Chapter 44 – Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

At the threshold of the Whitman Theatre’s backstage, Zara and Eppie bid their familia goodbye, though not for long, since they had dinner booked at a flamenco joint after the show.

Compared to the humble Playhouse, the Whitman Theatre’s backstage was a different hog. The green room here wasn’t green either, but it was professionally furnished to industry standards. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered one side, and the makeup stations had proper mirrors with working bulbs. There were wardrobe rails, rows of folding tables, couches and wheeled stools.

Outside, the Whitman expected about 1200 guests for the night, though with reconfigurations, both upper and lower sections open, and including the corporate boxes, the theatre could house 2000 to 2200 for 2008’s LAPAGANZA. From what Susan Carr had told Eppie in confidence, about 1000 of those seats were filled tonight, and walk-ins easily occupied the rest.

Eppie was dead-set on her roughed-up schoolgirl look because she had a devious plan, and she wasn’t about to deviate from it. Zara chose something not nearly so conspicuous, opting for a halter-neck top in satin purple and flared, bell-bottom jeans. As it was 2007, her midriff was home free, which was fine because Zara had the right body and skin tone to pull it off.

She watched Zara style her hair this way and that, then gave up and decided on a messy bun. Alas, despite the privilege the music Majors received during regular conservatory work, they lacked dedicated MUAs like the theatre kids. With Eppie’s help, Zara applied upper and lower lash-lines perfectly, because there were things [Physicality] and [Agility] were good for other than parkour. Eppie also fixed her own makeup and cleaned up her outfit because Dream a Little called for a different vibe than In the Pines.

The girls looked at themselves in the mirrors. The other girls were also looking at the pair, but Eppie knew no other Seniors than the ones making her life heaven or hell.

“Alright,” Zara exhaled. They were early by thirty minutes, but there wasn’t really a place to practice.

“… Say,” Eppie studied her friend. “You forgot your lips.”

“Oh my God—” Zara rushed back to the makeup station before it was taken. She picked up the colour she wanted and popped the top.

“STOP—” Eppie felt her skin crawl. “What are you doing?”

“Lipstick?”

“That’s a public lipstick.” Eppie walked over and sat her friend down. “With a capital P.”

P for herpes… if one were to win the lottery.

“Oh…” Zara looked at the lipstick. “Er…”

“Stay here,” Eppie looked around the station and returned after a minute with what she needed. She knew how the look was achieved, but in her prior life, she had lacked both patience and dexterity. “Pucker up, buttercup, let me show you how it’s done.”

She operated like a surgeon. Her friend had to look perfect.

The lip primer went on with a concealer brush; her hand was so precise that she didn’t even need a tissue for smoothing.

“It tickles.”

“Don’t talk! I am working.”

She picked up the liner. Eppie held Zara’s chin with her index and middle fingers and tilted her friend’s face by a few degrees. Under the G25 globe bulbs, Zara’s cat-eye makeup was doing wonders for her eyes, the black framing her amber orbs so vividly that an unwary lover could be lost entirely in their reflection.

“Hold your breath.”

Zara froze.

The liner went on in clean arcs, corner to corner, fractionally outside the natural border. Eppie picked a colour she liked, warm burgundy, which her [Love the Light] told her was just perfect, and pressed the shaved, refreshed tip against Zara’s pliant petals. She applied it with a disposable applicator, the colour moving from the centre out, first the top, then the bottom.

“Blot,” she commanded.

Zara blotted.

The impression came away clean. Eppie made another pass to build the colour.

Zara didn’t move. She sat with lips parted, chin tilted, and her breath shallow and sweet. Eppie gulped. The final liner softened the edge of the mouth, but emphasised Zara’s cupid’s bow.

She studied her work. It was good work. She had a knack for this.

“Done.”

“Don’t touch them for three minutes.”

“Or?”

“You’ll smear it.”

A natural rebel, Zara pressed her lips together once and smiled. Eppie felt her heart skip a beat. Eppie looked away and cleaned up her tools with disposables. Was MUA a [Trait]? It could be a very useful skill.

“You look like you’re on the cover of Forever Girl,” Eppie said while patting herself on the back.

“And you look like you’re in a punk alternative.” Zara’s gaze was full of admiration. “So we’ll balance out.”

“Are you nervous?” Eppie asked. It was good that she had distracted herself with Zara’s lips, for the tension left by Juliana Vaughan’s bequest had finally bled from her veins.

Zara considered her question seriously. “No,” she said, her ears were red. “I was nervous before, but now I am nervous for a different reason.”

“Don’t worry about Director Curon. We don’t need the other talent scouts. You need to look perfect, because after tonight…” Eppie’s hands landed on her friend’s shoulders. Her skin was slick, but the change room wasn’t even that warm. Zara was a terrible liar. “You’re going to be a Charting Artist.”

The door to the dressing room opened.
An ASM, Assistant Stage Manager, burst into the room with a clipboard in hand and a headset live and blaring. “Fontaine, Arriaga, five minutes, stage left. No dawdling. NO selfies.”

Eppie picked up her guitar, and Zara hers.
As a last-minute act of cruelty, Eppie hiked her skirt up an inch.
An inch was the difference between innocent and obscene.
The Music from the last act had struck its bridge.

“Ready?” Eppie held out her hand.

“Lista desde el vientre,” Zara said something that sounded like one of Paco’s adages. The musician took her hand. “I was ready the day we met.”

LAPA.
The Whitman Theatre.

William Chen arrived late because he had been giving a heartfelt speech about his film, Generational, which had been short-listed for a local cinema’s program aimed at young Directors.

Thankfully, he had not arrived late for the singular act he wanted to see. He had promised to see others, of course, but those were out of obligation. He was a popular guy, and he had many, many admirers. They had all asked him to come and watch their recitals, dances, and whatnot, but William had time only for his film, his girl, and his golden songbird.

He had actually invited Val as well. He told her that maybe the sight of her perfect self would unnerve Eppie so much that she might screw up. That would be hilarious indeed, though William wasn’t nearly nasty enough to wish such ill against his sweet Sophomore. Unironically, Valorie refused. William suspected it was because watching Eppie succeed would rattle Valorie’s own performance at the apex of the Gala. Hate bred hate, but game recognised game.

When he sat, several of the girls had already noted the absence of his girlfriend, and after confirming her refusal, they happily sat beside him, one cradling his arm. William did not mind this, but he cautioned them nonetheless. He was an earnest boy; it was an act he had long perfected at his Father’s industry parties. Being necessarily honest about inconsequential things meant people automatically opened doors; the adults called him humble and mature. Even when they found out about his love of Night Clubs, they said that it was natural for such a nice boy to blow off steam.

Earlier, he didn’t have time to watch Antigone, which was a shame. He didn’t even have Lim or anyone else to watch Eppie second-hand because they had work at the Five Roots Association. It was only from a fellow Senior that he learned Eppie’s show had gone down swimmingly and that Eppie had been a hoot in her schoolgirl uniform.

The lights went down. Two girls walked out.

William rejoiced.
The Ancestors were blessing him with favoured fortune.

He recognised Zara Arriaga peripherally. She was the Basque girl. Lim said the girls were close in his reports, but hadn’t otherwise dug into the Spaniards’ history.

As for his songbird.

William felt truly joyous.
Eppie. Eppie. Eppie. His sweet fruit.

Did she wear the uniform just for him? The girl was still in her Antigone costume. Perfection. The theatrical makeup. The ruined blouse, the short skirt that had been pressed that morning, only to go through a warzone. She was a vision of forbidden allure, so much so that he had to adjust the way he sat. He just loved the way the stage lights caught her baby-blue eyes, her dark-red mouth, and her straightened blonde hair, which gave Eppie a vibe similar to Valorie’s. Was that a jab at Val? It was lucky then that his girlfriend wasn’t here.

William asked for some water, and one of the girls passed him her bottle.
He drank, not caring, because he wasn’t about to miss a single minute of his songbird’s performance.

Sometimes, William amazed himself with what his magnanimity produced.
By not pursuing the matter of the lost recording and by diverting Valorie’s toxic obsession, he had arrived at this serendipitous moment of sublimity to taste Eppie’s moment of ripeness.

He wondered, as his eyes studied her still-developing figure, what kind of movie Eppie might be good in. A Road Trip film, the cinematographer in him proposed, was the right vibe for a girl like her. A victim of incest, because her face was sinful, escaping from a dark past, the murder of her abusive father. She would meet a young man with his own demons, and the two of them would travel in a car to nowhere, racking up karmic debt while fighting the desire to lick each other’s wounds like desperate animals.

Cao!
That was a good idea.
No, it was a fucking brilliant idea.
Would his father fund it? Of course, he would. Especially if his model son won that local film prize.

He could make Fontaine a star. She would do very well as one, considering her burgeoning talent for music writing. If she was as close to Sony’s C-Suite as rumoured, maybe they could even share a genuine partnership, one built out of mutual respect… and affection.

On stage, the MC for the night introduced the girls. She was a minor celebrity herself, an alumnus who now worked in local television, doing comedies, that sort of thing. There really wasn’t a need to introduce Eppie, but Zara needed one. To his amusement, the MC presented them on equal footing.

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There were two stools, one low and the other higher. Two microphones. The Whitman used industry standard lighting for this sort of thing, something simple, something isolating and warm. Eppie was famous, but this was Zara’s showcase.

Eppie sat. She crossed her shapely white stalks.
William settled into his seat, miming the way she sat, then slapped the thigh of the girl on his right.

She chided him.
William laughed, albeit quietly and politely. Life was good.

“Please enjoy the new ballad from our No.1 songwriter,” the MC declared before retreating into the darkness. In the end, William snickered. VP Thomas couldn’t help herself.