Edward Johnson screwed her. Now she’d screwed him back. It was time to move on, to put this behind her.
And Dina truly believed it would be that easy.
Chapter Six
Dina wanted a new start. With the profit from the sale of her studio, she had enough for a small nest egg and a deposit on a cute one-bedroom apartment. It was east of Fifth, but that was OK. Dina liked the neighbourhood, still home to artists, singers, poverty-stricken film-makers and their grim documentaries. The West Village was way too expensive; bankers and movie stars lived there now. But the East Village had its vintage clothing dens, its middle-eastern restaurants and its comic-book stores.
The fashionista in Dina loved it. It was up and coming – like she wanted to be.
The one-bedroom was another fixer-upper. She would insert a mezzanine platform – the ceilings were high – and sell it in six months as ‘split level’. If she kept flipping like this, Dina thought, she could have money, real money, by the time she was twenty-one.
But, of course, a job would help.
No more coffee – she was through with waiting tables.
She thought about fashion, but starving new designers couldn’t pay her anything and the glossy magazines were full of unpaid interns whose fathers came from the same social scene as Shelby Johnson. Dina experimented with photography, but she had no talent for it.
She hit the New York Public Library. It was no good trying to work her way up; she needed a qualification – some kind of badge. She knew she was good at investing in property and there were night classes to become a realtor, so Dina enrolled.
As ever, the nest egg wouldn’t last. She would have to work to support her studying, but she wanted something better than waitressing. Maybe something secretarial . . . At least she could type . . .
The Green Apothecary was a certain type of store: one that did well in the East Village. It was small enough to keep the bills down, and it catered to freaks.
Dina Kane fitted right in.
‘Do you like this brand?’
Dina glanced up. It was Hector Green, the old man with a German accent, who owned the store.
‘I love it,’ she said, honestly, turning over the small pot of cold cream in her hands. It was shipped direct from the Dead Sea, Jordan.
The tiny store had attracted her when she was out walking. Dina was tempted and had taken a break from looking for work. This was no ordinary pharmacist’s. They didn’t fill prescriptions here or sell Maybelline cosmetics. The higgledy-piggledy shelves were crammed with imported goods: perfume from Paris in dusty glass bottles, English hand-milled soaps, attar of roses from Egypt. Hipsters and old ladies in lace wandered in and out, buying mostly on the packaging, just to be cool. But Dina tried everything.
It was paradise, standing before the ancient, gold-framed mirrors, applying the creams, the buttery eye shadows, the bronze lipsticks. Aladdin’s cave. Mostly, she couldn’t afford it, but sometimes Dina would treat herself. And Hector would give her tips.
‘Try this one.’ He offered up a plain-looking ceramic jar. ‘Solid perfume from Iran. White musk – thickly scented.’
Dina dipped a finger, and was transported.
‘Don’t touch that cream.’ He warned her off a beautifully engraved compact from Paris. ‘It’s anti-aging; the acids will irritate you. All you need is this.’
She picked up the latest, examining it doubtfully. It was a cheap-looking plastic tube from Austria. ‘What is it?’
‘Primer. Once you apply a few drops, the foundation stays on for days.’
And he was always right.
Dina hung out in the store, spending a lot more time there than money, but Hector never seemed to mind. Hers was the perfect face, and the cosmetics looked wonderful on her – even strange, non-standard colours; she was a young beauty, experimenting.
‘I need some concealer. Like, stat,’ a girl bellowed.
She was lovely, under it all – Dina registered that at once. She had jet-black hair, run slightly wild, expensively artless clothes and a strong Roman nose that gave character to her face. But her pupils were tight, her skin was haggard, she had spots and her teeth were yellowed. Reddened eyes made her look a mess. She had money, but, boy, was she messed up.
Dina pegged her immediately: the unhappy daughter of one of those rich guys in the West Village; likely saw a therapist a few times a week; heir to a fortune; miserable; self-medicating with alcohol and pot. Pretty, young, up all night . . .
‘You don’t need concealer.’ Hector looked at her like she was mad. ‘You need to sleep.’
‘Yeah, thanks, Grandpa,’ she snapped.
‘Actually, you might want to try this – very exclusive – from Milan.’ Dina moved forward; she just couldn’t bear Hector’s hurt look. ‘It’s a combination: tighteners and brighteners. Use about a quarter’s worth on your cheeks and neck and you’ll look like you live on carrot juice and sleep in, daily.’
The girl laughed. ‘Get out of here!’
‘Seriously. Sleep in a bottle.’ Dina held it out towards her. It was a marvellous cream; Hector had pointed her to it after she was up all night studying and needed to look fresh for a job interview in the morning.
It cost twenty-three dollars.
‘It’s expensive though. I don’t know if you can afford it.’
Hector opened his mouth, but Dina’s green eyes warned him to silence.
‘How much?’ the girl said, greedily. She was staring at the tube.
‘It’s a hundred and twenty-three dollars,’ Dina said, coolly.
‘How much? That’s bullshit.’
‘Hey –’ Dina shrugged – ‘this isn’t a corner pharmacy. I understand; you might want to walk over to Avenue A. They have a store on the corner that sells Revlon. Best drugstore stick for under the eyes.’
She turned to put the tube back on the shelf.
‘No. Wait. I can afford it.’ The girl hesitated, Dina could see it. Even for the privileged, more than a hundred dollars was a big chunk out of her allowance. ‘Can I try a sample?’
‘We don’t have sample tubes. Up to you, but this will work great on you. I use it myself. We have similar skin.’
The girl cast an expert, assessing eye over Dina. She was slightly older, but her skin was still amazing and it glowed with the perfection of youth and clean living. And Dina Kane epitomised beauty. She was what everybody wanted to be.
‘Goddamn. I’ll take it.’
Without asking, Dina moved behind the counter. ‘A hundred and fifty dollars, please.’
‘I thought you said a hundred and twenty-three!’
‘Plus tax,’ Dina replied. ‘And handling.’
The girl meekly fished the bills out of her bag, and Dina handed over the precious cream.
‘This stuff really is amazing. Not like the promises you see in the magazines. It works.’
‘For how long?’ the girl said, suspiciously. Now she’d parted with her cash, she was hovering, like she might ask for a refund.
‘For two, maybe three hours. It tightens; it brightens – gets you through your hangover.’ Dina smiled. ‘Nothing lasts longer, you know. The skin is the biggest organ in your body; it can’t be changed by external creams. Temporary tightening effects are just that. This one has light-reflecting pigments and a sunscreen. You will love it.’ She was congratulating the girl like she’d just won the lottery.
‘OK! Great. Thank you.’
‘Come back; tell us how it worked out. Nobody else stocks it,’ Dina said, brightly.
The girl waved; she was already out of the door.
‘My God.’ Hector breathed out. ‘Dina, what the hell were you doing?’
‘Selling it,’ Dina said, grinning. ‘She was so rude. Besides, I think it’s underpriced. And it will look awesome on her. She’ll be a happy bunny. You don’t mind, do you, Hector?’
She laughed and offered him the little sheath of banknotes. Seven twenty-dollar bills and a ten, right there in her hands.
>
‘No. I don’t mind.’ Numbly he took the money. ‘Thank you.’
‘I should get going. I have another interview at a secretarial agency. Midtown.’ Dina looked hopeful. ‘Of course, if you want to give me any free samples . . .’
‘No. I don’t want to give you free samples,’ Hector Green said. ‘I want to give you a job.’
She wasn’t interested in shelf stacking; she made that clear. And he was equally clear. He wanted her.
‘Liebchen, I know what works.’ Hector sat her down in the back, in his little office. It was narrow, the desk piled high with papers and books. ‘I am a research chemist. In my youth, I studied dermatology.’
‘Then . . . no disrespect, but how come you’re running a beauty store?’
‘My wife loved cosmetics. It was our game. I would be horrified at the stuff she put on her skin; I looked at the bottles. Sometimes I mixed lotions just for her.’ He sighed. ‘Maybe this is a way to stay close.’
‘To stay close?’
‘She died – in a car crash with our baby daughter.’ He looked directly at Dina. ‘You know, sometimes they say you will die of a broken heart, but that is a lie. It keeps pumping. And the bills don’t care. I wanted to die.’
‘And you didn’t . . .’
‘Kill myself?’ His smile never reached his eyes. ‘I wanted to do that, too. But my mother was alive. I couldn’t leave her with the same loss: a dead child. And by the time she died, I was too much of a coward.’
‘It isn’t brave to kill yourself, Hector.’ Dina felt sick.
‘Isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder.’ His old, thin frame shuddered a little, as though he was shaking something off. ‘At any rate, the bills were still coming. I just wanted to live peaceably. So, I don’t mix creams anymore, but I sell them. Not well, but I still sell them.’
Dina looked back into the shop, to the cluttered chaos on the shelves. ‘You make a profit?’
‘Every year.’ He lifted his palms. ‘Because I buy things that are effective. This is the big secret. I didn’t want to work hard. Just to live.’
She chewed her lip. ‘You make money despite everything. Because your stuff works.’
‘I look at the ingredients.’ He leaned in again, as though she had missed the point. ‘I’m a chemist.’
‘Then what has changed?’
‘Dina Kane . . . Liebchen,’ he said again, affectionately. ‘I am sixty-nine. I would like, now, to make a little money so perhaps I can stop working, and still live quietly. Until God sends me to join my Helga.’ He lifted a brow. ‘This is too morbid for you?’
She shook her head. ‘I have longer to live, Hector. You do have great stuff. You realise the store is a disaster?’
He shrugged. ‘You can fix that, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Dina nodded. ‘I want you to give me forty per cent of whatever extra we make, on top of your take last year. Fair deal?’
‘Fine.’ He chuckled. ‘You remind me of her, with more fire.’
‘I’m not your daughter, Hector. I’m your partner. Your junior partner, but your partner.’
‘You want a contract?’
She grabbed a piece of paper, a receipt from a Swiss factory, and wrote on the back of it. ‘There. Sign your name, and date it.’
He did so.
‘Wonderful,’ Dina said, and she felt a shiver of joy run down her spine. Something amazing had just happened. Better than getting a job as a secretary; better than being a paralegal. This – this dusty shop, these unglamorous tubes – this was what she was born to do.
Dina left the office with a key. And when Hector arrived at eight thirty the next morning, the place was transformed.
‘I . . . I don’t understand.’ He gazed around. ‘Where is everything?’
Dina smiled. ‘I’ve been here since five. Don’t worry.’
The cluttered shelves were no more. Half his products were removed, in the back office, stacked in boxes. The rest were laid out, cleanly, on the shelves. Dina had tacked up square, cardboard signs, handwritten in crayon: EYES – DAY CREAMS – NIGHT CREAMS – HANDS – BRONZER – BLUSH, and on and on. Under specific products, like a high-class vintner, she’d written up a little pitch:
Egyptian – smells sexy for days.
From Finland – best European sunscreen for perpetual summer days.
This is mascara that never flakes – with plastic proteins to separate lashes.
Try this when you’re sick – better than a facial.
Dina had rigged up lamps, little spotlights from Ikea that beamed on to the shelves. There was wood, but no dust – the floor was swept, the office vacuumed, even the shelves had been gone over with a feather duster. The counter was bare of junk: nothing there but the register and a small black machine.
‘What is this?’ asked Hector.
Dina smiled. ‘Now we take credit cards. Welcome to the modern world, partner.’
Hector Green couldn’t believe his luck.
At first, it was disconcerting – the way he was pushed out, moved over, swept aside. The girl ripped through his store like a mini-tornado, as though he had hired six of her. The first day was just the start. As customers came back in, and marvelled, Dina was on them like a wasp at a picnic. She read people – that was her brilliance – standing back when a woman just wanted to browse; right there when she looked like she might buy something. And it was never a simple, ‘Can I help you?’
Dina Kane didn’t ask women what they wanted. She told them.
‘Your skin tone is a perfect match for this lipstick.’
‘That’s a great bronzer. Have you considered a hand cream? This one has the most natural self-tanner on the market. So light you can hardly see it.’
‘You want something for your neck as well? This will tighten the skin and protect the décolletage.’
‘Don’t use that moisturiser under the eyes – different skin. Try this cream.’
‘This Swiss shampoo deposits silver tones in your hair – it will kill the brassiness.’
And they listened – they all listened. Within a week, word was spreading. Ladies came back with their friends. He had less on the shelves, and was selling twice as much.
For the first time in years, Hector Green sensed an unfamiliar feeling – excitement. He could not help it. There was an audible crackle inside his tiny store. Shoppers who browsed were picking up items, buying them, returning for more. He started to see money, real money, in the till. The rent was paid off earlier in the month. He was released from standing around, could go back to his office to take control of his books, do a little stocktaking. Reluctantly at first, then more confidently, he was able to leave the store by seven p.m. Then six. He started to sleep better, to wake sooner.
Dina made things easy. Dina made things interesting.
‘We’ve sold out.’ She marched into the back room. ‘Give me some stock.’
‘I . . . I haven’t ordered the new pieces yet.’ Hector was flummoxed; it normally took months for his little orders to sell through. Now five pale-pink lipsticks would go in days. He wasn’t ready for this level of traffic.
‘Don’t panic. Here’s a list.’ Dina handed him a piece of paper, with order numbers neatly typed. ‘We just put the other stuff on the shelves. You’ll need more quantity next time.’
‘OK.’
The next week, she came into the office. ‘I’m going to spend some money. About four thousand dollars.’
Hector had never spent that much in his life. ‘On what?’
‘A computer, a printer, some professional stock-taking software.’
Dina looked so certain, he never thought of arguing. ‘OK.’
‘We’re opening new files,’ Dina said, ‘on our best customers. I’ve already done most of it. Can I walk you through it?’ She sounded confident, and she was. Three years in the city and already she felt like Tuckahoe was another world.
There was no college for Dina, only slavish hard work. She might have suffered abuse an
d humiliation at the hands of Edward Johnson, but she had paid him back. His father, too. And the work she was doing now, at the Green Apothecary – it was far closer to her dreams. Dina Kane was putting herself through an MBA – not in a classroom, but right out in the field, taking this old, creaking business and letting the light in. Automating it. Making it work.
Hector looked at the young girl. He was sixty-three; she was twenty – and sometimes he wondered who was the adult, and who the juvenile in the relationship.
‘You need to know how it works, in case you have to do it. If I’m not here.’
He felt a rush of panic. ‘What do you mean, if you’re not here? Why wouldn’t you be here?’
‘You know,’ Dina said. ‘In case I take a day off.’
‘A day off?’ he repeated, slowly.
She smiled. ‘People sometimes have vacations.’
People, he felt like saying. Not you.
Dina Kane was a machine. She worked six days a week; maybe she slept all day Sunday. He never heard her talk men, never saw her with a friend. It was one of the reasons he liked the girl. She was just like him.
‘So, let me show you,’ she explained. ‘Here are the names – with notes. It’s linked to the credit cards. When they swipe it, this will pop up on your screen. Abigail Adams: she’s first on the list. Spends about three hundred a month. Age: early forties. Best products for her: moisturisers, tighteners, Dead Sea hand cream. Colours: she likes to buy pinks; steer her to pink golds – they look better on her skin and will get her more compliments. Open to perfume – think naturals. Last thing she bought: natural-fibre brushes from Japan.’
‘Wow.’ He didn’t know what else to say.
‘Look.’ Dina jumped from her seat and did a little pantomime. ‘Abi! How nice to see you. Did you like the brushes? They hold powders much better than the artificial stuff, don’t they? Oh, Dina said that, if you came in, I should point out the new lip glosses from Portugal. A little company in Lisbon hand-makes them. Great rose-gold colours she thinks would suit your look. We only have a few in stock, though.’
He laughed. ‘I’m almost ready for rose-gold lip gloss myself.’
‘It’s about getting to know them, so they feel it’s personal.’ Dina smiled, proudly, and her mentor felt the happiness, the glow of achievement, bouncing off her. Goddamn it, if he could bottle that look, he’d make his fortune.
Beauty Page 9
