Page 118 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
She carefully hangs the dress on the big wardrobe door and sashays downstairs to the kitchen where she has laid out all her rollers and brushes and setting lotions and potions and make-up like she’s holding a vintage cosmetics jumble sale.
Tonight, Grandma has decided that I will wear my hair in thick, smooth waves with an extreme side parting à la Veronica Lake. While I idly watch Netflix on my iPhone, she hums Doris Day songs and spends ages rolling my hair up into huge rollers, setting it with the hairdryer, and smoothing it down with hair serum before spritzing on enough hairspray to hold it in place during an apocalypse. I avoid choking to death by lifting up my vest and using it to cover my mouth and nose. As Grandma paints on my make-up (black liquid-lined eyes, curled eyelashes and crimson lips), I try to concentrate on the task at hand and not what Leo might look like in a tux.
When my hair, make-up and nails are complete, Grandma helps me into the vintage girdle, corset, a strapless version of the bullet bra and then, eventually, the dress. I hurry back downstairs to the big mirror in the hall, Grandma trailing excitedly behind me.
‘Fuck,’ I whisper in response to my reflection.
On this occasion, Grandma pretends not to hear me curse. To be fair, if she swore she’d probably say the same thing right now.
Because I look unreal. The crystal blue of the dress looks crazy with my cream-pale skin and rust-gold-coloured hair. My make-up is flawless, my hair is even more so, my neck looks longer, my waist even smaller, there’s not a false eyelash, patch of tan or pot noodle stain in sight.
I look like someone else entirely.
IamLucille.
I think of Leo’s reaction when he sees me and get an excitable flip in my gut.
Then I mentally mini-pinch myself.This is fake. Must not get carried away. Keep focused.
Peach gallops down the stairs.
‘Oh, heck, Jess. You look like you’re going to the Oscars.’
I spin round and laugh out loud in delight. Peach looks epic. Her usually frizzy dark blonde hair is all shiny tumbling curls, pinned up at the back with tiny jewelled clips. She’s wearing a gorgeous midnight-blue taffeta ballgown, a matching satin wrap draped round her shoulders. The colour of it looks amazing against her glowing pink skin.
‘You look awesome,’ I say to her. ‘Gavin will be speechless.’
Peach’s smile plunges into a frown. Shit. I forgot that Gavin being speechless is a very real possibility.
‘I’m kidding!’ I speedily correct myself. ‘And anyway, even if things are a bit stilted, remember − I will be there to lubricate the wheels of conversation. Don’t worry.’
‘Promise?’
‘Fo sho.’ We fist-bump, at which Grandma gives us both a puzzled shake of her head.
Grandma fusses with my hair again, smoothing down any flyaway strands with her thin hands, and my mobile trills once to let us know that the town car Leo ordered to pick us up is waiting outside.
‘Remember, Jessica,’ Grandma says as we head to the front door. ‘Tonight, you are representing Leo on his most important night of the year. You must be the very image of elegance. The woman every gentleman at the ball wants to be with, the woman that every other womanlongsto know the secret of. How you conduct yourself tonight could make or break the entire project.’
I pull a face. ‘Jeez. No pressure then.’
Grandma takes hold of my hand and gives it a squeeze. Her magnified eyes are, once again, teary with emotion. ‘I believe in you, dear’
Ugh. Another warm and fuzzy fast approaching. I give her a swift kiss on the cheek. It leaves a crimson imprint, adding a shock of colour to her translucently pale skin.
‘Thank you, G. Thanks for the belief. Cool. Awesome. OK.’
I quickly open the dresser drawer and grab the package that Gavin delivered the other day. I tear off the jiffy bag to reveal an oblong box wrapped in shiny navy giftpaper.
‘What’s that?’ Grandma asks.
‘Oh, um … it’s just a … a mascara I bought. I’ll open it on the way.’ I stuff the package into my silver and pearl clutch. The end of the box pokes out of the top. Grandma frowns suspiciously. Ignoring her, I turn to Peach, who’s clasping her evening bag, eyes wide with nervous terror about her first date with Gavin. Her first adult date ever.
‘Let’s do this thang,’ I yell, though it comes out sounding a little weaker than I intend it to.
‘Have fun!’ Grandma calls, as if this is a real, genuine social event for us and not just part of our wicked plan.
When we’re halfway down the stairs, Grandma leans out of the door.
