After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

After She's Gone (West Coast #3) Page 114

Intent on not disturbing any of the other wall hangings, she bit her lip as she eased the mounted poster from its spot and carried it to a bench pushed against the wall with the window. After placing it in plain view of her makeup table she sat in the small chair at her vanity mirror and opened the drawer where she kept her cosmetics. Tubes and jars were lined in rows and she quickly picked those that would be perfect for her transformation: coral lipstick, smoky eye shadow, near-black eyeliner with a hint of green, a rusty-hued blush over lighter foundation.

Then she began her work, using the brushes, swabs, and cotton balls kept in jars on the table, leaning close to the mirror when she needed to while keeping the poster in her peripheral vision.

She was still young.

Age hadn’t gotten to her.

Yet.

Growing older was inevitable of course, but at the thought her lips pursed, and she noticed the first signs of ugly, bothersome lines that would eventually require Botox injections.

She couldn’t think about them now. She was losing time.

She could play Zoey. No, she could be Zoey. She had the heart-shaped face, though she would have to don a red wig, as Jenna had done.

Jenna!

Again her stomach roiled and her hatred ran a little faster in her blood.

With a slightly trembling hand she applied her makeup painstakingly, using the different brushes with their varying sizes and firmness, copying the shading beneath Jenna’s cheekbones, the smudge of eyeliner/shadow at the corners of her eyes, the carefully outlined lips.

Jenna Hughes, who, at the top of her game, had walked away from Hollywood. What a coward. She’d thrown it all away. For what? To be a mother? What a joke! What a freaking joke!

Her hand trembled more violently and she closed her eyes and counted to ten.

This is not the time to unravel, for God’s sake.

Slowly letting out her breath, she started in again. With forced precision she applied the colors, lines, and mascara, as careful as a painter with a masterpiece as she looked from the image on the poster to her own reflection and back again. The hues had to be exact. With the right play of shadow and light, she could make herself be Zoey . . . not Jenna so much really but . . . close enough to pass as Zoey Trammel . . . a final stroke of lipstick and . . . her hand wobbled wildly.

Her teeth clenched.

No! No! Don’t lose it!

But it was too late, the shaking of her fingers had destroyed her look. The lipstick trailing from the corner of her mouth made her look like the Joker from a Batman movie.

“Shit!” She grabbed a tissue, tried to clean up. No, no, no! That wasn’t what was supposed to happen!

Heart pounding, her pulse racing, she knew in an instant that if she didn’t pull herself back, rein in her wildly raging emotions, all would be lost. “Get it together!” she screamed into the mirror, then gasped in horror. “Oh, Jesus!” The image staring back at her looked nothing like Zoey Trammel. The woman in the reflection was cartoonish, a caricature of the beautiful Zoey and the gorgeous woman who portrayed her, the colors bizarre.

“You sick, sick fake!” she snarled at the face staring at her, and noticed a bit of spit in the corner of her oversize orange lips. Her breathing was coming in short, sharp pants and her mind was suddenly disjointed. Fractured.

Gripping the edge of the table, she leaned closer to the hideous woman in the glass. “What the hell were you thinking, you miserable bitch?” Spittle flew from her garish lips to gob on the mirror, then run down the smooth glass, leaving a silvery trail over her reflection.

She gaped in horror.

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen tonight.

Her blood was pumping through her veins, coursing hot, pounding in her temples. “For the love of God,” she whispered to her image, despair entwining with her rage. “What’s wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you?” She swept the countertop of all her jars and tubes, sending them crashing to the floor, glass shattering.

Frustration boiled deep within and her hands went to her hair, her fingers digging deep into her scalp, as if she could physically drag the demons from her skull. “Why are you doing this?” The question was broken by a sob as a feeling of wretched hopelessness overtook her. “What’re you doing?” She let the tears flow and buried her head in her hands. Shoulders heaving, sobbing quietly, she knew her makeup was ruined and running down her face, but she would repair it, change the look, come out of this. She could fix things. It was just makeup, dye and powder and grease.