“Are they movie stars?” Mom squealed. The woman does love her People magazine. And so does Dad, though he’d never admit it.
“Even better,” I said. “They’re billionaires.”
I hung up and took a bite of blueberry muffin, but it tasted like dust in my mouth. It wasn’t the muffin’s fault; it was the unpleasant thought tugging at me like an itch. I’d told Mom about my presentation so the message would get back to Alex: You’re prettier, but don’t ever forget that I’m more successful. Don’t get me wrong; I love my sister—she can be generous and outspoken and funny—but no one can push my buttons like Alex. Around her, I light up like a skyscraper’s elevator control panel at rush hour. We’re complete opposites, always have been. It’s like our DNA held a meeting in the womb and divvied up the goods: I’ll trade you my sex appeal strands for a double dose of organizational skills, my genes must’ve said. Deal, Alex’s genes answered, and if you’ll just sign this form relinquishing any claim to long legs, you can have my work ethic, too.
If Alex and I weren’t related, we’d have absolutely nothing in common. The thing about Alex is that she doesn’t just grab the spotlight, she wrestles it to the ground and straddles it and pins its hands to the floor so it has no chance of escaping. And it isn’t even her fault; the spotlight wants to be dominated by her. The spotlight screams “Uncle!” the second it sees her. People are dazzled by Alex. Men send her so many drinks it’s a wonder she isn’t in AA; women give her quick appraising looks and memorize her outfit, vowing to buy it because if it looks even half as good on them . . . ; even cranky babies stop crying and give her gummy smiles when they see her behind them in the grocery store line.
If Alex weren’t my sister, I probably wouldn’t be nearly so driven. But I learned long ago that it’s easy to get lost and overlooked when someone like Alex is around. In a way, she has made me who I am today.
I pushed away my muffin and glanced over at Matt. He was sprawled on my couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, half-asleep. How he always managed to stay calm amid the chaos and frenzy of our agency was a mystery. I’d have to ask him for his secret. When I had time, which I didn’t right now, since I was due downstairs in forty-four minutes. Mason was letting me greet the clients, since I was presenting first, and Cheryl would get to walk them to their car afterward.
“Can we do one more run-through?” I begged.
“We did twelve yesterday,” Matt reminded me, yawning. He opened one sleepy-looking brown eye and peered up at me.
“You’re right, you’re right,” I said, lining up the pencils on my desk at a perfect right angle to my stapler. “I don’t want to sound overrehearsed.”
“Knock it off, OCD girl,” Matt said, pulling himself up off the couch and stealing a bite of my muffin. “Mmm. How can you not be eating this?”
“I had a bowl of Advil for breakfast,” I told him. “High in fiber.”
“You’re beyond help,” he said. “What time is the party tonight?”
“Seven-thirty,” I said. “Is Pam coming?”
Pam was Matt’s new girlfriend. I hadn’t met her yet, but I was dying to.
“Yep,” he said.
Tonight was our office holiday party.
Tonight was also the night the name of the new VP creative director would be announced.
“Nervous?” Matt asked me.
“Of course not,” I lied.
“Step away from the Advil,” Matt ordered me, slapping my hand as it instinctively went for my desk drawer. “Let’s get your storyboards into the conference room. You know you’re gonna kick ass, Madam Vice President.”
And just like that, the cold knot of anxiety in my stomach loosened the tiniest bit. Like I said, Matt was my only real friend at the office.
2
WHEN THE STRETCH limousine glided to a stop outside our building forty minutes late, I hurried to the curb and pasted on a welcoming smile. I hoped I looked okay. I’d gone for a professional, no-nonsense vibe, which was lucky, since those were the only kinds of clothes my closet was capable of coughing up. I was wearing a classic black Armani pantsuit with an ivory silk shell and black sling-backs. My hair was pulled up into its usual twist, and my earrings were pearls encircled by tiny diamonds—a gift to myself for my twenty-ninth birthday last month. Boring, yes, but safe, too. I wanted my clients to be dazzled by my work, not me.
“Mr. Fenstermaker? So nice to meet you.” I greeted the head of the Gloss empire like he was Prince William as he grunted and heaved his squatty body out of the limo.
“And this must be Mrs. Fenstermaker?”
As if I hadn’t read a half dozen magazine profiles about the Fenstermakers and studied their pictures so carefully that I could ID them out of a lineup of thousands. He looked more like a meat butcher from Brooklyn than a multimillionaire purveyor of glamour, but his wife—make that his third wife—more than made up for it. She could double for a Bond villainess, the icy blond kind who could open a man’s jugular with a single swipe of a nail. He shook my outstretched hand, and she swept by me with a nod, oversize Prada sunglasses firmly in place.
“I hope you didn’t encounter much traffic on the drive in from the airport,” I said as we entered the building, crossed the gleaming marble floors, and stepped into the elevator. He grunted again, and she didn’t deign to answer. I hate awkward elevator silences, but apparently the Fenstermakers didn’t share my bias, which meant elevator silence was my new bosom buddy.
“I’ll be presenting our first campaign,” I said as we stepped off the elevator. “We’ll be joined by Mason Graham, our agency’s president, whom you already know. But first, let me offer you a drink.”
I led the Fenstermakers into our oval-shaped conference room, which has glass walls showcasing a gorgeous view of the city. Even though I’ve seen it countless times, it still takes my breath away. Directly below us were yellow cabs duking it out for lane space and globs of people buying hot, salty pretzels from street vendors and shouting into cell phones and ignoring traffic signals as they swarmed across the streets. Middle fingers were flying and tourists were snapping photos and pigeons were squawking and a crowd was gathered around two guys dressed in togas who were banging on overturned plastic buckets that substituted for drums. I’d heard them before; they were really good. If you squinted and looked farther north, you could just make out the green oasis of Central Park, filled with walking paths and dog parks and fountains and playgrounds and the best outdoor theater in the world. All of New York—the messy, pulsing, glorious city of possibilities—was at our feet. But the Fenstermakers didn’t even look at the view. They’d probably had a better one on the way in from their private plane, the one I’d read was equipped with a massage table, a selection of rare single-malt scotches, and his-and-hers glass showers, each with six showerheads. Mrs. Fenstermaker had wanted a Jacuzzi, but the FAA told her the weight would endanger the plane. Apparently she’d reacted about as well as an overtired two-year-old to hearing the word no.
My storyboard and sample ad were still propped up on easels and covered with drape cloths, I was happy to see. I wouldn’t have put it past Cheryl to steal my presentation props. Seriously; they’d gone missing a few years ago and I’d unearthed them in a Dumpster fifteen minutes before my presentation began. Cheryl blamed the maintenance man, but she’d smelled suspiciously like old eggs and wet newspapers. (Maybe I wouldn’t have to check the “paranoid freak” personality box, after all. I could probably upgrade to the “anal-retentive, neurotic-celibate-workaholic” box. I’d better hire a bodyguard to ward off the men.)
“Espresso?” Mr. Fenstermaker grunted as he sat down.
I’d read that he was as miserly with his words as he was with his money, at least when it came to things other than his personal toys.
“Of course,” I said, mentally thanking last year’s New York magazine profile for mentioning that he mainlined espresso.
I poured some from a silver thermos into a tiny china cup and added a
twist of lemon peel on the side. I turned to Mrs. Fenstermaker, who was glaring at her blood-red lipstick in her compact mirror as if it had just insulted her.
“Is room-temperature Pellegrino still your preference?” I asked.
She snapped shut her compact and took in the gleaming wood buffet I’d stocked with their favorite treats—bagels with Nova Scotia lox and chive cream cheese for him, frozen organic grapes for her. Green grapes, by God. I’d also ordered croissants, muffins, exotic sliced fruits, and fresh-squeezed juices from one of the city’s best bakeries, just in case Mr. Fenstermaker’s assistant had steered me wrong when I’d called about his culinary preferences. And Donna was standing by, ready to race out and fulfill any other requests.
My smiling lips were slicked with a fresh coat of Cherrybomb, and Gloss’s signature perfume, Heat, filled the room. A crystal vase overflowing with purple orchids imported from Thailand—Mrs. Fenstermaker’s flower of choice, according to her personal secretary—sat squarely in the middle of the conference table.
Mrs. Fenstermaker looked at me for the first time. At least I thought she did; she’d put on her sunglasses again after she checked her lipstick, but her face was turned in the right general direction.
“Are you always this thorough?” she asked, sounding more bored than curious.
Mason strode into the conference room just then, his Converse sneakers squeaking against the wood floor.
“I can promise you she is,” he said. “Lindsey’s one of our best. You’ll be in good hands with her, and you’re going to love what she’s got in store for you. I know you’re busy people, so let’s get right to it.”
He turned to me. “Ready?”
I nodded and stepped to the head of the conference table. The sun had just broken through a cloud, and the room was flooded with light. It seemed like a good omen. My throbbing head, the knot in my neck, my nails, which were bitten so close to the quick that they hurt, my body that cried out for sleep—it all evaporated as the eyes of three powerful people turned toward me. Everyone was waiting to hear what I had to say, waiting for me to dazzle them with my skill and smarts and preparation. The bad taste in my mouth from the muffin disappeared. Now the only thing I could taste was the vice presidency.
THREE MINUTES INTO my presentation, things were going better than I’d hoped. I’d just pulled the drape cloth off my dummy magazine ad, revealing a blown-up photograph of Angelina Jolie smoldering at the camera. Her lush lips pouted ever so slightly, and her famous mane blew back from her face, courtesy of two standing fans I’d spent a half hour adjusting during the shoot, which had stretched until 2:00 A.M. last Saturday night.
Except it wasn’t really Angelina. The people at Gloss were cheap bastards, remember? I’d found an Angelina clone at the Elite model agency, a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl from Russia who didn’t speak a word of English and whose scowling father accompanied her everywhere, on the lookout for the cocaine-wielding photographers he’d heard roamed freely in America. The poor makeup artist was still recovering from offering him a Tic Tac.
The copy underneath the ad was simple and boldface: “Isn’t that . . . ?”
Then beneath, in smaller type: “Nope, but you can have her red carpet lips. Just slick on Gloss Cherrybomb and wait for the double takes. Brad Pitt clone not included.”
The corners of Mr. Fenstermaker’s mouth twitched when he read my copy. Mrs. Fenstermaker’s sunglasses were still turned in my direction, which I sensed was a major triumph.
“We’ll unveil our print ads and thirty-second television spots simultaneously,” I said, my voice ringing with confidence, my posture ramrod straight. “I recommend an initial saturation in midwestern cities: Chicago, Indianapolis, St. Louis. We’ll focus-group to test the appeal of different celebrities in each market and tweak each campaign before we take it national. If Jennifer Garner tests well in Iowa, this is the ad we’ll run in Des Moines.”
I unveiled my storyboard for a thirty-second TV spot. It featured an ordinary girl (you’d be surprised by how shockingly ordinary most models look without makeup) taking a swipe at Cover Girl: “Of course actresses look gorgeous; they’re paid to have flawless skin. But what about the rest of us?”
A quick cut to her makeup bag—filled with Gloss products in their trademark black and silver tubes and bottles—and voilà! Our ordinary girl is transformed through the miracle of modern mascara into a Jennifer look-alike as the voice-over announces our tagline: “Gloss: Gorgeous for Every Day.”
“When we spread to the coasts,” I continued, “we can look at television tie-ins. Drew Barrymore is producing a new HBO series about colleagues at a fashion magazine. It’s going to be this decade’s Sex and the City. We’ll want to look at a product placement deal.”
“How much is this going to cost me?” Fenstermaker grunted.
Probably less than the Jacuzzi you had to scrap, I thought.
“Eight million for the initial phase,” I said, making sure my voice didn’t contain a hint of an apology.
“Can you guarantee I’ll earn it back?” he asked.
“I think our track record speaks for itself,” I said. “We can’t make you more money unless we spend some first.”
Fenstermaker grunted again. There was a bit of cream cheese on the tip of his bulbous nose.
“I could swear this is Angelina,” he said, almost to himself, as he looked at my dummy ad again. “Just met her last week. She wanted me to donate to some orphanage.”
He batted around his hand, as though the orphanage was a pesky fly he was trying to swat away.
“Every second our targets spend looking at that ad and trying to figure out if it’s really her means that much more time for the Gloss name to brand itself into their subconscious,” I said. “We’ll make the fine print as fine as our legal department allows.”
I was moving into my finale. I walked over to a row of three easels and whipped off the drape cloths, revealing three photographs.
“Surveys of plastic surgeons show that women want Angelina’s mouth and Keira Knightley’s eyes and Cameron Diaz’s cheekbones,” I said, gesturing to enlarged photos of each celebrity. “On the back of every package of Gloss cosmetic, we’ll have a diagram showing women how to replicate the look of their favorite celebrity. For instance, Keira wears black mascara and eye shadows in the peachy-brown family for most of her red carpet events. Those colors are already all in the Gloss arsenal, meaning we don’t need any new R and D, which we all know is the real money drain. What we’ll do is shake up the packaging and marketing.”
I stepped back to the front of the table and looked directly at Mr. Fenstermaker. I knew he was the decision maker; he’d dropped out of college during his junior year and built his empire from scratch. Behind his bulldog exterior was a whip-smart brain.
“We’re not just selling lipstick,” I said, lowering my voice and speaking slowly. This was it; I was rounding third base and running for home with everything I had. “We’re making the childhood dreams of every woman in America come true. They’re all going to become movie stars.”
Fenstermaker nodded and swallowed a second bagel without appearing to chew.
“Any questions?” I asked. “No? It’s been a pleasure.”
This time Fenstermaker reached out to shake my hand first. It was a subtle detail, but I felt Mason notice it. I nodded and smiled at Mrs. Fenstermaker and headed for the door.
“Nice job, Lindsey,” Mason said under his breath as I passed him.
As soon as I stepped out of the conference room, I lost it. Stage fright never hits me when I’m giving a speech or presenting to a client, but the second I’m done, I start trembling and my mouth goes dry.
“How’d it go?” Matt said as I stumbled into his office, which was directly across from the conference room.
I collapsed into a chair and put my head between my knees.
“That good?” he asked, putting down the photographer’s proofs of turkeys—Matt was on the Butterbal
l campaign—that he was studying with a little magnifying glass called a loupe. “Usually you just turn white. You must’ve done really well if you’re about to puke.”
“Give me a second,” I croaked, waiting for some blood to rush to my head. “He kind of smiled at the end of it. That’s good, isn’t it? And she nodded twice. Her expression never changed, but I think it’s because of the Botox.”
“Better than pelting you with frozen grapes,” Matt agreed.
“Helpful,” I said, lifting up my head to look at him and grinning for the first time that day. Really grinning; my client smiles didn’t come from the heart. “Supportive and positive. I think I got everything in. Focus group response, magazine ad placement, budget increases tied to performance targets—”
“It’s in the bag,” Matt interrupted. “I overheard Mason on the phone saying your campaign blows Cheryl’s out of the water.”
“He said that?” I asked eagerly.
“Not in so many words,” Matt said. “I was just trying to get you to stop babbling.”
“You’re such a liar,” I said, twisting my head around so I could peek into the hallway and see if Cheryl was approaching the conference room. “How can I trust you when you’re such a liar? God, I hope I nailed it—”
“Look, can I ask you something?” Matt interrupted again, his fingers fiddling with the yellow grease pencil he’d been using to circle the photos he liked the best. “Why do you want the vice presidency?”
I stared at him.
“Seriously, think about it,” he said. “Tell me why you want it so badly.”
“Why did I become friends with someone who was a psychology minor?” I moaned. “I hate it when you do this.”
“Classic case of avoidance.” Matt pretended to scribble something in a notebook. “Look, you’re making plenty of money. You’re working hard. All a promotion would mean is more money and more work. Is that what you really want in life?”
These Girls Page 31
