seemed pretty fearsome. ‘Leave that to the experts please.’
‘Okey-doke,’ I said with a cheery smile. Thank goodness he hadn’t walked in two minutes earlier, when all those emails were flying the nest. At least I’d got away with that much.
To: All Departments
Please join me in welcoming our first Director of IT, Mr M Walker, who joins us from a significant financial institution in the City.
This is a new appointment for the London Metropolitan Opera Company. I therefore hope you will make him feel welcome and offer your co-operation as he gets to grips with our wonderful work here.
Julian Spencer
Chief Executive
London Metropolitan Opera Company
After the cluttered mayhem of the wig room, the calm, clinical atmosphere of the make-up department was like stepping into an operating theatre.
Harsh white light from a bank of bulb-lit mirrors filled the room. Underneath them, a spotless white counter ran the full length of one wall, in front of which sat a row of cream leather swivel chairs as impressive as thrones awaiting royalty.
‘Hey Pietro.’ The imposing figure filling the plush chair with his broad shoulders and wide chest was waiting for me.
‘Tilly, darling.’ Under the dark bushy brows which contrasted sharply with his silver hair, his eyes glinted with merriment. On either side of him, the other opera singers chattered away together as they waited for their respective make-up artists to arrive.
‘How are you today?’ I fished out a black cape and draped it across the rich fabric of his heavily embellished costume. ‘Did your granddaughter like the zoo?’
‘She loved it darling.’
The words came out as ‘lorved eet’. Despite all his years in England, he’d never lost his Italian accent and the exaggerated vowels always made me smile.
‘Especially the snakes.’ He shuddered dramatically and winked at me in the mirror. ‘Revolting child. Next time we’re going to Selfridges. To see Santa, that will be far more civilised.’
He didn’t mean it, he positively doted on twelve-year-old Lottie and had even been into her school in Notting Hill to talk in assembly. Not something that many international superstars did in my experience.
Laying out my kit, I checked I had everything, not once but twice. It made me antsy if I had to break off half way through to go searching for a brown pencil or the right brush.
Yup, everything was where I wanted it to be. I looked at Pietro in the mirror. In front of him, on a wooden block, sat the long flowing wig which made the final transformation from favourite grandpa to Don Giovanni.
‘How was your morning?’
‘I had a run in with a virus, blinking thing,’ I said shaking my head. ‘Think I’ve spread it everywhere.’
‘What?’ Pietro’s face filled with concern and his hand strayed to his throat in self-concern. His precious vocal chords could be rendered useless if he caught a nasty cold.
‘No. No,’ I laughed. ‘Not a real one. A silly computer one.’ I patted his arm quickly. Infecting anyone in a principal role, especially the world’s most renowned baritone, was Make-Up Artist’s Cardinal Sin Number Three. ‘I’m germ free.’ I waved my hands to reinforce my point.
As I carried on pencilling and shadowing his face, our conversation moved on with its usual easy flow as he related scurrilous tales about his arch-rival, an up and coming American singer, naughty, libellous gossip about one of his co-stars in a previous production and the difficulties of learning an aria for his next part.
Half an hour later, I put down my pencils and make-up palette.
‘Thanks, wonderful girl.’ Pietro stood and with a wicked grin admired himself in the brightly-lit mirror. ‘God, I’m lovely.’ He patted the outsize codpiece stuffed down his buckskin trousers. ‘All ready to seduce my daily quota of virgins.’
‘Oooh, Pietro, you are wicked,’ sang Vince as he applied the finishing touches to the doe-eyes of one of said hapless virgins. A chorus of giggles erupted as Pietro strutted around the room thrusting out his pelvis. Even Jeanie, who liked the team to maintain an air of calm before a performance, managed a smile.
‘Come here you.’ Crooking a finger at him, I beckoned him back to his chair. ‘There’s no seducing anyone until I’ve checked your wig again.’ Running my fingers around his hairline, I gave the hairpiece a testing tug, this way and that. All snug. Perfect. Cardinal Sin Number Two was something coming adrift mid-performance. Jeanie’s mantra had been drummed into all of us – you can draw blood as long as the wig stays in place.
‘How does it feel?’ I stood back, studying the fit. It looked fabulous on him. All the wigs were hand-made. Most were sent out to trusted pieceworkers but the principals’ wigs were made in-house. I didn’t want to think how many finger twitching hours this particular one had taken.
Pietro tossed the long hair back over his shoulder with a leonine-shake.
‘It suits me I think. Perhaps I should keep it on when I go home.’ He winked lasciviously. ‘My wife would love it.’
‘Beginners stage left please.’ The tannoy burst into life, punching the muted quiet of the room with a spike of electricity. A sudden hush fell as everyone sobered, ready for that first step on stage. Now on count-down to curtain up, with the precision of a well-drilled army, the make-up team straightened, smoothed and stroked, giving each of their charges a final check to ready them for the vast audience out front, while the wardrobe team, like bridesmaids at a wedding, assessed, tugged and tucked.
Several floors down, two thousand people were taking their expensive red velvet seats in eager anticipation of the evening’s performance. The picture was so clear in my head; the excited hum of chattering voices, the Mexican Wave of up and down bobs as the audience squeezed past each other’s knees and people peering down through their opera glasses at the orchestra in the pit, already seated and tuning up.
As we were about to leave the make-up room, crowding into the corridor to make the journey backstage, Pietro’s hand suddenly shot to his chest. For a horrible moment, I thought he was having a heart attack, until he gave me a sheepish glance and fished out his mobile phone.
‘Pietro!’ I gasped. Mobiles were strictly forbidden backstage as they could interfere with some of the tech stuff. I’d never even seen him with one before.
His face darkened, lines of temper marking his mouth as he homed in on the caller ID.
‘I have to take this,’ he snapped and wheeled back into the empty make-up room, slamming the door.
‘Shit! What do I do?’ I hopped from one foot to the other, glancing from the closed door and back at Jeanie. This was uncharted territory. You don’t argue with a star as big as Pietro but I had to make sure he was in the wings for curtain
