What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (19 page)

Sally walked out of her office. She faced forward, didn’t look any of us in the eye, and strode to the front of the studio. With her back to us and her hand on the door, she spoke.

“You can all figure out how to lock up the studio. Call Jennifer if you have to, but figure it out. I don’t care if you’re here all night.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Twice As Effective

M
iraculously, a spare key to the studio was found in the bowels of Sally’s desk, buried in a pile of NARS makeup, and we were able to lock up. I had a nagging feeling that the girls were being passive-aggressive and had known how to lock up the whole time, but didn’t want to give Sally the pleasure of being so agreeable. Best not to know the truth and concentrate on my upcoming date instead.

Recently, I’d been watching Patti Stanger on
The Millionaire Matchmaker
and following her advice on dating. Her simple theory for men and women: “Pay for dinner, get the girl; blow out your hair, nab the guy.”

This theory propelled me to wake up early on Wednesday and walk eight blocks to the Drybar salon for a blowout. No curly locks tonight! “Men like long, flowing locks. They just do,” said Patti in a
New York Times
article I had read recently.

Happy to test her theory out, yet tired from waking up extra early, I convinced myself that spending money for a blowout was an investment in my future. Did men know what women went through to go out to dinner and look like they just threw something on for the night?

It was barely eight o’clock in the morning when I arrived at the salon. I wanted to check the blowout off my list before work so I wouldn’t be pressed for time before my date. I also made a mental note to ask Kosia, my talented stylist, if she noticed more scalp and less hair than usual. Drybar wasn’t open yet, but I was still second in line.

In front of me, standing with her back to me, was a woman in great need of styling. I didn’t register anything else about her, since I hadn’t yet had caffeine.

I was in dreamland when the woman greeted me by name. It took me a minute to register that the lady in need of a stylist was my stalker aunt.

Yikes!

Now we went to the same hair salon? I had been going there for years and had never run into her before. And she’d arrived before me, so this run-in was apparently a coincidence. The salon was, unfortunately, just a few blocks from her apartment building, so it was a risky place for me to go. I suddenly remembered why I’d wanted to try the luxurious GLAMSQUAD at-home blowout service—no stalker-aunt run-ins!

“Hi,” I responded, on edge, realizing who had addressed me.

“How are you doing?” she asked, her crazy eyes piercing into mine, as if she was trying to read what was going on inside my groggy head.

“I’m fine.” I certainly wasn’t going to treat her like an old friend and ask her how she was doing. No, she was evil and the root of our current family drama.

“So how are things at Sally Steele?”

Were they taking their sweet time opening up shop, or did every minute with Farrah feel like an hour?

“They’re fine,” I said robotically.

Why was I answering her? I hated her. I had her right in front of my face, and there were so many things I had been dying to say to her for years; why was only mush coming out of my mouth? Torn between wanting to ignore her and scream at her, I felt like I was disappointing my family.

“And your brother?” she asked me, in a saccharine voice.

“He’s great,” I replied. What was wrong with me in these situations?

“Well, Philip is just about to start his MBA at Duke University’s business school, so we’re very proud of him.”

Wow, for someone who was severely mentally disabled, as his mother told anyone who would listen, he sure had done well for himself! Actually, I believe it was her eldest two sons, Seth and Matt (with whom I had no relationship because of the bad blood between the Payne sisters), who used the same college essay three years apart about their mentally damaged brother (who wasn’t slow at all). If Philip only knew what his brothers wrote about him, I’m sure he would be mortified.

This mention of Philip and Duke snapped my fear away.

“Oh, I did hear that Philip was going to be attending Duke . . . Congratulations to you for not having to pay another one of your son’s tuitions. I’m sure my grandfather is thrilled to be paying for another university. Is Pop paying for your blowout today, too?”

Now I was awake. But just as I’d started my tirade, the salon doors opened and Farrah and I were taken for our appointments. I wanted to keep going. It felt so good, like a caffeine high without the coffee.

When else would I have a chance to speak my mind to this woman who caused my mother and my family so much pain? Fortunately, or unfortunately, Farrah was having her hair done on the ground level, and I was on the second floor.

I couldn’t concentrate. I started emailing my family about what had transpired. Everyone wrote back with words of encouragement and excitement.

Should I go downstairs to her and say some more? Should I let it go? I didn’t want to cause a scene. But we were the only two people in the salon. I read the
New York Post
to distract myself while having my hair blown out. I was going to let it go with Farrah.

But then Farrah Ashby gave me an enormous gift. She walked upstairs, her hair blown out and looking much improved, and strolled right over to my hair station. She put her hand on top of mine and looked me directly in the face after startling the hell out of me. She spoke in an almost maternal tone.

“Alison . . .” Her voice peaked upward, as if my name was a question. I almost expected to hear her call me Alicat. “I would love to have lunch with you. I think there are a lot of things that you and I should discuss.” I knew, in that moment, that I was going to unleash everything I had ever imagined I would say to this vile woman.
You couldn’t tell her off at your place of work, so do it now!

“Farrah.” I looked right back into her ice-cold eyes and spoke slowly. “I will never, ever have lunch with you. You are a thief and I will never call you family after what you have done to my mother and grandfather.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you still upset about what happened years ago?” She was most likely referring to her stalking episode when I was in college.

“No. That was a long time ago. I’m referring to your stealing money from my grandfather and liquidating his accounts into your own. Does that ring a bell? You know, forging his signature for money?”

“Like I said, Alison, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“But you do,” I replied. “Because I saw the documents. I saw Rick’s forged signature. And
your
forged signature.”

Farrah stepped backward, pulling away from me. Her tight gaze unlocked from mine and I saw fear in her icy eyes. I hadn’t heard her yell in years, and I was happy no one else had an appointment on the second floor. I also knew I would have a lot of explaining to do to Kosia, who was trying to finish my hair as surreptitiously as possible.

“You’re a liar!” she accused. It was bulldozing time.

“I don’t lie, Farrah. You do. Wasn’t it enough for my grandfather, your father, to pay for all of your expenses as an adult? Wasn’t it enough that he paid for your home, your three children’s summer camp for years, three bar mitzvahs, two weddings, three four-year private colleges, medical school for Matt, a sixty-thousand-dollar business loan that you never repaid for your husband, and your two cars? You are greedy and have lived off your personal cookie jar of a father, and have now stolen what’s left of his money. You’re lazy, entitled, and not self-sufficient enough to go out and get a job. You manipulate until you get what you want. I can’t imagine stealing from one’s own parents when they have given you and your children so, so much over the past thirty years. God! My grandfather still supports your children with monthly checks, and all my brother and I ever received over the years were birthday cards.”

“You misunderstand,” she stammered. “I think we need to sit down with your grandfather and he can tell you the truth.”

“Farrah, I don’t need him to tell me the truth. I already
know
the truth. I saw the financial statements. Numbers don’t lie. It’s time you stopped stealing, stalking, showing up at my work, and spending days snooping around my grandfather’s apartment when he’s at medical appointments or in the hospital.” I paused and she didn’t jump in. “You’re a failure, Farrah. You failed. At life, at providing, and even at stealing. You’ve been found out, and there are consequences to that. Big ones.”
I’m not the failure. You are.

She looked as if I’d punched her in the face, and it felt delicious. “I . . . I—”

I’d never seen Farrah with nothing to say. She stammered again, but nothing came out. Not looking at me in the eye anymore, she picked up her coat, grabbed her bag, and hustled down the stairs.

I called my dad first, and he conferenced in my mom and brother. We hadn’t talked for more than two minutes before my mom received a call on her other line from my grandfather. My brother, dad, and I continued speaking while my mom was undoubtedly hearing about the morning’s incident on the other line.

“Farrah called Pop, screaming that she was going to go to jail!” my mom crowed with glee after rejoining our conversation. “She was ranting and raving about how she was going to prison and didn’t want to be an inmate for what she did. Sounds pretty guilty to me!”

The thought of Farrah in horizontal stripes made me smile.

So with my silky-smooth straight hair and newfound confidence, I was ready to tackle the world. I felt like I could take on anything. Even the Makeup Mongrel’s shenanigans.

And I couldn’t help but laugh at the mental image I had of Farrah and Sally sharing a cell. After the biting, hair pulling, kicking, and verbal abuse, who would prevail? But I would take them both down in due time.

I arrived at the crazy-house, the new nickname for the office, ready to check off lots of tasks on the day’s to-do list. There was an email from Simon in my inbox. I clicked on it first.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: PS

Hey,

Your agent hit me up about you for the skin care spokesperson. You have to tell Sally you want to audition before I bring you in . . . She will be cool with it, but you have to tell her. It has to come from you and I don’t want to go behind her back. Would really like for you to audition.

Simon Casting and Talent Development

Wait, what? He wanted me to basically tell my boss that I was going to look for another job? I had done such a good job of hiding my other interviews, I certainly wasn’t going to tell the Beast that I was going on an audition. Though, maybe then she would fire me. Should I risk it for a position I might not get? Tough call.

I put that decision on hold to focus on my date with Bret. Jolie did my makeup for the night out. I felt glamorous and pumped, especially after such an eventful day.

As we had been managerless since Jennifer’s departure, and Sally was making no effort to replace her, I had gotten increasingly busy, as had Laramie, who was spending more time at the studio. But it was time to concentrate on my upcoming French restaurant reservation.

Le Relais de Venise L’Entrecôte was very famous in Paris for its one-dish menu. Well, you didn’t really get a menu; you just had to tell your waitress how you liked your steak cooked. I was telling Bret that L’Entrecôte had a New York outpost and that I was excited to try it with someone who loved steak frites as much as I did.

“Bonjour,” he said when he picked me up, looking crisp in a white button-down, his frame proving to be the ideal mannequin for the most basic of shirts.
Damn.
I just hoped the food would be as delicious as I had remembered it was in Paris.

“Do you like french fries?” I asked him as he held the door open for me to walk inside.

“Of course I do. Who doesn’t like fries?”

“Okay. Good. Because these are better than McDonald’s. Seriously, you’re going to be begging me to share my plate with you.”

“Oh, really?” He laughed. “We’ll see.”

“Bonjour,” our waitress said once we were seated, actually sounding French. “Have you been here before?”

“We haven’t,” Bret said. “Well, she has in Paris, but this is all new to me.” New to us, but the mahogany-paneled brasserie made it feel like we were stepping into a slice of Parisian architectural history.

“Okay, great. Happy you are here,” she said. I loved her accent. “All I need to know is how you like your steak cooked. We offer it rare, medium, and well, and once your steak order goes in to the kitchen, I’ll bring out your salads.”

Usually a medium-rare girl, I ordered my steak medium, so as not to have it bleeding on my plate. Bret did the same and added a bottle of red to our order. Our salads soon arrived and we dug in.

“I think there’s horseradish in the salad dressing. It’s delicious!” Bret commented. “Forget begging you for your french fries,” he said happily, with his mouth full. “I’m going to eat your salad off your plate.”

I told Bret about my day but left out the drama that had started the morning off—certainly a bit too soon to be disclosing the depth of crazy in my family.

A smile crept across Bret’s lips and his cheeks flushed a little before he spoke. “Tell me something about yourself that you would never, seriously, ever divulge on a second date,” he said as he took a sip of water.