Beauty by Louise Mensch Page A

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