By Rachael Smart
I paint myself a new face just for the occasion. The woman pouting back in the mirror looks like a show girl, a rainbow of the pale old me. My anxiety is flawlessly concealed under a blend of Estee Lauder foundation; usually I’d have left it at that, no frills, just me and my nude skin. Pascal adores me bare. But I’ve got this compulsion to mask my face, paint over the nakedness with rich, velvety cosmetics to make myself look new. It’s quarter to. They’re due at eight. I feel very calm inside; it’s strange because going out anywhere usually gives me butterflies, but my hands are steady holding the make-up applicators.
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