Page 59 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
She fiddles with the lace trim of the hanky, hand shaking.
‘Don’t know what?’
Grandma seems to have some kind of internal battle before exhaling heavily.
‘You don’t know… how pleased I am to have you here. Just tell me you won’t see young Dr Abernathy downstairs. At least not until we’ve done our work here. This issucha wonderful opportunity for both of us. We must be focused. A Good Woman is always collected.’ I absolutely don’t agree.
But Grandma is clearly having a bit of a wobble right now.
Hmmm … I suppose I could always meet up for awesome Jamie sex in secret. I mean, what Grandma doesn’t know won’t upset her and if it will stop her sobbing all over the place.
‘Okay, G. I won’t see him again.’
Grandma breathes a sigh of relief.
‘You’re a good girl, Jessica.’
* * *
Grandma continues to paint my face, occasionally saying things like, ‘The complexion must be roses and cream’, ‘Elizabeth Arden’s Flamenco will do wonderfully for a strawberry blonde in the summer time’, and the best one, ‘Apply eye shadow with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wings’. She says each thing in a strange melodic voice, almost as if she’s writing the tips in her head as she goes along. When she’s done, she hands me a pair of ugly white cotton gloves with tiny little pearls stitched across the cuffs. I do not like them. I do not like them one bit.
‘These beautiful gloves have given me much luck over the years. My own mother presented them to me on the night of my debut. It would mean such a lot to me to see you wear them.’ Grandma smiles at me hopefully. What will happen if I say no to the gloves? Will she start crying again?
I harrumph and pull on the gloves. We meet Peach downstairs in the hall, where she’s leaning against the stair banister, Mr Belding snuggled in her arms. She squeaks as she catches sight of my finished look for tonight. ‘You look like Rita Hayworth!’
‘Do I?’ I sidestep an old film projector and a stack ofGood Housekeepingmagazines to get to the full-length gilt mirror by the front door.
Wowser. She’s right. With everything put together − the hourglass shape beneath the summer dress, light rust-coloured hair in an extreme side parting and with thick waves (immovable thanks to a mega blast of hair-setting spray), my make-up both delicate and transformative − pink lips, long, curled lashes and creamy rose-red cheeks − I must admit the effect is quite startling.
Nothing at all like me.
If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m off to see the knob-prince, I might even be quite excited about the prospect of a summery night at the fair.
‘Remember, dear, keep it brief,’ Grandma instructs as I leave the house. ‘The aim of this evening is simply to bewitch and charm Mr Frost into obtaining your telephone number. Nothing more. No long conversations, Jessica. We need to train you up a great deal more before that. For now, simply look beautiful, be alluring and mysterious. Pique his interest enough for him to want to find out more about you.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Keep my mouth shut and look pretty. Like feminism never occurred. I get it. Stop fussing.’
‘It’s all in the chapter you’ve been revising, so I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
Oh fuck, the chapter.
Iknewthere was something I was supposed to do.
