Painted Faces (20 page)

I glance up at Nicholas just as he asks, “Do those fit you all right? You look about a size five, those are a six.”

“
I'm a five and a half actually, but these are okay. Where did you get them? You're definitely bigger than a size six.”

He smirks, clearly thinking of the innuendo that large feet equal large privates. “Why thank you Fred, I didn't realise you noticed. Those were my mother's. I like to keep some of her stuff with me.”

I pause in my inspection of the shoes to look up at him. “You keep your mother's things still, after all this time?”

“
I do. It's comforting.”

In my head I'm thinking it might be some strange psychological attachment related to grief, but for once I don't blurt out exactly what's inside my noggin. Instead I reply, “You must have really loved her.”

His smile is a sad one. “I did. Still do. Now the first step is to keep your legs straight as you walk, try not to bend your knees.”

Pushing away the thought of how weird it is to be wearing his dead mother's shoes, I try to follow his instructions. “You do realise I'm probably one of the most ungraceful women you will ever meet. I'm not sure it's possible for me to keep my legs straight when I walk. I'll look like I'm trying to impersonate a robot.”

“
Nonsense. Make sure you put your heel down first rather than your toe. Keep your legs together and take slow, easy steps.”

I snicker and comment, “That's not what you were saying earlier on.” Damn internal filter, it never keeps working properly for long.

“
I know. I'm not usually known for telling women to close their legs, but for this particular activity it's a requirement. Besides, you can spread them for me later.”

I raise an eyebrow and shake my head at him. “You should be so lucky.”

I take slow steps across the room, just like he told me to. Even though the heels aren't very high, they still feel like skyscrapers to me since I'm not used to wearing them. I wobble a little before finding my feet. Soon I pick up my pace, becoming increasingly more confident in the dead woman's shoes. Weird.

“
Um, Nicholas, can I ask you something?” I venture nervously.

“
Fire away,” he says, before sitting carefully down on a stool in the kitchen area. He crosses one leg over the other, the way a woman would. Sometimes his movements are so authentically female it's unsettling. When I cross my legs I tend to let one ankle rest on my knee, not at all as feminine or dexterous as the way Nicholas does it. Although that might just be because he's wearing the heels, which is putting him into woman mode.

I swallow to try and moisten my dry throat before mumbling, “Well, I was just going to ask you if you could keep what happened between us today to yourself. I don't want you telling people all the details the way you told everyone the details of your night with Dorotea.”

“
If I recall correctly, you were the one who prompted me to tell,” he answers with a wicked grin and a touch of provocation.

“
Yeah well...you'll soon learn that inconsistency is the name of the game with me.”

“
You're certainly inconsistently hot and cold,” Nicholas throws back sharply, his expression serious all of a sudden.

“
What's that supposed to mean?” I ask, turning on my heel to face him.

He flings his eyes to the
chaise longue
where not long ago he gave me one of the most intense orgasms of my life. “One minute you're all panting and wet for me, and the next you're sarcastically telling me to
walk it off, Viv
. We're attracted to one another, why all the dancing back and forward?”

Great, now I feel guilty. I shrug and let my eyes fall to the floor. “I'm not used to this. And despite the attraction, I don't think we'll be good for one another. Somebody will get hurt, and that somebody will most likely be me.”

Nicholas might have the quirk of being a drag queen, but we're still aeons apart when it comes to looks. He's all smooth grace and sexy smiles, whereas I'm big haired, awkward and a touch frumpy. You may well roll your eyes at my low self-esteem. It's a condition for which there is no cure.

He stands now and strides towards me, stopping inches from my face. “I would never hurt you.”

I look anywhere but at his beautiful blue eyes. “Perhaps not intentionally...” I trail off.

“
Look at me Freda,” he grabs my chin and forces me to meet his gaze. “I would
never
hurt you.”

His words singe me. Is he telling the truth?

“
But I'm working for you now. It's not the best idea for us to go complicating things.” I feel like some idiot girl off a soap opera with that shitty line.

He's silent for a long moment. His face is difficult to read. “Okay then,” he finally replies.

He unexpectedly waves away our argument and begins chatting about tonight's gig and what he plans on singing and wearing. I'm relieved that he's not pushing the issue, yet I'm also kind of disappointed that he gave up so easily.

I am such a wanker sometimes.

Frilly Knickers and Pretty Men

Later that day Nicholas has me unpacking an array of outfits in the dressing room at The Glamour Patch. He hasn't breathed a word about our earlier encounter and subsequent argument. Perhaps he's deciding to move on, realising that I'm a whiny girl who isn't worth his efforts when he could have a porn star like Dorotea when and wherever he wants her. Okay, so I know she's not an actual porn star, but she might as well be compared to me.

Tonight Nicholas is going for a burlesque inspired look that includes a silky red and black corset, frilly knickers (with some tiny black men's briefs underneath to make sure his meat and two veg don't pop out to say hello) hold-up stockings and a pair of black leather high heeled boots. On his head is a bobbed wig, black this time as opposed to blond.

“
Why do you always change your look?” I ask him, as I tug the wig into place so that it sits in the right position on top of his head. “Dame Edna Everage always wore similar outfits, so did Lily Savage.”

Nicholas lets out a throaty laugh as he touches up his blusher. “Are you seriously comparing me to Paul O'Grady?” He cocks a shapely eyebrow at me.

While I was doing his make-up earlier on I used a brow brush and an eyebrow pencil to make his brows look more structured and feminine. Although they weren't very bushy to begin with. I have a feeling he does some very subtle plucking. You'd hardly notice it when he's in his everyday “Nicholas” mode. But they're just a little too suspiciously neat.

“
What's the problem with that? Lily Savage was a staple of my childhood television experience. I have this dream that one day I'll be neighbours with Paul O'Grady. We'll have tea together every morning followed by gossiping and walking our spoiled dogs in the park.”

Nicholas raises his hand and jokingly slaps me hard on the arse. “Hey! You've already got yourself one drag queen best friend, you don't need another one. And the problem is that we are very different kinds of performers, plus I can sing.”

“
And Paul's funnier than you,” I mutter huffily under my breath, rubbing a hand over my now stinging bottom.

Nicholas grins happily as he watches me. “I heard that, another word from you and I'll be forced to take you over my knee.” He picks up a hair brush and makes a show of fake paddling my behind. I giggle and run to the other side of the room so that he can't get to me.

“
Easy there Viv, somebody might walk in and think you beat on your employees.”

“
I'm sure they'll forgive me, after all, my employee is a
very
naughty girl with a
very
nice bottom,” he stares at me through the mirror on the dressing table. If he wasn't in his Vivica Blue costume I'd probably be more embarrassed by the way he's staring at me, as though silently reminding me of his hand being down my knickers not too long ago.

He breaks the moment when he speaks. “To answer your question, I don't really know why I change my look all the time. It's just how I do it. I'd probably get bored if I had to wear the same thing for every gig.”

“
It definitely keeps things interesting,” I tell him with a smile. I don't think I've ever had as much fun as I've had while sifting through all of Nicholas' drag clothes. He has everything from sequins, to silk, to spandex. I'm secretly anticipating the night he decides to don the latter. Nothing will be left to the imagination, and I will be reserving myself a front row seat.

“
So I hear you're coming to Electric Picnic with us,” I say, casually sitting down on the chair beside him.

“
Is that the music festival thing Sean and Harry were going on about?” he asks, dabbing a small bit of gloss onto his lips. I nod silently. “Yes I'm going. It sounds like it'll be fun and I love camping. Are you hinting at sharing a tent with me Fred?” he teases and gives me a camp smouldering look up and down.

I gulp at the thoughts of what sharing a tent with Nicholas would involve. I try to hide my nervousness when I reply, “No, um, I'll probably be sharing with Nora.”

His eyes are far too perceptive. “Ah, that's a shame. If it got cold at night we could have cuddled up and kept each other warm.”

I push back my initial instinct to tell him I wouldn't mind cuddling him if I could trust him not to drop the hand in the process. Ever since we met I've found him to be overly tactile, always touching the places that send my adrenaline soaring. The small of my back, the spot below my ear, the inside of my wrist..
Okay
, I'm turning
myself
on here. Who would have thought that a drag queen could be my ultimate male fantasy?

“
It will probably be sunny, so it won't get too cold,” I say, pushing back the imagery of the two of us alone in a tiny tent.

Nicholas lets out a loud guffaw of a laugh, and I don't know what I've said that he's found so funny. I keep asking him for the next few minutes, but he just shakes his head and wipes happy tears from the corners of his eyes. Annoyed by whatever private joke he's harbouring about me, probably something to do with my prudish embarrassment, I sigh and go about cleaning up the dressing room.

Just before he takes to the stage, Nicholas suggests that I go out and sit at the front of the audience to enjoy a drink. He says I worked hard enough today and that I deserve a break. He doesn't have to tell me twice. I grab a glass of white wine from the bar and hustle back to the stage where I swiftly sit myself down at a table of rowdy, pretty men.

I chat with them amiably and tell them that I'm Vivica Blue's executive assistant, even though I have no clue what exactly an executive assistant is, nor what one does. Their eyes all light up when they hear I know Nicholas and they immediately begin to pester me with questions about him and his ambiguous sexual orientation.

In layman's terms, they want to know if he's gay, straight or bi. I'd feel bad having to break it to them that he doesn't bat for their team, so in the spirit of keeping things mysterious I tap the side of my nose and give them the old “Now, now, wouldn't you like to know” routine. I'm sure Nicholas would thank me for preserving his mystique as a performer. The prospect of him being gay or bisexual is likely what keeps the place teeming with male punters on the nights of his gigs.

When Nicholas' set begins he comes out singing Nancy Sinatra's “These Boots Are Made For Walkin'”. He laughs as he sings and gives me a wink, before pointing down at his black leather boots. He's clearly singing the song intentionally to tease me about how crap I am with a heel any thicker than an inch and a half.

After a couple of songs he does a skit where he changes his whole outfit in front of the audience. I'd been wondering why he got me to leave a purple dress and a pair of custom made, red soled Louboutins by the side of the stage before he went on. I spent a while marvelling at how he managed to get a pair in his size. They must have cost him a pretty penny.

He cleverly manoeuvres himself out of the boots, seductively zipping them down while the audience whistles and cheers him on. He slips on the Louboutins and then pulls a shy looking guy in his early twenties up onto the stage and gets him to help him out of his corset. The guy's entire face goes red as a tomato as he fumbles with the complicated buckles, while Nicholas cheekily teases him not to be taking a peek. At long last he's in his new outfit and he continues with the second half of the gig.