mind that Ferdy would never get the use of this studio ever again. I was annoyed that time was going, and I couldn’t get started. I wanted to make a good job of Natalie Sheridan.
In fact, she was back in a trice, with the towel neatly tucked in her waistband. One minute I smelt her scent, and the next she was there at my elbow.
‘Well, we really must get on, mustn’t we?’
We must. It meant she hadn’t seen Johnson. And as the sort of drumroll went on from the bedroom, that either the housekeeper or Ferdy had stopped her.
And my money, I can tell you, was on the housekeeper.
It had been a struggle. But here at last was the great Mrs Sheridan, sitting in front of the mirror and saying, ‘All right. Now Rita, just do what you can.’ And we were off.
When I am working with make-up, I’m happy.
Cosmetics are only paint, and paint is only a way of creating an illusion. You can learn all that stuff at art college. I did. Beauty colleges teach it too, and there are company courses of all sorts.
But it’s not like painting a jug. In private practice, you have to sort out for yourself what your customer really wants, and get as near to it as you’re able.
With Natalie Sheridan, I had an easy job and a hard one.
Her face was good, for pushing forty. She had had her face lifted once, so the chin was firm. Her skin was clear, with a light year-round tan that showed off all that blonde hair.
She didn’t need line fillers. Her eyes had large, smooth lids; her lips were thinnish but workable, and her cheekbones were a gift. You could see why the cameras loved her.
I had the kind of false eyelashes she was used to. The permanent work on her eyebrows and her hairline had been done by her own man, Kim-Jim Curtis.
And that, if you like, was the snag.
I had to do this make-up to a standard set by Kim-Jim Curtis, who had been with her for years. And who for years had been her gofer, her make-up artist and her hairdresser in her New York apartment, her Paris nook, and her Madeira hideaway.
What’s more, I had to do it if possible better, because Kim-Jim had suggested me for this London job. And if Mrs Sheridan was impressed, more would follow.
I knew about Kim-Jim. I’d met him.
A few make-up specialists develop private clients all over the world and live the rich life, flying from party to party to paint on the faces. Some make a success with one client, and get themselves on to their personal payroll for life.
Not many employers can afford a service like that. Natalie Sheridan was one of them.
The best T.V. make-up man she ever came across was this big red-headed Californian, twelve years older than she was; and she bought him as soon as she met him.
Kim-Jim was perfect for her. He had social sense and camera-sense. He could make her look right for any setting she wanted to queen it in.
And that’s a great art, and it only happens when the artist really hits it off with his client.
Kim-Jim Curtis, I suppose, fell for Natalie Sheridan from the beginning.
She slept around, according to Ferdy; but with partners so well protected, usually at government cost, that the public never got wind of them. If Kim-Jim knew, and he must have known, he didn’t split on her.
When she didn’t have anyone else, he maybe went to bed with her; but I don’t suppose he tore the sheets getting there. There was a sort of motherly side to him. He can’t have had much drive, to stay with her all that time as he did, just working on the odd film if she let him.
It was on one of those that he’d seen me in action. That was why Ferdy had been told to get me for Mrs Sheridan’s make-up in London. Bossy Natalie might be, but she wasn’t silly. If Kim-Jim said someone was good, she would listen to him.
Ferdy thought I’d wiped off my face-stripes because I wanted Kim-Jim Curtis’s job, and not just some chance work in London.
He was wrong, but not all that wrong. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.
All the same, I wonder sometimes
In fact, she was back in a trice, with the towel neatly tucked in her waistband. One minute I smelt her scent, and the next she was there at my elbow.
‘Well, we really must get on, mustn’t we?’
We must. It meant she hadn’t seen Johnson. And as the sort of drumroll went on from the bedroom, that either the housekeeper or Ferdy had stopped her.
And my money, I can tell you, was on the housekeeper.
It had been a struggle. But here at last was the great Mrs Sheridan, sitting in front of the mirror and saying, ‘All right. Now Rita, just do what you can.’ And we were off.
When I am working with make-up, I’m happy.
Cosmetics are only paint, and paint is only a way of creating an illusion. You can learn all that stuff at art college. I did. Beauty colleges teach it too, and there are company courses of all sorts.
But it’s not like painting a jug. In private practice, you have to sort out for yourself what your customer really wants, and get as near to it as you’re able.
With Natalie Sheridan, I had an easy job and a hard one.
Her face was good, for pushing forty. She had had her face lifted once, so the chin was firm. Her skin was clear, with a light year-round tan that showed off all that blonde hair.
She didn’t need line fillers. Her eyes had large, smooth lids; her lips were thinnish but workable, and her cheekbones were a gift. You could see why the cameras loved her.
I had the kind of false eyelashes she was used to. The permanent work on her eyebrows and her hairline had been done by her own man, Kim-Jim Curtis.
And that, if you like, was the snag.
I had to do this make-up to a standard set by Kim-Jim Curtis, who had been with her for years. And who for years had been her gofer, her make-up artist and her hairdresser in her New York apartment, her Paris nook, and her Madeira hideaway.
What’s more, I had to do it if possible better, because Kim-Jim had suggested me for this London job. And if Mrs Sheridan was impressed, more would follow.
I knew about Kim-Jim. I’d met him.
A few make-up specialists develop private clients all over the world and live the rich life, flying from party to party to paint on the faces. Some make a success with one client, and get themselves on to their personal payroll for life.
Not many employers can afford a service like that. Natalie Sheridan was one of them.
The best T.V. make-up man she ever came across was this big red-headed Californian, twelve years older than she was; and she bought him as soon as she met him.
Kim-Jim was perfect for her. He had social sense and camera-sense. He could make her look right for any setting she wanted to queen it in.
And that’s a great art, and it only happens when the artist really hits it off with his client.
Kim-Jim Curtis, I suppose, fell for Natalie Sheridan from the beginning.
She slept around, according to Ferdy; but with partners so well protected, usually at government cost, that the public never got wind of them. If Kim-Jim knew, and he must have known, he didn’t split on her.
When she didn’t have anyone else, he maybe went to bed with her; but I don’t suppose he tore the sheets getting there. There was a sort of motherly side to him. He can’t have had much drive, to stay with her all that time as he did, just working on the odd film if she let him.
It was on one of those that he’d seen me in action. That was why Ferdy had been told to get me for Mrs Sheridan’s make-up in London. Bossy Natalie might be, but she wasn’t silly. If Kim-Jim said someone was good, she would listen to him.
Ferdy thought I’d wiped off my face-stripes because I wanted Kim-Jim Curtis’s job, and not just some chance work in London.
He was wrong, but not all that wrong. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.
All the same, I wonder sometimes
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