Glitter and Gloss Read online

  GLITTER AND GLOSS

  by

  Vibha Batra

  First published in India 2016

  © 2016 by Vibha Batra

  All rights reserved.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

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  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you, thank you, thank you. To all the #MakeUpEssentials in my #GlitteryGlossy vanity kit:

  To my family: Foundation. For the full coverage. (A perfect canvas would have been nice, too.)

  To my editor Himanjali: Concealer. For hiding the flaws and blemishes.

  To Pooja: Highlighter. For the cool cover.

  To Team Bloomsbury: Translucent Powder. For setting everything in place.

  To my friends: Gender-neutral Lip Balm. For the much needed touch-ups.

  To my readers: Blush. For adding that pop of colour.

  To HP: Cleansing wipes. For that long overdue makeover.

  1

  ‘MISHAAAAAAA!’

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  It’s my first event ever. But am I excited? Far from it. Am I enjoying it? Like hell. Do I ever want to participate in another event? Oh, just kill me right now.

  It’s all so, so stressful. Event managers are rushing about in a frenzy. Model coordinators are blowing their tops off. Models are yelling and flapping their lean limbs about, and doing ‘stuff’ most of us pretend not to notice. One even looks on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  Routine stuff.

  Or so I’ve been told. But hey, The latest instalment of Bridal Indian Fashion Week is about to kick off and all hell’s breaking loose.

  I’m kind of glad that none of the Yelly-Shouty folk out here are surgeons or pilots or navy seals. If this level of stress is making them go cuckoo, I shudder to imagine their state in a lives-on-the-line-kind of situation.

  ‘MISH-AAAAAAAAA!’

  My name rings out again. Same high pitch, doubly desperate tone. I’m about to rush forward towards the source of the sound. But something stops me dead in my tracks. So here’s the thing: Poulomi, my best friend, says I suffer from the Knight Complex. As in, I’m always on the lookout for damsels in distress.

  The distressed party in this case though is male. Oh yeah, all male. He’s tall and lean, and even in that formal, full sleeved blue shirt, I can totally tell he has biceps I’d love to swing from.

  But he looks so cornered, not very different from the little puppy I rescued last week. Sigh, I’m such a sucker for puppy eyes. A drop dead gorgeous model, all perky boobs and lean limbs—legs that start at the neck and never seem to end, arms that have only ever rested against EFX machines and treadmills, cheekbones that have been chiseled with a freshly sharpened knife—is advancing towards him.

  He steps back hastily, on to a wire, losing his footing in the process. And the next shot is straight out of the notorious Madhu Sapre-Milind Soman-python ad, with the female model playing the spirited hisser, of course.

  Honestly, I don’t know why he’s resisting so much. If she was hitting on me, I’d happily go along. I mean, it’s not every day that you get hit on by someone so stunning. But perhaps he’s got a girlfriend. Perhaps he’s not into girls. Whatever it is, my knightly instincts kick into gear. I can’t, I just can’t leave him like that, vainly trying to fob off Miss Monty Python.

  I take a deep breath, smooth my hair down, and pick my way through the crowd. I stop inches away from the intertwined twosome and tap the girl on the shoulder. ‘What?’ She turns around and hisses. A whiff of alcohol catches me square in the face. And suddenly, Main Alcoholic Hoon, Yo Yo Honey Singh’s chartbuster, starts blaring in my head at full volume.

  ‘You need to get your face done,’ I speak up.

  ‘You blind or what,’ the model sneers, tossing me a baleful glare. ‘Can’t you see I’m like, all ready and good to go?’

  I square my shoulders. ‘Not you, him,’ I say, jabbing my index finger at the Human Puppy.

  His eyes look blank for a second and then the light of understanding dawns in them.

  ‘Sorry, got to go,’ he mutters apologetically, hurriedly disentangling his foot from the mass of wires, and in two long strides, plants himself next to me.

  I look up at him, and bam, I’m so done for. He’s unbelievably dishy up close. I mean, from a distance, he looked mar-jawaangud-khaake gorgeous. But face to face, ooh, he’s like a young Kamdev, the God of Lust. Even without make up, he’s stunning.

  His skin is flawless, his features are perfect, and his hair! I bet ad folks are banging his door down to sign him up for their next shampoo commercial. He’s so beautiful, that for a while I forget that I’m supposed to be rescuing him and not latching on to the lecherous brigade.

  He looks at me, all puppy dog eyes, and the words form on my tongue off their own accord.

  ‘Yeah, we need to work on you ASAP … um, so, yeah, let’s get started on the blackheads, shall we?’ I say in a weird-supposed-to-be-authoritative-but-sounding-B-grade-villainy voice, circling my index finger around his nose.

  I want to kick myself. But this is my biggest problem. Throw me in an awkward situation and I go blab blab blab. Before I can blab any further, I hook my arm around his and drag him away. I keep walking till we cross the entire length of the room and are safely ensconced in the makeshift dressing room.


  I march him to a chair facing a lit-up mirror and sit him down. As if on auto mode, I glance down at the make-up kit fastened on my waist, reach for a large powder brush, and lean towards him.

  He grimaces, shrinking away from me, holding out a hand. And I wonder, if those breath mints I popped were past their expiry date.

  ‘Whoa! Just a sec—’

  Thank you god, I say silently, almost going limp with relief. Because his voice matches his face. Hey, isn’t it a complete bummer when you meet a hunky guy and he sounds like he’s inhaled helium? I don’t know, maybe it is God’s way of balancing things out or whatever, but for me, it’s the voice, it’s always the voice. And this young lothario’s voice is rich, deep and velvety. I wonder how he’ll sound singing an Enrique track. Preferably in my ears.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ He asks, smirking at me. Smirking! After all I’ve done for him.

  It’s enough to snap me out of my lust inspired coma-trance. ‘Your make-up,’ I say in my most condescending voice. The ‘Duh’ is unsaid, but my expression makes it amply clear. I hope.

  ‘My what?’

  ‘M-A-K-E-U-P. Make-up,’ I say slowly, as if I’m teaching ABC to a dunce. I’m the last person on earth to stereotype people, but he’s really acting bird-brained. ‘You don’t intend going on to the stage looking like that, do you?’ I give him a suitably withering look.

  ‘No—’

  ‘Good,’ I cut him off before he can say another word. I tip his chin up and regard him with satisfaction. ‘Now let me see…’

  He eyes me with disfavour. ‘Look, you don’t understand,’ Model Boy speaks up again.

  But right that moment, Miss Monty Python sashays into the room. As if her lethal assets weren’t ammunition enough, she’s got back up. Two other twiggy types are with her.

  ‘There you are, Akki!’ They trill, tottering up to us.

  A horrified look comes on Model Boy’s beautiful face. He looks at me beseechingly. ‘Can you, uh, hurry up on the…’

  ‘Blackheads?’ I pipe up. ‘Sure!’

  WTF. I don’t know why I keep saying that. He doesn’t have blackheads. Or whiteheads. Or anything Gods are not supposed to have. He’s perfect.

  And wily nily, he’s getting a perfect view of Miss Monty Python’s melons. She’s leaning down down down, from her great height, giving him a ringside view of her bounteous bosom.

  Strangely enough, that makes me extremely agitated. I simply cannot imagine doing what she’s doing. Ever. For two reasons:

  (a) I’m not THAT desperate. Sure, it’s been six months since I broke up—oh, whom am I kidding—since Rahul dumped me. But, I’m not going to, you know, literally stoop to that level.

  (b) I’m not exactly well endowed in that department. In fact, one time I went lingerie shopping and told the store girl I was looking for a bra and she snorted, ‘Yeah, right!’

  Now, looking at Lusty Busty showing off her family jewels, I’m filled with a ballooning regret. Why am I not a Pamela Anderson clone? Why didn’t I ever consider getting silicone implants? Why does my pesky cousin Sooraj have bigger boobies than me?

  I’m so resentful, I forget everything. That I love doing people up. That I love making them look their beautiful best. That the entire act is like meditation for me. Instead, my heart rate is irregular, my mood is black. And as a result, my usually rock steady hands are shaky.

  I wedge myself between The Twiggy Trio and Model Boy, tap the back of a liquid foundation jar till some trickles on to my palm, dip the brush in, and begin painting Model Boy’s face.

  From behind me, the Twiggies bob their heads up and down, desperately trying to catch his attention. God, they are relentless. That’s my biggest problem with good looking people. They come with this annoying sense of entitlement, you know. As if the whole world is theirs for the asking. It totally gets my goat.

  ‘So, Akki, you on for the after party?’ Twiggy 2 asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet. ‘Join us, na, it will be fun! Say yes!’

  Akki opens his mouth, but I summarily cut him off. I know he can probably fight his own battles, but I’m too invested in his well-being by now. Besides, he’s way out of his depth now. And badly outnumbered. Luckily for him, I’m in his corner.

  ‘Shhh, you’re distracting the boy,’ I say sounding spookily like Mrs Batliwala, my school principal.

  I don’t know if it is out of mortification or self preservation, but the boy squeezes his eyes shut. I pause for a fraction of a second and wave at them. ‘Why don’t you grab a chair?’

  Reluctantly, they drag a couple of chairs and flop back on them. Before they can start with the cootchie-cooing all over again, I rush into speech.

  ‘Look here, you, er, Akki … you’ve got to start taking care of yourself,’ I begin. ‘You see these dark circles?’ I say, waving the brush at imaginary black rings under his eyes. ‘All thanks to those late nights.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not going to be a late night,’ Twiggy 3 replies. ‘It’s an all-nighter.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring. But Akki’s body is crying out for some TLC,’ I say sternly.

  The Twiggies exchange a glance.

  ‘What?’ I ask, arching an eyebrow, just like Mrs Batliwala used to.

  ‘TLC.’ Monthy Python points at herself and then the others. ‘That’s us. Thea, Lekha, Chaitali.’

  Tender Love and Care from Thea, Lekha, and Chaitali. I almost giggle.

  ‘You know, Akki, we loved shooting that calendar for you…’

  ‘Thea, Lekha, Chaitali?’ booms Martin’s voice. Martin is the show choreographer and a tough taskmaster. No one messes with Martin. Sure enough, the three of them shoot up from the chairs like obedient space rockets and launch themselves into orbit.

  Leaving me alone with Akki.

  ‘I think that’s quite enough,’ he says in a condescending way again.

  After all I’ve done, you’d think he’d be grateful. I don’t appreciate his tone. Naturally, I’m mad at him. And that’s never a good thing. Because when I’m mad, I’m like Simon Cromwell. I say the meanest, snarkiest, nastiest things. But unlike Simon, I don’t mean them. And I really do regret them the second I cool down, which is seconds later.

  ‘You’re not being paid to think,’ I snap. ‘So just sit back and let me do my job, will you?’ It’s scary how much of Mrs. Batliwala I have imbibed. Is that how I spent my youth, I wonder. Silently watching and absorbing and assimilating, only to unleash it on low IQ models decades later?

  I regret saying it out loud, of course. But the damage is done. His eyes flash with barely held resentment.

  ‘If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have a job,’ he says coolly, scrambling around the dresser for something.

  Gasp! He may be some hot shot model, for all I know, he’s even the showstopper, but where does he get off talking to me like this? I’m a professional make-up artist, not some aira gaira nathoo khaira. To my horror, he grabs a box of wet wipes and yanks one out.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I cry out.

  ‘I’m shutting your silly little charade down,’ he mutters, proceeding to remove my glorious handiwork. ‘It helped … a lot, more than you can imagine … so thank you for that. But I think I’m done now.’ He pushes the chair back and gets to his feet.

  I watch in horror as he casts the paper towel aside. I’m no psychology expert, but I think he’s lost it. Like, totally. The job pressure, the crazy hours, and all that unwanted attention have probably disturbed his mental balance so much, that he can’t help but throw in the towel. Literally. Yes, that must be it.

  ‘Look, I know it’s not easy, with THAT face and all THAT,’ I jerk a thumb in the direction of the departed models, ‘going on. But you can’t just walk away from your work at the first sign of trouble,’ I say, desperation creeping into my voice.

  Of course, I’m desperate. It’s my first event ever. Poulomi, the aforementioned best friend, got me this gig. And if she so much as ge
ts a whiff that a male model quit, and I had something to do with it … I can’t bear completing the thought. No, I’ve got to talk sense into him.

  ‘Akki, baby,’ I entreat, ‘I know what you’re going through. I know it’s a tough line, baby. But things will get better … look, let me help.’ I reach and start rubbing my foundation soaked thumb over the cheek he’s just finished wiping.

  ‘Mr Agarwal, I’ve been looking all over for you and you’ve been…’ trails off a shocked voice from behind us. I turn around slowly, very slowly, to find Martin, the show’s choreographer, looking at us, gobsmacked.

  He stares from Akshay to me and back to Akshay. ‘… Getting your make-up done?’ There’s so much incredulity in his voice! I bet Akki will get the tongue lashing of his life for not being ready on time.

  ‘I…’ Akshay begins.

  Martin almost bows to him. Martin! I think the only person he’s ever bowed to is the Queen of England.

  ‘I’ll leave her to explain it to you,’ Akshay nods at me and gets to his feet.

  ‘Mish-aaa! What did you do?’ Martin hisses under his breath. ‘Please tell me you didn’t do anything to piss Akshay Agarwal off.’

  My brows furrow. ‘Akshay Agarwal?’ Then a light of understanding creeps into my eyes. I cast panic-stricken eyes at him. ‘Not Akshay Agarwal of Agarwal Jewellers, title sponsors of the Bridal Fashion Week?’ I squeal, loud enough for the subject to hear. So that’s what the Twiggies meant about shooting the calendar for him! Oh. My. God.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ Akshay says coolly, shooting me a conspiratorial wink before stalking out of the room, a frantic Martin in tow.

  2

  I rummage through my bag for what must be the thousandth time. Where are the frickin’ house keys? I flop down on the cold hard floor outside my flat and upend the roomy tote.

  Gloss (M.A.C. Dazzle Glass, shade Wonderstruck), kohl pencil (M.A.C. Graphite), cell phone, paper napkins, wet wipes, movie stubs, take-away bill from Pizza Hut, deodorant, hair brush, sun glasses, wallet, coin purse, hair band, scrunchie, watch, cotton buds, but no sign of the damn keys.