“Sit yourself up there, my love,” she said, pointing to a ridiculously high stool. I managed to clamber aboard, but it was not a dignified procedure, and I was somewhat hindered by my new boots. I sat on my hands, to hide them—the red, broken skin seemed to burn under the harsh overhead lighting, which showed up every flaw, every damaged inch.
She pushed my hair out of my face. “Right then,” she said, looking me over, too close. “D’you know, that won’t even be a problem. Bobbi’s got some marvelous concealers that can match any skin tone. I can’t get rid of it, but I can certainly minimize it.”
I wondered if she always talked about herself in the third person.
“Are you talking about my face?” I said.
“No, silly, your scar. Your face is lovely. You’ve got very clear skin, you know. Now, just watch this.” She had a tool belt around her waist in the manner of a joiner or plumber, and her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she worked.
“We’ve only got ten minutes till the store closes,” she said, “so I’ll focus on camouflage and eyes. D’you like a smoky eye?”
“I don’t like anything to do with smoking,” I said, and, bizarrely, she laughed again. Strange woman.
“You’ll see . . .” she said, pushing my head back, asking me to look up, look down, turn to the side . . . there was so much touching, with so many different implements, and she was so close that I could smell her minty gum, not quite masking the coffee she’d drunk earlier. A bell rang, and she swore. The intercom announced that the store was now closed.
“Time’s up, I’m afraid,” she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She passed me a hand mirror. I didn’t really recognize myself. The scar was barely noticeable, and my eyes were heavily rimmed and ringed with charcoal, reminding me of a program I’d watched recently about lemurs. My lips were painted the color of Earl Haig poppies.
“Well,” she said, “what do you think?”
“I look like a small Madagascan primate, or perhaps a North American raccoon,” I said. “It’s charming!”
She laughed so much she had to cross her legs, and she shooed me down from the chair and toward the door.
“I’m supposed to try and sell you the products and brushes,” she said. “If you want any, come back tomorrow and ask for Irene!”
I nodded, waved good-bye. Whoever Irene was, there was literally more chance of me purchasing weapons-grade plutonium from her.
14
The musician must have been experiencing a maelstrom of emotions at this moment. A shy, modest, self-effacing man, a man who is forced to perform because of his talent, to share it with the world, not because he wants to, but because he simply has to. He sings in the way that a bird sings; his music is a sweet, natural thing that comes like rain, like sunlight, something that, perfectly, just is. I thought about this as I ate my impromptu dinner. I was in a fast-food restaurant for the first time in my adult life, an enormous and garish place just around the corner from the music venue. It was mystifyingly, inexplicably busy. I wondered why humans would willingly queue at a counter to request processed food, then carry it to a table which was not even set, and then eat it from the paper? Afterward, despite having paid for it, the customers themselves are responsible for clearing away the detritus. Very strange.
After some contemplation, I had opted for a square of indeterminate white fish, which was coated in bread crumbs and deep fried and then inserted between an overly sweet bread bun, accompanied, bizarrely, by a processed cheese slice, a limp lettuce leaf and some salty, tangy white slime which bordered on obscenity. Despite Mummy’s best efforts, I am no epicure; however, surely it is a culinary truth universally acknowledged that fish and cheese do not go together? Someone really ought to tell Mr. McDonald. There was nothing to tempt me from the choice of desserts, so I opted instead for a coffee, which was bitter and lukewarm. Naturally, I had been about to pour it all over myself but, just in time, had read the warning printed on the paper cup, alerting me to the fact that hot liquids can cause injury. A lucky escape, Eleanor! I said to myself, laughing quietly. I began to suspect that Mr. McDonald was a very foolish man indeed, although, judging from the undiminished queue, a wealthy one.
I checked my watch, then picked up my shopper and put on my jerkin. I left the remains of my dinner where it was—what, after all, is the point of eating out if you have to clear up yourself? You might as well have stayed at home.
It was time.
The flaw in my plan, the hamartia, was this: there were no tickets available. The man at the box office actually laughed at me.
“It’s been sold out for a couple of days now, love,” he said. I explained, patiently and slowly, that I only wanted to watch the first half, the opening act, and suggested that they’d surely be able to admit one additional person, but it was impossible, apparently—fire regulations. For the second time in days, I felt tears come. The man laughed again.
“Don’t cry, love,” he said. “Honestly, they’re not even that good.” He leaned over confidentially. “I helped the singer bring his gear in from his car this afternoon. Bit of an arsehole, to be honest with you. You shouldn’t let a wee bit of success go to your head, that’s all I’m saying. Nice to be nice, eh?”
I nodded, wondering which singer he was talking about, and moved to the bar area to gather my thoughts. I wouldn’t gain entry without a ticket, that much was clear. And there were no tickets available. I ordered a Magners drink, remembering from last time that I’d be required to pour it myself. The barman was well over six feet tall and had created strange, enormous holes in his earlobes by inserting little black plastic circles in order to push back the skin. For some reason, I was reminded of my shower curtain.
This comforting thought of home gave me the courage to examine his tattoos, which snaked across his neck and down both arms. The colors were very beautiful, and the images were dense and complex. How marvelous to be able to read someone’s skin, to explore the story of his life across his chest, his arms, the softness at the back of his neck. The barman had roses and a treble clef, a cross, a woman’s face . . . so much detail, so little unadorned flesh. He saw me looking, smiled.
“Got any yourself?”
I shook my head, smiled back and hurried off to a table with my drink. His words resonated in my head. Why didn’t I have any tattoos? I had never given it a moment’s thought, and I’d never consciously decided either to have or not have one. The more I thought about it, the more I was drawn to the idea. Perhaps I could have one on my face, something complex and intricate which incorporated my scar, making it a feature? Or, better still, I could have one done somewhere secret. I liked that idea. The inside of my thigh, the back of my knee, the sole of my foot, perhaps.
I finished the Magners and the barman came over to remove my glass.
“Same again?” he asked.
“No thank you,” I said. “Can I ask you something?” I stopped picking off the remains of the nail polish. “Two things, actually. One: does it hurt, and two, how much does a tattoo cost?” He nodded, as if he’d been expecting my questions.
“Hurts like fuck, I’m not gonna lie,” he said. “In terms of cost, it depends on what you’re having done—there’s a big difference between Mum on your bicep and a massive tiger across your back, you know?”
I nodded; this made perfect sense.
“Lot of cowboys around, though,” he said, warming to his theme. “You want to go to Barry, in Thornton Street, if you’re getting one. Barry’s sound.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. I hadn’t expected this outcome from the evening, but then life has a way of surprising you sometimes.