What Pretty Girls Are Made Of

by Lindsay Jill Roth

  “Oh, Alison, you would have died. It was so funny and we were all watching.” The girls almost never tuned in to see Sally on QVC, but since it was her first time in front of a live studio audience for beauty day, everyone had watched on the big-screen television at the front of the studio.

  “So she was wearing a headband, which is unusual for her,” Carly said. “I’ve been here for years and I have never seen her wear a headband, ever. Turns out it was a ‘piece.’ A headband with hair attached. And it was exactly Sally’s color. She was putting eyeliner on the model. She finished Keri’s eye and when she went to scratch her head, she must have forgotten that she had the piece on, because she completely shifted it and it became lopsided. You could tell right away that it wasn’t her hair.”

  “Did it come off, or was it just crooked?”

  “Oh no, it came off. The whole piece came off!” Carly cracked up. “Keri tried to nudge the headband back into place because Sally couldn’t see what she had done. And by the way, it’s not only that she was rolling live and couldn’t stop the tape—there were a ton of people in the audience.”

  I gasped. “This is unbelievable.”

  “So Keri tried to push the wig into place, but the weight of it made it shift over to the other side of Sally’s head and fall off completely.”

  “Holy crap! What did she do?”

  “She panicked and yelled, ‘Oh, goddammit!’ which they were able to catch on five-second tape delay and bleep out, and all of us in the studio gasped in time with the gasp from the studio audience. We couldn’t breathe; we were laughing so hard.”

  “Did the cameras pan off of her so she could fix herself?”

  “They did, but you could see everything that happened in the reflection of the makeup mirror. Two staffers ran to her and were trying to help, but the fussing just made for more commotion. Sally shooed them away and barked orders to Giuseppe.”

  “All captured on camera?” I was shocked that she had broken like that.

  “All on camera. And of course Sally felt like she needed to address the debacle on air, and then had to show her wig and make a joke out of it. But she looked like a troll underneath, since her hair wasn’t done and Giuseppe hadn’t put the powder in it to make it look thicker. It was a mess.”

  “I can’t wait to see it online,” I said, laughing. Until I realized . . . and my smile faded.

  “Ali? Are you there? Where did you go?” Carly asked.

  “I’m here,” I said, in all seriousness. “This is not good. I’m going to be blamed for this. And I had nothing to do with it!”

  “No, no. This one was all her. Crazy, right?” The consequences didn’t apply to Carly like they did to me.

  “Yeah. Okay, I’m going to get back to my family,” I said with caution. “Trouble or not, they are going to love this story. Bye, babe.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Scapegoat or not, I was dubbing today “Psychopaths’ Comeuppance Day.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Pure Radiance

  From: BretEngel@gmail.com

  To: AlisonKraft@gmail.com

  Subject: Do-over please!

  In an effort to redeem myself from what happened the other night, can you reserve Sat night for me so I can cook you dinner? Let me know if you’re free!

  Poor guy was still mortified that our last date ended in vomit. I happily agreed to Saturday, looking forward to being back at Bret’s place. He opened the door to his apartment with flowers in hand.

  “Hello,” I greeted him. I couldn’t stop smiling. I had barely noticed Bret’s apartment at his party. It was a big-boy apartment, with real (not particle board!) furniture, a huge flat-screen (man priorities!), an exposed brick wall in the living room, and a terrific view.

  As Bret put my flowers in a vase, I browsed the framed photographs he had on shelves in his living room. From the look of it, they were mostly of his family. I loved that.

  “The salmon is ready when you are. I hope you like salmon—I probably should have asked before I cooked it.”

  “Oh, no! I don’t eat fish . . .”

  He stared at me, crestfallen. I’m not sure he knew what to say. “We can order in, then, if you want. I can have the salmon tomorrow.”

  I laughed. “I’m just kidding. I love salmon. I’m sure yours is delicious.”

  Bret threw his oven mitt at me. He missed. We giggled at his horrible shot. Over salmon, spinach, and wild rice, we talked about our days and the latest episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, an obsession I found hilariously troubling coming from a man.

  “Alison. Seriously, I think you need to watch this show. It’s great. Totally mindless and addicting.”

  “I don’t need another show. I watch a ton of crap as it is. The Real Housewives franchise takes up enough time. Add that to The Bachelor and I’m set.”

  “I will swap you an episode of Real Housewives for Keeping Up with the Kardashians. I’ll sit through an episode of yours if you sit through one of mine.” He was determined to get me to watch this show.

  “Fine. We can even start tonight!”

  I think that was Bret’s impetus to finish his meal, clean up, and get the show up on the DVR. I brought our wine to the couch, knowing I would need my glass to get through the episode. He held my hand as we watched.

  “You have the softest hands,” he said to me.

  “Shh. Bret, I’m watching Kim and Kanye.”

  He squeezed my hands a little tighter and started rubbing them intensely. It was nice to know that the thought of making out was more important to him than watching television.

  “I like your ring,” he said, examining the dainty gold band on the index finger of my right hand, one of the few gifts my mom had passed down to me from her grandmother. “It looks like something special.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled at him. “It is special.”

  He put his wine down on the coffee table and took my head in his hands. We looked at each other, and before I could tell him the story of the ring, he kissed me. The need that we both felt, the craving for each other, was so primal. I pushed closer to him.

  “Alison . . .”

  “Yes . . .” I could barely speak.

  “You are beautiful and so hot to me,” he whispered. I wasn’t sure if he could feel my lips form a smile on his.

  Before I could reply, Bret was kissing my neck and I felt the familiar chills run through my body. He grabbed my hand and led me to the bedroom. With gentle force, he pushed me against the wall, kissing me hard and removing my shirt. I wanted to rip off his clothes but was going to keep to my rules. No more than PG-13. Okay, maybe a soft R?

  I hadn’t felt such passion in a long time. There were good men out there—men who could be gentlemen yet still throw you down on the bed and take control.

  I was coming undone . . . and not just my shirt.

  But I kept some of my clothes on, much to Bret’s dismay. And I knew I had to leave before the rest of them came off.

  “I’m going to go,” I whispered into his ear.

  “Not yet, you’re not.” How could I not give in? He pulled me back on top of him.

  “You’re too strong.”

  “And you’re flexible,” he replied, as he somehow pinned my arms over my head with one hand, grabbing my leg with the other. This man was killing me.

  After make-out session number two, I made my way to my pants and got myself together before leaning in to say good night. He walked me to the door and kissed me before sending me off. “Good night, beautiful,” he said as the door shut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Helps to Regulate Imbalance

  Everyone 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

  One 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

  Three 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?”