Page 46 of The Dolce Vita Divas
I showered and pulled on my robe and, sitting at the dressing table, I stared at my reflection for a few minutes more, trying and failing to see the younger me.
Suddenly, I just looked like my mother. Did we all end up looking like our mothers? Would my daughters one day discover the same thing?
Out of the blue, I had a mad wish that I could go back and do my life again properly. Work harder in school, not focus on being the class clown. Watch less television, read more books. Travel more.
Greg had once said during our divorce negotiations that I needed to work on my anger management. I didn’t think I did, I just needed other people to stop irritating me. Things like Greg’s mother, substitutions in supermarket deliveries, politicians lying, the way tubs of Christmas chocolates got smaller every year but cost the same.
Oh well. I brushed out my wet hair and dried it into its usual style. Perhaps I should have let Gina loose on my hair too. Which was rather depressingly looking like my mother’s too. Short enough to be manageable but not long enough to do anything with. Maybe I would have a pixie cut and pink highlights when I got back home? I sighed. Perhaps I wouldn’t.
I put on some makeup, wondering how old it was and whether I should have invested in some new stuff. All those fragrant counters in duty-free at the airport, staffed by glamorous assistants. And I hadn’t the faintest idea what to look for or what to buy. I’d just walked past them all, looking for somewhere to sit down.
I tried a smear of brown eyeshadow, a touch of mascara, and I took another look. It didn’t matter what sort of dress I wore; this wouldn’t work. I looked dull. Something needed to change. I had just been doing the same thing in the same way for years. If I didn’t do something different soon, it would be too late.
I washed it all off and rummaged at the bottom of my makeup bag, hoping to find some unexpected treasures. Which was unrealistic, as most of my things were sample sizes and things ripped off the pages of magazines. Heaven knows how old some of them were.
Triumphantly, I pulled out an eyeshadow palette I had been given for Christmas some years ago, and an eyeliner pencil. Flicky eyes, that was what women did. Perhaps I would give it a try. Then at the bottom of the bag and rather crumpled, I found a pair of false eyelashes and pounced on them with a cry of surprise. I’d tried them when I went to some work event with Greg a few years ago. He had laughed at me and said I looked ridiculous. Thinking back, he had said that a lot. Perhaps I was as bad as Susie, putting up with sarcastic comments for so many years.
I rinsed them under the tap and blotted them dry with a tissue. One of them was a bit creased so I weighted it down with a shampoo bottle. All I needed now was some eyelash glue. Perhaps Susie would have some? She was far more up on these things than I was.
I went out onto the balcony and tapped on her French windows. There was a bit of scuffling about going on in there, and I pressed my nose to the glass.
Susie and the dashing Raimondo were locked in a passionate clinch and broke apart when they realised I was there. I didn’t know who was more embarrassed, but at least they were fully dressed. It could have been a lot worse.
‘Eyelash glue,’ I whispered when she unlocked the door, ‘have you got any?’
Susie was looking a bit wild eyed and rumpled while Raimondo had composed himself elegantly into one of the armchairs and was pretending to read a magazine. Which was upside down, although I resisted the temptation to turn it round the right way.
‘Of course,’ Susie said, her hair even more tousled than it had been earlier. She closed the door and went off to fetch some, returning a few moments later and handing it over with an embarrassed smile.
‘Everything okay?’ I said, trying to peer over her shoulder.
‘Absolutely. Well, see you in a minute,’ she said, and closed the door. And then she locked it and closed the curtains.
Well, I never. Good for her.
I wondered for a moment what it would feel like at my age to have a man look at me with passion. To want to sweep me into his arms and kiss me. It was a long time since any of those things had happened.
I peeled back the tissues and stared at the false eyelashes. When I was in my teens I’d worn them almost every day.
‘Can’t be that difficult,’ I muttered.
I messed about with some travel-size cleanser, toner and moisturiser and started on my makeup again.
Susie knocked on my door just as I was massaging some overpriced gloop into my neck, in the hope that it would work a miracle, and came in without waiting.
‘What are you doing? Putting false eyelashes on. That’s a turn up for the books, isn’t it?’
‘I’m going to have a go. Have you told Raimondo to scarper, or is he recovering, panting in your bed?’
Susie pulled a face and stuck her tongue out at me.
‘Yes to the first question and no to the second. Go on then, I want to watch this.’
‘Don’t! You’ll put me off,’ I said.
Actually, I was pleased how easy it was, and I batted my eyelashes at Susie a few minutes later, rather pleased with the effect.
‘That was disappointing,’ Susie said. ‘I was hoping you might glue your eyes shut.’
