‘I don’t need make-up,’ says Ron. He’s in a straight-backed chair because Ibrahim told him you mustn’t slouch on television.
‘Do you not?’ replies his make-up artist, Pauline Jenkins, taking brushes and pallets from her bag. She has set up a mirror on a table in the Jigsaw Room. It is framed by lightbulbs, and the glow bounces off her cerise earrings as they bob back and forth.
Ron feels the adrenalin pumping a little. This is the stuff. A bit of TV. Where are the others though? He told them they could come along ‘if they fancied, no big deal’, and he will be gutted if they don’t show.
‘They can take me as they find me,’ says Ron. ‘I’ve earned this face, it tells a story.’
‘Horror story, if you don’t mind me saying?’ says Pauline, looking at a colour palette, and then at Ron’s face. She blows him a kiss.
‘Not everyone has to be beautiful,’ says Ron. His friends know the interview starts at four. They’ll be here soon surely?
‘We’re agreed there, darling,’ says Pauline. ‘I’m not a miracle worker. I remember you back in the day though. Handsome bugger, weren’t you, if you like that sort of thing?’
Ron grunts…
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