What Pretty Girls Are Made Of

by Lindsay Jill Roth

  “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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Within Seven Days, Signs of Fatigue Are Minimized

  Sally had been on a rampage in the office lately. In just one day, she made one of the stylists cut and dye her hair at a local salon because she didn’t like the style anymore (but wouldn’t pay for the new cut and color) and fired one of the operations assistants who requested time off to be with her sick mother, who was in the hospital battling cancer. Sally’s temper would go from zero to one hundred in a matter of seconds, and we didn’t know what would set her off next. Mostly, we all stayed away. If we could. I had prepped to lead a meeting with a number of teams regarding Sally’s website business, which was increasing dramatically. Along with my confidence.

  We finally picked a date when our warehousing team would come to the office from New Jersey, our PR team would come uptown, and our web team would join Patti, Ira, Sally, and me by video conference.

  The day before the meeting, I went over my final PowerPoint draft with Ira and Patti at the front of the studio. Sally shouted for me to make her a cup of coffee, and Ira and Patti waited patiently while I quickly poured a little Beyoncé into the Mongrel’s mug and delivered it to her.

  “Alison, get in here!” she shouted again not two minutes later. When there were no customers at the studio, Sally preferred the art of shouting versus getting up from her chair.

  “Does she always shout for you like that?” Ira asked rhetorically. I just smiled and walked back into her office.

  You have no idea.

  “I swear, child,” she said. “If by now you don’t know how to make a proper cup of coffee for me, there can be no training you.”

  I was secretly waiting for this moment. This exact moment. Do it, Alison; do what you’ve dreamed you’d do the next time she questioned your coffee.

  “Whatever do you mean, Sally?” I replied sweetly, hoping to hide the wicked gleam daring to peek out of my eyes.

  At this point, Ira and Patti had entered Sally’s office to see what about coffee was so important that their meeting had to wait.

  “When I ask for a certain shade of coffee, I want a certain shade of coffee. Don’t you know how lucky you are that I can even specify the color my coffee needs to be? I mean, how hard is it to get that right?”

  “Sally, it was my understanding that your coffee should be the shade of Beyoncé’s skin. Am I correct?”

  “For once, you are correct. In theory. Just not in practice.”

  “I beg to differ on that, actually,” I said, my heart racing.

  Do it, Ali, do it. Second drawer, manila folder.

  “Please just hold on one second, Sally,” I said as I scurried over to my desk. I opened the second drawer in my file cabinet, pulled out the unlabeled manila folder, and brought it over to Sally.

  “I’m waiting,” she snapped. Ira and Patti looked puzzled as Sally tried to win them over with her eyes.

  “I had a feeling this would happen at some point, Sally. So I printed multiple color copies of Beyoncé at various events in the past year,” I said bravely as I scattered them on her desk. “Take your pick. Met Ball, Coachella, MTV Video Music Awards . . .” I let the surprised silence linger for an extra second before continuing. “But this,” I said as I pulled one last thing out of the folder, “is Benjamin Moore’s Greenfield Pumpkin—the exact color of Beyoncé’s skin, as matched up by the Benjamin Moore paint store.”

  I probably sounded as nuts as ever, with an envelope full of coffee evidence supporting her claims, but really, I was covering my ass.

  My badass ass.

  “I think that—” she started in.

  “Oh no, no. I’m not done yet. Just one more thing and then it’s all you. I have to connect the dots for you,” I said, taking her coffee mug and pouring a little of the coffee out onto the napkin I had given her. “It looks as if the color of your coffee matches the Greenfield Pumpkin paint swatch perfectly.”

  The Mongrel was at a loss for words, staring right into her precious mug. “I’m going to finish my meeting with Ira and Patti now,” I said as I shoved my corroborating evidence back into its manila sleeve. “Happy to talk more about this when we’re finished.”

  Ira and Patti clapped quietly as we walked back to the front of the store, Ira pretending to take paparazzi shots with his cell and Patti hounding me for my autograph. “Well, after that performance,” I whispered to them, “she’ll either fire me n
ow or respect me a hell of a lot more.”

  My heart was still beating hard the next morning when I woke up before my alarm—meeting day. Sally had left the studio the day before without a single word in my direction.

  I planned on using my confidence from the previous day to successfully execute the day’s meeting. I picked out a fun yet professional navy-and-black dress, bopped around my apartment to Kellie Pickler singing “I’m on My Way” while getting ready, and made sure one last time that my PowerPoint presentation had no errors.

  I’m not there yet

  But I know I’m on my way . . .

  Before the meeting, Laramie took her time doling out the Starbucks orders in the corporate conference room, as Sally was running late. I was staying far away from anything coffee. We were all ready to begin and she was the only one missing. Since she was always late, I certainly didn’t take her absence personally, but I also didn’t want to start without her. As the small talk reached its natural end, there was a tentative knock on the door. Laramie opened the door slightly and was given a note addressed to me. It said that Sally wasn’t feeling well but had just taken some meds and would be on her way shortly. I started the meeting, feeling in my stride as I stood in front of the team as the authority. I’m good at this!

  When Sally arrived, disrupting the flow, it was a struggle to get back on track. She seemed distracted and interrupted the PowerPoint presentation, asking questions that showed she was confused about things I had laid out so clearly. She didn’t seem herself, but she was so unpredictable these days that I didn’t think too much about it.

  “I’m sorry, team,” she interjected. “I can’t focus. This material is so difficult. We aren’t getting a test on it afterward, are we?”

  Everyone laughed, not sure what to say.

  “I’ve had a rough morning, and I have a splitting headache. I’m just going to pop another pill and will come right back. Continue.”

  She stood and walked out of the room.

  I was relieved to watch the door close behind her, but I needed her to see me in action! And not just combative coffee action.

  With the meeting coming swiftly to a close and no Sally in sight, I wondered how bad she actually was feeling. Her behavior was strange—even for her. I told the team to take a quick break and that I would find Sally so she could say goodbye to everyone before they left. Patti asked one of the marketing girls outside of the meeting if she had seen Sally.

  “Check in her office. I saw her go in there a while ago but haven’t seen her come out,” she said to Patti and me.

  Patti was looking fabulous these days. She had lost ninety pounds and was almost at her goal of losing an even hundred. Through Weight Watchers and unmatched discipline, she had a new svelte figure and her diabetes was under control. We were so proud of her. Well, all of us except Sally, who seemed nastier to Patti every day.

  I knocked lightly on Sally’s closed office door, so as not to interrupt her if she was on the phone. I received no reply. I knocked harder and waited for a response. Silence. She always answered her phone when it rang, even when she was on another line, and never said no to a knock at the door. I looked to my left and to my right. No sign of Sally.

  “Have any of you guys seen Sally?” I called out to the staff, whose cubicles were in the middle of the main room.

  “Last I saw her she went into her office,” came a reply. “Just go in there. Go for it.”

  I laughed. “Okay. But if I scream or something, you’d better come in and rescue me.” I wasn’t sure why I was joking so loudly, but I guess I had reached the point of not caring who heard my gripes. I heard a few giggles and decided to go in.

  Slowly and carefully I opened her office door, not sure what I was expecting to find. If she had been in there, she would have just told me to enter.

  “Oh my God!” I screamed, my hands immediately cupping my mouth. The door swung open to reveal Sally lying facedown on the floor in the middle of her office.

  “Someone help!” I yelled. “Come quickly!”

  The girls in the cubes must have thought I was joking, because I heard more giggles from their area.

  “No, I’m really serious. Sally’s here on the floor, not moving!” There was scrambling and three people came running. “Go get Ira,” I urged. “I don’t know what to do!” My heart was racing.

  Did she have a heart attack? Stroke? Is she sleeping?

  But then, with all the commotion around her, Sally started to stir. I stepped back as Ira ran into the room and called her name dramatically. At least she was moving. But I still felt like I was in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.

  “Ira. Did I take my Vicodin?”

  “Sally, you’re at the office. You’re on the floor. Are you okay? Do we need to get you to the hospital?”

  She sat up slowly and looked around. I felt self-conscious just standing there watching but couldn’t get myself to move. What the hell was she doing on the floor?

  We found out later that she had taken pain medication of some sort (Advil—psh! ) in the morning before she arrived at work. Ira wasn’t revealing any details about her ailments or what cocktail of medications she regularly took.

  Ira put Sally in a cab and brought her home, instructing her cleaning lady to call him if there were any other problems.

  I received an email from Sally that evening at 11:34 p.m., after not hearing from her since she left the office in her drug-induced state earlier in the day.

  From: Sally@sallysteele.com

  To: Alison@sallysteele.com

  Subject: Hellllo

  Alliyson. I made an appt with RIZ Capital for Tuesday at 4 so put it on my iphone. Also, looking forward to your presentation tmw. Ira said you were prepared. Atta girl. Dont mess up.

  Sally.

  I didn’t write back for many reasons. Sally was still drugged, clearly, because my presentation already happened. And RIZ Capital—that was Bret’s company!

  RIZ? Wait . . . what?

  Was it a coincidence, or had she overheard me talking about him? Bret was en route to Chicago for a meeting the next day, so I wouldn’t be able to talk to him right away, though I urgently wanted to.

  My bed would feel empty without him, since we had been staying at each other’s apartments so often lately. Tonight I was looking forward to putting on a face mask and heading to bed, not thinking about the crazy events of the day. Although, RIZ Capital?

  Sally mentioning Bret’s company was eating away at me. I had to put it to rest until tomorrow.

  My cell phone rang early the next morning.

  “Hey, Alison, it’s Giuseppe. Are you on your way in to work?”

  “I am. What’s up?” This couldn’t be good if he was calling me at 8:30 a.m. on my cell on my peaceful, get-my-mind-together-for-the-day walk to hell.

  “Oh great, just wanted to catch you before you got to the studio, before you were with anyone else from the office.”

  “Is everything okay, Giuseppe? I’ll be at work in about twenty minutes and can call you from there.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. Listen.” He paused. “I wanted to talk to you about something important.”

  Okay.

  “Sally knows that she has been a nightmare lately to everyone, not just you.”

  Um, understatement, but okay.

  “And she feels badly about that.” Pause. “She really does. Here’s the thing, Alison. Well, let me ask you this question first: Did you know about her not feeling well, and her doctors’ appointments?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I make some of her appointments. Not all, but I generally know what’s going on at home and medically. And after yesterday . . . well, something’s clearly not right with her.”

  “She’s in a lot of pain, Alison. A terrible amount of pain. Her hemorrhoids are really bothering her.”

 
It took all of my self-control to hold back the laughter. Hemorrhoids! Are you kidding me? The witch’s excuse is . . . hemorrhoids?

  “I’m so sorry that’s what’s causing her to lash out at her employees, Giuseppe.”

  How can he not be laughing about this?

  “She went to see a doctor, but he didn’t tell her that he was going to touch there, and she was in so much pain when he did that she yelled at him and said she wasn’t going back. I mean, the nerve—not telling her he was going to examine her and then putting her in pain like that.”

  “Thanks, Giuseppe, TMI.”

  “Right, sorry,” he said. “But you get the point.” The point?

  “Yes, thanks for sharing, Giuseppe. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  The point is that she’s using her asshole as an excuse to be an asshole.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Protection against Free Radicals

  I held off mentioning the RIZ Capital meeting to Bret—the meeting that burned a hole in Sally’s calendar every time I saw it. I wanted him to raise the topic with me. But after days of him not bringing it up, I couldn’t take it anymore. Especially since Bret had been evasive about work since his business trip. “I’m so burned out on work, Alison—can we talk about something else?” was a line I was hearing regularly.

  “Why am I being such a girl about this, Madison?” I asked, shutting Sally’s door so I could make my personal call from her office. “I should feel comfortable enough to bring it up with him—it’s Bret! Why does it take me so long to speak up to people? It’s like hurdle after hurdle with new people. I have to get over this dumb fear. But seriously, he should have told me about it.”

  “I know,” she said. “Yes, he should have told you that his company would be pursuing options with yours so that you could hear it directly from him. A formality, but still. And you’re doing great—better and better at advocating for yourself. Bret’s probably not sure how to tell you. It’s killing you—rightly so. Just ask him. Casually.”