Queen Esther

  Emma sat patiently while the make - up artist fixed her fake lashes for the 4th time. By this time, Emma's left eye was already teary with the constant irritation of reapplying lash glue and having the lashes pulled out again repeatedly.  She was getting agitated and she was losing her balance on the rotating chair. She took a couple of deep breaths and finally muttered in between sniffles, "can we do away with the fake lashes?"

Her make up artist pulled back to give her a serious stare. "Trust me, love. You will look great on camera with these babies. Besides, it's just one more. Are you in pain?"

"No, ma'am. I've never worn this before and with you constantly tugging my lashes, I am all teary." The make up artist gives out a deep sigh and looks at the clock. It's just 2.45 in the afternoon.  She only needs to be camera ready by 4. "Ok, here's what we will do, I will fix your hair first, give you a little breather and then fix your lash again. Will that be ok?" Emma nodded. "Cool, are you OK wearing your hair down?"

Emma turns away from the make up artist and stares at her reflection. The mirror was equipped with 22 light bulbs and 2 socket point for a hair dryer and a hand held hair curler. Her dark brown shoulder length hair that never touched a single drop of perming chemical or hair dye was always up in a bun. Yet for today, on a very special occasion, she is asked how she would like it styled.  Emma is lost. She never gave her hair much thought. She only did what was comfortable. Then her eye caught the sight of a book called 'The Dangerous Prayer' and she quickly looked up at her make up artist cum stylist. She locked gaze, pursed her dark red velvety lips together, took a breath and with full confidence replied "You know what, Miss? Please surprise me. I already came this far. I lived too long in my comfort zone, it is time I placed the destiny of my looks in someone else's hands. I trust you!"

"Wow! You are dangerous, love. I am Jenny by the way. Jenny the stylist, not the host. I love your book." Said Jenny who shared the same name as the host of the Show  Emma smiled in disbelief. "You read my book?" she asked. "Yes love. We all did. Every one who works for Jenny Silvas had a copy of your book. I am not a praying person, love, but your book gave me goose bumps. I love the part where you said 'if i perish, I perish!' I was like, wow!!!" Said a cheerful Jenny.

While the 2 ladies continued to get acquainted, outside the make up room sat a very equally nervous husband. Dean was 6 feet tall but his nerves were clouding his mind so much and he felt smaller than his 5 feet wife, Emma. He spent many months convincing Emma not to publish her testimony in her very first book. He always thought she would find her inspiration somewhere else besides what really happened behind closed doors. Their doors.  Their secrets. His shame became Emma's testimony. He never once imagined that his wife of 12 years would one day conceive the thought to share her testimony in a book which is now a New York Times best seller. No amount of money she makes out of this book could ever settle his nervous vibes right now.

The air cond was set at room temperature but he was having cold sweats. He never even noticed the technical crew waltzing in and out of the guest lounge supervising last minute arrangements. Their footsteps were loud but not loud enough to drown the ticking of the wall clock. Similar to the one in the make up room. Round, 11inch in size with a white face and silver trims. The clock had Roman numerals, Emma's favourite.

He didn't realise the make up door swing open and Emma emerged. "How do I look, hun?" Dean switched gaze from the floor to his fresh looking wife. She had natural shades of eye shadows on with a hint of glittery silver liner. He stared at her eyes and noticed her lashes were so full and he smiled like a proud groom at the altar waiting for his bride when he noticed how enhanced her cheekbones are. "Too much?" Asked an equally nervous Emma, sensing that maybe her looks didn't sit well fot Dean's approval.