What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (6 page)

I boldly took some initiative and made the decision (probably inconsequential, but you never know) to have a travel agency book Sally’s next trip.

“I’m just going to do it,” I told Jill one night after work during a
Real Housewives
of New York
commercial break. “It sounds like the smallest thing, using the travel
agency, but it’s not.”

“Have you used them before?” she asked patiently.

“We’ve used them before, but not regularly. They charge a fee per ticket booked, but not for hotels. It just seems like a no-brainer. Honestly, with my new schedule, time equals money, and with the time that I would spend on the Internet researching inexpensive air travel and hotels, I could get some of my other work done.”

“I say go for it. Just take the risk. I support you.”

I had been waiting for Sally to decide when she wanted to leave for London for QVC UK—the same Quality, Value, and Convenience, just across the pond and with lovelier accents—but Sally was in “no decision” mode as to her upcoming travel preferences (other than
only business class and only on an aisle
). I had the travel agent come up with some scheduling options that might sway Sally one way or another. She’d decided that she wasn’t going to take her nine-year-old son, Elliott, with her. I had heard a lot about Elliott—small for his age, very verbally advanced for a boy, allergic to strawberries, phobic toward using public bathrooms—but we’d never met. I was eagerly waiting to form my own opinion. Elliott had been giving Sally trouble about traveling so often, and I knew that she was struggling to balance her business with her parental responsibilities.

My timing for planning the trip was coincidental, because Giuseppe arrived at the studio in the midst of a heated telephone conversation with his partner, Roberto. I only heard Giuseppe’s end of the discussion but immediately knew what they were talking about—the UK trip.

“It’s really unbelievable, Roberto, that I still have to argue with her about this. We’ve worked together for eighteen years here, not eighteen months. I said that I would use my miles to upgrade to business class, and she said that I could do whatever I wanted with my miles, as long as they weren’t miles accumulated while working for her.”

Long pause.

“Well, of course they’re miles from work travel! I’m like a puddle-jumper—I’m never home. You of all people know that.”

Another pause.

“And she’s going to sit in business class, stay in a suite, have me do her makeup and the makeup of all the models, and run to produce the show, and I’ll sit in
coach
?”

A longer pause.

“You’re right. I get it that it’s her money and she watches what she spends, but I’m fifty years old, have had two hip replacement surgeries, and work my ass off for her. I mean, I love her to death, but this is unacceptable.”

Short pause.

“Okay, love you. Bye.” He ended the call and turned to me. “You didn’t hear that conversation,” he said, his eyes laser beaming down into mine.

But I knew he wanted me to hear every word, or else he would have stayed outside and finished the conversation before coming into my alcove desk area.

Things worked like that at SSC. If you wanted Sally to know something but didn’t want to tell her yourself, you only had to let a select few people (Giuseppe and Helen) know you wanted to discuss “something private and could you please not repeat it to anyone, especially Sally.”
Spies.

Well, good thing for Giuseppe, I had planned to ask Sally if she wanted to use an expiring American Airlines companion ticket for her to fly with Giuseppe to Heathrow. I figured she would go for that option since it would end up saving her money by getting two business class seats for the price of one.

“Problem solved,” he chirped when I told him my plan. And then he bought me lunch.

Feeling empowered by making the
smallest of executive decisions, I decided to meet Jill after work for a little retail damage. Based on the fact that the Bloomingdale’s restaurant, Forty Carrots, served frozen yogurt, we chose there to browse.

“Doesn’t Bloomies’ peanut butter with granola make the perfect end to any sort of day?” Jill commented as we waited in line with about ten other women who obviously felt the same way.

“Yes, it’s the best,” I said, looking around to see if we knew anyone at the café. You never knew whom you would run into in the fro-yo line.

“By the way, I think you should get that Karen Millen dress you’ve been talking about for, oh, a month now. We’re here; just do it. It’s on sale. Treat yourself. You’ve been seeing David casually for a few weeks—buy it and you can dress up a bit with him on your next date.”

Jill knew that I loved this black-and-white striped dress and had strict instructions to watch to see if it went on sale.

“Honestly, I was thinking the same thing. Thank you, newish job. I can buy a sale dress by a designer I love and not have to worry about eating peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of the week to make up for the lack of funds.”

Jill laughed, probably at the thought of my seeing peanut butter sandwiches as “budget food,” since they were on her preferred dinner list.

“So, not to turn the conversation into something serious,” she replied, and a big
uh-oh
went off in my head. “But you’ve been there for what, three months so far?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s October, so just over three, actually.”

“I feel like we should do a check-in. What’s working there, what’s not? Are you okay? Missing auditioning? Talk to me.”

Jill was right. I should check in about the whole situation. I was moving forward at a million miles an hour, and had I thought about how I felt about it all? Not really.

“Can I buy myself a really pretty dress first and then we can talk about this at home on the couch? I’m dying to change into sweat pants.”

“Of course you can,” she said with a laugh.

Relocated to the couch under a blanket and in our matching Northwestern sweats, Jill and I had our three-month check-in.

“Okay,” I said. “Right off the bat, I have to say that a plus is that I love having a day job and nights free. It’s huge. Seriously, people don’t realize how novel that is until they haven’t lived like that for a while.”

Jill nodded. “Definitely easier dating-wise, that’s for sure,” she said. “Remember when you’d have to start your dates after your night shift ended?”

“Yeah, that was brutal. It’s weird, though,” I continued, perhaps realizing that I needed to have this conversation more than I’d thought. “My life feels a lot steadier now that I’m on a regular schedule, and I can’t tell you how nice it is to swipe my debit card without worrying if it will be declined, but the workdays are becoming more unpredictable.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Jill asked. “I know you like things to be varied so you don’t get bored.”

“No, it’s not that—I love how my days are split up into different tasks that require various skills. Managing people, being Sally’s voice on social media, for example—”

“True!” she interrupted excitedly. “And you’re so good at that! Channeling someone perfectly—like playing a role without auditioning, not being the wrong shape or size, and it’s steady work!”

“But,” I continued, appreciating her optimism, “there’s something about the actual work atmosphere that I’m uneasy about. Uncomfortable with, maybe. And I need this job, you know I do, but there’s this layer of drama that’s just there. Every day. And it’s totally unnecessary.”

“Well, it’s a lot of women in one space. Could it be that?” Jill asked.

“Maybe,” I replied. “I should have gone into banking. Why don’t people tell you to think about the male/female workplace ratio when deciding on a career? Acting and then makeup? I’m an idiot.”

“An idiot with really great products.”

“But seriously, everyone at work seems bitter. Or dissatisfied with something. I don’t really have anything to compare that to in my career, but is that normal?”

“Well, is it a food thing, like the girls need to eat, or do you think it’s more like they need to make more money?”

“I’m sure we all need to make more money, and I don’t want to turn into one of the disgruntled cast, but I have this weird feeling that I’m not going to get that ‘it’ girl growth that Sally promised. It’s just a hunch, but things don’t always work the way you’re told they will.”

“You’re still kind of new, though, so maybe it will change and you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“I really hope so,” I said wistfully. “But I’m determined to give this company at least a year. I’m still really excited I have this, but more than that, I need the consistency on my résumé, I need the money, I like feeling like I’m good at something, responsibility is empowering, and I can’t fail at this, too, so I’m really in it,” I resolved.

“Remember in college when you were in the play
A Shayna Maidel
?”

“Of course—best pin curls ever.”

“And you got the reputation from it for being such an amazing character explorer—we all wanted to know what you did to find Hanna that made her the most memorable character in the entire show.”

“A: thank you. And B: I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“Do it again, Alison. But find you. Explore Alison Kraft like she’s the lead in the main-stage play. The role everyone auditioned for and you got chosen for. Use this time, reflect, and make it work for you and your self-discovery.”

Wow.

“You’re brilliant, roomie. I love you so much. Thank you.”

And she was right—it was about finding me. A full year of committing to the process of my own self-discovery. Well, eight or nine months.
I can do it.

As I went to bed that night, I thought about our discussion and realized the one thing I hadn’t mentioned to Jill: Sally’s increasingly mean, nasty, spiteful side. Of course, Jill had heard random stories as they’d happened, but I was almost scared to tell her how often Sally lashed out. I would put money down that I hadn’t seen the worst of it yet. Could that be why I had started to see clumps of hair in the shower drain every morning? I would figure it out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Use Only As Directed and Keep Out of the Reach of Children

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: urgent

Please call me as soon as you get in to set up meeting. Than you can get on with ur day Sally

It irked me, probably more than it should have, that Sally always used the word “than” instead of “then” and didn’t know that they were two different words. “Then” versus “than” was Grammar 101, and I was sure even her nine-year-old son could handle it. Also perturbing was her use of “ur” for “your,” “you are,” or anything of the like in business emails—not texts to friends. I picked up the phone to call her at 9:01 a.m., hoping she wasn’t counting the minute against me.

“Good morning, Alicataracts,” she answered after one ring, then rushed on. “I need you to set up a meeting with the studio staff ASAP. This is a matter of great importance.”

Ali . . . cataracts?

“Sure thing, Sally. How much time do you need me to block out for it?”

“Well, unless you can settle this now and tell me who is stealing rolls of my toilet paper and paper towels and overusing garbage bags, I would say that we’ll need a good hour for me to get to the bottom of this. It’s really a plain and simple concept, the use of garbage bags, you know. You fill them up until you can barely tie them shut, and when you have not an inch of space left, you tie them up.”

“Sally,” I said as evenly and calmly as I could without bursting into peals of laughter. “We use garbage bags for both trash and UPS packages. We separate our packages based on shipping—next-day air, ground, et cetera. So the garbage bag that you saw that wasn’t full was because we only have a few next-day-air packages. And as for toilet paper, I have the intern order one-ply. Do you really think that the girls are walking off with one-ply?”

“I don’t need you to make things difficult right now, Alison. Unless it’s you who is pilfering my paper goods or taking your stuff home in my garbage bags. I would like this settled right now. I’ll wait for an email from you telling me when this meeting is set up.”

“Okay, Sally. I’ll get it on the schedule.”

And I did. But only after I went and used the bathroom—with the Charmin stash that the girls and I contributed to privately and carried around in black garbage bags.

Jolie loved hearing about the start of my day. The irony of it was that Sally would give away anything to her clients—product replacements, coffee machine cartridges if they liked the studio coffee, free sets of lashes—yet with us, Sally was worried someone was stealing the recycled one-ply bathroom tissue that came a thousand sheets per roll, forty rolls per carton for $49.98.

“You know what’s coming up,
Alison, don’t you?” Helen said as she walked into my office one November morning with a buttered bagel and a cup of coffee. It had taken me a few months, but I’d realized how Helen, an old woman (Sixties? Seventies? She wouldn’t reveal her secret), could be in better shape than most forty-year-olds. It took her a full day to eat a bagel—a bite an hour. Literally.

“Want some bagel, darling?” she asked, as usual. “I’m not going to finish the whole thing.”

“I don’t know how you do it, but I would demolish that thing in about two minutes,” I said, craving the taste of an egg everything slathered in cream cheese. She laughed her throaty laugh and stood over me, lingering.

“So what’s coming up?” I asked, remembering her original question. “Thanksgiving?”

“Besides Thanksgiving.”

The holiday was in only a few days, yet it didn’t feel like Thanksgiving season, with unseasonably warm temperatures outside and no one at work having taken any vacation time. I couldn’t wait to cook, eat, and relax with my family.

Fueled by the blank look on my face, since I really didn’t know what she was getting at, Helen pulled up a chair. “It’s the week of Sally’s father’s death. Nine years ago.”

“Right,” I said with a deep breath and a sigh, even though this was news to me. “I knew he died, but not when.” I gathered that Sally and her father had been very close. “What does this anniversary mean for us at work?”

“It means that she’s fiery and unpredictable. And—”

“More than usual?” I interrupted.

She smiled but didn’t laugh. “More than usual, so be on guard.”

With only a third of her bagel eaten, Helen got up to leave my office, saving the rest of her calories for later.

“Lots of dysfunction in that family, my dear, lots of dysfunction,” she said, halfway out the door.

“Hold on.” I stopped her. “You can’t do that to me,” I said with a smile, chiding her gently. “You absolutely cannot just say that and leave. You need to tell me more.”

Even working so closely with Sally, I knew surprisingly little about her life at this point. The girls didn’t really talk about Sally’s history unless asked, but when you asked, you were always given an earful.

“I knew this was coming,” Helen said. “Let me get some more coffee and I’ll fill you in.”

Since it was Thanksgiving week and the studio was empty, Jolie and Carly joined us for the information session.

“When Sally’s father passed away,” Helen started, “it was like the baton was passed from him to Sally. Sally’s childhood wasn’t normal. And her mother was a bit slow, mentally, and also very heavy.”

Her tone was diplomatic, but of course there had to be a comment about weight in there—so typical for New Jersey’s Fittest Senior.

“Sally’s older sister also has cognitive deficiencies, and anyone who has a conversation with her knows that the elevator doesn’t reach the top floor. It’s a sad situation, really.” She paused. “Sally’s father was her biggest fan and really encouraged her to start her own business. And when Sally started making money and her father died, she took on the financial burden of her family. I don’t mean just as a single parent—she takes care of her mother and sister, too. She also has a half brother from her father’s first marriage, with whom she has an on-and-off relationship. He manages a restaurant in the city.”

“But she doesn’t own anything, right?” Carly asked like she already knew the answer.

“Just her car. She rents her apartment and pays for whatever needs to be done in her mother and sister’s house.”

Carly turned to me. “Sally’s mother and sister live together about an hour outside of the city. They’ve lived together since her sister got divorced many years ago.”

I envisioned lots of cats.

“Sounds intense,” I said, “but everyone comes from a certain dysfunction.” I certainly did. Mucho family drama on my end. “And Sally has to handle it on her own as a never-married single parent. I couldn’t imagine making the choice to become pregnant as a single forty-year-old woman, like she did.”

Helen’s story proved that Sally felt incredible pressure from all angles: business owner, caretaker, mother, and daughter. Sally had made the choice, however, to raise a child on her own, live a certain lifestyle, and be a certain kind of businesswoman. She took on a lot, and while it killed me to admit it, I respected her for what she’d accomplished. I couldn’t deny that there were moments when Sally struggled and seemed overwhelmed when I’d have to fight the urge to wrap my arms around her and give her a hug.

Sally’s weight was another issue, and one I also identified with, having struggled with self-image issues. I understood the aching feeling of disappointment in oneself for looking (or for the perception of looking) fat and the visceral need for chocolate, or in Sally’s case, pretzels. I knew that Sally’s issues were deeply rooted, as she was larger than what was considered obese, and she hated herself for it.

“Is it true that she’s had a tummy tuck, breast reduction, eyelid surgery, and lap band operation?” Jolie asked. “Seems kind of excessive, don’t you think?”

Carly jumped in, not missing a beat. “And I heard that she drinks wine like it’s water and her remedy for when we aggravate her is pot.”

Helen replied, selectively. “When the problem is psychological, unfortunately, nothing keeps you svelte. Why do you think she criticizes how people look and won’t hire someone to work in the studio if she isn’t attractive enough?”

“Because she doesn’t love herself,” I answered. “It all makes sense, actually. Her narcissism is rooted in shame. Maybe even self-hatred. And all the makeup in the world won’t help that.”

Wow. Deep discussion for the middle of the workday.

“Look at you,” Carly jumped in, “hiding those brains behind that pretty face. Very intuitive—I like it. When you get bored here, you could always become a social worker, but I just figured out how Helen gets all of her gossip—when Sally’s under the influence.”

I walked home from the
studio that night, my head still spinning from the discussion about Sally. What Sally was most self-conscious about was what made her such a hit throughout the country and the world. It was easy for a large woman who wasn’t exactly attractive to sell makeup. Her television viewers weren’t threatened or jealous when she talked to them through the monitor. When she mentioned her dark circles, people believed she really had them. Her physicality gave her credibility and made her different.

Our customer service department—oh wait, that was me—would receive the occasional email pointing out that QVC should put her behind platforms and tables that were closed in the front, not open, to hide how much space she took up underneath.

And while it was unacceptable for one of her artists or front-of-store staff to report to work with a blemish (“Please stay in the back today,” she would urge the unfortunate staffer), her skin was a mess of bumps that only a talented makeup artist could cover up. And talented she was. When Sally painted a face, you could tell that it was her work. She was a true artist. Except lately, her eye and lip lines were messy and wobbly because she refused to get glasses or contact lenses. But she was so beloved on TV that even in high definition, her customers would buy anything she demonstrated.

There were two very old TV monitors in the studio, one above my desk and one in Sally’s office. They were connected to a camera in the front of the studio so that someone sitting in the back could see if the store was getting busy. They had been there for many years and since Sally’s office was where everyone liked to congregate when Sally wasn’t at the studio, it allowed the staff to hang out in the back when the shop was empty and take their lunch breaks while still being able to see out front. The screen in my office was my only view of the outside, too, since my hallway had no windows.

At 1 p.m. on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, through the television monitor above my desk I could see a little pale-skinned boy run out of Sally’s red Mercedes and into the store. Would I finally meet Elliott Steele?

“Hi, Alison,” Elliott said as he came back to my office.

Elliott was a good-looking kid, though skinny and small for his age. His big brown puppy-dog eyes and bushy brows slanted downward just enough to make you hope he wasn’t sad, but rather introspective and thoughtful.

“Hi, Elliott,” I said. “Hey, how do you know that I’m Alison?”