uncomfortable, sticking to all the wrong places.

I'm only wearing my underwear; the purple bra I had on the first time I met Nicholas and matching pants. He steps up to the bed and leans one knee on the mattress. I crawl over to him and trace my fingers over one of his bra straps, sensuously lowering it over his shoulder. His scorching blue eyes burn a trail along my cleavage and he smiles as I raise my hand and lower the other strap. His hand reaches to one of my breasts and lightly squeezes. Then everything goes slightly hazy.

I wake up and there's a little puddle of drool on my pillow. I glance at the clock to see I'd been napping for a couple of hours. My cheeks flame with embarrassment when I remember the contents of my dream. I never considered myself to be kinky, but the idea of Nicholas in a bra is oddly appealing. Perhaps I have a slight touch of lesbianism in me that I never noticed before. Nora better watch out.

I quickly throw on a long black gypsy skirt and a light grey t-shirt, run a brush through my hair and dab on a bit of make-up. I don't have time for dinner, but my stomach is full of butterflies for my first night as Nicholas' assistant so I don't have much of an appetite anyway. It's just gone five past eight when I knock on his door. He answers immediately, looking flustered.

“
There you are,” he says. “I need your help. I just can't decide which outfit to wear tonight.”

I step into his apartment. “What time do you go on stage?”

“
Around ten or so,” he replies, leading me into his bedroom where there are several dresses strewn across the bed. I'd been completely wrong when I'd visualised it. It's made from light pine wood and the sheets are grey cotton. A lot more practical than black silk, I imagine.

“
Well do you need particular outfits for particular songs?” I ask. “Like when you put on the Barbara get up last night for “Don't rain on my parade.” Or have we got free reign to pick out what we like?”

Nicholas runs a hand through his hair. “Free reign, I guess. I wanted to pull out all the stops for my first performance last night, but really the outfits don't have to match the songs. Very few people are sober enough to notice anyway.” He seems a little sad over that.

“
Well I definitely noticed. You were smokin',” I reply to try and cheer him up. I admit I haven't known him for long, but I haven't yet seen him like he is now, all worried and anxious.

He gives me a smile that lights up his entire face. “Of course
you
noticed,” he says. “That's why you're my new best friend.”

I squeeze his arm and begin looking through the assortment of outfits.

“
How about this one?” I ask, holding up a slinky red cocktail dress.

“
Too eighties,” Nicholas replies, shaking his head. He's pacing back and forth, slightly manic. Perhaps he's one of those crazy geniuses. Before going on stage he has a breakdown, but once he steps out in front of the audience he becomes Vivica Blue: androgynous boy-girl with a voice capable of singing like a legend.

“
Okay, so what decade are you thinking? Please don't say nineties,” I joke, imagining some of the awful dresses women wore back then. The grunge style is probably the only one I admire from that period.

“
Something classy, let's say....” he drifts off and rushes out of the room. I can hear him rifling through an unpacked box out in the living area. He comes back in wielding a wonderful dress consisting of black satin with silver and gold beading.

“
Twenties,” he says, completing his unfinished sentence.

“
Oh I like it, do you have any bobbed wigs? That would totally complete the look.”

Nicholas' eyes shine with excitement. “I most certainly do.” He leaves the room yet again, before returning with a short blond wig. “I'll look just like Jane Horrocks when she played Sally Bowles in
Cabaret
on Broadway,” he declares. “Fred you're a genius. I knew I wouldn't regret hiring you.”

“
Hey, I hardly did a thing,” I say, raising my hands in the air. “It was all you. You really don't need an assistant, you know.”

He stops fussing over the wig for a minute to look at me. “Getting ready for a performance is no fun when you haven't got someone to share it with, and I want to share it with you, Freda.”

I like the sound of my full name on his tongue. “Well, I'm not complaining. This is a dream job. I feel like one of those pretentious stylists you see on television makeover shows, who get paid thousands to tell some woman how to match her blouse with her skirt.”

Nicholas laughs as he carefully places the dress and the wig inside a plastic zip cover. He hands it to me as he grabs what he needs before we leave for the club. He has one of those big silver boxy make-up sets. You know the ones that look like treasure chests, and you open them up to reveal layers upon layers of eye shadows and blushers.

Out on the street Nicholas hails a cab and within minutes we're hurrying in the back entrance of The Glamour Patch, past the Saturday crowd who are queuing up to get inside. He quickly greets the manager, who turns out to be the guy from last night who introduced Nicholas' performance, the one with the bleached hair and purple shirt.

“
Phil, this is my assistant Fred. She'll be helping me get ready for my gig,” he says.

I shake Phil's hand as he smiles at me warmly. “Fabulous hair Fred, it's a pleasure to meet you,” then he rushes off to his office.

“
Saturdays are busy, busy, busy,” Nicholas sings as we step inside a small dark room. He flicks the light switch to reveal a dressing table shoved up against one wall, with a massive mirror, two chairs and various free standing hangers. I pop Nicholas' outfit onto one of the hangers and put his make-up box down on the table.

“
So, where do we start?” I ask, hands on hips.

Nicholas has a navy backpack with him, which he drops down onto the floor.

“
Hmm, how about a drink first? I'm a little more nervy than usual. I think I need something to settle me down.”

“
Do you normally get nervous before a show?” I ask.

“
Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Perhaps it's because you're here. I want to impress you.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Really? But I was here last night and you were fine.”

He smirks. “You didn't see me before the show.”

“
You really don't have to be worried about what I think; I love your whole act. You can't do much wrong in my eyes,” I try to reassure him. In the back of my mind I'm truly flattered that he wants to impress me. I must have made quite the impact on him. It's strange because I thought I'd been acting like a fool half the time.

A second later Sean, the drummer from The Wilting Willows and snogging partner of Harry, ducks his head in the door.

“
Hey Nick, you all set for tonight's gig?” he asks, with a big grin on his face, a clear sign that he got some decent action last night. I'll be giving Harry a call tomorrow to get all the details. I'm always strangely intrigued to hear about what two men do together in bed. Needless to say, I'm quite an avid follower of Harry's love life.

Nicholas is leaning against the wall, arms casually folded across his chest. “I sure am, be a dear and grab myself and Fred here a drink from the bar, would you?” he glances at me wickedly before bringing his eyes back to Sean. “Two mojitos, if you don't mind.”

I'm suddenly struck with the memory of him taking a sip of my mojito last night, saying he wanted to put his lips where my lips had been. A little shiver runs through me and my stomach clenches.