Giuseppe met me out front and provided some coffee—“Better start the caffeine now,” he said—and when Sally arrived, we loaded up her car and started our journey.
“One car saves gas,” Sally said, though no one had asked, as Giuseppe and I climbed in, ready for two and a half hours together. We listened to QVC satellite radio—surprisingly entertaining—and since we couldn’t see the products being sold, the three of us got caught up in an extravagant guessing game as to what each item looked like. The electric-blue convertible one-piece Snuggie that doubled as a rain cape was hands down our favorite.
Since QVC was a twenty-four-hour operation and always broadcast live (yes, even the hosts and presenters on air at 3 a.m. are live), it was a place where weekends weren’t counted as weekends. Yet I was grateful to be going to QVC for the first time, no matter the day of the week.
We checked into the local Marriott, freshened up, and in less than ten minutes were back in the car driving to the QVC site, a mere five minutes away.
It was like driving into a theme park or onto a movie lot. The manicured lawn and long, winding driveway hinted at opulence I didn’t expect to find in rural Pennsylvania. QVC was truly the center of West Chester and what kept the area alive, so I guess it made sense that it was a stunning site. We walked up a beautiful flower-lined pathway with a big Q sculpture in the center, marking the QVC territory. The back entrance was grand, with a jumbotron broadcasting the shopping network for all who walked by.
Sally and Giuseppe weaved in and out of the hallways to get us to where we needed to be. Like a kid on the first day of school, I followed quietly, taking it all in. We settled into our green room, where we would live for the next two days. I was introduced to those I needed to know.
“This is Alison, Sally’s girl,” Giuseppe would say as I cringed. “She’s here to help us produce and to learn the ropes.” I was met with warm smiles, hellos, and “It’s so nice to put a face to a name.”
While Giuseppe went to the props department and checked on our models, I met with our coordinating producer. I told him which models Sally wanted for which products, and he told me what he would need from me during the show. I felt entirely comfortable with my duties. After all, being backstage and on set wasn’t completely foreign to me. Even the musty wood scent of production smelled like home. Up until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I missed my old world. Well, not the auditioning part. But everything else.
That’s denial for ya.
I had been giving the beauty industry my unbridled energy, perhaps not acknowledging how much I missed the lights, camera, action of the entertainment industry, or at least feeling fully confident and comfortable in my career path.
I’d been running full steam ahead with beauty blinders on in order to acclimate to my new life. And I thought it was working, but my heart ached just being surrounded by the cameras, headsets, walkies, lights—like the sharp pang of running into an ex-boyfriend just a bit too soon. But also with the same solace and familiarity.
“It’s like going to my grandfather’s house,” I told Madison on a quick phone call, needing to check in. “Not my home, but the familiarity of one close to it.”
“It’s actually good that you feel that way, I think,” she said. “It’s okay to shift your dream or change it. There was a reason why you chose entertainment in the first place, so your homesickness, to keep up the analogy, makes sense.”
“It’s not the past that I ache for—”
“Good.”
“It’s the future,” I said. “I want to find my calling and be certain of it—not just bumble around. Like when I visited Northwestern and knew it was my school. Or my summer camp at age seven—age seven! I knew that eight weeks of my summers were meant to be spent on that Point O’Pines peninsula in Brant Lake.”
“Oh, Alison, you’ll find it. I know you will. It’s just good that you have the motivation to. For whatever reason, sometimes it takes you a little bit longer than it does others. But when you get what you want, it’s better than what everyone else has!”
From your lips . . .
“I heard this saying,” she continued, “ ‘Breathe in the good shit, breathe out the bullshit.’ Go with that for now and see how it works.”
So after a deep breath in (of the good shit), I did my best to snap back into my supporting role for the weekend. I learned that Sally required a fan offstage blowing on her throughout the whole sell. She needed certain brushes, sponges, a bowl of water, M&M’s just in case (with the blue ones removed), and a squirt gun. If she needed to grab someone’s attention while on air, and she wasn’t in the live shot, she would squirt.
Yes, squirt.
I think the QVC staff thought Sally using a squirt gun was clever and even endearing. But there was definitely vindictive joy in her eyes as she squirted and smiled throughout the show.
It was a total change of perspective to watch Sally do her thing, and to contribute to it. While at QVC, Sally was the woman I had met when I’d first walked into her salon with my résumé: all smiles, warmth, and radiant happiness.
The nicest surprise of all was that she was treating me decently. “Little sunshine, if you always do as well as you’re doing this trip, I’m going to put you on air for me,” Sally said when she walked off set after her first show. “Very good choice of models for the blush sell, and good call asking the guys in the booth to put up the numbers sold during the body frosting segment. We sold so much!”
I was happy she was pleased with me, but I was pretty sure it was just the money talking. We had exceeded our on-air goal and sold $963,000 worth of merchandise. Sally was clearly delirious. Her compliment still felt like warm, happy sunshine, though.
Saying that she would put me on air was both a gift and a curse. I knew it was just words for her and that she would say anything to keep me inside the cult. But it took effort to not let my mind wander (too much) about what it would be like to be up there as a host selling her products someday.
Hi, everyone at home, I said to myself. We’ve got an amazing new Today’s Special Value for you—can’t wait to dive in and show you each and every product inside of this box of goodness!
The number of goodies that I sent to hosts proved that the perks were amazing. Every time Sally came out with a new product, I would order enough for the beauty hosts (about ten of them in total), and before Sally was on air, I would send a “host package” with new cosmetics and product information. The hosts would often get their treats before I had a set of my own.
Of course, host gifts didn’t pay the bills, but who didn’t like swag?
I had to find a way in. I wasn’t yet sure whether “in” meant the performing side or the business one, but the fire in my belly started kindling. I liked it here.
After three hour-long shows, two ten-minute segments, and $2,666,000 in revenue generated, Sally treated Giuseppe and me to dinner at the local steak house. Taking full advantage of her generosity, I ate filet mignon and drank red wine on the company tab. And just as I had on the car ride to QVC, I actually enjoyed myself. There was hope!
It was getting late, considering the early morning ahead, and we were exhausted and giggly and couldn’t wait to sleep. Giuseppe put the dinner on his corporate credit card. At $110, it wasn’t an overly expensive meal for three people at a steak house. Actually, it was a miracle that steak and wine for three could cost $110! West Chester, PA!
“Dottie is my favorite waitress, guys. I’m leaving her a nice tip,” Giuseppe said. “I mean, she has a kid in college.”
Sally didn’t reply, and it wasn’t my place to agree or disagree, so Giuseppe continued. “We’ll do thirty dollars in cash and call it a day. Okay?” Sally nodded, slightly.
As we wrapped things up, Sally stopped at a nearby table to talk to someone she knew from QVC. She said she would meet us by the red Mercedes when she was done. On my
way out, I realized I had left my sweater at the table and hustled back to pick it up.
I really wish I hadn’t seen what I saw then. My boss had left her QVC friend and crept slowly toward our table—the exact opposite direction of the restaurant’s exit. Curious to see what she was doing, I hovered by the front, feigning interest in the flimsy candy jar and matchboxes, making sure I was hidden by the heavy wooden door. Sally looked to the left. And to the right. And when she felt certain that no one was watching, she removed one of the ten-dollar bills that Giuseppe had left as tip money and put it in her pocket. With another look to the left and another to the right, she smoothed out her black-and-white flowery top, put on a smile, and made her way to the exit.
As The Real Housewives of New York’s Countess LuAnn would say: “Money can’t buy you class.” I felt sick.
Five a.m. arrived. I wasn’t ready to start the day—two more hours, please! I hated waking up when it was still dark outside. But it was back to the Q for another day of moneymaking. With an early start and the Q’s daily bustle a few hours away, I was able to get to know one of the hosts over coffee in the communal green room.
“My favorite part of hosting is being able to directly sell affordable products that are meant to enrich people’s lives in some way. You’re not in front of an audience, but you interact with people all over the world through the phone and Internet and you feel like you’re connecting to viewers,” she said. “Does that make sense? I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s true. Also, I’m helping someone’s dreams sell. And a steady TV hosting job is hard to come by.”
Any TV job is hard to come by.
The conversation both focused and motivated me—like learning about a new job at career day—and while it was a long shot, I decided to focus on hosting in addition to real job hunting. I had a demo from my Northwestern radio station and show business days, so why not send it out? I hadn’t heard back from SiriusXM, but perhaps they needed my demo, too. Put it on the list!
“I have some studio news for you, Alison and Giuseppe,” Sally said as we made our way back to the city that evening. “Just after the new year, whatever day we get back, you guys will have a new manager in the studio.”
Yes! As long as I was still working at the studio, the more people we had to help there, the better.
Giuseppe’s squeal echoed my sentiments. “Details, Steele. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this, you sneak!”
“She’s adorable but firm. I just responded to her. Jennifer. Of course, she’s little and cute. But I think she’ll do a great job. I’m confident about her. Oh, and I heard that she knows the ladies of The Real Housewives of New York and runs in a moneyed crowd. Just what we need. I hope we can get her to bring that business into the store.”
Right . . . I just wondered how long she would last.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
May Cause Irritation
My return to work on Monday was met with questions and impromptu studio visits. And the exhaustion from the weekend had me testy from the start.
“How much did she sell?”
I don’t know exactly, but she did really well.
“Can I take off the two days before Christmas?”
You have to ask Sally, not me.
“She’ll say no; can you just ask her for me?”
“We just got this shipment of products in—it’s ten boxes. Do I have to put them away?”
Obviously, yes.
“There’s a rumor that a new manager named Jennifer is starting. Is that true? I heard she’s gorgeous, wealthy, and has a ton of celebrity friends.”
You’ll have to ask Sally.
I just wanted to decompress from the weekend away and get my work done, but the girls were like needy children. So when Sally’s email came in, I actually looked forward to the distraction of reading it.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Call meeeee, Aleeeeeeee. Abt holiday party.
She was either butt dialing or had waaaaaaayyyyyyy toooooo much coffeeeeeee.
So I called, bracing myself. I knew I’d be required to do some of the planning and execution for the holiday party, and I wondered how difficult she would make the process.
“I’m setting it for a week from Friday,” Sally said. “It’s going to be a dinner at the corporate offices. I pay rent for a reason, so let’s use the space.”
“Okay, sounds good.” I had no place to argue. Was I being a brat in hoping we would eat at a restaurant so I didn’t have to be on setup and cleanup duty?
“I’ll order the food from Tony’s Di Napoli,” Sally said. “My brother is a manager there and can get us a discount. Unless you can find a way to make it happen for less than my discount; what do you say, Alicat?”
“Happy to make a phone call and try,” I replied, feigning sugary sweetness and knowing full well that I’d get the retail quote. “Will we get dessert from there as well?”
She waited for a moment. I hoped she was considering some delicious options. “Let’s just use the holiday gift baskets that have been sent to our offices from vendors and clients. There’s stuff in there. Yes, let’s go with that.”
What was the chance of one of our vendors sending us cakes and ice cream? Probably slim.
“Okay,” I said, not wanting to argue. “Can I order red and white wine, as well?” We all knew that Sally loved her red.
“Yes, order three bottles of red and three bottles of white and have them delivered to the office. Oh, and have ten bottles—five of each—delivered to my apartment while you’re placing the order.”
“So six bottles for thirty people?” She was evidently giving everyone a shot of wine over the course of the night but would have plenty waiting for her at home.
“You’re right—we need more than that,” she said, picking up on my tone. “Hike it up to four bottles of each and call it a day.”
“I know that you’re trying to keep costs down for this, Sally, but I feel like we should have at least double that much wine. It’s for thirty people and it’s a holiday party, you know?”
“Why are you so difficult sometimes? I just don’t understand,” she said. “Do what I tell you. Stop spending my money. Why is that so hard for you?”
Just wanting to end the conversation, I replied, “Eight bottles of wine it is.”
As if the day hadn’t tried my patience enough, just as I got off the phone with Sally, I saw my crazy aunt Farrah saunter into the studio. I watched through the monitor, paralyzed at my desk, as she looked around, doubtlessly trying to clock my location. I had known the day would come.
“Hi, is Alison in today?” I heard her ask Jolie. Farrah was dressed for the wrong season and looking eerily more like her own mother than my mom’s sister.
Jolie told her I was on a call, knowing exactly who she was—thank God for that watch list.
“I’ll wait for her to come out of her office,” Farrah said as she took off her coat and sat in the front of the store. Waiting. Patiently reading magazine after magazine while scouring the scene. I let her sit. And wait. And scour. But after three hours of the girls and I delighting in the silent power we held over her, it was time for her to go.
“I need you to leave, Farrah,” I said, sneaking out of my cubby in the back, noticing that she was mid–magazine story. She looked up, stunned that I came out to see her. Her eyes bored into mine.
“Are you here to buy makeup?” I asked.
“Well, no. But I’d like to talk to you about some things.”
“You are welcome to shop and purchase products, but loitering isn’t allowed, and I don’t talk about family business at work, so go home.”
“You can’t just throw me out.”
“But I can. So please leave.” She didn’t move. “Farrah, please leave.”
The whac-a-mole took heed of the mallet this time and sulkily made her way out. But where would she pop up next?
I held a secret pride in how I handled myself around Farrah of late. Perhaps it was the inner courage that came from knowing that she caused my mom pain, but I didn’t second-guess myself. Yet why was it that I couldn’t speak up to Sally, another significant woman with severe boundary issues? I had to take the courage from handling one and apply it to the other. And I had to start speaking up for myself.
To shake off the negative familial energy and feign some holiday cheer—play the part, Alison—I asked Carly to put all the employees’ names in a hat so that we would have ample shopping time for Secret Santa. We settled on a twenty-dollar maximum, and since Giuseppe wasn’t in the studio for picking time, he would get Sally. This way, none of us would be stuck buying a present for the Beast. I drew Laramie.
Laramie was smart and a hard worker, especially for an intern, but corporate took advantage of her. No surprise there. I had been feeling overwhelmed with work lately, especially with the holidays looming, and Ira had given me permission to have Laramie help at the studio three days a week. She didn’t understand the brevity required of Sally-speak. She used roundabout sentences that made Sally say things like, “Speak English, please. I really don’t understand what you’re saying and I certainly can’t follow your thoughts if you don’t know the English language.”
Laramie had been born in Russia but had lived in the United States since she was six months old. She was a college grad who spoke and wrote in perfect English.
Thank goodness Sally wouldn’t, or couldn’t, walk downstairs to the basement where Laramie sat. Sally liked order, and Laramie reveled in disorder. It wasn’t uncommon to find food left out on her desk for days and papers scattered and torn up everywhere. But the thing with Laramie was that she was absolutely meticulous with her work. She moved on the slow side, but everything was consistently done correctly and I appreciated that.
What Pretty Girls Are Made Of Page 10
