What Pretty Girls Are Made Of

by Lindsay Jill Roth

  “And . . . ? Keep going!” I urged.

  “She never went to the bathroom!” Bradley said, exasperated. “So we did what anyone would do in our situation.”

  And that was what? I thought.

  “We ordered cannoli and coffee and we waited. We weren’t hungry at all, but there was no chance we were leaving without speaking to him first.”

  “So by the end of the dinner,” Andrea continued, “we were convinced that he was better suited for you than the girl he was dining with. He just didn’t know it yet. But they got up and left—we needed a plan B.”

  “Andrea was fuh-rrrreaking out,” Bradley interjected. “She had to get to this guy. It was so funny.”

  “I just thought, what are the chances that he would be putting her in a cab or something and then getting on the subway a block away?”

  “I told her she was crazy and to let it go, so you have Andrea to thank for what actually happened.”

  They looked at each other and laughed. I was on the edge of the couch, full glass of wine still in my hand.

  “Andrea bolted out of the restaurant,” Bradley said. “She didn’t even say anything to me—just left her chair.”

  “I chased your future husband down the block,” gloated Andrea.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “I saw that he, just as I suspected, put his date in a cab and walked toward the subway. So I ran up to him and introduced myself as the crazy girl from the table next to his. Without letting him get a word in, I told him that while it was none of my business what happened on his date, I had an amazing friend who I thought would be a better match for him.”

  “What did he say in response?” I asked. “Did he think you were crazy?”

  “Nope. He laughed, said that she was a nice girl, but wanted to hear more about you. So much so that he—his name is Bret, by the way—walked back to the restaurant with me and sat down at our table for about fifteen minutes to get to know us.”

  And with a proud smile on his face and a mischievous look in his eyes, Bradley added, “I couldn’t believe that Andrea not only caught him, but also walked back into the restaurant with him. Our waiter looked utterly confused when he came to give us our check.”

  “So is Bret up for a setup?” I inquired, hoping that the answer would be yes.

  “He is,” Bradley replied. “Andrea got his business card and said she would email him your information.”

  I had such amazing friends. Well, I guess Bradley owed me, since he had dated just about all of my girlfriends before finding Andrea. I was thankful that he found her when he did, since I had no girlfriends left for him.

  We caught up a bit more and finally called it a night. Andrea said that she would send Bret an email and bcc me. I went to bed feeling really positive about what was to come. Hopefully, Bret would be as receptive over email as he was in person, once he had my information.

  From: AndreaShayna@gmail.com

  To: BretEngel@gmail.com

  Bcc: AlisonKraft@gmail.com

  Subject: As Promised . . . You Are Being Set Up on a Date!

  Bret,

  Hi, this is Andrea, the crazy girl who ran after you the other night after your date! Just wanted to be in touch, as promised, with the info of a good friend of ours that we have a hunch may be a good match for you. Her name is Alison and she is smart, funny, beautiful, endearing, and was one of Bradley’s classmates at Northwestern. Drop her an email when you have a chance: AlisonKraft@gmail.com. I’m dying to know what you think of each other. Hope to run into you again.

  All the best, Andrea

  “Red car alert. Red car alert,” boomed Helen’s voice throughout the studio the next day. She didn’t need a microphone to reach us all. Then the phone rang. There was silence in my office as I waited to see if I was pegged. “Alison, Sally needs you in her car. Stat. And bring her mail.” Yep, I was the chosen one.

  “So, Alicat,” Sally said as I slid into the front seat. My heartbeat sped up in anticipation. But instead of turning to face me with something on her mind, she turned on the car and started driving.

  “Need you to come to my doctor’s office with me.”

  Oh my, please let me not see Sally in a paper dress.

  “I’ll need you to wait in the car while I get a B12 shot,” she said. “Then I’ll take you back to the office. Shouldn’t take too long, unless there’s a wait.”

  “Where is the doctor’s office?” I asked. “Is it close by?” I still had a lot of work to do before the end of the day.

  “We just passed it, actually, but I’m going to circle and park at the end of the block. I was hoping to get closer, but I see that isn’t happening. Just hang tight until I get back.”

  She pulled into an opening at the end of the block. There was a NO PARKING sign posted, but she wasn’t blocking anyone or anything, although a black Chevy in front of her was parked in front of a fire hydrant.

  “What do you want me to do if a cop comes by?” I asked her. “Can I drive around the block so you won’t get a ticket? It says no parking or standing on the sign in front of us. I have a clean driving record, so not to worry.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll pay the ticket. I don’t like people driving my car. I’m sure you’ll be okay. Just hang for a few and I’ll see you when I’m shot up.”

  Sally left me the keys so I could keep the heat on, and I made some work phone calls as I sat in the car, trying to use the time wisely. After thirty-two minutes of waiting for Sally, I was frustrated. I didn’t mind the out-of-office adventure, but I had real work to do. Sally had left her phone in the car, so I couldn’t text her to see how it was going or to ask if anything was wrong. I sat and waited.

  After thirty-eight minutes without my boss, sitting and waiting patiently, I heard a knock on the driver’s window. Standing outside the car was a policewoman. Oh crap, I thought. This wasn’t going to be good. A female cop wouldn’t be receptive to some sob story about why I was in the car. She made the motion for me to roll down the window.

  “Is this your car?” she asked.

  “Hi, no. It’s my boss’s car, actually,” I replied, nervously. “She ran into her doctor’s office to get a shot and should be out any second.”

  “Well, you’re over the white line and you shouldn’t be parked here anyway.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. We should be out of here very soon. I can move the car now, if that would help. I’m very sorry, officer.” I sounded like an apologetic child.

  “Well, you’ll move the car, but not until I give you a ticket.” She proceeded to scan the car’s registration sticker on the windshield and print out a citation.

  “But wait. How about I move the car and you don’t give me a ticket?”

  She ignored that request and smacked the paper to the windshield. What was I going to tell Sally? She had said she would pay the ticket if she got one, but I knew she wouldn’t be pleased. Especially with a $135 fine. I mean, didn’t the cop even see that the car in front of Sally’s was blocking a hydrant?

  Thank goodness, after forty-six minutes (and just as I was about to get out and move the car), Sally reappeared. She told me that she had been in a long conversation with her doctor, and since she didn’t have any more meetings for the remainder of the day, she’d taken as much time as she needed. She clearly didn’t care that I had work to do.

  “Sally, you got a ticket while you were inside,” I said as calmly as possible. I was dreading telling her.

  “You mean you got a ticket, Alison.” I stayed silent. “So why didn’t you move the car when you saw the cop approaching?” she asked, as if she hadn’t forbidden me to drive her car.

  We proceeded to argue about the situation. Sally couldn’t believe that I would be so careless as to get a ticket, and wouldn’t admit that she was the one who parked the car in a no-parking zone and over
the white line in the first place. And then forbade me to move it. I couldn’t believe I was going at it with her—unpremeditated standing up for myself. Were the tears I was choking back as I spoke my usual natural frustration surfacing or were they my inner cheerleader jumping for joy?

  “No sense in this back-and-forth, Alison,” Sally said. “Either you can write a check directly to pay the ticket, or I can take the money out of your paycheck for the week.”

  Rah-freakin’-rah.

  When I told her that I would not entertain paying for a traffic ticket that was not my responsibility, she ordered me to get out of the car and walk back to the studio as punishment. A crude move on her part, but I was happy to be out of her grip. I started back toward the studio, breathing deeply and wanting to go home.

  When I was halfway there, my cell phone buzzed and showed a number I didn’t recognize. I picked up, hoping it was Bret.

  “Hey, Alison. It’s Michael Halpern from SiriusXM.”

  “Hi,” I replied, surprised that my résumé had made it into someone’s hands and hadn’t just landed somewhere in the email abyss. I had sent my résumé and demo for a hosting position for SiriusXM Stars a couple of months earlier, right after coming back from QVC. I certainly wasn’t expecting a phone call.

  “I hope it’s an okay time to catch you,” he said.

  “It’s a great time to speak,” I replied, wondering if the universe had orchestrated the walk back to the office for now-obvious reasons. “Thanks for calling.”

  “Not a problem. I received your résumé and demo and was hoping to set up a time for you to come in to talk about the hosting position.”

  After making a plan to meet Michael at 3 p.m. the next day, I headed back to the studio with a skip in my step, Sally and her ticket forgotten.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  See Your Doctor before Using

  Knowing that I was going to be leaving the office for my job interview—I mean, “doctor’s appointment”—I arrived early to get a jump on my work for the day. We had a photographer coming to the studio for a photo shoot of some new products. The first set of models was due to arrive at ten thirty, and we were on a tight shooting schedule: faces, cheeks, eyes.

  Giuseppe arrived bright and early as well, with a big box of pastries and macarons from his local Francois Payard bakery. So tempting! I always had fun with Giuseppe, and we worked well together, despite my never fully trusting him. I couldn’t prove it, but I had a feeling he told Sally everything and tried to play both sides.

  “Let’s fatten up these makeup bitches,” he said as he put down the sweet French goodies. Since we were only taking still photos of the models and the new products, Sally wasn’t planning to attend. I was thrilled about that, to say the least. The face and cheek shoots went off without a hitch, but Giuseppe was unhappy with the models chosen for the eye products.

  “Alison, I need your lashes. I need you to be my eye model.” Giuseppe knew I had my “doctor’s appointment” at 3 p.m.

  “I’m happy to help, Giuseppe, but I have to leave at two thirty.”

  “Okay, let’s do this: let’s get your makeup all set for the shoot, we’ll do up your eyes, and then when you come back, we can take your photos. While you’re gone, we’ll use our other eye model, but her lashes aren’t as nice as yours. How’s that?”

  It was a perfect plan. I’d look like a model for my interview.

  I loved sitting in the makeup chair, especially in the middle of the day—a few minutes of luxury. Moving fast, as he often did on a shoot, Giuseppe was finished in no time.

  “You’re done, bella,” he said, holding a mirror to my face so I could see his work.

  “Why, thank you, sir,” I said. “My eye looks fabulous.” And it did. With feathery, seductive lashes, bright blue eyeliner, and a silvery gray shadow, I was ready to take on the town. Half of it, at least. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Like what, Alison?”

  “Well, I don’t usually walk around town like Mad-Eye Moody.”

  “I was going more for Sheldon Plankton from SpongeBob,” he said, laughing. “But no, you’re finished. You’re my before and after—one eye decked and the other bare. It’s a wrap.”

  At least my left eye looked fabulous. But my face looked uneven and I had a job interview in less than an hour. There wasn’t even time for Giuseppe to do up the other eye should I want him to.

  Okay, I was going to my interview looking half Clean & Clear and half Toddlers & Tiaras. I would have to get over it.

  All I knew about my interview beforehand was that it was for one of the radio shows on the Stars channel. Beyond that, I was going in blind.

  I waited for Michael in the Sirius lobby and was in awe of the big two-story windows, the large photos of Barbara Walters and Martha Stewart, and the corporate atmosphere. I craved being at an official company. I wanted an HR department, standards and rules for behavior. The thought made me laugh as I realized that I’d been transformed from a free spirit to a small-company employee. I was conforming, apparently, and now I wanted a piece of corporate America behind me.

  My mind wandered, dreaming about what it would be like to walk into that lobby every day, when a man called my name as he walked down a flight of slatted wooden steps to where I was sitting. “Alison? Hi, I’m Michael.”

  I followed him back up the stairs and into his office.

  “You’ll have to excuse my one made-up eye, Michael,” I said apologetically. He laughed.

  “I was wondering about your choice with that one,” he said.

  “I was running a photo shoot today”—listen to me, I thought—“and the photographers said they absolutely needed my lashes. And since my company thinks I’m currently at a doctor’s appointment . . . voilà.”

  My eye turned out to be a great talking point between us. After all, it was a radio host interview, so the ability to talk about absolutely anything was a plus. It was also a great segue to my current job and why I was leaving.

  “I’ve realized, in my time at Sally Steele Cosmetics, that the industry I love is broadcast and entertainment.”

  “I can understand that,” he said. “I’m here for that same reason.”

  “Leaving entertainment has shown me that I have to return to it.”

  “Which is good. You certainly need that passion to be in this business. You’re also polished and articulate—both good things.” He paused, and I wondered what he was thinking. I didn’t want to talk too much, so I let him digest his thought without interrupting. “I’m not sure if you were told what show this host position is for.”

  I shook my head from side to side, and he continued. “It’s for Blown Up—a new nightly sex show set to launch as soon as we lock down our hosts.”

  I had my own record-scratch moment. Wait, what?

  He went on. “You would have a male counterpart and would have to be very comfortable talking about blow jobs from eleven p.m. to two a.m. daily.”

  Hi, I’m Alison Kraft. I couldn’t make it in acting and cosmetics wasn’t for me, so I decided to talk about blow jobs. Publicly.

  “Would you be okay with that?” Michael asked, jolting me back to the present.

  But before I could get a word in, he continued. “Look, either way, you’re clearly a great presence; you have a great voice and energy, and you would be good for us to get to know in a radio capacity.”

  “Thank you for saying that,” I replied. “I’m an entertainer, so if the position is for the nightly sex show, yes, I could do it. But quite honestly, if you want someone crass, where blow jobs are a natural part of her conversation, I’m probably not your girl. I can play any part, but I can understand if you’d want a sexologist for the job.”

  “Understood, Alison,” he said. “I respect your honesty. But I want to test you out, use you as a guest on various shows to hea
r how you sound on air. I’m hoping to find a place for you, but it could take a while. Be patient with this process.”

  I hoped my goofy grin didn’t look silly, especially with one eye highlighted. Patience was tough, but I would be as patient, yet persistent, as possible. We said our goodbyes and I floated out to the street.

  Time flew during my interview, but I made it back in time to have my eyes photographed and then—finally!—evened out. By the time my photograph would appear on QVC, I was hoping to be long gone from Sally Steele Cosmetics.

  As I walked out of work for the day, feeling very satisfied with how the past eight hours had gone, my iPhone buzzed with an email from Andrea.

  From: AndreaShayna@gmail.com

  To: AlisonKraft@gmail.com, BEL@gmail.com

  Subject: FWD: RE: As Promised . . . You Are Being Set Up on a Date!

  Below is the response I got from Bret . . . seems pretty promising. But we’ll all need to go to his party . . . is that cool with everyone?

  From: BretEngel@gmail.com

  To: AndreaShayna@gmail.com

  Subject: RE: As Promised . . . You Are Being Set Up on a Date!

  Thanks! Nice meeting you the other night. It’s a great story. I’m having a party in the next few weeks so I’ll invite Alison and you guys. Enjoy the weekend. Looking forward to seeing you again and to meeting Alison.

  Okay—a party to look forward to, a prospective hosting trial at Sirius, my potential husband looming in the near future—what else could go right today? Should I play the lotto? Buy some scratch-and-wins? Wait—did I just e-meet my future husband? And would he mind doing Thanksgiving at my family’s home? Send our kids to summer camp?

  Madison’s voice—the one perpetually in my head—cut right through my thoughts. Stop spinning, crazy girl. Meet him before you go all Kate Hudson in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. So as a distraction from my own hormonal excitement, I texted Jill to meet me at Bloomingdale’s after work. I could at least search for the perfect party top.