Faces of Fear by John Saul Page A

still worrying, I'm doing my best not to put any scars on you."
    "Relax, honey," Michael said. "Scott's been doing this for a lot of years."
    "More years than I'll admit in public," Scott said. "Now close your eyes."
    Alison took a deep breath, praying she wouldn't look like she was wearing stage makeup. "Just…just don't overdo it," she said as he touched her eyelashes with the brush.
    "Overdo it?" Scott said, standing back to appraise her one last time. "This is Hollywood, honey. Nobody holds back on anything." He rummaged through the suitcase that served as his makeup kit and came up with an eyebrow pencil. "Besides, my job is to make people look how they want to look, and I always know what they want a lot better than they do. More to the point, I also know how to do it so it doesn't look like anyone's wearing anything at all." He sharpened the pencil and stroked it lightly across her eyebrows. "You need to have your brows arched, Alison. Not much—just a little. I'll do it another time. We can't have pluck marks today."
    "I like my eyebrows," she protested.
    "Everybody likes caterpillars," Scott said, "but they like butterflies better. And wait until you meet the kids at Wilson Academy. You'll want to know every trick I can teach you." He brushed her eyebrows to blend the strokes. "If they're anything like their mothers—and you can bet they are—half of those girls have already had work done by your new stepfather, and the other half are planning some." He looked her square in the eyes. "All you have to do is keep in mind that those girls are as phony on the inside as they are on the outside, and you'll be fine."
    "I don't even worry that much how I—" Alison began, when her father interrupted.
    "Why would you worry?" he asked. "You look spectacular."
    "Ready?" Scott asked.
    Alison nodded, though she wasn't quite sure she was.
    Scott turned the chair so she faced the mirror. For a strange, surreal instant she thought there was a mistake, that she was looking at someone else. But a moment later she realized that the young woman in the mirror looked familiar.
    Familiar, but different.
    Not at all like the person she had always before seen in her own reflection. This girl looked like a mature young woman—exactly the kind of young career woman she had always admired but was sure she could never emulate. "Oh. My. God," she breathed, coming to a full stop after each word. "Is that really me?"
    "It sure is, sweetheart," Michael said. "And what a beautiful young lady you are."
    Alison gazed at her reflection in utter silence for almost a full minute, coming to realize that Scott was right: what she was seeing was exactly how she'd always wanted to look. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't see the makeup.
    It was, just as he'd promised, utterly invisible.
    "I—I—" she began, her voice choking as she tried to find words to express what she was feeling. "I never thought—" She fell silent again as Scott snatched a Kleenex from the box on the vanity table and caught the tear about to overflow her right eye.
    "Don't you dare start crying," he told her. "If I have to do repairs, I'm going to charge you, and believe me, even Michael can't afford my reconstruction fees!"
    By the sheer force of her own will, Alison forced the tears back, then grinned at him. "Why don't both of you change your minds and come to the wedding? You've been invited. Please? For me?"
    Michael shook his head. "This is your mother's day. The last thing she needs is to have to explain to everyone why her ex and his boyfriend are here. And starting tomorrow, we'll get to have you for a whole week while your mother and Conrad are partying in Paris."
    There was a soft knock on the door to the suite's living room. "Just a moment!" Scott called, and turned Alison around to inspect her one last time. He feathered on just a little more color with a lipstick brush, then pulled the cape from around her shoulders.
    Her father took her hand and helped