I spend the next half hour painting on foundation, applying contour, shading her brows, and patting blush on her cheeks.
“Orgasm?” she asks, looking at the blush compact.
“It’s the best. Goes with almost every complexion.”
I reach into my lipstick drawer, pulling out two shades of lipstick, a lip liner, and a light pink gloss.
“That’s all for me?”
“Yeah.” I apply a succession of lip liner, lipstick, and gloss. “Okay, now your eyes. I do them last, ’cause it’s the most important part of the look. There are YouTube gurus who would disagree with me, but . . .” I shrug. “Whatever works, right?”
She starts giggling. “Remember when you got sent home from school for putting on too much makeup?”
My cheeks redden at the memory. I stole some makeup from Mum’s bag and applied it in the bathroom of our primary school. My teacher called the nurse, who thought I’d come down with a fever—my face was covered in splotchy blush and bronzer.
“Not my finest hour. Mum and Dad couldn’t stop laughing!”
“You’ve always been such a beauty genius. You can tell that story after you make your first million and are giving the keynote speech at—what’s a beauty conference?”
“Hmm. CEW?” Cosmetic Executive Women is one of the leading organizations for beauty executives. My favorite blogs report on its awards each year.
“There you go. At CEW.”
“Stop talking,” I say, grinning. “You’re going to look like a Picasso if you keep moving your face.”
I hold my wrist to steady it while I apply a thin line of eyeliner. Next, I buff on several shades of eye shadow, blending until her eyes are smoky.
I lean back to inspect my handiwork. “Now this is what I’m talking about.” Libby looks fantastic.
She examines herself critically in the full-length mirror next to my wardrobe. Several seconds of silence pass. Finally, she says, “You did a really good job.”
“Thank you! I just cleaned you up a bit.” I pull out my phone. “Hold still. I want to take a Snap.”
She smiles widely for the camera, reminding me of a little kid.
“That’s going on my Insta,” I say, saving the Snap to my camera roll and then uploading it to Instagram. “I want to break twenty thousand followers by the end of the school year.” I look at my phone again. I’ve spent so much time getting Libby ready for the party that I’ve completely neglected myself. “We only have forty-five minutes left, and I need to get myself ready. Can I leave you by yourself?”
“Charlotte, I might be inept with makeup, but I’m not a toddler.”
“Okay, chill, no need to get all snappy.”
I rush down the hall to the shared bathroom, bringing my shower caddy. I already washed my hair this morning, so all I need to do is suds up my body and apply some makeup.
While in the shower, I start daydreaming about my friends’ reactions to Libby. They’re going to be blown away when they see her.
But when I return to the room wrapped in a towel, I find that Libby has rubbed off half my work.
“What did you do?”
She looks sheepish. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“Wouldn’t notice? You’ve rubbed everything off!” The eye shadow is practically gone and her lips are almost bare.
“I’m not used to wearing all that makeup—I felt like a clown!”
“You looked bomb.”
“Well . . . I’m wearing the dress you wanted. And my hair is nice and sleek. And I still have on way more makeup than normal. Isn’t that enough?” She looks hopeful.
“Fine. I just want everything to go great. I want you to fit in.” I look at Libby with a hard eye. “Actually . . . you still look amazing. Less is more, and it suits you better, anyway.” Suddenly, I feel a little bit guilty for trying to bend Libby to my will. I need to do a better job of accepting her for who she is, not who I want her to be.
She visibly relaxes. “Thank you.”
“Natural beauty is totally in, so you’re on point.”
“I appreciate the effort. It means so much to me, Charlotte.”
“You’re my sister, silly. I’d do anything for you.”
“Anything?”
“Anything. Here,” I say, tossing her the latest issue of Tatler magazine. “Read this while I get ready.”
She wrinkles her nose. “This magazine is so silly—I never understood why you and Mum are obsessed with it.”
I gasp. “You did not just say that.”
“It’s so boring!”
“How do we come from the same family? Sorry, but I don’t have any issues of the Economist lying around.”
She laughs. “I don’t read the Economist. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Whatever. You’re like a thirty-year-old. We need to make you young again.”
She looks at me wryly. “Was I ever young?”
“Yeah, good point.” I grab one of the old issues of Elle from the floor of my closet. It’s hidden underneath a pile of dirty clothes that I keep meaning to send out for the school’s laundry service. “Read this instead,” I say, tossing her the issue. “It’s fashion and feminism. Give it a chance: you’ll love it.”
“How did I ever survive without you?” she says teasingly.
I shake my head. “I genuinely don’t know.”
eight
Even though all I have to do is apply party makeup and put on my clothes, it still takes me over an hour to get ready. By the time I’m finished applying my eyeliner, brushing out my hair, and putting on my clothes, Libby and I are dead late. I still take five seconds to Snap myself and post an Instagram of my shoes before leaving. Five seconds won’t kill anybody.
At least I’ve chosen a relatively simple outfit: gray tunic over black leggings, thick black cashmere scarf, gray stiletto boots, and my favorite black bomber jacket. I don’t want to steal attention from Libby tonight.
When we walk into the back room at Donatella fifteen minutes later, our cheeks pink from the wind, heads turn. As Libby shyly takes off her coat, however, nobody’s looking at me.
“Damn!” says David, whistling.
Oliver grins. “Looking good, Libs.”
“I would hit it,” Tarquin says to nobody in particular. “Definitely.”
As the boys look at her with interest, India gives Libby the once-over, nodding approvingly. “Your hair looks nice like that.”
Next to Oliver, Georgie grins at Libby, shooting her a thumbs-up. Even Flossie looks impressed.
I look at Edward, hoping to see a big smile, but his reaction is neutral. He looks at me, patting the seat next to him.
“Oh, but where will Libby sit?” There’s an open seat at the end of the table, between Tarquin and David. “I’ll sit there,” I say. “Libby, why don’t you sit here next to Edward?”
Libby does as she’s told. I plop down at the opposite end of the table and Tarquin immediately turns to me.
“Weston,” he says, “your sister is a right fittie.”
“She is?”
“Yeah. She’s hot. I’d do that.”
“Vomit. Don’t be a wanker.”