Page 17 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“Or would you prefer something a little more understated? I guess we should think about where you’re headed today– is it a city break with shopping, dinner and wine bars, or will you be jumping straight into a pool?” the woman who is going to work miracles asks me.
“Erm, I’m not entirely—” I hold out my hand to count the hours ahead of me, swiftly realising there’s no time difference between England and Portugal, so I guess it’ll be evening not long after we touch down, so I guess… oh, what the hell, let’s go for the thing that keeps me on the stool the longest so I can find out if my suspicions about Tiago are correct. “Jewel-toned eyes sound great. Let’s do it!” I say decisively.
“Okay, then. If you’re sure. It’s going to be quite a dramatic look for the daytime but hey, you won’t need to do much to get ready to hit the town in… where did you say you were going again?”
“Dublin,” I lie impulsively. I can hardly confess to staying in a rural retreat in Portugal now that I’ve been told I will look like a… actually, I’ve no idea what I will look like. Despite beingau faitwith the current hair trends of the fashion world, I haven’t an inkling what any of these makeup terms are. Radhika only explained what contouring was to me the other day.
“Oh, perfect! Have a Guinness for me, won’t you?”
The MUA has already closed one of my eyelids so she can cleanse it with a cotton wool disc, before I have a chance to reconsider what I’ve signed myself up for. I am now also realising that looking with just one eye for Tiago will not help me on my mission. As the MUA daubs one colour of eyeshadow across my eyelid, and opens up an alarming number of further eyeshadow compacts, I squirm and shift as best I can between applications. There’s a handy magnifying mirror to the right of the dressing table so I cast my gaze into that from time to time too, even if it does mean jutting my neck out at a right angle.
“Are you okay?” she asks, concern creasing her brow. “Is the seat comfortable enough? Can I get you some water? It’s just you seem a little jumpy and I’d hate to send you away with a wonky composition.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m er… just a nervous flier, that’s all. Fidgeting helps to take my mind off things but I’ll stay statue-still until you’ve finished up. I promise.”
“Oh, I can completely sympathise,” her voice rises an octave. “This one time when I flew back from Miami with my boyfriend, we hit the most awful clear air turbulence halfway across the Atlantic. Even the cabin crew lost all the blush from their cheeks! How everybody clapped and cheered when we finally landed at Gatwick.”
“Thanks, that’s… kind of reassuring.You made it, yay… and thank goodness… else you wouldn’t be able to sort me out with this…”
But I cannot finish my sentence.
A flash of red cap catches my attention in the magnifying mirror. I hold my breath and the vision reappears, as if retracing its steps just for my benefit. This time it stands still, where it looks to be scrutinising the prices of the mini Paddington Bears on the aisle behind me.Aw, that is so cute!says my inner voice, mimicking Reggie’s that fateful day when the man in my sights first set out on his mission to destroy my business. I can only see the back of his head but the slight kink to his dark brown hair looks eerily familiar. He may not be wearing that puffy body warmer today, but even from behind, I can tell that his style is preppy. The polo shirt is top quality and it’s definitely the same navy blue one that I clocked in the queue. No doubt a Lacoste or something of that ilk.
“Fabulous makeover!”
The MUA provides the missing words and passes me a handheld mirror so I can inspect her handiwork. Despite looking in the magnifying mirror in front of me virtually every other second, I’ve been so consumed with spying on a certain somebody that this is the first time I have thought to properly look at myself. It takes every ounce of my restraint to do the polite thing and beam with satisfaction, but, oh, heck!What has she done to me?The eyeshadow, liner, and mascara are expertly applied, there’s no question about it… but my left eye is cyan and my right one is royal blue. I look like I’ve come off the set of a music video for a pop song set in space. There’s no other way to adequately describe my new look.
“Now then. I’ve priced up all the items we’ve used today.” She sets an invoice on the company headed card before me. “And I’ll just leave this here with you so you can decide if you want to add some of our hydrating cleanser, toner, and moisturiser. Skin that zings will really help your eyes pop all the more when you recreate this look for yourself. See, I’ve made a few notes here on the step-by-step process.” Now she taps a pencil on her eye-wateringly long list. “And here’s a link to one of our free makeup tutorials on our company website, where you can watch a video of one of our artists doing roughly what I’ve done. I’ll just be waiting for you at the till.”
“O… okay, thanks.”
My voice comes out as a croak and I wish I’d taken the lady up on her offer of the complimentary water now, to get my money’s worth, as well as to cool myself down. I’m feeling too guilty for the freebie of a makeover not to buy at least half of this list so I can get out of here quick-smart and track down the man. I hop off the high stool to hammer my credit card– hoping that Kelly is right about the affordability of this trip once we arrive at the unassuming São Brás de Alportel, and my eyes really do pop (which must be quite a sight, all things considered) as I come face to face with him. It bleeping wellisTiago!
“Everything OK?” the MUA notes my fingers gripping the edge of the counter, although it could just be that she is fretting over the state of my nails. “Don’t forget to come and visit us again before your next journey and we’ll work on your brows.”
“Right, yes. That would be, um, incredible.” I clench my teeth and will myself not to look at the slightly-too-perfect-to-be-believable templates arching above her own eyes. “Thanks, then!”
I turn to leave but my legs are jelly. I’m not sure how to play this out now. Which way should I go? What am I hoping to achieve? I shut my eyes briefly to ground myself. The answer comes quickly. I want peace of mind. Peace of mind that he is onany other flight to any other place. Surely that’s not too much to ask? But how am I going to achieve that? Short of spotting him queuing up at a whole other gate to mine– and potentially missing my own flight– how can I possibly find out where he is going?
I had the good sense to scan the departures board twice before checking in and recall there are just two easyJet flights scheduled to leave in the next hour. One bound for Newcastle. One bound for Faro, the Algarve. But suddenly, more details about my fleeting vision of TOG (from now on I decide to omit the I and the A from Tiago’s name, scramble the remaining letters up, and refer to him as TOG; The Opinionated Git) come to light. Namely, the giant suitcase TOG was propping himself against in the check-in queue, which hardly spoke of a fleeting city break up north. More’s the pity.
Okay, stay calm. Even if he is on my flight, there’s no way he’ll recognise me this many weeks down the line, with this much makeup on. And actually, I further reassure myself, TOG really wouldn’t have remembered my face in the first place– and definitely not now I have presumably gained a little Keira Knightly allure; at least that’s the finish the posh makeup counter’s marketing promises. Our slanging match that day on the pier had been short and sweet, his attention on my offending tarts.
Except… oh, sh…ugar!
I lift my hand to my head, swiftly acknowledging that I’m wearing the exact same hairstyle as I had the day that TOG burst into the café: the Dutch braided ponytail. What a horrible sleight of hand by the Goddesses of Fate! I have a system for my hairstyles. A different ‘do’ every single day for a month. From the power ponytail, which is typically how I burst into the beginning of the month, to the bubble ponytail (with bandana), which is how I end it; chopping and changing, subbing and swapping as new styles take my fancy, and depending on the behaviour of the elements, of course.
I can hardly tug the creation out now, to disguise myself. I’ll look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge and backcombed, then TOG will definitely zero in on me– especially with my bizarre make-up.
I pretend to admire the star-shaped baby-blue bottles of Thierry Mugler’s Angeleau de toiletteas I quickly calculate the rest of the non-existent strategies in my head. The size of that suitcase said it all, but I feel like I have the perfect opportunity here at least to confirm we’ll be at opposite ends of the aircraft. He’s still got that Paddington Bear welded to his chest… which means he’s going to buy it… which means if I am stealthy enough, I can sneak into the check-out queue behind him, and peer over his shoulder to read the seat details on his boarding card… or make him drop it. I could even bump into him just as he’s about to hand it over at the till to prove he’s entitled to his tax-free teddy. He’d never recognise me with my space pop video eyes. The whole manoeuvre could be carried out in seconds.
But unfortunately, there’s no time to ponder my dilemma any further. Something really strange is happening. TOG is inching his way closer to me. Today’s hairstyle has let me down, the makeup counter’s disguise has let me down, andIhave let me down–wrecking my futile hopes for a stress-free holiday.
TOG seems to be chewing a grin. He makes a show of raising the peak of his cap as if to check me out in full, and I can detect his brow knitting together. Who does he think he is? Talk about a performance.
I need to think of something clever to say, because it’s evident he’s about to give me yet another piece of his mind. Instinctively, I pick up the Angel tester bottle and point it at him as if it’s a loaded weapon.
“Freeze: don’t take a single step closer.”
