What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Helps to Regulate Imbalance

E
veryone at the studio was either busy or just off their game on Monday, as Sally suddenly appeared at my desk. I was so focused on the email in front of me that I didn’t even hear the clip-clopping outside my office.

The Makeup Mongrel, having quietly positioned herself at my side, reached into her bag (forgoing the “hello”) and whipped out a matted mess of hair.

Oh boy. Here it comes.

“This,” she said, waving Cousin Itt directly in front of my face. “You know what
this
is?”

Of course I know what that is, Mongrel. I received seven voice mails about it and then laughed my ass off when I saw the tape.

“Good morning, Sally,” I said cheerfully, trying to slow her down and enjoy the picture in my head for just one more second.

“Not good, my dear.” I wasn’t in the mood to bait her, so I just let her keep going. “I’m going to go against my gut here and assume that you didn’t tamper with the inside of my hairpiece and that you aren’t stupid enough to try to sabotage me while I’m on QVC. As you know, my sales on the big screen are what allow me to pay you, so . . . Understood?”

For whatever reason, this morning I just wasn’t buying it. So from a position of surprising strength, I replied: “What would you like me to do with your hairpiece, Sally?”

“Did anything I just said register with you, Alicat?”

“All of it, but I’m trying to have a productive morning and a positive day. So let me know what to do with your piece and I’ll take care of it,” I said. And then, as much as I tried to hold it back . . . “And sabotage isn’t something that I do. You should know that by now.”

Oh my God—I can’t believe I just said that to her!
Frozen, I waited. And waited. She just stood there next to me. Finally I had to cover up the silence, “I . . . I’m here to make your life easier, Sally, not more difficult . . .” My empowerment was dwindling with each unpredictable second.

Stop speaking, Alison. Stop.

The Beast turned away from me slowly, Cousin Itt still in hand, and walked into her office. I followed her with my eyes, as the conversation clearly wasn’t over. The silence in the studio let me know that the girls were all ears. Sally turned around to look at me, held my gaze, then, just as she let go of my eyes, propelled her fist into the back wall of her office.

OUCH!

“My company. My makeup. My rules,” she huffed. As if to button her sentence, two framed press clippings fell off the wall, exposing what I’d been wondering about since day one: the unique pattern of framed press clippings was just a cover for her slug fests.

“You want to make my life easier? Cover up this hole with a new press clipping,” she barked as she stuffed her matted wig into it. “And make it look presentable in here in time for this spectacular event you’re supposed to be curating. And we don’t speak about this again.”

She brushed past me and I heard her call for one of the girls to bring an ice pack to her car as she walked out the studio door.

I went over to inspect the Mongrel’s damage. While I was thoroughly impressed by her brute strength, I wasn’t actually concerned for my safety. I certainly wouldn’t share this incident with anyone. It would look bad not to quit after witnessing something like this, but I couldn’t let every outburst rock me from my commitment to crazy. It was for the greater good of my career path, and I could survive it.

Sally punched a wall!

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

78 Percent of Women Saw a Reduction

O
ne surprisingly smooth month later: event day! For the decor, Helen contributed her own personal clear-beaded votive candleholders and silver tray, I brought my pretty ice bucket, and the girls helped put out cookies, prosecco, cupcakes, veggies, and cheese.

I’d arranged for a panel of experts to come in and speak with the attending women (who RSVP’d in bunches from our email blast) as they got their mini-makeovers: a famous cosmetic dermatologist, Sally to speak about makeup, and two newly best-selling authors to read from their debut novels. We had gifts-with-purchase at the ready and a photographer taking before and after shots.

At 4:39 p.m., Elliott ran into the studio, jumped up on the window seat at the front, and dictated an announcement to the staff through his new WWE Ring Action Megaphone, a gift from his mother.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . . well, just ladies, because I’m the only gentleman and Giuseppe isn’t here. My mother would like her mail. Someone needs to bring it out to her since she doesn’t have her face on yet. And I am leaving the auction form for my school here, too. My mom says that you each have to buy something to support my school. Thank you and have a good night. And good luck with your event.”

He jumped off the platform and made a beeline for the door. I caught him in time to give him Sally’s mail so that I wouldn’t have to go out to her car and see her face. I would deal with the fact that Sally wanted our hard-earned money to go toward her child’s private school auction later, after I rocked my event.

The doors officially opened at 6:30, and women started trickling in for their appointments at 6:45. We started early to get the after-work crowd made up before going out for the evening, and to let the mothers feel pampered before homework time.

By 7:30, just as I was getting into the rhythm of the evening, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Can I get my makeover now, please?” It was Ira, who surprised me by showing up. I gave him a hug.

“Great event, kiddo. Looks like everyone is enjoying themselves. Even Her Majesty seems to be having a good time.”

“She’s really getting into it,” I said. And she was. Sally loved being the center of attention, especially when her counsel was sought for such tips as how to make eye shadow last or how to hide a blemish. And she was working the room in a great way. She worked it. I ran it.

The constant
cha-ching
of the register let me know that our gift-with-purchase pile was getting low (while supplies last, ladies!), a sure sign that significant purchases were being made and sales dollars would be substantial. With both Helen and me bringing in decor from home instead of purchasing it, I was able to come in under budget. It would be the end tally that would dictate my position.

As the last of our guests left the studio, the volume in the room decreased and we all took deep breaths. We made it through the event, and it was actually fun!

“I just wanted to thank you guys for staying late tonight,” I told everyone. “You boosted your monthly sales, and we were able to put on a successful event. You should all be seriously proud. I couldn’t have done this without you and hope that we have many more successful mini-makeover events in the future. Feel free to polish off what’s left of the food and prosecco as we clean up.”

And I loved every minute of running the event as well. Standing in front of the team, I felt big, important, valued, and authentic—like I wasn’t just playing a role.

While we cleaned, Sally was in her office. When I went in the back to grab my purse and go home, she called out to me.

“You know, Alison, I must say: you’re very smart sometimes.”

And before I could say thank you, she hit me with, “Oh ew—I can’t believe I just gave you a compliment. Oh, ew!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Results: By Morning

T
hree days later, I was in the lobby of the W Hotel on Forty-Ninth and Lexington for another night out with Bret.

The W bar buzzed with activity, travelers traipsed in and out, women waited for their dates, and men considered their options.

“So you like scotch straight up, no ice?” I asked Bret after our drinks arrived. I hadn’t ever dated a scotch drinker before and was a bit of a hard-alcohol novice. “And why do you toss water into it before drinking?”

He smiled when he spoke, swirling the scotch and looking into his glass. “To let it breathe. It opens the scotch and I like the way it tastes better. Do you want a sip?”

He handed me his glass. I took it, feeling instantly classy and cool. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll try it.”

It felt smoky, warm, and woody, and burned as it glided down my throat. I now understood why people who drank it made that awkward face after a sip. But the hard burn from the Macallan 12 made me take another taste.

“Hold on,” I said. “I need one more sip to make sure I get my feelings about this drink straight.”

Bret nodded me on and told me to have as many sips as I wanted. With my legs crossed, partially leaning back on the armchair in which I was sitting, I held up my drink and posed slightly.

“I make ‘neat’ look neat,” I said as I swirled it around.

“No, you make neat look hot,” Bret replied, and it made me want to make out with him right then and there. I’m not sure if it was more due to the “hot” comment or to my actually liking the Macallan, but we swapped drinks. My white wine did less for his hotness than his scotch did for mine.

“Can I ask you a random work question?”

“Sure.” I wasn’t certain what he was going to ask or where he was going by talking about my work. It was certainly a segue out of the scotch blur and back into reality.

“Do you think Sally would ever sell her company? She’s still private, right?”

That was an odd question. I knew what Bret did for a living, sort of, and it involved buying and selling companies, but his business was in an area that was naturally hard to describe and difficult to understand.

“Well, yes and no,” I said, trying to follow where he was leading.

Wait—is he moving me to the friend zone . . .
?

I continued, pushing my insecurities away. “I secretly think that she wants to be bought out, since she would like to be rich and retire, but all she really has is her company. I know she would want to retain creative control, but she’s known to be super picky and thinks that no one is good enough to sell to. I bet that even if Estée Lauder approached her, she’d find something wrong.”

“Oh, interesting. But you do think she would want to sell at some point in the near future?”

“I’m sure she wants to, but she shoots herself in the foot with everything, so I don’t know for sure. And she’s a pain in the ass to deal with, so who knows.”

I felt comfortable enough with Bret to be honest with him in ways I hadn’t been with other men.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. The tanning company we purchased about two years ago is doing really well, but I don’t know anything about makeup and someone in our office was asking about it. No biggie.”

“Oh. Okay. But I wouldn’t recommend getting involved with us. Just with me.”
I don’t need another guy friend, so what the hell—going for it!

He smiled and we moved on.

And again I found myself rolling around in bed wearing only half my clothes. This time, we were in my apartment and I was finding it very difficult not to give in to the little voice in my head that told me to sleep with Bret. I wasn’t looking for “just sex.” That I could have, if I wanted it. I wanted meaningful sex.
Boyfriend
sex.

He finally whispered those five fateful words: “Do you have a condom?”

Instead of replying, I kissed him. When I pulled away, he was looking at me and waiting for an answer.

“I like you, Bret. But I want the next person I have sex with to be my boyfriend.”

The sound of my heart beating was all I heard. I needed to know where he stood. I hoped I wasn’t ruining my future with this man because I said no.
Please let me not have scared him away!

“Boyfriend, huh?” he questioned. I nodded, feeling afraid and cold, like the passion we’d had a moment ago was walking slowly out the door. “I want to put in an application.”

I laughed, relieved and relaxed.

“Well, it’s a tough process,” I teased. “Are you up for it?”

“Are there lots of applicants?” he asked playfully.

“Oh yes, tons. You should probably get in line.”

“Come here,” he said, taking me into his arms. He pulled up the covers, and we tussled a bit more. Just before falling asleep, he whispered in my ear, “I’m going to beat out the competition.”

I woke up to the heat of the sun radiating into my room and warming my covers. It was bright out and I couldn’t wait to start the day. Ten o’clock in the morning.

Surprisingly, I had slept through the night. It usually took me weeks, or sometimes months, to feel comfortable enough to be able to sleep in the same bed with someone. I’m sure I had the Macallan to thank for some of it.

I rolled over to see if Bret was still sleeping just as he walked into the room. In his right hand was a cup of grapefruit juice, my favorite, and in the other, a bouquet of yellow roses (another favorite!). I rubbed my eyes and sat up. When had he left? He walked to my side of the bed and I moved over to make room for him to sit on the edge.

“I wanted my boyfriend application to really make a good impression,” he said softly as he put the juice on my night table and handed me the roses. He ran his hand through my hair and I laughed.

“You still need to make it through the interview process,” I teased.

“That should be no problem. I’m great in interviews. I just need to be really comfortable first.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling off his shirt.

He knew he’d passed the test the night before, but that morning made it official.

His aptitude level: off the charts.