What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Cell Turnover

M
y office wasn’t at “corporate.” It was at the Sally Steele Cosmetics Studio. It sat between the stairway to the basement shipping area and the hallway to the bathroom, and was positioned in an alcove directly in front of the passage to Sally’s office—she had offices at both the studio and corporate —where everyone seemed to congregate.

But being at the studio had its perks, since I was with the makeup artists. And the lemon meringue scent in the air—whether from cleaning products or the candle burning in the front, I did not know—made me want to bring the essence home and bathe in it.

On my first afternoon, I took a few minutes to look around Sally’s empty office, seeking (not snooping for) clues about my new boss that would help me know the woman whose schedule I would now keep. It was filled with tchotchkes of all sizes, giving me the impression that a cameo on
Hoarders
could be in this woman’s future. The walls and desk were white, her chair black, and all the accents a vivid red. Sally’s signature logo was a red lipstick tube.

Her shelves were cluttered with lipstick-shaped pillows, a lipstick-shaped telephone, lipstick-shaped picture frames, lipstick-shaped business card holders, and lipstick-shaped makeup mirrors. I assumed that for the past ten or so years, everyone gave her gifts related to this fetish. If a product was shaped like a lipstick, Sally had it in her office.

What I didn’t understand was the photographs and articles about Sally and her business that covered the walls. They were in frames hanging in a seemingly random pattern. It wasn’t the pride in her company that confused me, but the sporadic scattering of these tributes.

“She likes organization,” I heard Jolie, one of the resident makeup artists, say with a chuckle from behind me. (Busted for snooping—I mean seeking.) “But none of us understand her wall pattern. One of the many great mysteries of this place, I guess.”

“Got it,” I said, curious as to what the other mysteries were.

“Your brows need work, hon,” Jolie kindly mentioned to me. “Come into my makeup room when you have about fifteen minutes and we’ll shape them.”

“Do you think Sally would mind?” I asked, hoping for a no.

“Of course she wouldn’t mind. She likes it when her girls look perfect. Always makeup, always mascara—even if she doesn’t always wear it—and she gets
pissed
when you don’t have color on your lips.” Jolie’s Bulgarian accent was adorable, and with dark hair down to the small of her back and lips akin to Kerry Washington’s perfect pout, she was an “it” girl to a T.

“You can never wear snow boots, okay?” she urged. “Never wear flip-flops, and she hates bad skin. Oh, and you must
always
wear black.”

“All right. I’ll keep that in mind.” I couldn’t wait to be given products of my own so that I could put on a great face every morning.

A half hour later, my brows were tweezed. My first perk! And great timing, since I had a first date that night—lots of firsts. The other artists had appointments, so it was the perfect time to catch up with Jolie about the day and get the scoop about my new company.

For example, she told me that snack time almost always involved fro-yo and cookies, which didn’t seem to show up on the asses of the tiny makeup artists.

“Jan Lupman was here; did you do her today?” Carly asked with a smirk, peeking in to see how my brows were coming along. Her client was using the restroom and Carly was taking a minute to wash her brushes.

“Big surprise,” Jolie replied. “She’s here every day. She told me yesterday that she had a funeral to go to and had to have her makeup touched up before, after, and tomorrow for the shiva. She said she wouldn’t wash her face last night since we could only fit her in for a touch-up this morning.”

“Seriously?” I asked. She could afford to have her makeup done here almost every day but wouldn’t wash it off at night?

“Yeah,” said Carly, “she was doing us the favor by sleeping in it. Crazy, right?”

“Well, I guess if she can afford it, it’s a nice luxury to have,” I replied.

“I’m moonlighting tonight,” Carly said. “I have to leave after this client if I’m going to make the train.”

“You’re moonlighting doing what?” was my reply.

“I make some extra money a few days a week doing mortuary makeup after work.”

I stared blankly.

“Yes, dead people,” she said, reading my mind. “It’s really not that bad. And they let you do whatever you want to them. The best clients are the ones that don’t talk back.” She laughed the deep, throaty laugh of a smoker. “Okay, have to get back to my client so I can get out of here. Your brows look great—Jolie’s the best.”

Oh my God. She uses Sally Steele Cosmetics on corpses. Note to self: you need to learn more about this.

Not wanting to gossip, but really wanting to gossip, I asked Jolie to fill me in a bit about Carly’s life.

“How old is Carly?” I asked, then quickly clarified, “Sorry, was that rude? She just looks like she could be either thirty or a great-looking forty-five.”

“She’s forty-six—can you believe it? It’s that baby face of hers. She’s had it tough, but it doesn’t show on her face.”

Jolie explained that Carly’s canary-colored hair, fair skin, and WASP-y manner hid the past five years of her life.

“She literally escaped from an abusive Italian husband, was never able to have children, and has a three-hour commute each day and the exhausting job of taking care of her elderly parents.”

I hoped my life couldn’t be so easily compressed into a single sentence.

Quite sad. Carly, I learned, grew up eating Spam from a can, loved her Gucci handbags, slept with married men, and made extra money putting faces on dead people.

For real?

Sounded to me like a character out of a Mamet play.

The first chance I had to look at my watch turned out to be 3:30 p.m. Weren’t work hours supposed to creep by slowly? Not at a makeup studio, I guess, though my first day was probably way more social and full of getting to know the product and brand than subsequent days would be. Just as I made a mental note that I hadn’t spoken with Sally since the morning, Helen’s voice, with more than a touch of Jersey, boomed through my intercom.

“Alison, pick up line five. Sally is holding for you,” she said.

“Sure thing, thanks.”
Okay, breathe, Alison. She’s so excited to have you here and
there’s nothing to be nervous about. Play the part. You’re meant for this job
. I grabbed the
receiver in haste, clenching it perhaps a bit too tightly.

“Hi, it’s Alison.”

“Hey, Alicat, how’s it going so far?” Sally asked.

She even guessed my childhood nickname! Amazing!

“Hi, Sally! It’s great, thanks. I can’t believe it’s almost four o’clock. The day has gone by so fast.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” she said. “I’m very excited that you’re here. So listen, you’ve put in a long day so far and it’s gorgeous outside. Go home, relax, and enjoy your night.”

“Are you sure, Sally? I don’t mind staying a full day.”

“No, I insist. Get out of here and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Click
.

Apparently she was off. And so was I. At a little after 4 p.m. on a sunny and warm late-June day.

Oh my God, did I hit the career jackpot?

So with freshly shaped brows
and heightened confidence, I walked home to prep for my eight o’clock date.

I hadn’t been set up with anyone in a long time, so a week earlier, I had almost walked into a telephone pole (who even knew they still existed!) when a friend’s husband had hopped on her cell phone to tell me excitedly about the potential match.

I’d been told that Christopher Pickelz was a successful trader, very family oriented, and ready to settle down. He was forty-three, a little older than the men I was used to dating, but now I was a new woman with new eyebrows and a new job, so why not? With weddings being the latest weekend activity, I found myself putting more pressure on each date. “Another one bites the dust,” my friends would say whenever the “I’m engaged” phone calls came.

“Madison, it’s either drought or deluge, and my drought is ending tonight,” I told my friend optimistically as I touched up my makeup and changed my shoes to higher heels.

“I’m excited for your setup,” she replied. “So much more reliable than random online dates, you know?”

With Madison in California enjoying the auditioning-actress life in ways I never had, embracing the uncertainty rather than crumbling under it, the three-hour time difference worked in our favor. I could be getting ready for a night out while she drove to an audition with me on Bluetooth.

“Okay, have to run,” I mumbled, glossing my lips. “Call you after . . . or tomorrow morning.”

She laughed and I pressed the End button.

I hadn’t been to the Metropolitan Club before, so when I arrived, the decor—marble and gilded molding—only upped my excitement. It appealed to my classically traditional taste, my love of chivalry and party dresses, and my belief that in a past life I had lived in Downton Abbey.

While tonight’s date was for just a drink, it occurred to me that it could be the last “just a drink” I would ever have to have.

The maître d’ pointed me toward the table by the bar where Christopher was seated. Like a gentleman, he stood when I arrived. And that’s when I panicked.

Standing, he could barely see over the high-top bar table.

This wasn’t going to work. I don’t think I’d ever stood taller than a man before. At five foot two, I had been fortunate enough never to have looked down upon bald spots. But with no preplanned exit strategy, I would have to let this thing run its course.

“Alison, so nice to meet you. I’ve heard such wonderful things.”

“Thank you, it’s great to meet you as well.”

Mini gherkin.
Oh crap. Why did I have to think like that? But the analogy at
least kept me entertained throughout the date. I understood why Pickelz felt the need to tell me how many millions of dollars he managed in his fund, and he
was
a nice man . . . he just felt taller standing on his wallet.

I knew that my mom would tell me to give him three dates, the rule in her house growing up. Except that the rabbi’s son had to get at least five dates. “A
shanda
,” my grandfather would say, “to deny yourself the opportunity to be with the rabbi’s son. What an honor.” Thank goodness I didn’t belong to a temple.

Pickelz walked me to the subway after our date. He looked up at me, rose to his toes (
hey, that’s my move
), and kissed me on the cheek. “I had fun,” he said.

“As did I. Thank you for the drinks,” I replied, feeling very post-date scripted. And had we been on set, I would’ve yelled, “Can someone please get this man an apple box?”

Note to self: next blind date, don’t go in with such tall expectations.

CHAPTER FOUR

Intentional Misuse by Deliberately Inhaling the Contents Can Be Fatal

A
fter only two months, I was into the swing of the job—not to mention the makeup freebies—and was settling into my new routine: wake up, get dressed, hear the day’s news and Pat Kiernan’s “In the Papers” on NY1, pick up a DavidsTea (salted-caramel flavor of late), put on my makeup at the studio, and start the workday. After that, it was unpredictable.

“Alicat,” Sally called over to me from behind her desk—a rare day when she was in her office. Come to think of it, I managed her schedule but generally had no idea where she actually was when she wasn’t at corporate or the studio. “I’m dying for a cup of coffee. Please make me one.”

“Sure, Sally,” I replied. “How do you take it?” I had never actually made her a cup of coffee before.

“Big and black and hot,” I heard one of the girls say quietly before erupting into giggles in the next room. From the sound of things, the studio was empty of clients.

“Two packets of Splenda and cream,” Sally said. “And put it in my Sally Steele mug. I only drink out of that one.”

“How light?” I shouted from the next room while turning on the Keurig.

“Beyoncé light. Thanks.”

As the coffee dispensed, I ran to my computer and Googled Beyoncé.
So, like
a light mocha?

“Copy that,” I said to my page of Google images.

Beyoncé coffee?
Was Sally a racist?

“Copy that—how cute,” Sally said, overhearing my self-talk.

“Copy that, Alicat, copy that,” she repeated when I served her. Both shade and mug were approved.

I cringed, knowing that I just modeled Sally’s coffee after a very famous and supremely gorgeous light-skinned black woman.

My next two days were spent getting Sally ready for a big set of QVC television shows, which would have her in West Chester, Pennsylvania, all weekend. The schedule was intense, since all shows were broadcast live, but the money she could make would trump all exhaustion.

“QVC is a huge part of our business, Alison,” Sally had said in our initial interview. “Between you and me, it’s essentially what will be paying your salary.”

“Can you tell me a little bit more about QVC from the standpoint of a seller, since I’ve done my research as a consumer?” I’d asked, the Northwestern overachiever in me coming out.

“Yes, of course. It’s a big consignment shop, actually. A huge portal for sales and a great way to appeal to mass audiences. We partner with the QVC team to develop individual products that will sell well and packages that give good values and build a client base. It’s exciting and fun to be there, and extremely exhausting. Sometimes I wish Giuseppe could go on air for me, but what can I do? The name on the brand is Sally Steele.” She’d seemed tired at the thought, but it sounded like she had an enviable arrangement.

“And what exactly is it like for you on air each time?” I’d asked.

“Well, it’s live, and for a set number of minutes. And with the host of the moment, we pitch each product like it’s
The Hunger Games
, all while appearing natural, casual, calm, and chatty.”

Sounds like the fun kind of performing: extemporaneous.

Since each show had a two-hour prep time, Sally, Giuseppe, and the on-set crew would be at the “Q” basically all weekend. In preparation, I had to create a model lineup for each show (picking the models who would be on television for each product—like casting!), order products for the hosts to sample, coordinate logistics with the show producers at QVC, and pack everything Sally might need or want for the weekend (makeup, makeup wipes, her baby blanket, makeup remover, essie Mademoiselle nail polish for touchups, Q-tips, brush sets, matching lipsticks, etc.). Not a difficult job, but since I wouldn’t be there, I certainly didn’t want to leave out of the suitcase something that was valuable for making a “successful sell”—a term I was hearing a lot as I absorbed the new language daily.

Add to the new language a different definition of the word “model”: spider veins, big pores, dark under-eye circles. Gotta love QVC—where being pretty but also plain with bad skin makes you a model.

I had plenty of time to pack and was hoping to get Sally’s approval for new studio face charts: expensive paper stock with a black outline of a face and basic facial features for artists to use as makeup diagrams in lessons and event trials.

Our face charts needed updating, and Sally knew that. I was excited to show her the proof I’d received earlier that day.

“Thank you for taking on this project, my little Aligator,” Sally had said to me a week earlier.

My little Aligator?

I liked the informality of nicknames, but “little”? Perhaps little as compared to her size? Well, there wasn’t any animosity in the “Aligator,” so I didn’t let it bother me.

“No problem, Sally. I’m going to stick with the same general idea as the old face chart but make it more current and use a prettier base face image. Are you okay with that?” I had asked.

“Absolutely. Good initiative. So stick with your ideas and make sure that you include a few lines for the skin-care regimen for the day—face, cheeks, brows, lips, eyes—and a line for suggested nail color so that the customer can coordinate, if necessary.” I did like her compliments.

I repeated Sally’s requests back to her so that we were on the same page and sent my requested design changes to the graphic designer that same day.

When I downloaded the revised proof, it looked better than I had imagined it would. We planned to use a porous paper so that the makeup would really show and not fade or rub off over time, as it had on the old face charts.

The day passed uneventfully, except for Jolie spilling her pesto pasta lunch on Helen’s white pants, causing an office family feud. I was learning that working in an office full of women had its advantages and disadvantages. When arguments happened, they were often catty and pointless (not unlike in the theater), resulting in sulking and taking sides.

Growing up with only my younger brother, Damon, I had to assume that this female closeness was what having a sister must be like. The advantages being: never a shortage of tampons, makeup, nail polish for touch-ups, and extra sweaters when the studio was cold. And it was often cold, as Sally refused to raise the thermostat above sixty-four degrees in the summer or (I was told) the winter. The girls joked that it had to do with Sally being a hothead, but I didn’t yet have any idea what they meant.

I was doing my best to remain safely in the middle of the pack and not gossip or ally with anyone. Staying neutral was difficult. I learned that Sally wasn’t often at the studio and that most of my communication with her would take place via email or over the phone. She seemed to know exactly what was going on, however.

“Alison, you’ll be my spy now that you’re working at the studio,” she said one day, in a tone I hadn’t heard before. “I need to know what’s going on at all times: the work, the gossip, the drama. You have to report back and tell me everything.”

“Sure,” I answered halfheartedly, nodding into the phone as if she could see me, trying to convince myself to be a rat. I liked feeling like her little confidante, but I felt uneasy about the task.

I knew how the girls could be, a bit begrudging, sometimes even vengeful to those who betrayed the alliance, and I wanted to stay out of the line of fire. The artists were generally sweet—if you didn’t ask for their help, and if you didn’t ask them to do anything they didn’t want to do. And they didn’t want to do much more than paint faces.

I would frequently ask for help with packaging or shelf stocking (neither was my job, but they had to get done): “Hey, Carly, can you help me send some packages out this afternoon? Can we put it on the schedule?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t get commission for that. Sorry. But do you want frozen yogurt? I’m treating today.” Again with the snacks.

But when it had to do with a little gossip, they were armed, willing, and ready to jump right in. I had Carly look up my aunt Farrah in the computer system—a little recon mission—to see her shopping history at the studio. It appeared that she shopped there two to three times a year, and had an asterisk in her file.

“What does the star mean, Carly?” I asked. She clicked into the notes section on the screen and I found out all I needed to know.

“Oh, she’s flagged. This is going to be good—we only flag when the client really deserves it.”

Attempts returns of product after months of using, bought product on eBay and tried to return at studio for a credit. Watch her around studio. Extremely fussy client when having makeup done. Doesn’t tip. She cray.

Yep, that sounded like Farrah, all right. “Carly, please, please, if she ever comes into the store, I need to be alerted. And let the girls know that she’s toxic to me. You know how every family seems to have members they don’t speak to? She’s that one in ours. She’s actually stalked me in the past and randomly shows up in my life, so I just need to be on guard.”

“Creepy, but of course.” Carly said. “We will put her on the store watch list.” I hadn’t learned about that yet, but I would.

Farrah had always been jealous that my mom had a daughter, something that she would never have, at least not biologically. And word on the street was that her daughters-in-law couldn’t stand her and kept their distance. My family had cut ties with hers more than fifteen years before.

Farrah started stalking me when I was a freshman in college, though to this day I never figured out how she found my dormitory address and phone number. She would call my dorm room incessantly, politely gabbing with my roommate when I wasn’t there.

She even flew to Chicago to see my Northwestern production of
Our Country’s Good
,
suddenly appearing backstage after a performance. After that disturbing, slightly scary, unannounced (and unwelcome) visit, I made sure my Facebook page was private. (How else would she have known about the show?) It was the sociopath at work.

Her letters and emails would fill my mailboxes. So I put my writing class knowledge to work and sent her a letter.

Dear Farrah,

I appreciate your desire to contact me and permeate my life, but I need you to stop. You have hurt my mother beyond repair, and I would never have a relationship with a woman who so cruelly and selfishly tortured my mother: as a child, locking her in a closet next to the hot furnace when you were supposed to be babysitting; as an adult, berating her constantly with a photo of a man who you claim is her biological father. I have no allegiance to you, and I know that you don’t have any to me. You’ll never split or share the bond I have with my mom, so please stop the shenanigans and the manipulation and live your own life.

Thank you for understanding.

Best,

Alison

I didn’t hear from Farrah for four years after that. But when I moved back to New York City, the stalking resumed. She always seemed to be in my neighborhood, waiting for me to leave my apartment or at a nearby restaurant.

“Oh, Alison,” she said, catching me off guard as I walked out of DavidsTea, my early Saturday morning cup in hand. “So nice to see you. You look beautiful. What a fabulous nose job you had. Let me see.” Her sweet tone couldn’t mask her cold stare, burning deep into my core. And she tried to put her hand on my face and turn it so she could see my profile. (Do I need to mention that I hadn’t gotten a nose job?!) I was so taken aback by Farrah’s confrontation and the sheer gall of her touching my face that I walked away in shock, unable to speak. I replayed that moment with Farrah over and over in my head, so annoyed that I didn’t (or couldn’t) speak out and stand up for myself.

She was a whac-a-mole who wouldn’t go away, no matter how many mallet blows she received.

It was only a matter of time before Farrah would “need” makeup from Sally Steele’s studio, and if I was there when it happened, I vowed to handle her differently.

We desperately needed a store
manager—we’d been without one for almost a year before I started. I was told that it would happen. At some point.