Painted Faces Read online

  “What brings you to this neck of the woods, Viv?” I ask, noticing the attractive beads of sweat on his forehead. The man even makes sweat look good.

  “I've been exploring the city,” he says. “I remember you saying you worked in a charity shop down the road last night. I took a wild guess and figured it was this one.”

  “Well, your skills of deduction did you proud. What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping you'd join me for some lunch. There's a Mexican place across the street.”

  I have to consciously close my mouth, because my jaw's in danger of dropping to the floor. He wants to take me to lunch. Perhaps he's decided I could be his cool gal pal just like I'd hoped. The operative word there being “pal”, since I acted like a virgin on her wedding night trying to fend off her randy husband with him yesterday. There'll be no more propositions of that variety for me, I'm guessing.

  “Ah, you discovered my one true weakness. I'm incapable of turning down free food.” I tell him.

  “Who said I was paying? I thought you'd jump at the chance of escorting a fine young damsel such as myself out for a meal.”

  I snicker, grab my coat and fold it over my arm, since it's too warm out to wear it. I shout to Theresa that I'm going to head off and that I'll see her next Wednesday. She waves me away, engrossed in neatening up her bookshelves. Nicholas presents me with his arm and we dash across the road to the Mexican restaurant. The waiter greets us at the door and ushers us to a table for two at the back.

  “So, are you all nervous for your big Dublin début tonight?” I ask him, while perusing the menu.

  He glances over at me. “I get the pre-performance jitters like everyone else, but once I'm on stage they all float away. I become another person, a persona I suppose you could call it.”

  “I invited my friends Harry and Anny to come along. I hope you don't mind.”

  He grins, those sparkly blue eyes shining again. “I don't mind at all. The more the merrier, that's what I always say. Except if it's an orgy; you've got to be picky in matters of group sex.”

  “Oh, I completely agree. You can never be too careful in a gang bang.”

  “Sometimes you end up with too much gang and not enough bang,” says Nicholas.

  “I've never had a taste for too much gang. I much prefer the latter,” I laugh.

  “Ah, we have that in common then,” he replies in a low voice, just as the waiter comes to take our order. Nicholas gets the quesadillas. I go for the tacos with guacamole on the side. I love guacamole; I could eat buckets of it and never tire of the stuff.

  Today I'm wearing a black sleeveless top with lacy trim. My bra strap is loose. It falls down my arm, and my eyes catch on Nicholas as I'm righting it. He tilts his head to the side and watches the movement of my fingers with rapt attention. Just then the waiter returns with our drinks. I decided to go wild and order a margarita. I know, alcohol at lunch time. Perhaps Theresa's correct in assuming I have a drinking problem.

  I take a long gulp of the cool icy liquid, and ask, “Whereabouts in Australia are you from anyway?”

  He sputters his water ever so slightly. “Oh no you didn't! You have just made a big offence, Fred, huge.”

  “What? What did I do?” I'm confused now; he gives me a look of mock indignation.

  “Think about it,” he teases, “think about what you just asked me.”

  “I asked you where you come from,” I state, my brow furrowing in annoyance.

  “Yes, but you assumed I'm Australian. That's awful Fred, completely and unforgivably awful.” He's having a real good time with this, I can tell.

  “You sound Australian,” I interject. “Although your accent is sort of vague, sorry for being presumptuous. So enlighten me, where do you hail from oh wise one?”

  He shakes his head, feigning indignation. “New Zealand, you twat. That's like me saying, so Fred where in England do you come from?”

  I take another gulp of my drink and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “That is so not the same, Viv. Irish and English accents are miles apart. Australians and New Zealanders sound the same.”

  “That's a terribly ignorant statement to make. I'm shocked and disappointed. There is a very distinct difference. If you had a good ear you'd be able to tell.”

  “Well I'm sorry that I don't go around learning the vague nuanced differences between accents of countries across the world. What an uncultured oaf I am,” I declare.

  Nicholas shakes with laughter. “You are a fucking hoot, Fred. I'm officially making you my new best friend. It's quite an honoured and sought after position, I'll have you know. So far I have a grand total of four friends in Dublin. You've currently just snagged yourself the top spot.”

  “Oh stop, Viv, I'm welling up here,” I reply drily.

  The waiter comes with our food and I dig in, scooping up big chucks of guacamole with a spoon. It's the best thing to eat on a hot day like this, cool and tangy.

  “So then,” I begin, after a minute of quiet eating. “Where in New Zealand are you from?”

  “Give the lady a round of applause,” Nicholas mocks. “She got it right. I'm a city boy, Christchurch to be exact.”

  “No way!” I say, open mouthed, taco in my gob and all.

  “Way,” Nicholas replies. “Why is that a surprise?”

  “Oh I was just thinking of that movie, you know about the lesbians who offed one of their mothers because she was trying to break up their relationship. Heavenly Creatures. Peter Jackson directed it. That's set in Christchurch and it's a true story, I love that film.”

  “Fair enough, bit of a tangent there Fred, but I agree. Winslet was great in it.”

  “So um, brothers and sisters, have you got any?” I ask.

  Nicholas shakes his head. “No, I'm an only child I'm afraid. My mother died when I was six, so it was just me and Dad. He worked in the stock markets, a very serious character. There weren't a lot of laughs in our house.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Died of a heart attack when I was twenty-one, that was seven years ago. All the years at that stressful job finally did him in.”

  “That's horrible, I'm sorry,” I say genuinely.

  He brushes me off with a wave of his hand. “Don't be, he was an awful father. We didn't get along. I moved out the moment I turned eighteen and never looked back. Tell me about your family Fred.” He picks up his quesadilla and takes a bite.

  I let out a sigh. “God, where do I start? They call me the menopause baby because my mother got pregnant with me when she was in her late forties. I'm the youngest of four siblings; three sisters, one brother. My parents are now in their early seventies and live in the Dublin suburbs where I grew up. My brother Tony is the eldest, he's forty-seven. He's got a wife and three kids. I don't see him much because he lives down in Waterford now. My sisters are all in their late thirties or early forties. You could say I was a bit of an only child myself, since my siblings were all basically grown by the time I came along.”

  “I bet you were like a fresh start for your parents. They didn't have to go through the empty nest syndrome since they had you to take care of.”

  “Hmm. They like to annoy me by saying that I ruined their plans to retire early to the south of France and leave their child rearing days behind them. But they love me really, at least that's what my therapist says,” I joke.

  “They sound like funny people, that must be where you get it from,” Nicholas observes.

  I raise an eyebrow and smirk. “You actually think I'm funny?”

  “You're hilarious. I don't think I've stopped laughing since I met you.”

  “Most people find me irritating after a while. Wait and see, you'll soon tire of the shit jokes.”

  His face turns serious and he puts his hand on my wrist. “Hey, you're great Fred. I think you're great. Now drop the pity party,” he chides.

  “I am not having a pity party. Nora has pity parties. I have pathological self-deprecation. It's an
incurable condition, so don't make fun.”

  He squeezes my wrist once before letting go; the skin there gets all warm for some reason. Despite my ambitions to be the “friend” of a cool customer like Nicholas, I'm not sure if my insecure female heart can take it. I'm doomed to feel butterflies at his touch, like a desperate old maid eager for any human contact she can find, who gets tingles when people brush past her on a crowded street.

  Nicholas pays for the food once we're finished, even though I offer to pay for half. He says he owes me since I made him dinner last night. We chat as we walk back to the apartment building, stopping to have a look around the markets at the front of the arcade. When we get home, we part ways and agree to have a drink together after his gig tonight.

  Later on while deciding on what to wear, I pick out my dark purple 40's tea dress and a pair of silver ballet flats. I don't go in for high heels, because really, for me it's like putting my feet inside a torture chamber. Nora can wear heels until the cows come home and still be dancing like a good thing at three in the morning, but not me.

  Since it's the summer I shave my pins in the shower, in preparation for going bare legged. If heels are torture chambers for the feet, tights (panty hose for those of you on the other side of the pond) are torture chambers for the belly. They always seem to roll down when I bend over and bunch up around my stomach and hips.

  Nora pops out to grab us each a bottle of wine (yes I said each, when it comes to drink our eyes are bigger than our livers) and gets back just in time for Harry and Anny's arrival. Harry hasn't got a notion how to dress well; he could do with getting a few tips from Nicholas. He's wearing baggy beige cargo pants, red Converse and a too small Family Guy t-shirt under his bright blue blazer.

  “So, where are we headed for your neighbour's performance?” he asks, opening himself up a bottle of West Coast Cooler.

  “Some new club called The Glamour Patch,” I shrug. “And are you serious with that drink? I use that shit as a mixer, it's mild as fuck.”

  Harry almost chokes on the liquid as he knocks it back. “The Glamour Patch?” he coughs.

  “Uh, yeah. Have you heard of it?”

  He looks like he's holding back a massive grin. For some reason he plasters on a straight face. “Oh, I most certainly have. You're in for a great night. And mind your own business about what I'm drinking; we all don't intend to end up blind drunk with our knickers around our ankles.”

  I shove him in the arm and laugh. “You're missing out then.”

  He looks me up and down, like a class A bitch, though I know he's only messing. “Mm hmm.”

  Harry likes to tease me and pretend I'm a slut, and I relish it because it allows me to forget that in reality I'm actually a bit of a prude. Oh I can talk about sex like it's my specialist subject on Mastermind, but when it comes down to it I'm not that experienced. I've never had a partner who made my skin boil with need. It's all been rather “meh” to be honest.

  I get through about three glasses of wine by the time the taxi arrives to take us to the club. We all huddle in, sufficiently merry and irritating the driver by chanting, “Turn up the radio, would you, I fucking love this song,” when something by Rihanna comes on, even though my sober self would turn her nose up at such mainstream music.

  He drops us at the club, where lots of people stand outside, chatting, laughing and smoking their cigarettes. It's only when I take note of the clientèle that my suspicions begin to peak. There are a lot of men, and the few women present mostly have that whole short haired indie look going on favoured by lesbians. Yep, I'm almost certain this is a gay bar. Which begs the question, what kind of “act” exactly does Nicholas put on? We pay the ten Euro entry fee, a bit steep, but I'm hoping the show will be worth it.

  I pull Harry aside and hiss, “You devious mare, you knew this was a gay bar, didn't you!”

  He almost falls over laughing. “Guilty as charged. I wanted to see the look on your face when you finally copped on. I thought you'd know since PantiBar is only a few doors down. So tell me about this neighbour of yours, I'm much more intrigued by him now, is he a dish?”

  I take Harry by the arm and lead him over to the bar. “Oh not only is he a dish, he's a gourmet five course dinner, with champagne.” And, I believe, probably bisexual, since he very blatantly came on to me but also works in a gay club. Not that I'm judging or anything. As far as I'm concerned he can have sex with a blind midget if that's what floats his boat.

  “Sounds promising,” Harry says, motioning the bar tender over and ordering us two Sex on the Beach cocktails. I know I shouldn't be mixing my drinks, but these are like summer in a glass and Harry is paying, so it's an offer I can't refuse.

  Nora and Anny have disappeared into the bathrooms, probably to check their make up. They're still too drunk and oblivious to have noticed that the men in here are far more interested in each other than they ever will be in them. Their only hope of scoring is if they're up for trying out a night of lesbian passion.

  I keep gulping back the cocktail and scanning the room. I can't see Nicholas anywhere and I'm just about ready to burst with curiosity as to what his show is going to be like. You might have a hunch. I might have one also, but I'm keeping my lips sealed until I can verify it with my own two eyes. I spot Nora and Anny emerging from the hallway that leads from the bathrooms.

  They bump into two guys with snazzy haircuts who immediately start chatting animatedly to them. When I see the blond one gesture to Nora's sparkly stilettos I imagine he's complimenting her on her outfit. Typical. She probably thinks they're chatting her and Anny up. I'm sickly anticipating the moment when realisation hits her, like a peeping Tom waiting eagerly for a glimpse of underwear through their next door neighbour's bedroom window.

  I'm just finished the last drop of my cocktail when Scissor Sisters' “I Don't Feel Like Dancing” starts blasting from the speakers with its catchy beats. The thing about this song is that in contrast to the lyrics, when I hear it all I want to do is dance. Perhaps that's the point. Also, I have one of those futile crushes on the front man Jake Shears. He's just got this irresistibly pretty face.

  Harry and I give each other “the look” in silent agreement that we're going to take to the floor and dance our little hearts out. He grabs my hand, flips it over his shoulder, cocks his head to the side and drags me away from the bar. We probably look quite...special, with our uncoordinated movements, but I'm having fun, so who cares what I look like.

  We continue in this manner for about three songs before we're both out of breath and a pool of sweat slicks itself down my back. As far as I'm concerned, a night out isn't a night out if your dress isn't sticking to you by the end of it.

  At the back of the club is the performance area, where there's a big stage with tables and chairs all around it. The place is fairly packed, but we manage to snag a small table right at the front, just as Nora and Anny decide to join us. Anny runs off to get a round of drinks for us from the bar. Nora has a bit of an irritated look on her face. Damn, I must have missed her moment of revelation.

  I tip my head to her and laugh. “You look like you just sucked on a lemon.”

  She folds her arms over her chest. “Nicholas is gay, isn't he,” she says, her voice dripping with dejection.

  I shrug, again remembering his proposition from last night. “Not necessarily. The jury's still out. There's hope for a Christmas wedding yet,” I tell her.

  She narrows her eyes at me and turns to glance around at the stage. A man in his mid-thirties with a slick of bleach blond hair steps out in front of the red velvet curtains that obscure the back of the stage from the front. He has a microphone in his hand. There are several wolf whistles and cat calls as he waves to a few individuals he knows in the audience.

  One man shouts something rude up, but I can't make out the words properly over the noise of the crowd. I think it had something to do with “nice arse” and “suck”. Who knows. The guy with the mic smirks and with a breathy voice says
, “I might take you up on that later, sugar.” He's wearing a purple shirt that's almost the same colour as my dress and shiny black trousers.

  He spots me sitting just shy of the stage. “Oh honey, look at us all coordinated,” he gestures between his shirt and my dress and the audience laughs. I give him a little sweeping bow.

  Then he addresses the whole club, all business. “Welcome to The Glamour Patch, this evening we have some great entertainment lined up for you still to come. But now we have someone very special, our headlining act all the way from Christchurch, New Zealand. I'm sure some of you have witnessed this act before, so it needs no introduction really. I'll let the performance speak for itself,” he finishes, and with a flourish bounces off the stage and disappears into the crowd.

  A slow mischievous beat starts up. The music sounds familiar but I can't quite place it. It's one of those anticipatory song intros, beginning slowly and them slapping you with the big reveal. It's all too appropriate as I can't wait to see Nicholas take the stage.

  Anny slams four drinks down onto the table, just returning from the bar. “I didn't miss anything, did I?” she asks, all out of breath.

  Nora shushes her and yanks her down into her seat. My eyes return to the stage just as the curtains are drawn back to reveal Nicholas, a microphone in hand, and my God do I have a hard time containing my surprise.

  Chapter Three

  A Sweet Transvestite

  His black hair is gelled back into a style akin to Jamie Lee Curtis when she did the striptease for Arnold Scharzenegger in True Lies in her bra and underpants. His face has full on make-up, ruby red lips, smoky black eye shadow with false lashes and pale foundation. On his feet are patent, black six inch heels.

  My eyes travel up his legs to find he's wearing hold up stockings and skin tight black sequins hot pants. Finishing off the outfit is a tiny black waist coat that does little to hide his ripped stomach and muscular tattooed arms. He's also wearing a pair of lacy gloves that go up to his elbows. He's a fucking drag queen!