Imogen is an astonishing few inches from his face, concentrating, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth.
‘Blue suits you, William.’ She waves something in front of his face but it’s a blur. ‘Now, mascara. Whatever you do, don’t blink. Trust me and keep your eyes open.’
‘OK,’ he says, palms tingling to rest on her hips that are there, right in front of him. But as she puts the brush on his lashes, both eyes slam shut.
‘You nincompoop.’ Imogen laughs. ‘Look!’ She holds a mirror to his face.
The black smear runs from under his eye all the way to his nose, but it’s the blue arcs of his eyelids that alarm him.
‘What are you doing to me?’
‘Making you look like a woman, what do you think I’m doing?’ She’s enjoying his consternation and he decides to milk it.
‘My mum’d have a fit,’ he says, but instantly regrets it. He doesn’t want Imogen to think his family prudish, so adds, ‘Though Uncle Robert and Howard would love it,’ and then regrets that too.
‘Who’s Howard?’
William feels the rise of a flush to his face. ‘Part of the family business.’
‘And a good friend of your uncle’s?’ She smiles in a way that makes him even more uncomfortable.
‘Yes,’ he says.
Imogen’s wiping under his eyes with cotton wool drenched in something chemical and cold. ‘You know that sort of thing doesn’t bother us, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he says, as casually as he can.
‘Did Martin tell you Dad’s firm worked on the Lady Chatterley trial last year?’ William remembers how one of the boys rented his dog-eared copy out for a daily rate. Martin boasted that if it wasn’t for his father, the book would still be banned and he didn’t need to pay to read it, thank you very much, they had a copy at home. ‘His motto,’ Imogen continues, mercifully ignoring William’s high colour, ‘is anything goes, as long as it goes with kindness.’
‘For a kind woman, Mum’s not always kind to them,’ he says, disarmed by the sentiment.
‘Look up,’ she says, coming at him again with the mascara wand, ‘and don’t blink.’ She’s leaning into his face again. ‘Would she rather Howard wasn’t part of the family business?’
‘Perhaps,’ he says, finding it easier to talk to the ceiling than her creamy face. ‘She’d also prefer that Robert didn’t remind her so much of my dad.’ He glances back at her, so close he can see the downy hairs above her top lip. ‘They were identical twins too.’
‘Yeah, Martin told me.’
‘And,’ he continues, pleased to know Martin talks about him to his family, ‘it could be she thinks the two of them will lure me into the family business.’
‘Would you want that?’ She is still focusing on his eyes with fierce concentration.
‘I want to do something with my voice. So does she.’
‘I don’t know why I’m bothering with this mascara, your eyelashes are incredibly thick.’ Imogen stands back for a moment and takes a stubby-looking pencil out of her make-up bag. ‘Martin adores your mum. He says she’s stylish and beautiful and worships you.’ She rummages in the bag and finds a sharpener for the eye pencil. ‘It must have been horrid for her, after your dad died.’
‘Yep,’ he says, stunned at what an intimate conversation he finds himself in, ‘really horrid.’
Imogen starts colouring in his eyebrows. ‘But you know, it’s OK to be critical of someone you love.’ She rubs with her thumb, blending the colour. ‘It doesn’t mean you love them less, or that everything about them’s wrong. Open your mouth.’ William feels the velvety lipstick glide on. ‘You soon learn that with a rabble of siblings like mine. See as much of Robert as you want, I say, but show your mum you love her too and aren’t about to turn into a debauched undertaker.’ She’s tickling his cheeks now with a large, whispery brush. ‘Unless that’s what you want.’ She laughs.
‘It’s not,’ he says as quickly as he can, still sounding nonchalant.
She laughs again, collecting brushes and zipping them up in the bulging make-up bag, then holds his chin in one hand and surveys him. ‘You make a gorgeous girl, though it’s more to do with those cheekbones and big blue eyes than anything I’ve done.’
William curses his fair skin as he feels the blood rushing to the surface again, but their talk leaves him feeling grown-up, as if he’s just gone through a rite of passage; discussing not only the difficult bits of his family, but his own sexuality – with Imogen Mussey!
? ? ?
An hour later, William is playing Sophia, with whom Martin’s character, Giovanni, is in love. William hasn’t mastered the finer plot points of the play, beyond who he’s supposed to love and who loves him. The rest of it involves him being greeted with, ‘Ciao bella!’ by just about everyone, and having to repeat it sounding as female as possible, which isn’t too hard, as he has a fine contralto voice to call upon. As the curtain, taken from the boys’ bedroom, is yanked up by Edward, William judges it prudent to throw all he’s got into his ‘Ciao bellas’, so from the outset and unrehearsed, he lowers one hip, resting his hand lightly on it, bends his other knee a little and pats his bubbly blonde wig.
Mrs Mussey is tickled right away and, as her throaty chuckle gets louder, she sets off not only the rest of the small audience, but the cast too. By the second act, when the liver/heart is removed from Edward’s character, as soon as anyone delivers the line, ‘Ciao bella!’ in William’s direction, the audience starts laughing in anticipation and the cast is reduced to giggles.