Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista

by Aven Ellis

  “Avery, if you could bring up the lights please?” Craig asks.

  I nod, raising them back up. Then I take my seat as Craig begins to speak to the group.

  “I want to bring the spa experience to our customers in Luxury Class,” Craig says, commanding the full attention of everyone in the room. “I feel we can attract the harried business customer—and in particular, women—with this concept on our transatlantic flights.”

  Craig has people get up and begin passing out items. “I have worked closely with the directors of In-Flight Services to establish the spa experience in the air,” Craig says. “Including luxurious, organic cotton sheets for turndown service, a full spa-cuisine menu, channels in the entertainment deck that feature the spas of the world, as well as scenery channels featuring new-age music for visualization and relaxation, instruction cards on reflexology and temple massage, cashmere socks . . .”

  I study the items being passed around the table. I feel the sample of soft organic sheet material as Craig continues to talk.

  “Now these are starting points. What I want you to do is start throwing out ideas on what we can do better. What can we add to this experience? I will take those ideas back to In-Flight Services. I also want to know how we plan to promote it within every division of Marketing. Lindsay will be our note keeper up here as you start talking.”

  I listen as people start throwing out ideas.

  “With our complimentary limo pick-up service, we should have a spa-sounds soundtrack playing in the car to relieve stress,” one person suggests.

  I watch as Lindsay scribbles that idea on a big tablet of paper on an easel.

  “We can do promotions with spas in our destination cities, giving away luxurious spa trips,” Rebecca says.

  “Great idea,” Creepy Spence chimes in, staring at Rebecca’s boobs.

  Great idea? That’s an obvious idea, I think, furrowing my brow.

  Eileen McDonald, the director of Airport and In-flight Merchandising, speaks next.

  “We’ll support this campaign with a major push in the airport concourses and in the terminals,” Eileen says. “We’ll make sure our Premier Clubs have spa offerings as well, like mani-pedis, hand massages, scalp massage, fresh juices, and smoothies to complement our on-board services.”

  I nod, as the Premier Clubs are where our elite passengers can rest and relax between flights.

  Dan Jergins, the head of Internet Marketing who is seated to my right, hands me a travel bag. I take it from him and eye it skeptically.

  “The new amenities kit,” he whispers, nodding.

  I peer down inside the unzipped bag. First of all, the bag is boring—black and basic. I peek inside, moving around the products. There’s some ultra-rich hand cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, earplugs, lip balm, and eyeshades.

  I furrow my brow. This doesn’t scream spa. Nothing is scented. Nothing in here encourages relaxation. It’s all upscale products, but that doesn’t make it spa-like.

  “Avery?” Craig suddenly asks, making everyone in the room cease talking.

  I jerk my head up, mortified. “Yes?”

  “What are you thinking?” he asks, staring at me.

  “Pardon?” I squeak. God, this man scares me.

  “You’re intently studying the amenities kit. Tell me why.”

  Oh God. Do I really say what I think? I’m new here. I know nothing about the airline industry. It’s just an amenities kit. Who cares what I think?

  For some reason I can’t explain, I glance toward Deke at the back of the room. Much to my surprise, his eyes lock with mine. And even in that brief glance, I feel like he’s encouraging me to speak my mind.

  I turn back to Craig and draw a breath of air for courage. “I don’t think this kit feels spa-like at all,” I say honestly.

  Now all eyes are on me.

  “How so?” Craig asks, folding his arms across his chest.

  I swallow hard. “When I think spa, I think scents. Lavender. Citrus. You could do something like a relaxation kit for evening, to help you sleep. We can have all these things in here, but more,” I say, my creativity springing to life. “Lavender-scented towelettes to clean your face. Temple balm to help you sleep. In the morning you could offer citrus-scented balm to rev-up. And grapefruit hand cream . . . stuff like that.”

  Craig continues to watch me. “What else?”

  I nervously finger the kit in front of me. “This kit . . . it seems boring. What about putting the items in reusable wicker baskets? Lined with waffle-weave fabric that is actually a take-home amenities bag? Isn’t that more the image we want?”

  Craig nods gravely. “Anyone care to comment?”

  I hold my breath. Why do I feel as though Craig has put me up in front of a firing squad?

  “I don’t think people will care if they have lavender hand cream,” Rebecca says firmly, shaking her shellacked black hair. “And some people don’t like scented items.”

  “Good point,” Creepy Spence concurs.

  I resist the urge to pick up a Danish and throw it across the table at Creepy Spence. Does he have an original thought in his head? Or does he just parrot Rebecca on everything?

  “It would be extra work for provisioning to load kits for evening and morning,” someone else says. “And more work for the crew to distribute the same essentials twice.”

  “And what about the baskets? Now you have to store them in flight, and retrieve them after they have been distributed.”

  My face begins to grow hot as one by one, people dismiss my idea. Eventually we move back to the topic of spa cuisine, and Eileen is discussing how we could create new menu cards, but I’m still mortified that I shared my idea in the first place. Why did I even bother? What do I know about the airline industry, anyway?

  Regardless, it really doesn’t matter. I’m just working here to pay the bills, so why do I care if my idea gets shot down?

  But I do care, a little voice inside of me cries, much to my surprise. I wanted them to like my idea. I wanted to help create the spa experience on Premier Airlines.

  I remain silent during the rest of the meeting, still stung by the fact that my idea was so quickly shot down. Hours later, we finally break for lunch. After everyone leaves, I go to the kitchenette next to the conference room to begin the cleanup. I’m putting plates into the dishwasher when Deke clears his throat.

  “Avery?”

  I turn and find that he’s standing next to me, without a camera. His blue green-eyes are staring intently into mine.

  “What do you think of your idea?” he asks quietly, leaning against the cabinets. “In your gut?”

  “Oh, why do you care?” I ask, frustrated. I force a coffee mug to fit into a nearly full top rack. “You’re not even here, remember?”

  “Forget that. What do you think of your idea?”

  For some reason I can’t explain, I tell him the truth. “I thought it was good,” I admit softly. “We could partner with a luxury spa for the products. We could include their brochures in the baskets. And it should be baskets, because it’s classy, like Premier Airlines. It’s what comes to my mind when I picture spa-like traveling . . .” My voice trails off, as the idea will never see the light of day anyway.

  “I think your idea is a good one,” he says softly. “I travel a lot, and I know I would like the amenities you mentioned.”

  I stare at him, completely stunned. “You would?”

  “Yeah. So what are you going to do about it?”

  “What am I going to do about it? What can I do about it? It was shot down.”

  “Avery, I just watched you talk about it. You’re inspired. It’s the first time I’ve seen you having fun at work. You can’t let this idea go now, you can’t.”

  My brain is reeling in s
hock from his words. He’s talking to me like a person instead of a subject. And Deke actually thinks my idea is good. He even noticed I was inspired.

  “I’d research it,” he says quickly, interrupting my thoughts. “Get some numbers. Put together a sample basket and show it to Craig. You need to make your own opportunities if you want to be happy at work.”

  I’m so surprised by his kind words that I don’t even know what to say. But as I gaze into his eyes, I can see that he believes in my idea. He thinks I can do this.

  He believes in me, I realize. Deke believes in me.

  And as I stand here, I begin to believe in me, too.

  “Maybe I will,” I say slowly.

  “Maybe you should,” he says, smiling gently at me.

  And the second he does, my spine begins to tingle. A wonderful, warm tingle that radiates me from head to toe. I find myself smiling back at him, drinking him in with my eyes as I do.

  I notice how broad Deke is across the chest, and I instinctively know that if I were to peel that crappy 1991 Chicago Bulls Championship T-shirt off him, I’d find a tanned and sculpted upper body. His shoulders would be muscular from lugging around equipment all day, and his chest would be—

  Suddenly I realize what I’m doing and, horrified, I feel a blush flame across my neck and face. What the hell am I doing? Why am I thinking about Deke shirtless? I should be thinking about Sullivan shirtless. He’s the guy I’m supposed to be interested in, not Deke.

  “Uh,” I blurt out, whipping away from him and back to the dishwasher, “I guess I’ll finish up in here and go to lunch.”

  “Right,” he says quickly.

  I turn around and find that he’s still studying me. Then he abruptly looks away, as if I’ve caught him staring.

  I’m being paranoid again, I reassure myself. Then I wonder if maybe I should take advantage of the mental health services offered in the Premier Airlines insurance plan. They could counsel me on paranoia, because obviously I’m suffering from it.

  “I’ll see you after lunch then,” he says, backing out of the kitchenette.

  “Right,” I say cheerfully. I throw some soap in the machine, turn it on, and scramble to get out of the room, haunted by my fantasizing about Deke being shirtless.

  I scurry back to my cubicle, knowing exactly what I need to do. I’m obviously stressed. Apparently spending all this time on camera is taking a toll on my mental well-being.

  I pick up my cell phone and retrieve the number for my favorite day spa in Lincoln Park. I’m making appointments for me and Bree for this Saturday, and then everything in my world will make sense again. A hot stone massage is perfect for a mental reset.

  And with peace and tranquility restored in my body, I’ll be back to fantasizing about Sullivan shirtless, just like I’m supposed to.

  And scruffy, old T-shirt-wearing Deke will be the furthest thing from my mind on Saturday morning.

  Just like he’s supposed to be.

  Chapter 7

  This is supposed to be relaxing.

  I’m lying on a massage table, with soothing music being piped into the background. Hot stones are situated on my back, deliciously warming my skin. Meegan, my masseuse, is expertly working my shoulders, and I can inhale the wonderful aroma of lavender and vanilla in the air.

  I should be falling asleep. No. I should be asleep. I should be drooling on these crisp white linens, as that’s how relaxed I should be.

  But every time I close my eyes, I see Deke. I visualize his mysterious blue-green eyes peering into mine. I see him smiling at me in that way that makes my spine tingle.

  And then I imagine what he’d look like shirtless.

  I instantly flinch. Damn it! What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I fantasizing about my videographer? I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know if he’s funny or smart or if he prefers salty foods over sweet when he’s got a craving.

  I instantly command my brain to shut off thoughts about Deke. Focus on Sullivan. But my redirection instantly makes a U-turn back to Deke, which makes me flinch again.

  “Avery, relax,” Meegan says softly, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re tensing up your shoulders.”

  “Sorry,” I say, trying to shake Deke from my head as Meegan goes back to work. But then again, it’s natural that I’m thinking of Deke this morning. I totally forgot that he has to come over and shoot me this afternoon to capture my non-work life, so that’s why he’s on my mind this morning. Of course I’m thinking of him. It makes perfect sense.

  Well, except for the shirtless part but I decide to ignore that little detail for now.

  Meegan continues to stroke and knead my back and I do feel much better by the time she finishes. Hmmm. Maybe I could fall asleep for a few minutes. I think I read in a health column once that a quick five-minute nap is quite rejuvenating for—

  “Irina will be in shortly to do your eyebrows,” Meegan says, interrupting my thoughts.

  I instantly jar out of relaxation mode. I hold the sheet to me as I sit up on the table.

  “I don’t want my eyebrows done,” I explain, staring at Meegan in confusion. “Bree is getting the wax. Not me.”

  “Oh?” Meegan says, staring down at her clipboard in confusion. “But we have you scheduled for an eyebrow wax, too.” Meegan pauses, her hazel eyes zeroing in on my brows. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

  Do I need one that badly? My brows are dark blond, and I think I manage them quite well with tweezers. But Meegan is studying me in a way that strikes fear into my heart. And suddenly I get an image of that old leader of the former U.S.S.R from history class at the University of Illinois. Shit, does she think I look like Brezhnev or something?

  “Uh, okay, sure,” I say, nodding. “I’ll have a wax.”

  “Great. Irina will be here shortly.”

  I nod and slip back into my thick white robe. Then I lay back down on the table. I close my eyes and listen to the music, wondering if waxing my eyebrows is something I should have been doing all along.

  There’s a knock on the door, and I open my eyes. A short, stocky woman with a buzzed platinum blond haircut marches into the room.

  “I’m Irina,” she says with a thick Russian accent. “I will do the brows. Follow me, please.”

  I swallow. “Uh, sure,” I say, studying her as I sit up. Panic forms in me when I notice that she has hardly any eyebrows, except for the ones drawn in with a pencil.

  “I want a very natural brow,” I say quickly as Irina leads me down the hall. “And I have very sensitive skin. Please be gentle. I’ve never done this before.”

  Irina pauses and stares hard at my eyebrows. “Yes, I can see that,” she says matter-of-factly.

  I frown. She didn’t have to be that honest about the state of my brows.

  Irina takes me to another room and opens the door. “Lie down,” she commands.

  I lie down on a table, and Irina moves over me. She then begins applying the hot wax to my skin, and I nearly jump off the table in pain.

  “That’s really hot,” I say.

  “It gets the hair off,” she says firmly. She presses something to the wax and then quickly rips it away. Pain sears through my skin.

  “Ouch!” I yell, thinking my skin has just been stripped off my face. Then she rips the wax off the underside of my brow, which is even more painful. “Oh! That really hurts!”

  Irina pauses for a moment, her face twisting up. “Oh. You have very seenseetive skin.”

  Fear shoots through me. Why is she saying that? What’s happening to my skin?

  Irina quickly does the other eye, and I cry again in response as the molten lava like wax is ripped off above and below my eyebrow. Now my skin feels like it’s on fire.

  “I want to see it,” I say firmly,
looking around for a mirror.

  Irina starts to go a little pale. “Uh . . . Maybe you should wait a few minutes. Your skin . . . well . . . it’s a little pink.”

  I sit up on the table. “I want a mirror.”

  Irina frowns and passes me a hand mirror. I put it up and gasp in complete horror as soon as I see my reflection. Pink? Pink? No. My skin is red. Like someone strapped big goggles around my eyebrows and spray painted the skin around them bright red. I look like I have a chemical burn. Oh my God. I look awful. Beyond awful.

  And Deke will be shooting me in less than two hours.

  “Please tell me it looks better,” I beg Bree.

  We’re back at my apartment, in my bathroom, and I’ve applied tons of aloe vera gel to the skin around my eyebrows in a desperate attempt to take out the redness.

  “It’s still really red,” Bree says, frowning. “I can’t believe she overheated the wax like that. I’ve never seen anyone so burned after an eyebrow waxing.”

  “Damn it,” I snap, whirling away from the mirror. “I can’t make Deke reschedule. We’re already behind on my personal life shooting. But I can’t go on camera like this.”

  And applying makeup to cover it isn’t an option, as I have nothing but raw skin around my eyebrows.

  Bree bites her lip, and I know she’s trying to think of a solution.

  “Maybe you can tell him you’re sick,” she says. “That you have a viral infection or something contagious.”

  I consider that idea. But then I remember how Deke blew off shooting the night Bree was having her Alex meltdown, and I don’t feel right bailing on him at the last minute today.