Freshen Up

They had barely taken a few steps when a figure emerged from a niche near the elevator.

The man was huge. At least six feet five tall, maybe more. Broad shoulders, a body that didn't look like it had been trained, but rather chiseled by a sculptor. A white T-shirt stretched across his massive chest, topped by a black baseball jacket with a zipper, worn open. His gaze slid briefly over Marie, matter-of-fact, scrutinizing. She felt as if she were being measured and pigeonholed.

“It's just for our safety, don't worry,” Soraya reassured her. Her hand was still on Marie's shoulder, light but firm, as if to prevent her guest from backing away. “It's safer if we're accompanied by a man.”

Marie nodded, even though she knew she hadn't been asked for her consent. The bodyguard set off without a word, always two steps ahead of them, like a bulldozer clearing the way.

They took the elevator down, deeper into the building. Muffled elevator music played, mirrors all around. Marie instinctively noticed that the man positioned himself so that she stood between him and Soraya. She was not a prisoner, but she was not free either.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened onto a hallway that was wider than Marie had expected, almost demonstratively spacious. It had indirect lighting, thick carpets, no windows.

Soraya led them into a room that had nothing to do with a restaurant. The smell of powder, perfume, and hairspray hung heavy in the air. A jumble of bright voices and soft laughter could be heard.

It was dimly lit, with countless islands of light floating around. Makeup tables with large mirrors lined the walls, framed by warm light strips. Women sat in front of them. Lots of women. Different ages, different skin colors, but all with the same focused attitude. Lips were redrawn, eyeliner corrected, hair tousled, dresses straightened. And they had something else in common: they all looked fantastic.

Marie stopped.

“Before we go out, you should freshen up a little,” Soraya explained, as if it were a matter of course. “It's part of the process.”

“Freshen up?” Marie understood immediately that it wasn't about hygiene. “Is that necessary?” she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

Soraya looked at her critically, calmly scrutinizing her, managing not to look disapproving. Professional. “In a way, you are beautiful,” she stated with disarming candor. “But not in the right way. Not yet.”

She led Marie to a free seat. The bodyguard stayed nearby, leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. He didn't look at her, yet he felt omnipresent.

Soraya pulled out Marie's chair. On the small table, in compartments and drawers, was everything she needed: makeup, pencils, hairbrushes, powder compacts, small bottles. Everything was carefully sorted.

“Trust me,” she said quietly.

Marie could have disagreed. She could have explained that she was an insignificant member of a diplomatic mission, that her appearance was irrelevant, that she shouldn't stand out. But she was already sitting down. And part of her knew that resistance was futile here.

Soraya worked calmly, expertly. She untied Marie's hair and loosened the tight knot, letting it fall in soft strands. Her fingers were skilled, respectful, almost tender. She applied hardly any color, just accents. She emphasized what was pretty and removed what was distracting.

“You won't stand out,” Soraya said with a final scrutinizing glance. “Because now you look the way you really are.”

Marie looked at herself in the mirror. She recognized herself—and yet not quite. Her face looked more attractive. But also more open, more ****. More feminine, she thought.

Some of the women around her stood up, others joined them. They were picked up, accompanied, guided. No one went alone.

Marie took a deep breath. She didn't know where they were taking her. She only knew that she had been prepared—like an object to be presented. Where or to whom remained a mystery to her.

And she was sure that this evening was no longer about dinner.