LITMIR.BIZ

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out a pad and pen and began asking me a series of very serious questions like, ‘Is your skin dry and flaky?’ To which my mother persisted with the refrain, ‘She’s oily! Oily! She’s got really oily skin!’

      The assistant nodded knowingly and slid the panel in the illuminated box over to the pale green, astringent-coloured section marked, ‘Oily’. Then she moved on to the next question. ‘Would you say your pores are small, normal, or large?’

      ‘Well, just have a look.’ My mother gave my head a push and the next thing I knew, the assistant and I were staring at each other’s pores.

      ‘Yes, large,’ she confirmed, just as I was thinking hers were the size of a house. And again she pushed the panel over to the oily section.

      By now a small crowd was gathering, so novel was the sight of the Skin Analysis Station in action, especially for one so young and so in need of emergency attention. The assistant, deftly playing to the crowd, raised her voice, shouting the next question across the entire ground floor. ‘So, how many times a day do you need to moisturize?’

      ‘Moisturize?’ My mother shouted right back. ‘You don’t understand; she’s oily! OILY! The last thing she needs is moisture!’ And the women in the crowd, indeed, even a few of the men in the gentleman’s shoe department across the aisle, shook their heads in sympathy.

      When every panel had finally, scientifically revealed that, yes, I did indeed have oily skin, the assistant tore the sheet off her pad, removed her lab coat, and led us back in a cloud of perfume to the purchase counter. ‘Fortunately, we have a number of extremely effective products to combat the oily skin condition,’ she began. The next forty-five minutes are a blur.

      And that’s how I came to look like a twelve-year-old version of Joan Collins.

      Now, hovering just beyond the jurisdiction of the white lab coated assistants, I’m on the verge of doing it again. I remove my glasses and take a deep breath. Desperate times require desperate measures.

      An hour later, I’m armed with a new collection of lotions, astringents, smudge-proof foundations, cover-up sticks, oil-removing blotting pads, blushers, a quad of eye shadows (three of which I don’t like) and a free lipstick in a shade I’ll never use. From now on, the words ‘fresh faced’ are just a distant memory. So is the balance in my bank book.

      However, there are some things that even one’s best Joan Collins impersonation can’t remedy.

      The next day at work I check my mailbox and discover nothing. Yet again. No note or sign from Oliver Wendt, who I haven’t seen in weeks. What have I done wrong? Upstairs at my desk, I stare blankly at my e-mail screen, replaying the whole sequence of events in my head. Over and over.

      It’s been ages since I left the note, the note I now seriously regret. I feel like a complete twat. Worse, I still think of him all the time, still wander the halls of the theatre hoping to see him, still fail to find any other man attractive, still cling to this old obsession.

      If Oliver Wendt can see me, I must exist. This is the philosophical premise upon which I’ve built my new life. And now that I exist, I’m allowed to participate in the whole dynamic of living without apology – to take up space and time, to want things, to reach, to try, to fail. However, it seems impossible to me that I should come this far, make so many changes, and yet miss out on possessing Oliver himself. He’s the prize, the reward I get for so much effort, the reason that I’ve gone to all this trouble.

      I must love him. I think about him all the time.

      Or am I really thinking of him thinking of me? Is Oliver merely a reflective surface in which I’ve caught sight of my own image for the first time?

      Suddenly, my phone rings. Could this be it, at long last? I take a deep breath, my heart pounding as I reach for the receiver.

      ‘Phoenix Theatre box office,’ I purr, in the smoothest, calmest tones I can manage. ‘How can I help?’

      There’s a pause.

      ‘It’s me,’ my husband says. ‘We need to talk.’

      I meet him for lunch at the Spaghetti House restaurant next to the theatre. We’re both unable to conceal our shock at seeing each other. He looks drained, thin and exhausted, and I resemble a pantomime dame. We stand together by the doorway, awkward, uncertain of how to greet each other and afraid to look each other in the eye.

      Now we’re seated in a corner booth. The food we order arrives and sits there, untouched. After what seems like hours of painful chit-chat and loaded silences, he finally asks, ‘So, what are we going to do?’

      This isn’t a subject I’m ready to discuss, although I suspect we both know the answer. I toy with my cutlery, trying to balance my knife on its flat edge. ‘I’m not sure,’ I stall. ‘What would you like to do?’ The knife falls and I catch sight of my reflection in the blade. The distorted face of a fun house mirror stares back at me.

      ‘I take it you’re not coming back.’ He’s trying to force my hand. It’s all too abrupt, too sudden, and too real.

      The waiter brings us our coffee. I wrap my hands around the warm china cup for comfort.

      ‘Nothing’s changed,’ I say at last. I sound vague even to myself.

      He sighs in frustration. An awkward silence ensues.

      I pick up my teaspoon and am about to stir in some milk when, again, my image, pale and warped, is reflected back to me in the curved bowl of the spoon. I bury it immediately in the sugar bowl.

      ‘I’ve been to see a lawyer.’ He’s undeterred by my evasiveness. ‘Just as a precautionary measure.’

      I open my mouth to say something. Nothing comes out.

      ‘Tell me honestly, have you met someone else?’

      I look up, startled. And there, in the darkened glass behind him, I see myself again, my face red and flushed, almost unrecognizable behind the mask of make-up.

      ‘You’re blushing.’

      ‘No! No, I’m just shocked that, that you would even think such a thing!’ I fumble, certain he can read my guilty thoughts.

      ‘Well, then maybe we can repair the damage, don’t you think?’ He reaches across the table and touches my hand.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ I struggle to push my chair away from the table. ‘I really … really can’t do this right now.’ My head pounds and my hands shake as I reach for my bag.

      ‘Louise, we need to talk about this!’

      ‘Yes, yes, I know.’ I stand up. ‘But please, not now!’ The words trail over my shoulder as I head for the door.

      I run all the way back to the theatre and into the safety of the Upper Circle Ladies. Splashing my face with water, I fill the palm of my hand with cheap, pink hand soap, and scrub my face clean. My make-up dissolves, mascara running and lipstick smearing to form grotesque shapes. And suddenly I’m sobbing into the warm water.

      It’s all gone wrong. And all the make-up in the world can’t hide it.

      That night at home, I lock the door and sit, with my pen and Post-its, making notes of Madame Dariaux’s words of wisdom. If I just concentrate, if I can just get it right, everything will become clear. And I’ll know what to do.

      The next day at work, I get a call from the foyer to say there’s someone waiting to see me. ‘Is it a man?’ I ask cautiously.

      ‘Nope.’ The security guard suppresses a burp. ‘It’s some old tart.’

      Mona stands imperiously in the centre of the lobby, smoking a cigarette and peering disdainfully at the poster for the season of new lesbian writing we’re hosting next month. She has a grey fox-trimmed cashmere wrap thrown around her shoulders and a tiny green Harrods bag dangling from her wrist.

      Every inch of me wants to turn and run back up

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