Air Kisses Page 15

  These days even my weekends were full of beauty stuff – I had spent all of last Saturday getting my hair ionically straightened at a small Japanese ‘salon’ in the depths of the fish-gutting district of Chinatown. My curls were gone; frizz was a thing of the past. I just had this amazingly straight, shiny hair. And it was flat. Stuck-to-my-head flat. The Japanese girl who owned the salon assured me that it would only be like that while it was setting, which took three whole days, during which I couldn’t wet it, put it up, or even tuck it behind my pretty-big ears.

  The first time I washed it I was scared that my hundreds of dollars would all be made worthless by the water, but as soon as I dried my hair, I could see there was no curl; no cowlick; no boof. Just straightness and a totally normal, non-flat texture.

  I was overjoyed. I could swim whenever I wanted, not care about rain, always look groomed and not feel like Homeless Holly when my hair wouldn’t play nice on the morning of an important launch. This would change my life.

  Jay thought it was a total waste of a good Saturday’s worth of shopping. She would, with her glossy Italian hair that had never needed to be introduced to a ghd.

  Another recent job-related development was that I had put on weight. My tummy was chubby now, whereas before it had been flat, and my bum had jiggles where before there had been close-to-none. It was the new diet, although ‘diet’ was completely the wrong term.

  Breakfast was coffee and toast. Mid-morning snacks were launch food – usually a muffin – lunch was merely a nice idea, or else completely over-the-top restaurant food, and dinner was sushi on the way home, porridge with a banana at home, canapés and champagne at a function, or squid and wine with Iz at a bar.

  I was doing my best to counter the gentle filling up of my jeans with Bikram yoga classes with Jay at dawn, a pre-work walk a few times a week, and saying ‘No’ to chocolate-dipped strawberries, pastries and cupcakes four times a day. But I had become used to my new life and its side-dish of weight-gain. I still preferred busy over desolate. ‘Busy’ filled the void of ‘empty’ perfectly.

  But the thing that consumed me most, and that had me feeling most tender, was Dan’s lack of contact. He had texted a lot – mostly filth – for the first week, and then we’d shared a few epic emails and some Facebook-wall banter, and there had even been a phone call or two, but now it was three weeks since he’d gone, and contact had petered out to a couple of texts a week. And whenever I texted him first, I always felt like I was interrupting him doing something, as his responses were either rushed or missing his old spark. This was precisely why I never texted first: you lost all of your emotional power.

  It seemed that as quickly as I had won one round in the game of happy and loved-up Monopoly, I was now owing $40K and on my way to jail. I mentally kicked myself for having thought he would be as adoring via broadband or phone. He was a live-in-the-moment guy, a guy who had to have something directly in front of him (preferably sporting impressive cleavage) to pay it any attention.

  In my more Zen moments I tried just to be grateful for the time I’d had with him, but it pissed me off that I had given myself to him so openly – no easy feat for a girl who had just put the last brick in place in her enormous self-preservation fortress – and then, mere weeks later, I represented nothing more than an envelope flashing on his phone that it was apparently too hard to find the time or energy to respond to. Arsehole.

  I knew that on some level I was having a kind of emotional regression back to when Jesse and I had split, like all of those abandonment-type feelings had been quietly hiding in my sock drawer until the time was right to hit again.

  Sitting at my lounge-room window, smoking (a nod to Forties’ screen sirens, who looked fabulous even when they were feeling murderous, and drank scotch, smoked thin cigarettes and made aggressive phone calls to jilting lovers on clunky black phones), I wondered what would become of me if guys kept toying with my head like this. Was I going to be able to feel ‘normal’ about a guy again anytime soon? Iz had it down pat – she and Kyle were so in love. Which made it a bit hard, seeing them clambering all over each other all the time, and calling each other things like ‘Schnooky’ and ‘Pumpkin-head’. They were even considering living together.

  I wondered if I’d get to a point where there would be no weirdness, no freaking out if a guy tried to get close to me or showed signs of retreat. I started to feel angry at Jesse for making me the sort of person who viewed a boyfriend as a threat rather than a pleasure.

  That word: boyfriend. It sounded so foreign. I had completely avoided the word, and in fact the entire notion, for almost six months.

  Trucker barely scraped a mention, and if he did he was a ‘bit of fun’, or a ‘friend’, while Dan was only ever referred to as a ‘fling’. Dec was, well… Dec was different altogether. It was impossible to repress the guerilla thoughts of him that snuck into my conscious mind every so often, but I had grown used to quickly sweeping them away.

  I felt ill at the thought of a new boyfriend. When I tried to imagine getting used to a new person’s habits, or meeting a whole new family, or going on trips with just one person for two whole weeks, my mind just kind of scrunched up and changed the topic.

  Oh well.

  In the movies the emotionally bruised loser always found love again. Here’s hoping someone was filming.

  Best call in some sunscreen

  Stay-put lipstick is a great idea, but unless your lips are in good condition first, nothing will stay. Use a face cloth and warm water and gently rub your lips to exfoliate them. Then apply balm. Then apply your magical stay-put lipstick.

  ‘I’m actually surprised at how good it is.’

  ‘Me too, they’re usually so bad at anything to do with lips. Or base: that matte foundation they did was unforgivable.’

  ‘I’ve been wearing the stuff ever since the launch.’

  Fiona, Yasmin and I were on our way back to Beckert from Bio Spa, where, in an intimate group of eight, we’d been given herbal tea and fresh fruit while being told about a new salon foot-spa range based on sea algae. We had also received a deluxe pedicure and polish. I hadn’t known about the pedicure part of the launch and so had worn closed-toe shoes. This meant that my lovely soft feet were currently sheathed in Bio Spa’s complimentary flimsy foam cut-out thongs, so as not to ruin the polish resting on my toes. They might as well have been made of tissue paper: they were impossible to walk in, not that I could even entertain the idea of walking into the Beckert foyer with them on. With my luck, I just knew Karen would walk out of the lift at that exact second.

  As we were nearing the office in our taxi, I was becoming increasingly agitated about what I would do. I had needed the pedi because I had a black-tie function tomorrow night and needed to wear strappy shoes, but because I hadn’t brought my own polish, I couldn’t retouch it (after inevitably botching it).

  ‘Han – have you tried it yet?’ Yasmin asked.

  ‘Sorry, tried what?’ I was in the front seat, as usual, audibly and physically removed from the conversation.

  ‘Gleam’s new long-last gloss. The double-ended one with the balm top-coat we got last week.’

  ‘Yes! How good is it? I love the Barely Buff shade.’

  ‘Me too!’ Yasmin said. ‘It has just become my new Perfect Nude.’

  ‘Whooooa, big call.’ I’d forgotten that Fi was the Perfect Nude police. Perfect Nude was the highest compliment a lip product could be given. It had to be just pink enough, just taupe enough and just sheer enough to make the lips look juicy and lush yet deceivingly natural.

  Fi had coined the term in honour of Jennifer Lopez’s always perfect perennially nude lips. No one knew which exact product Jennifer wore (more than likely it would be a make-up artist’s motley concoction of liner, lipstick and three glosses) but we were on an ongoing mission to find it, or one that gave the same results.

  It wasn’t just the beauty editors who were obsessed; so many of my reader emails revolved around the P
erfect Nude gloss. Where could they buy it? How much was it? How should they apply it? What should they eat for breakfast after having applied it? And so on. My answers varied, but I usually suggested Revlon’s Super-Lustrous in Nude Lustre, or M.A.C’s C-thru lipglass, or NARS lip gloss in Orgasm.

  ‘I thought it would do that revolting crusty-corners thing the long-lasts always do, but it stayed moist.’

  ‘Fi! You said moist!’ Yas squealed with disgust.

  ‘Well, it’s the appropriate word. Even if it does remind me of Japanese businessmen buying panties from vending machines.’

  ‘FI!’ We collapsed into a frenzied dialogue about how off the word ‘moist’ was.

  ‘It’s as bad as “member”,’ I said.

  ‘Or “fingered”,’ Fi offered.

  ‘No way. Panties is worse than moist. I mean, what woman calls her undies “panties”? It’s so porn,’ Yasmin exclaimed.

  The girls carried on and my mind went back to my toes. Oh, screw it; I’d have to wear these absurd flip-flops upstairs. I’d just hide between the other girls. Luckily the traffic was taking a while, a good thing as every minute of polish dryness counted.

  My phone beeped.

  If I was to be in Hawaii next week and invited you to be in Hawaii next week, would we both be in Hawaii next week?

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My heart stopped temporarily. It was Dan. Dan, who I’d thought had forgotten my number. Dan, who I had actively tried to expel from my mind. Dan, who was now inviting me to Hawaii?

  ‘Is he for real?’ I whispered in disbelief.

  ‘Who is it, what’s happened, is it Jesse?’ Fiona was awful at pretending she wasn’t nosy.

  ‘No, no, it’s Dan. LA boy… He’s asked me to go to Hawaii next week.’

  ‘Oh my God! You HAVE TO GO!!!’ Yasmin was squealing again. I turned to face her; she was clasping her hands together and bouncing in her seat. She never did that.

  ‘I agree. You should go. Enjoy crazy-good sex in a tropical climate while you can. Is he paying? He should be. You should go. Lord knows, I would.’ Fi made the decision sound as simple as cereal over toast.

  ‘But, I haven’t, I mean, I can’t, I’m shooting next week and we have that massive Garnier function and—’

  ‘And you place a higher value on that stuff than a whirlwind trip you’ll be telling your grandkids about one day? Get a grip, girl.’

  Fi had some salient points, but I was still in shock and couldn’t process anything.

  My phone beeped again.

  I’m booking your flights this afternoon. Best call in some sunscreen. It’s hot in Waikiki, dollface.

  My hands were shaking. I read the girls his latest text with my eyes shining and a grin cemented onto my face. He was very, very hard to be angry at. Impossible, even.

  ‘You are SO going!’ Fi was clapping her hands Yasmin-style now.

  ‘I’ll have to ask Karen…and, oh shit, Eliza…and, oh, I am sure she’ll be super-thrilled about it, but, well, I guess… I guess if they say yes…’

  More squealing from the back. I tried to act cool, but I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. I was going to see Dan. And I was going to ignore the part of my brain that was screaming he didn’t deserve my company, and what was I teaching him about my self-respect by leaping onto a plane for a dirty holiday when he had been such a bastard for the last three weeks.

  ‘Ohhhh, wish I was off to be sexed by a hotrod in Hawaii,’ Yasmin said in a wistful voice as we got out of the cab.

  ‘Yas, my darling, your time for wild island-sex will come,’ Fi said, and linked arms with her. ‘We just need to find you a man. And me too, while we’re at it.’

  As I got to my desk and dumped my sack of algae foot scrubs and lotions next to it, Kate looked at my feet in bewilderment.

  ‘Whoa! What are they?’

  I looked down and broke into maniacal laughter.

  ‘Your job…honestly…’ She shook her head and smiled.

  I was so excited about the thought of Hawaii that I had completely forgotten about my stupid ‘shoes’. And no one had noticed them in the foyer.

  Funny how things just work out when you let go.

  It’s, like, totally hot

  If you’re not using a skin serum, you should be. Think of a serum as the tequila to your face cream’s glass of wine: it’s potent and very effective. Choose your serum according to your biggest skin concern, whether that’s hydration, acne, pigmentation, ageing or had-too-much-to-drink-last-night-need-some-radiance-fast. Use morning and night. Enjoy better skin.

  Part of my week from hell before Hawaii was an interview with an upcoming model-slash-TV-presenter, Cassie Eaton. She was a pretty little thing who had scored a gig on TV by virtue of dating a racecar driver. From there, she had moved on to various high-profile jobs, including heading a swimsuit campaign, being a mobile-phone spokesperson, and now she had become the face of Bare cosmetics.

  This was a regular gig: interviewing people who knew a lot about only one thing. The ‘thing’ could be serious, like sun damage or pigmentation or antioxidants, or it could be more frivolous, like eye make-up or using hot rollers.

  Interview subjects, I had quickly surmised, were hit and miss. Perversely, the hits were often those I had tried to get out of because I had no interest in learning – or writing about – DIY hair extensions, or else they were the ones I had written while on a death-defying deadline.

  In the same way my happiest nights out were always the ones where Iz had to physically drag me into the taxi, the people I didn’t want to interview were usually the most fun. Like the interview I’d conducted with the eponymous founder of Ken Brent cosmetics two weeks back. (There are two kinds of men in the beauty industry: the suits-and-stats managing-director kind, and the kind who wear Hermes loafers and emcee ‘Bingay’ at boys-only bars on Tuesday nights. He was the former.) I was swamped in copy, feeling dusty from Gabe’s birthday drinks the previous night, and had spilled yoghurt on my dress in two very conspicuous spots in the breast region. I had tried to cancel but the PR wasn’t answering her mobile – a very clever tactic they use when they simply will not entertain the notion of you cancelling. If you can’t get through to them and don’t show up, you’re a bastard. And no one wants to be a bastard.

  So I trawled up to their suite, and smiled weakly as the usual platitudes prevailed. But then this fellow, Ken, entered. He would have been late forties or early fifties, and was dressed like he had been styled by Esquire magazine. He was very Richard Gere circa Pretty Woman, all charcoals and chocolates and leather and cashmere. When he spoke, he sounded like a Hugh Grant–Ben Kingsley hybrid. His presence filled the room so completely that even the plumbing couldn’t have escaped his aura.

  ‘Magnificent dress. Not many people can wear that tone. I bet you look excellent in green, too. Or aqua, do you ever wear aqua? It would set those eyes of yours alight.’

  ‘Um, aqua? Um, sometimes, I guess…’ I was a little taken aback.

  ‘Even a light blue would do the trick. Any of the tones in your iris would look incredible.’

  ‘Oh, uh, cool.’

  The more interesting he was, the less articulate I became.

  The PR cleared her throat in a passive-aggressive way that implied we should begin the interview.

  We sat down; he poured me some tea – ‘Do you know why it’s called Earl Grey? Not many do. It stems from a time when…’ – and as we chatted he was so charming that my cheeks flushed. The thing was, what he said wasn’t flirty, or sleazy, or creepy, just commanding and fascinating. He referred constantly to his wife and children (the most attractive thing a man can do, even though this obviously rules out any chance of an encounter), and he had the kind of sparkling eyes usually belonging to game-show hosts or beauty queens. He promoted his products with an air of irreverence that made me think I needed them more than they needed space on my pages. Then he brushed over their celebrity followers with a dismissive wave, as thou
gh they were lucky to have discovered them: ‘David and Victoria love the pomegranate-and-fig shower gel, but we always seem to be out of stock when they come into the store.’

  He was the kind of man who, for the first time in my life, made me wonder if I could be with an older – much older – man, when previously I’d always thought a double-decade age difference was in the same realm of creepiness as people who wear nappies as a form of sexual fetishism.

  On the flipside, the interview subjects I did get excited about meeting too often let me down: they’d keep me waiting for an hour; or they’d grunt their way through our conversation, as though they’d been subjected to a giant personality extractor only minutes before meeting me; or they were just rude.

  As I was excited about interviewing (or at least looking at) Cassie, I wondered if she would prove my theory true. I hoped not.

  I arrived at the interview, late because of traffic, and stumbled into the Hilton’s amazing honeymoon suite, gushing apologies to appease the stern-looking PR.

  Cassie was sitting on the sofa in that relaxed-but-camera-ready position which beautiful famous people are trained to do. She was wearing a stunning beaded singlet, jeans, and heels that appeared to be held together with a thread of gold string. Her skin was luminous and her hair was so full and shiny that when she nodded her head her curls formed a small chorus line of confirmation, dancing up and down with her. She didn’t get up to shake hands, she just sat there, smiling her famous, toothy smile.

  Totally affected, I thought immediately, storing a description of her outfit that I could dissect with Gabe later.

  ‘So, you must be busy at the moment?’ I asked, sounding like every other schmuck who had interviewed her.

  ‘Yeaaah.’ She smiled and nodded. Uh-oh. She was a blocker. A one-word answerer. Not good.