It’s a tricky thing, ’cause I know she likes that I don’t fawn all over her, but she also clearly values unquestioning loyalty above all else. There’s no doubt that a client like this needs to know I’m on her side no matter what. I’ve definitely done some soul-searching over the past two days in this new city. I’ve lain awake at night wondering if this was the right decision. If I can handle working for Hillary. And the answer is a resounding yes. I know I can put up with anything because this is my dream. For too many years I’ve sat back and watched my siblings work tirelessly to make their dreams come true. I have it in me to do that too, I just had to find my dream. And now I have, and I’m not going to let anyone, including a selfish, egotistical TV personality, keep me from it.
When I get back to the makeup room, they’re still on the same bitch session as when I left fifteen minutes ago.
“I don’t give a shit what the network executives say. They don’t know what goes on here. They don’t know what I need. They shouldn’t have a say in who I have working for me, period.”
“You’re totally right, Hill.” Of course, Monica has probably done nothing but repeat that sentence all morning. It took me less than a day on set with Monica to realize she is Hillary’s lapdog. I’m watching my back around her, ’cause I know she’d take even the smallest thing back to her boss. She’s put the hair dryer away, and is running a big-barreled curling iron through sections of Hillary P.’s blond locks, creating her signature messy chic look.
“Sorry to interrupt, but Hillary, do you want me to get started? We have about twenty minutes before your producers’ meeting.” Hillary came in about half an hour late today, but she still expects everything to run on time.
“I knew I loved you, Alex.” She blows me an air kiss, which means I’d better start mixing up the foundation I’m using on her skin. I start by gently applying a really expensive moisturizer on her face. She’s closed her eyes, so she doesn’t see that Monica has brought the curling iron incredibly close to the back of my hand. We are, out of necessity, in each other’s work space; I get that. Trying to minimize my obstruction, I’ve squeezed in between Monica and the counter, but I freeze up seeing how close I just got to getting burned. When it’s safe to look up at Monica to see what the hell that was about, she’s already setting her irons down and moving on to tease Hillary’s roots. It didn’t seem like an accident, but maybe I’m overreacting. And I can’t really address it, since Hillary’s already back on her current topic.
“Rosalind is my hire. She’s done the PR on my books, and I like her. She’s been handling the show just fine.”
“And really, what do they know, right? I mean, it is your show, Hillary. You would know how to run it. Not the network.” Monica offers a new variation on her practiced yes-man answers.
“What is the network saying? Are they saying there’s a specific problem?” I can’t help it. I should probably butt the hell out, but I mean, I’m stuck here until I’ve got her false eyelash strips glued in place, and so far Hillary’s been into my opinions.
“They say she doesn’t do enough to promote the show. Which is stupid. Obviously, I want her doing the book stuff. That’s her focus. But I can’t exactly say that to the network.”
“Look up,” I instruct, cleaning leftover mascara from underneath her eyes. “Isn’t it important for her to do both?” Monica shoots me a dirty look, which I ignore.
“No. I just want Rosalind to sell my books.” Out of nowhere, Hillary is a brick wall.
I don’t respond, since obviously there’s nothing else to say. I get out this beautiful shimmery face powder that feels so soft and refreshing when I brush it on. “Close your eyes,” I murmur gently.
When I first started doing makeup, I got the idea that it was in some ways very similar to being a facialist or even a massage therapist. When women put on their own makeup, usually it’s rushed, slapped on roughly. I knew from the beginning that I wanted to create a peaceful, relaxed feeling. There’s always a fabulous scented candle in my kit, although I didn’t have time to light it today. Maybe I’m an eternal optimist, but I like to think these few seconds of peace will help Hillary be slightly less bitchy as she goes through her day. It’s a nice thought anyway.
I have a soothing routine I’ve developed with all my clients. First I apply a face serum, then an all-over jasmine healing cream. Then I put on an SPF 50 primer, which helps the foundation stay on, and then a little dab of a stress-relief eye cream—it has caffeine in it, which helps with puffiness and hydrates the sensitive skin around the eye. Obviously, I could go on and on about this stuff for hours. I don’t always go step-by-step with my clients; they need to just relax, or memorize lines, or do whatever they do to prepare for their day. Usually I can sense from their vibe that my routine has helped center and calm them, and that makes me feel like I’ve done my job right.
When Hillary breaks the silence several minutes later, it’s quickly clear that the ball-busting Hillary P. has resisted my Jedi mind trick. “The show promotes itself,” Hillary proclaims. I see Monica in the mirror smirk as she’s putting her hair sprays away. I’ve clearly brought up an unpopular opinion. It would have been better all around to just not get involved.
“What makes you think she’s not doing both?” Hillary says after another minute of silence. Now that she’s completely reversed her earlier opinion on Rosalind, I’m torn as to how to reply. I softly wipe powder across her forehead and over each eye and gently brush it down her cheeks. Taking my time applying some Aquaphor to her chapped lips before carefully selecting eye shadows, I am still trying to navigate a response.
This time Monica catches my eye and shakes her head quickly. It’s good advice. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up in reaction to Hillary P.’s casual question. Her tone is too unassuming; I’d be a fool to ignore the warning signs. If I got fired my first week because of my big mouth, my family would never let me live it down.
“What do I know, Hillary? I do makeup.” I laugh, lightly brushing on her eye shadows, going for the simple style she loved in California.
Monica shakes out Hillary’s curls, jerking her head, and I have to pull my hand back quickly to avoid stabbing Hillary in the eye with my brush. I glance at Monica, but she’s completely focused on Hillary. “This feel right today, honey? I like it down with the neckline of your dress.” She’s brushing Hillary’s hair forward and running her fingers through it again to demonstrate the fullness of the style.
“Yeah, I love this.” Hillary turns her head first right and then left, examining her hair from all angles. Monica holds up a hand mirror so she can see the back too, which immediately changes Hillary’s expression from a pleased grin to a grimace. “It’s too fucking flat here, Monica. Look at that, there’s a huge hole in my hair.” Hillary twists her body so she can see the back of her head better in the mirror. She presses her palm down on one section of hair toward the back. If it wasn’t flat before, it is now. “You’d have to be blind not to see it.” But Monica nods in automatic agreement.
“I see what you mean. I’ll get that. But you like the style, you’re okay with this for today?”
“Once you fix that chunk, yeah.” And both the hair and Monica are dismissed from Hillary’s mind as she retreats to checking her emails.
With her eyes lowered and her head relatively still, Monica pulls out a section of hair to recurl it. I meet Monica’s eyes and mouth Thank you. I know she brought up the hair to change the subject. I could’ve really gotten in trouble. And while I’m still sure that Monica isn’t my friend yet, I think I’ve made some progress with her at least.
I ORDER UP a glass of wine for Emma and one for myself at the bar around the corner from the studio. She said it would only take her a couple of minutes to get her pineapple ham in the oven for tomorrow’s show. TJ’s looks like the perfect place to slow down and relax. I feel like I haven’t stopped moving since I got to the city. But the old stained wood décor, cozy leather booths, and slo
uchy tables create the perfect dive-bar comfort.
“Are you gonna drink both of those?” asks the cute guy two stools over from me at the bar. He was nursing a whiskey-looking drink when I walked in. I definitely noticed his short ponytail and tattoos. But after the Sexual Experience of a Lifetime with Billy Fox, I’m thinking I should swear off men for a while. It wouldn’t be fair to any guys who came after Billy anyway.
“No. One’s for my friend.” And then, needing to clarify, “She’ll be here any minute.”
“Well, so you’re not drinking alone.” He raises his glass and leans over to toast with me. His effortless smile puts me at ease that he’s not expecting anything from me. And knowing that Emma is coming any second, I don’t worry about passing the time in conversation with him. “I’m Nick.”
“I’m Alex.” I reflexively check my phone.
“Oh, sorry.” He looks at my phone. “I don’t mean to intrude.” And he goes back to his paper.
“That was rude. Sorry,” I say right away. “I’m from LA. It’s a nervous habit,” I add self-deprecatingly. It’s easy to distract him with the obnoxious stereotypes New Yorkers have about people from Los Angeles. And I feel bad for having offended him.
“It’s no biggie.” He smiles again and I’m suddenly taken by how attractive he could be. I wonder what he would look like if he cut his hair shorter. “So…” He gestures to the wine I’m nursing. “Long day?”
“Yeah.” I sigh. It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t know what I do. “I have kind of a crazy boss.”
“Tell me about it,” he says rhetorically. He toasts me again and polishes off his drink with one hand while gesturing for another. “And it’s only Wednesday.”
“Exactly.” I commiserate with another long sip of delicious escape.
“So, what brand of crazy do you work for?” he asks, concentrating on squeezing his lemon into the cocktail and giving it a good stir.
“Oh, the usual kind, I guess.” I don’t want to get into Hillary, really, but it feels good to get this off my chest. “I think today, she was setting me up.”
“Your boss was setting you up?” he asks, and I finally have his attention.
“Yeah, I shouldn’t have offered my opinion about…” How do I put this without giving away what I do or who I work for? “One of her other employees.” He snorts at me. “I know, it’s none of my business. But I just felt, you know, I shouldn’t stand by while she’s getting taken advantage of.”
“Where do you work?” he asks, getting into my story. Damn it, I didn’t expect him to be this interested.
“I really shouldn’t say.” When he seems confused, I explain, “Confidentiality and all that.”
“Oh, of course. Well, you haven’t said anything bad yet.” He continues to look at me, as if expecting the rest of the story, even though he knows I’m not allowed.
“Well, I guess it was nothing, really. It was more just a feeling that if something hadn’t distracted her, she was going to bite my head off for trying to help.”
“Well, if you worked for me, I’d be thrilled that you were trying to protect me. But, to each his—or her—own, right?”
“Yeah, right.” And it feels nice that he thinks I did the right thing bringing it up, even if Hillary didn’t. “What about you? What do you do?”
“I work here. In Midtown. I’m in finance at Hearst.”
“Is that stressful?” It’s hard not to look at my phone wondering where Emma is, but now that he’s called me on it, I can’t.
“Not really. Actually, I love my job, but right now I have an opportunity to move up the ranks.”
“Well, you should take it.” I smile, moving on to the glass of wine I’d ordered for Emma. He laughs when I take a sip.
“To making the most of every opportunity.” I raise the glass in a toast I’ve never meant more.
Emma appears in the door, shrugging off her coat and settles in between me and the cutie. I’m about to introduce them, but he’s moved away while I was distracted saying hi to Emma and ordering her another glass of wine. And as she downloads me on the latest kitchen crisis, I notice he’s paid his tab and disappeared.
CHAPTER TWELVE
April
There are so many things I’ve come to love about New York in my first weeks here. Riding the subway isn’t one of them. I absolutely loathe the entire experience. I feel short of breath the second I begin walking down the stairs, so I try to avoid it as much as possible.
For most of the touristy things Emma and I have done, we’ve splurged on taxis. We got last-minute tickets to see a few Broadway shows after work. Emma took me on a quick walk through Central Park, but we were rushed to get back since I only get a thirty-minute lunch break. Between settling in to a new city and working for Hillary, I just haven’t had time to do everything on my sightseeing list yet.
The biggest adjustment so far is that New Yorkers walk everywhere. I quickly realized my flip-flops were not going to cut it on these busy city streets, and had to upgrade to Chuck Taylors. Dragging my wheelie full of makeup equipment is no easy feat, either. But once I got a sense of the geography—streets run east/west, avenues north/south—I pretty much figured it out.
Tonight, though, here I am with no option but the subway because I am running late for “girls’ night.” I have bonded more quickly than usual with this group of women Emma introduced me to for one very good reason—baseball. I haven’t quite worked up the courage to admit it to my LA family, but one of my new favorite things to do in New York is go to a Yankees game. And I’m willing to withstand a subway ride for it. My childhood shrink would be so proud that I’ve finally found something worth battling my claustrophobia for.
I don’t feel disloyal heading up to the baseball mecca. I need baseball in my life. With the new season beginning, I’ve decided to root for the Yankees in the American League and the Dodgers in the National League. No judgments here, people, I can be whatever kind of fan I want to be. And until they square off in the World Series, I don’t see a problem. Slipping my MetroCard into the turnstile while avoiding touching anything is a new art form. I’m also a bit of a germaphobe, but really, that’s not a phobia, that’s having common sense.
I listen to music with earbuds so that I can pretend not to hear people talking to me on public transportation. I’ve been out to the stadium three times now, and each time I’ve arrived relatively unmolested and climbed the stairs to my StubHub seats in the nosebleed section with a beer and popcorn. Both are items I would never normally partake of, but I used to get nachos at the Dodgers games with my dad and brothers until there was a terrible losing streak, after which they made me swear never to order nachos again. I switched to popcorn and we won, so I’m just being respectful of my new local team’s mojo. I’m not really superstitious. It just seems an unnecessary risk. And I like popcorn, so everyone wins.
Harriet, Emma, and Missy have four season tickets for Friday night games. I was lucky that they had a fourth friend drop out last minute, so I scraped together the money to buy into the tickets. They all seem like cool chicks. I of course met them through Emma, so they’re pre-vetted. Emma has a pretty good instinct about people; I’ve grown to trust it over the years.
“Emma! Did you know Hillary P. is throwing out the first pitch tonight?” I hear Missy asking as I scootch down the row to join them. Missy’s married to a trader on Wall Street. Sometimes her husband gets hooked up with tickets in the Dugout Club. Which we are appropriately jealous of, but she enjoys the nosebleed section with us just as much.
“Alex! You made it!” I accept high fives all around for successfully navigating the New York subway system solo.
“Your boss is so cool,” Harriet chimes in. Emma and I exchange a commiserating glance but say nothing. Harriet is a spin instructor at SoulCycle. “You’re going to be at my class tomorrow, right? Got to burn off those nasty popcorn and beer calories!”
“I had no idea she would be here. I can’t belie
ve everyone wasn’t talking about it today,” Emma says, getting us back on track. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t know. Hillary had me touch up her makeup after the show today, showed me this revealing blue top and black motorcycle jeans she was going to wear, and told me to make sure she looked super sexy. Why wouldn’t she tell me this is where she was going? I take a picture of her close-up on the Jumbotron and zoom in as much as possible on my phone, proud of how hot the cat-eye makeup looks.
Settling into my seat, I hope that my confused feelings about working for Hillary don’t taint the Yankees tonight. Leave it to her to actually throw the pitch all the way into the catcher’s glove. Of course she did. Hillary P. doesn’t do anything unless she can do it well.
“Popcorn?” I offer to the group. I hate that I missed the national anthem. I like the pomp and circumstance at the start of every baseball game. I’m not as hard-core as Missy; she showed up an hour early to watch practice. Emma usually waits for me, but when Hillary asked me to stay late (without getting overtime pay, by the way) I encouraged everyone to go ahead. With my eyes on the field, I pull out a pen and open the program to keep score.
My dad taught my brothers and me to keep score practically from birth. I know… it’s weird. I used to see several other, usually older, men keeping score like me. But in the last few years, my dad has stopped going to games as often. When he doesn’t give the seats away for business reasons, I take advantage. In our section, everyone knows I’m the one keeping track.
Opportunity Knocks Page 7
