ALISON SHAW SAT VERY STILL AND TRIED TO BE PATIENT AS SCOTT stroked shadow onto her eyelids. He had turned her away from the mirror while he worked on her makeup, but not being able to see herself hadn’t kept her from taking in every detail of the suite she was in at the Hotel Bel-Air. The bellman had told her it was the Princess Grace suite, where Grace Kelly herself had stayed whenever she was in Los Angeles after she moved to Monaco. It had two bedrooms flanking a large living room with a fireplace that was itself flanked by two pairs of French doors that opened onto a large walled garden with a fountain.
They were at the end of the hotel closest to Sunset Boulevard. She couldn’t remember how many courtyards they’d walked through yesterday afternoon before they finally came to the door to this suite. She and her mother had stayed here last night, and tonight her father and Scott would occupy the master bedroom, since her mother and Conrad Dunn were flying to Paris right after the reception. Now, as Scott worked on her face, Alison tried to commit every detail of the suite to memory so she could tell her friends about it on Monday morning.
But how long was her makeup going to take? And what on earth was Scott doing to her? With every new pencil, brush, or pot of color he used, her fears increased. All she ever used was maybe a stroke of blush on her cheeks and a little lip gloss, and even that only occasionally — most of the time she didn’t bother with anything at all. But Scott had started at least an hour ago with all kinds of things she sort of knew about but had never tried before.
Exfoliating, moisturizing, applying a foundation…
And even though he’d kept up a running commentary about what he was doing, all she could think was that she would end up looking like some kind of gargoyle.
And for her mother’s wedding, for God’s sake!
As if reading her mind, her father, who was lounging in a chair watching Scott work, winked at her. “Stop worrying about what he’s doing and just be glad you don’t have to pay him. Last time he worked on Sandra Bullock, he got five hundred an hour, plus expenses.”
“Which were at least twice my fees,” Scott said through the handle of the brush he was clenching between his teeth.
Alison tried to focus her eyes on him and failed. “Really?”
“Actually, she was easy,” Scott went on, taking the brush out of his mouth and eyeing her carefully. “You’d be surprised how many hours I’ve spent right here in this suite, turning some very strange-looking women into the beauties you see in the magazines.” He stood back to gauge the overall effect of his work. “I even worked on Clint Eastwood.”
“
“For a movie!” Scott retorted. “All that blood and all those scars and wounds don’t come naturally, you know. And just in case you’re still worrying, I’m doing my best not to put any scars on you.”
“Relax, honey,” Michael said. “Scott’s been doing this for a lot of years.”
“More years than I’ll admit in public,” Scott said. “Now close your eyes.”
Alison took a deep breath, praying she wouldn’t look like she was wearing stage makeup. “Just…just don’t overdo it,” she said as he touched her eyelashes with the brush.
“Overdo it?” Scott said, standing back to appraise her one last time. “This is Hollywood, honey. Nobody holds back on anything.” He rummaged through the suitcase that served as his makeup kit and came up with an eyebrow pencil. “Besides, my job is to make people look how they want to look, and I always know what they want a lot better than they do. More to the point, I also know how to do it so it doesn’t look like anyone’s wearing anything at all.” He sharpened the pencil and stroked it lightly across her eyebrows. “You need to have your brows arched, Alison. Not much — just a little. I’ll do it another time. We can’t have pluck marks today.”
“I like my eyebrows,” she protested.
“Everybody likes caterpillars,” Scott said, “but they like butterflies better. And wait until you meet the kids at Wilson Academy. You’ll want to know every trick I can teach you.” He brushed her eyebrows to blend the strokes. “If they’re anything like their mothers — and you can bet they are — half of those girls have already had work done by your new stepfather, and the other half are planning some.” He looked her square in the eyes. “All you have to do is keep in mind that those girls are as phony on the inside as they are on the outside, and you’ll be fine.”
“I don’t even worry that much how I—” Alison began, when her father interrupted.
“Why would you worry?” he asked. “You look spectacular.”
“Ready?” Scott asked.
Alison nodded, though she wasn’t quite sure she was.
Scott turned the chair so she faced the mirror. For a strange, surreal instant she thought there was a mistake, that she was looking at someone else. But a moment later she realized that the young woman in the mirror looked familiar.
Familiar, but different.
Not at all like the person she had always before seen in her own reflection. This girl looked like a mature young woman — exactly the kind of young career woman she had always admired but was sure she could never emulate. “Oh. My. God,” she breathed, coming to a full stop after each word. “Is that really me?”
“It sure is, sweetheart,” Michael said. “And what a beautiful young lady you are.”
Alison gazed at her reflection in utter silence for almost a full minute, coming to realize that Scott was right: what she was seeing was exactly how she’d always wanted to look. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see the makeup.
It was, just as he’d promised, utterly invisible.
“I–I—” she began, her voice choking as she tried to find words to express what she was feeling. “I never thought—” She fell silent again as Scott snatched a Kleenex from the box on the vanity table and caught the tear about to overflow her right eye.
“Don’t you dare start crying,” he told her. “If I have to do repairs, I’m going to charge you, and believe me, even Michael can’t afford my reconstruction fees!”
By the sheer force of her own will, Alison forced the tears back, then grinned at him. “Why don’t both of you change your minds and come to the wedding? You’ve been invited. Please? For me?”
Michael shook his head. “This is your mother’s day. The last thing she needs is to have to explain to everyone why her ex and his boyfriend are here. And starting tomorrow, we’ll get to have you for a whole week while your mother and Conrad are partying in Paris.”
There was a soft knock on the door to the suite’s living room. “Just a moment!” Scott called, and turned Alison around to inspect her one last time. He feathered on just a little more color with a lipstick brush, then pulled the cape from around her shoulders.
Her father took her hand and helped her to her feet, and then Scott circled her, checking the drape of the floor-length, silk lavender sheath dress that had seemed too old for her when she put it on an hour and a half ago but exactly right now that Scott had worked his magic.
“Stand over here,” he said, positioning her in front of the bedroom’s set of French doors, so the light played softly over her hair and face. “Okay,” he called toward the door. “Come see your maid of honor!”
The door opened and Risa stepped inside, her breath catching when she saw Alison.
Alison smiled at her mother, who was more beautiful than she’d ever seen her, in a gray strapless wedding gown with a mermaid silhouette and a spray of tiny flowers in her hair. “Mom, you look fabulous,” she breathed.
“Not compared to you,” Risa replied, her voice trembling. “This is the only wedding in history where the maid of honor is going to outshine the bride.”
“No crying!” Scott ordered. “Control yourselves — both of you.”
Risa stepped over to Scott and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’m not going to cry, and neither is Alison. But I am certainly going to thank you for everything.” Keeping one arm around Scott, she pulled Michael close with the other and kissed him, too. Then she glanced at Alison. “There’s a bottle of champagne in the living room. Why don’t you bring it in, and we’ll have a little toast.” As Alison left the room, Risa squeezed the arms of the two men flanking her. “Sure you won’t change your minds?” she asked. “I should think you’d both
