Since Sally was always complaining about Laramie’s Lady Gaga–inspired hairstyles, I bought her a cute banana hair clip, essie Midnight Cami, and a fun teal scarf for the cold weather. She always wore a black coat and I knew that it would be her style and would give her some pop.
I was happy to be Laramie’s Secret Santa, and I ended up spending a bit more than twenty dollars, because while I was away on vacation for Christmas and New Year’s, Laramie would help cover my desk. I put her on social media duty and had her in charge of tweeting and posting on Facebook as Sally. I gave her a list of posts she could use and told her to get creative and have fun with it.
The holiday party was the last big work event separating me from my vacation. Once past that, I would have two more days of work and then freedom until the new year.
I craved the familiar hot California sun that I felt when visiting Madison every year at holiday time, and that’s where I would be in less than a week. Perhaps the vitamin D would help fill in the lost hair that preferred my shower drain to the top of my head.
My morning routine before work was starting to take longer than ever, but not because of weekend partying or lack of sleep. Though I would still wake up before my alarm clock, more often than not I would want to roll over and forget about starting the day.
I would take epic showers and just stand under the water, letting it run. The water would transport me elsewhere, to a world of fairness and worth. “Please let me not have to go to work today,” I would say to the faucet. The faucet wouldn’t respond.
My twenty-block walk would take longer and longer as my pace slowed, with frequent trips to the drugstore for something that I absolutely needed before the day was out.
I had never known a company where every single employee was miserable. Okay, to be fair, maybe I didn’t know a ton of companies in general, but for everyone to be miserable?
“We all know it’s unbearable here, kid,” Carly said to me one slow day. We were in Sally’s office, Carly sitting at Sally’s desk, bouncing back and forth in her chair, the rhythm clearly pushing her thoughts out with each rock. “But what can I do in the makeup industry that’s better than this?” There was sarcasm, sadness, and resignation to her tone. “Work at a department store where I have to stand all day and compete with young, pretty girls?”
I just listened, already grateful for whatever was coming next.
“I made a deal with the devil, you know, and I keep deals I make with the devil.”
“What are you talking about, Carly?” I prodded gently, not wanting to interrupt her rhythm or take her out of her momentary trance. The room was quiet, save for the gentle creak of the chair’s leather.
“We all have our reasons for staying here.”
I waited for her to continue.
“Years ago, I’d been here for just over three months when I passed out at the studio—flat on the floor in the middle of the day. We were a much smaller operation back then, just a few of us. That was when the office was out of the back of the studio.”
I nodded. I had heard that was how this all started—out of just one room. One storefront. One window.
“Sally scooped me up and took me to the emergency room. And she paid for the hospital and the procedure to take care of what badly needed to be taken care of. The whole thing, she paid for. But she made it very clear to me that she owned me then. Kind, yes, but selfless . . . no.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me, Carly. Like you said, everyone has their own reasons for staying here. I’m learning that. And I’m just figuring out mine, to be honest.”
“Ownership can come through money, work, mentality. It’s sad, but people can be bought . . .” Carly trailed off. “Don’t let your perceptions of this industry be tarnished by just one experience in it.” She slowly tilted the chair down and then up one last time, and then left. As she passed me on her way out, she stopped and gave me a kiss on the head.
Her maternal gesture sent a pulse of warmth through my body as I tried to comprehend what she had just said.
I so looked forward to meeting Jennifer, the new studio manager who was scheduled to start in the new year.
I had promised myself that I was going to make it through a full year at SSC, and I was going to hold myself to that promise. One long, long year.
Making it through one full year will mean that I didn’t fail at this. Failing is not an option.
But at that point it was almost becoming a game. I mean, I’d made it this far—how long could I really endure? How many days could I survive the Beast? Maybe, with a holiday miracle, Jennifer really would help us get on track. No pressure, new girl!
The holiday party was a drawn-out, sober Friday night dinner, with everyone wanting to leave but no one having a legitimate excuse to do so. I should have brought a piñata for some excitement. Both Ira and Patti were annoyed that spouses weren’t invited. “Budget,” Sally claimed. But it had been leaked that Sally was having her best year to date, so financial excuses were a cop-out.
Laramie loved her Secret Santa gifts, and coincidentally, she had picked my name out of the hat. She gave me a cute cosmetics case and The Hangover on DVD. Ironic that I certainly wasn’t going to wake up with one the next day.
Procrastination wasn’t my game, but I had put off packing until the night before my Los Angeles departure. T minus eleven hours until I would be on the flight west.
I hadn’t heard from Kenny since our second impromptu date a few weeks before. Yes, we were probably not a match, but I still wanted him to call. What girl wouldn’t want to hear from the cute guy upstairs? Then the ending of it—whatever “it” was—could be on my terms. I had a feeling that he was a true rules guy; he was too good-looking not to be. And I hadn’t played by the rules in going over to his apartment the same night he asked. Probably a mistake. But I didn’t want someone to hold me hostage to the rules anyway.
I had moved on, but I thought of my upstairs neighbor when I was throwing clothes into my suitcase. I was trying on dresses left and right, and figured that I should shut my shades. Since Kenny hadn’t called, he didn’t need to be privy to the fashion show. Not that I was putting on a show. I was lost in packing when my phone buzzed.
KG: An extra layer of security on your window? Good thinking.
So there he was, as if on cue. I’d shut my shades and, after a few weeks of silence, he was wondering what was going on behind them. Creepy. I didn’t respond. If he wanted to get in touch with me for real, he would. Madison had taught me that rule.
I woke up fresh and early the next morning. I decided to shake off my work issues and focus on having a relaxing vacation before heading back to the dungeon. Only six more months to go.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Do Not Use . . . Except under Adult Supervision
I had left Laramie a list of tasks to complete while I was away, and she and I had talked extensively in preparation for my absence.
“Okay, are you ready for your list?” I’d asked her, feeling the time crunch before leaving. “I’ve given you a calendar of what needs to be completed each day. Some days are lighter than others, some just involve Facebook and Twitter postings, and others are more intense. You’ll see, and you can call me if you have any questions. Or for disasters, or to put out fires.”
Laramie laughed in response.
“I’ll answer your calls—don’t worry,” I said, chuckling to myself.
I had also sent an email to the staff reminding them of my vacation dates (which Sally had approved months ago via email).
Sally never liked it when her staff took vacation. It didn’t matter if you cleaned the floors or ran the financial department—she needed you to be in the office. Summer Fridays were frowned upon; sick days were met with questions. Vacations, in Sally’s mind, were just wrong. Well, not for herself. Sally was a frequent vacationer and would be taking her s
on to Punta Cana for this one.
The morning I left for my trip, my iPhone was quieter than usual. I assumed it was because we were so close to Christmas and the staff knew my flight was that morning. I did, however, get an email from Sally at 7:30 a.m., when I was already at the airport. The subject line “stuff” always set off alarm bells.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: stuff
Alison,
Apparently, as I was just told from Ira, you are taking a nice long Xmas vacation. Don’t u think I should be made aware of these things since you report to me? Girlfriend, there needs to be better communication here. As vacation days are really just a formality, i don’t really expect you to take them. But since you are, i guess thats my problem than. A few things to do before you go: change the hold message at the studio as well as the video monitor. Need fb and tw for when i’m away. Well, i guess have a good time. I dont know what else to say to you.
Sally
Whatever.
At least it was sunny in California. Once I got to LA, I felt miles away from work, even though I was sucked back into it for brief moments throughout the vacation. I’m a warm-weather girl, and I loved to visit Los Angeles. I always came back home feeling recharged. My health freak friend Madison’s kale, cucumber, apple, and lemon smoothies helped as well.
In my small New York apartment, I could feel the sun shine onto my bed from the windows. But Madison’s home was an oasis: a cute little house with a front porch and a yard fenced in by twelve-foot shrubs all the way around. You could leave the doors and windows open all day and live an indoor/outdoor life unheard of in grimy Manhattan. We called the blue room in Madison’s house my room, and I loved that I had a West Coast home.
While Madison tended to her vegetable garden, I laid out on the grass. A multitude of thoughts streamed in and out of my head, ranging from the weirdness of Christmas in a warm climate to wanting to be on vacation with a boyfriend. Not that Madison wasn’t adorable in her gardening gloves and big straw hat—what a sight! But women just didn’t do it for me.
Love matches seemed to be happening everywhere. I had to stay positive about finding my own. I wanted a man to kiss on New Year’s.
The holiday weather confusion continued with a Chrismukkah dinner in a sundress and flip-flops around a typical Hollywood table: a director, two actors, a sound guy, a producer, an entertainment lawyer, and me.
“Next year, Chrismukkah dinner in New York at your place, Alison,” the director joked.
“I wish you all could fit into my apartment at the same time,” I said. “Half of you can eat in the bedroom and the other half will have to be in front of the TV. Will that work?”
When I got a chorus of “of courses,” I knew I was with great people.
Madison and I spent our last day of 2014 on the beach with a few friends. I was happy to ring in the new year on the sand, looking out at the blue water and feeling the sun on my body. We had a picnic of sandwiches, fruit salad, chips, and white wine, and I started reading Jojo Moyes’s One Plus One. I was so immediately engrossed in the book that I didn’t hear my iPhone ringing in my bag.
“Alison, you’re ringing,” Madison said as she handed my phone to me. “You’ve been blowing up.”
“Oh crap, it’s work. Should I answer it?”
“If you answer, I’ll throw your iPhone into the water. I’m serious,” she said in response to my look. “Don’t pick it up. She cannot mess with you while you’re on the beach.”
I put the phone back into my bag. I wasn’t going to ruin my beach day. But I couldn’t concentrate. I had that gnawing feeling eating at me that I was neglecting something.
“Okay, listen to it,” Madison said, knowing I couldn’t concentrate. “Get it over with. And then no more work until next year.”
So I listened.
“Hi, Alison, it’s Laramie. Hope you’re having a good vacation. No need to call me back, and I’m sorry to call you about this, but I wasn’t sure how to handle an email that Sally just sent me. I think that you were cc’d on it as well. If you get a chance, can you help? Thanks. See you when you get back.”
Okay. I would check my emails and then put the iPhone away.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected], [email protected]
Subject: CAREFUL OF GRAMMER
Hi laramie
You wrote me&elliott. I could be wrong but it does not sound good. I think it is Elliott&I’s. Please check and than repost to twitter properly. Could be a huge problem here.
Appreciate it Sally
I laughed out loud when I read Sally’s email. Really? She was attempting to correct Laramie’s grammar but couldn’t even spell the word right?
I wrote back to Laramie and recommended that she acknowledge Sally’s message and tell her that she would fix it ASAP. Then she had to delete her post and fix it per the next email that I was going to send. Since Sally’s grammar correction to Laramie was incorrect, I wrote back with the correct passage and got back to my book, still chuckling about the email exchange.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected], [email protected]
Subject: RE: CAREFUL OF GRAMMER
It should read “Elliott’s and my last day here in beautiful Punta Cana” . . .
Thanks,
Alison
I woke up to January 1 with Madison’s love of a dog, Latte, licking my face, as if wondering why I hadn’t yet started my day. “Okay, I’m up, Latte.” She curled into me for a cuddle. “Happy New Year to you, too.” Latte soon realized that another hour and a half of sleep was necessary for us both, and with her warm and snuggly body nestled right up against my side, I drifted back into dreamland.
I was awakened again by my iPhone buzzing, showing my mom’s cell number on the caller ID. “Happy New Year, Mom!” I said groggily.
“To you, too, sweetheart,” she half spoke, half sighed in reply.
“Okay, what’s up? Clearly something’s wrong.”
“Well, we had some more drama with your grandfather yesterday. I think things are going to get pretty messy.”
“Do you want to tell me now? Is there anything I can do to help?”
My mom dove right in. “I got a call yesterday from Ari Kay. You know him, right? The guy who handles our finances, as well as your grandfather’s; we’ve been using him for years.”
“Yes, I remember him. Funny hair, with a really pretty wife.”
“Exactly. And he’s great. We keep everything very professional with him, though of late, he’s called us a few times about your grandfather’s issues, since Pop’s mental state is more fragile than ever. And he knows your grandfather and how he operates—trust me on that.”
Ari had known my grandfather for many years and was accustomed to his antics and miserly ways. A workaholic child of the Depression and a war hero, my grandfather didn’t spend a nickel without weighing the consequences. Well, for himself. He buckled under Farrah’s fiduciary pressures and caved to her whining instead of standing up to her wrath.
“Ari noticed yesterday,” my mom continued, “that eight separate CDs of your grandfather’s were cashed in—on December thirty-first, the last day of the year. They weren’t due yesterday, so Ari checked it out and saw that the breaking of these CDs had incurred more than five thousand dollars in penalties.”
“Oh my God,” I interrupted. “They’re at it again? They just can’t let things rest!”
“Yep—you got it. Once again, we’re playing defense for your grandfather because of Farrah and Rick. Ari went on high alert. His better sense said that someone—and he suspected who—was very seriously interfering with Pop’s accounts.”
There was no way my grandfather, who’s worn the same leather jacket for
forty years and who stores ketchup bottles upside down in his kitchen to recover every last drop, would ever pay early withdrawal penalties.
“And Ari was correct. Your grandfather didn’t break the CDs—Farrah did.”
Were other people’s families like this?
Supposedly, Farrah and Rick had called their father earlier in the day and told him how much they hated him because he hadn’t attended Rick’s Little League games and Farrah’s ballet recitals when they were children. Sick, toxic people.
What he gave them in life—support, business, education, and funds—doesn’t count, because of the past? I thought. Ridiculous.
“Did Pop confront them about what they did?” I asked.
“He said he was dopey.” That word, “dopey,” was a “Popism.” He often used it when he was tired, worn down, or confused, which was, unfortunately, frequent these days. “And he swore that he didn’t add them to his accounts, give them the authorization to break his CDs (and pay penalties), or agree to let them take the money for themselves. He was so frustrated and hurt.”
Supposedly, Farrah justified the forgery by saying that she needed his funds to be “safe,” so that if he ever needed care in a hospital, there would be money available for his medical treatment and her name would be on his accounts to authorize.
“Oh, they play so dirty,” I said, noting how all of their handiwork was executed on the last business day of the year.
Working with my grandfather, my parents, and my brother, I immediately devised a plan to return what was rightfully his. Farrah and Rick could force him out of his CPA partnership and office and forge his signature, but they couldn’t take away his means to live. Unacceptable! I also didn’t quite understand my aunt and uncle’s manipulative mind-set. But maybe I could learn from their actions how to better prepare for what could come at me from the Makeup Mongrel.
What Pretty Girls Are Made Of Page 11
