What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (8 page)

“But when she went after my naturally kind and accommodating daughter after more than a decade of no contact (for obvious reasons)—stalking, insulting, showing up inappropriately—for a mother, that was the worst.”

“Welcome to the family!” I jumped in, smiling at Ayaan, deflecting the spotlight but also thinking about how much I hated Farrah. And I didn’t really hate anybody.

“We’re just giving you as much information up front as possible,” my dad added.

Damon reached protectively for Ayaan’s hand.

“Oh, every family has its drama,” Ayaan assured us confidently. “My name actually means ‘good luck and destiny,’ so maybe I can bring that to you guys this year for so kindly having me at your table.”

Nice work, little brother.

But with my mother’s siblings, what also infuriated me was that while she and my father worked hard as teachers for their entire professional careers and gave Damon and me the lives that they had dreamed of having, Farrah sweetly cried poverty—but lived in a two-million-dollar home. While my grandparents paid for the college, medical school, and graduate school tuitions, weddings, bar mitzvahs, and New York City apartment rental costs for Farrah’s boys, Farrah traveled around the world and shopped. My parents, though, never asked for a thing.

“Wow,” Damon said brazenly, topping off his drink, putting an end to family story time. “I’m thankful for the wine I drank tonight. Heavy Thanksgiving, guys. Don’t ya think?”

Dispersing to the kitchen in between courses, my true family and our latest addition (if we hadn’t already scared her away) decided that since my grandfather had been kicked out of his office and company, we’d focus on a plan to get his money back and his finances intact.

I felt compelled to get involved. This woman and her brother had to be stopped. Farrah and Rick didn’t hold anything over me in the way of a job, income, or my future (I hoped!), so I had nothing to lose by trying. And when your willfully independent grandfather asks for your help for the first time in his long life . . . he gets it.

CHAPTER TEN

A Powerful Blend

I
didn’t even know what was happening. Back at work just a few hours after Thanksgiving weekend ended, the energy of the studio felt like a whirlwind. As the red Mercedes pulled up to the curb, the girls got off their seats behind the register, emergency lipsticks were found and applied, breath mints were popped, leftover food from lunch was tossed, garbage was taken outside, hearts were pounding, and we were the blood supply flowing to the beat in our own insular cavity. All in a matter of seconds. Who was going to be called up to bat? The silence in the store was maddening. The red Mercedes just sat out front and waited. And so did we. Then the phone rang. Jolie was the closest, so she picked up.

“Thank you for calling Sally Steele Cosmetics, Jolie speaking, how can I help you?”

We all knew who it was on the other end of the line. We could see her dial from her car. “Okay, Sally. Will do, thanks,” Jolie said and hung up the receiver to continued silence. “She wants to see Laramie first, and then Alison.”

Laramie, our heavy-eye-rimmed, Goth-style-makeup-wearing, incredibly hardworking intern, who certainly didn’t get a large enough stipend to have to endure front-seat torture, was outside for about ten minutes. While she was out there, the robots went to work, puttering around the studio doing their jobs perfectly, or at least looking like they were.

Laramie walked back into the shop with her head held high, told me it was my turn, beelined for the bathroom, and shut the door. Whether she cried, screamed, pounded her fists against the wall, or threw up in the toilet, I identified with Laramie. With perfect makeup that I hoped hid the fear in my face, I walked outside and took a seat in the red death trap.

“Hello, Alison,” Sally said, her tone clipped. No nicknames today.

Just breathe
,
I thought.

“Hi, Sally. How was your Thanksgiving? Elliott told me—”

“You need to listen to me right now, girl. We have a big problem.” She cut me off so abruptly that I waited in silence, my curiosity and Sally’s energy already starting to duke it out. Sally turned on her car and started driving.

She’s driving? We’re driving somewhere?

“What’s going on?” I asked, a mist of sweat appearing on my face, the hairs on my arms standing at attention.

“You screwed up. Big time. I am so gigantically pissed at you right now.” My eyes doubled in size, urging her to go on.

Oh my God. What did I do? What did I forget to do?

“Were you aware that I was supposed to be on QVC for ten minutes last night?”

“Um . . . Yes . . . I mean, no. Hold on,” I said, my hands starting to shake. I quickly started scrolling through my iPhone as fast as my trembling hands would let me, bending my head in an effort to hide burgeoning tears while silently thanking any heavenly entity that I’d decided to put my email on my iPhone before Thanksgiving break.

“Sally,” I urged, “there was talk of you guesting on a show the Sunday after Thanksgiving, but it was never confirmed and I didn’t get the show lineup from QVC. I sent an email to your buyers at QVC asking if I could confirm this for you and no one wrote back. I can show you the emails. I’m looking for the emails. No one confirmed. I have the emails.” I was basically panting.

She ignored me. “You have no idea how much money I’ve lost, not to mention putting my reputation of reliability on the line.”

Interesting delusion there.

“You didn’t call them when you hadn’t heard? You didn’t email two hundred
times if that was what was necessary?” she demanded.

But I sent that email. I know I
sent it. But it wasn’t enough.

“I am really sorry,” I said, breathing deeply, attempting to recover whatever dignity I had left, my chest feeling tighter by the second. “I don’t know how this happened. I am so, so embarrassed and sorry, Sally. I would never intentionally do something like this.”

Get a grip, Alison. Everyone makes mistakes. But this is huge.

“Thank God I’m driving, because I can’t even look at you right now,” she said. “I thought you were smarter than this. I really should punish you.”

My jaw unhinged, leaving my mouth agape.

“I hope you’re not as careless as this in your personal life,” she said. “Because . . . well, you are single.”

She stopped the car as our lap ended, a block away from the studio.

This woman was a beast. A mongrel. A mongrel in really good makeup. How dare she say that! And she was single, too!

My gut told me to get out of the car. Not that I feared for my physical safety, but I needed to get out and get a grip. Yet I did nothing, paralyzed by what she’d just said.

You screwed up. Big time.

I had never actually made a mistake like this before. Ever. And Sally could smell my fear and she was thriving on it. Especially when the tears started to spill. Sally also knew it was time for me to get out of her car.

“You will exit my car in thirty seconds,” she said slowly. “You will not speak of this to anyone at the studio. I see that you’re very sorry, but I really don’t care, to be quite honest.”

The sound of the Unlock button hit me like a slap in the face.

Did I just commit career suicide?

I was too embarrassed to tell any of my friends or family what I’d done. So I swallowed it up as I walked back to the studio.

You have to start standing up for yourself, Alison. You aren’t playing a part anymore—this isn’t written for you. Write this right. Be the
heroine you want to be
.

Thankfully it was busy at the studio and no one noticed when I gathered my things and left. Once home, I wrapped myself in my covers and tried to sleep. It was 6 p.m. and I wanted it to be tomorrow. Or next week.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Looks Dramatically Revitalized

W
ould the Makeup Mongrel really deal me a punishment? It had been a couple of weeks since our QVC incident, but a weighted feeling stayed with me—heavy on my lids in the morning, it rode with me on the subway and nagged at me when I sat at my desk.

Punishment or not, I boldly sent my first résumé out in December, just six months after starting my non-showbiz-steady-life-constant-paycheck-drive-by-ambush job. I had wanted to give my résumé, my bank account, and my peace of mind one year of consistency before applying for jobs, but with the practically nonexistent job market, and my days becoming more bizarre and upsetting, I weighed my options, and sending out résumés prevailed. SiriusXM, USA Network, the Weinstein Company, Ivanka Trump’s lifestyle website, and Estée Lauder all received my CV.

My dirty little secret was that, surprisingly, I didn’t miss “acting” at all. I longed for the art of performing, but I had missed that even while auditioning. While makeup wasn’t “it,” either—at least I didn’t think it was—I was getting closer to figuring out where my place would be by assessing my skills and newly discovered interests.

Like acting, being a team player to achieve a common goal, working in front of people, and getting a public or immediate response to my work were becoming priorities. And I bet I could find a position aggregating those. Minus the acting part. Or at least I hoped to. I was realizing that I’d so much rather be a consumer of makeup than at the mercy of it financially. And that I liked having a steady, career-path-oriented job.
Now to find the right path.

The colorful leaves had fallen, leaving the bare branches to fend for themselves, and with the cold came sweaters, snow, and hot chocolate. What didn’t change was the studio thermostat being set at sixty-four degrees. We were freezing. I brought in an electric space heater to keep under my desk, and whenever I left my perch—even for a short bathroom break—I would return to find the girls sitting in front of it.

As if the spirit of the studio wasn’t cold enough, in came an email about our bonuses:

From: [email protected]

To: ALL STAFF

Subject: Bonuses!

To my wonderful staff:

To help ring in the holiday cheer, i have decided to forgo giving you bonuses this year, and use the money for a holiday party. I know that you will understand and i look forward to celebrating with all of you. Stay tuned for date and time info.

Warmly,

Sally

My heart had leaped when I’d seen the subject line of Sally’s email. My first official corporate bonus! In a flash, my mind went to what I would treat myself to: a massage, a pair of shoes, paying down my credit card bills, plumping up my savings account . . .

No. None of the above. I sat in front of my screen staring at her email, my mind blank. Damon was planning on purchasing a sixty-two-inch flat-screen television with his bonus this year. I, meanwhile, would be eating stale cake in a cold room with a woman who bitched me out about garbage bags.

Merry Christmas.

I shivered as I left work that night. But the bitter cold outside didn’t compare to the bitterness coasting through my veins after what next transpired between Sally and me.

First had been that email. What was most infuriating about the lack of bonuses (other than the lack of bonuses!) was that I had access to the financials. Having analyzed our online sales data—our website business had tripled since I had taken on the task of outreach—and knowing the QVC numbers, I was well aware that we were having our best year on record. We’d lost some staff members in the past months, too, so with increased revenue and decreased staff, I found it difficult to believe that there was no money available for bonuses.

Second were the calls from bill collectors. As if the email didn’t hammer home that Sally instructed her team to mess around with money, three separate bill collectors called the studio looking for funds owed to them. I was happy to pass those off to Ira’s office. While I was hoping that the company’s bills had been paid, the creditor calls were too frequent for me not to know what was happening. Cash flow or not, we were late.

Third, and most toxic of all, was the impulsive conversation I initiated with Sally to try to stand up for myself.

Play the part, Alison.

“Sally, hi,” I said over the phone, trying not to sound anything other than normal.

“Alicat, hiiii,” she said, her voice smiley, but clearly mocking my greeting. “What’s up? I’m rushing to pick up the boy from therapy but I can give you five minutes.”

“Great.”
Just do it, Alison—just ask for what you deserve.
“I—um—I got your email today about forgoing bonuses this year and I wanted to speak with you about that.” My heart felt like it was beating from the front of my chest all the way to the back, pounding. Pounding.

“Oh, I know, right? Such a good idea, really, to throw us a fabulous holiday party so we can all celebrate together. I know. Don’t thank me now; buy me something nice for the holidays—”

This is gonna be real easy.

“Well, I was hoping that you could sacrifice some of that holiday party money and use it toward . . . uh, a bonus for me this year. You know, and a little something for the girls, too. They . . . we . . . we all work really hard,” I stammered.

“You were hoping I would whaaaaaaaa . . . ?” she said, her voice high pitched and overly dramatic.

Feeling like I had to fill any millisecond of silence, I continued. “I believe that this year I deserve a bonus, as my performance resulted in an increase in revenue for your company. Forget the hard work and integrity that I put into my job every day; I know that you’re having one of your best years on record and I would love to have validation from you in the form of a bonus. The girls would really appreciate that reassurance, too, even if it’s small.” I let out a heavy sigh of tense energy, hoping Sally would be reasonable about this.

“Look at you, fighting everyone’s battles. That’s so cute and noble. They can fight for themselves. Bonuses! Alison, how dare you even ask me to do that.”

“Focusing on me, then, Sally,” I said, changing my plan and giving it one last-ditch effort. “I believe that my performance should be judged individually.”

“Well, it’s a good thing your name isn’t on the door, as mine is,” she huffed.

“Before you say no, could we please discuss why I believe I deserve a bonus?”

“No, we cannot please discuss why you believe you deserve a bonus,” she mocked. “This is not a democracy! And really, I am absolutely shocked that you would waste my time with such a phone call.”

“Well, Sally—” I jumped in, my face hot but my determination to stay focused blocking any tears that might have tried to slip out.

“Do not ‘Well, Sally’ me. I’m going to call you Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves from now on, since you just tried to extort money from me. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves . . .” The Makeup Mongrel started laughing. I was silent.

Can I just hang up on her?

“A penny for your thoughts, Ali Baba?” Sally had the nerve to say after she heard the silence. “Though right now, you’re not getting that penny if I have anything to do with it.”

“Nothing, Sally. Just nothing. I’ve heard you loud and clear.”

“Good,” she said.

CLICK.

Well, that performance just got a terrible review.

Shell-shocked, I made my way to dinner with Jill. I was so pissed off that it was almost easy to think only about the immediate future. With our order placed (pork soup dumplings, one order of shrimp shumai, two orders of steamed veggie dumplings, and one pork bun each), Jill and I talked about holiday parties outside of the job and how behind we were in our binge watch of USA Network’s
Suits
—would Rachel Zane go to Harvard or Columbia? I didn’t have the capacity to talk about anything more.

I did notice, however, that across the restaurant were two men, one of them extremely handsome. Did he keep catching my eye, or was I imagining it? Either way, I was happy for the distraction.

As if Jill had read my mind, she also noticed the two men across the restaurant. “I swear, that guy over there is looking at you, and he’s so your type.” I must have blushed, because Jill continued, “And he doesn’t have a wedding ring on. I can see his left hand from my seat.”

Nice eye, Jill.

“Well, what would you like me to do about it?” I asked. “Attempting to stand up for myself clearly gets me nowhere.”

“Nothing,” Jill replied. “I’m going to show you that good things happen to someone with a little positivity and initiative.” She got out of her seat and walked over to the men’s table. Beet red, I turned my face away when I saw her point to our table. There weren’t many people in the restaurant, but it suddenly became so quiet that I could almost hear their conversation from across the room.

I’m so sorry
, I mouthed to the guys. They just smiled and laughed and continued talking with Jill.

Jill proudly walked back to our table with a huge grin on her face.

“Kenny is thirty-five, from Florida, and he’s going to stop by and talk to you when he’s finished eating. He’s also Jewish—I asked.”

The rest of the meal went by with both of us making a conscious effort to avoid looking at the guys’ table as we waited for them to finish their grub and eating our dumplings more delicately than before.

Before I knew it, I could feel him approach. “Hey, I’m Kenny,” the handsome,
I-can’t-believe-this-dude-just-came-over-here
guy said directly to me.

“I’m Alison. Nice to meet you,” I said, a bit more shyly. “Did you enjoy your food?”

“Yeah, it’s great. I’m a regular here. Actually, do you want to come talk with me over there for a sec?” He motioned to a nearby empty corner of the restaurant.

“Sure.” I got up out of my seat wishing I hadn’t worn flats. Kenny was even better looking up close, with light freckles on his face and piercing blue eyes.

“Are you enjoying your dinner? Looks like you girls have your fair share of dumplings to choose from.”

“Yeah, we love our dumpling night. The soup dumplings are the best here. A little messy to eat, but delish.”

Can I shut up about the damn dumplings already?

“You sound like an expert. You must eat here a lot.”

“It’s my favorite Chinese restaurant, and since I live across the street, it’s pretty dangerous. They know me a little too well here.”

“Oh,” he replied. “Are you at Fifty?”

“Do I live at Fifty?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“I do. Wait, do you live around here, too?” How could he know that the building across the street, my apartment building, was Fifty?

Kenny laughed. “It looks like you and I live in the same building.”

Geographically desirable. Sign me up!

We spoke for another five minutes or so. I learned that Kenny had moved into the building a few months ago, lived on the floor above mine, had just come back from a trip to Australia, and was still getting back into his regular routine. A lawyer by trade, he’d left his firm a few months ago to pursue his own business opportunities.

“I think we should grab a drink, neighbor,” he said. “Can I get your number?”

“Yes,” I said. Kenny just gave a whole new delicious meaning to “boy next door.”

Jill heard the squeal from
my bedroom when I read my texts the next morning.

KG:
Hi Alison, Kenny here, your upstairs neighbor. Nice meeting you last night. I’ll give you a shout over the weekend if you’re going to be around. Bye.

I was on a roll. The morning after my own personal Chinese New Year, I started my day with a text from Kenny and would end it with another date with the “work setup,” David Morgan. David and I had been seeing each other on and off for about three months, and I had done nothing more than kiss him. He seemed to be hanging in there, a bit more interested in me than I was in him, so I was going to use tonight’s date to decide whether the clothes were going to stay on or come off.