What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (15 page)

“Alicat, I need you to put together a package for my brother’s mother. You know we have different mothers, right? Ugh. She’s been begging him for product. Just give her some old, returned, or used products. I’m not wasting new product on her. Just clean it to make it look new and no one will know.”

Mental note: I will not give away old, returned, or used testers, no matter who the recipient.

“And by the way, what’s with your hair, girl?” She stood up on her toes, lifted her chin inquisitively, and peered over my head. “Are you a fifty-year-old man under there and I didn’t know? Bald spot forming?” she said out of the side of her mouth, feigning concern. “Looking a little sparse up top. Not to sound harsh or anything, but you should probably take care of that.”

I started to open my mouth in response, but with my body and mind in complete and utter shock, nothing came out.

My bald spot?

“I’m tired,” she said to my silence. “I can’t focus anymore for the day. If you need me, call my cell. Have to go get the boy. Dreading his homework for the night.”

She kept speaking as she left me planted and unmoving in her office. I wasn’t sure who her words were directed at, but the conversation kept on going. “I hate doing homework with my son. I just want to watch TV instead. Can’t the housekeeper just do it with him? But then I would have to pay more for a housekeeper who speaks English. And he only wants to do it with me, anyway. Why is a child such a burden?”

Sally finally made her way out the door and I bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door in haste, and bent my head toward the mirror. The tears started streaming down my face immediately.

It’s noticeable. It’s noticeable to others.
My hands were shaking as I used them
to comb through my curls.
My hair loss is real and not just in my imagination.

Jennifer was standing outside the bathroom, waiting for me with tissues and a hug. She must’ve heard the door slam or my sobs through it.

“Godzilla indeed,” she said. I managed to push out a laugh, but my body was still shaking.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Packed with Antioxidants

W
e were being tapped for a reality show. The studio, Sally, the artists, corporate, and me. Suddenly, a casting director who knew Sally from QVC was sitting in Sally’s office with his iPhone cued up for her next meeting, after walking around the studio for an hour capturing all happenings in the shop. We hadn’t had prior warning of his visit, but since everyone always has their heads in their phones anyway, he was unobtrusive. Nothing like being on camera to perk up a dreary mid-February day, however.

None of us had signed releases, so I hoped the tape wouldn’t hit the Internet.

“Well, I’m not going to be on a reality show,” Helen said while off camera, hiding in Jolie’s makeup room.

“I would do it,” Jolie purred, “if they paid me lots of money.”

Jennifer nodded along with her, the quiet powwow in full swing.

“You know Sally,” Helen replied. “She’ll expect us to do it for no charge, simply because we work in the store and the store is being filmed.”

I listened but wasn’t getting involved in this discussion, but I agreed with them. I was not willing to appear on a reality TV show. I wondered, though, since I was still a member of the Screen Actors Guild, if I would have to be paid for appearing. Union rules? Letting my mind wander about that was a welcome distraction.

Happy to participate in your show, Sally
, I would say over the phone, smiling into the receiver.
You can connect with my agent for my rates, which will be per SAG-AFTRA rules. No biggie, though; the show’s going to be great.
Maybe then I could be the one to
CLICK
.

No matter how quick the casting process, it took a while for a show to get up and running. I was hoping to leave Sally Steele before it ever got to that point.

Simon, the casting director, was planning on taking the day’s video and showing it to various packaging agents and producers in the city. From there, hopefully (depending on whom you asked) someone would want to produce the show with a network.

“This wacky place
is
a reality show,” we often joked after a busy day or a difficult client. Our team probably had just enough crazy karma to be filmed and picked up.

“Listen, girls,” Sally said dramatically when Simon left for the day, “I give you everything you need to succeed here. If that’s a reality show, so be it. Do you think I want to be filmed every day? Hardly. But if it brings traffic to the store, and to my line, I will give it one hundred percent. And I expect you to do so as well.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she doesn’t want to have her face plastered all over Bravo,” Jennifer said quietly, after we all dispersed, Sally’s words still on her mind. “She perks up and her whole demeanor changes when a man walks past her. And she’s saying she doesn’t want to be on television? Hardly.”

“Sally’s father always used to tell her that she belonged on TV,” I said. “So . . .” Apparently QVC wasn’t a big enough screen.

“Listen,” Jennifer whispered, “if they want a show about a Sunday parade, with one huge float and a bunch of clowns, the studio is their gig.”

At dinner that evening, I received a voice mail from the Makeup Mongrel.

“Alicat, it’s Sally. I meant to tell you today that Simon loved you. He said you had a real presence and were beautiful on camera. Go figure. He liked you. Girl, everyone seems to like you so much.” I easily recognized her voice forcing itself through an attempted smile but could just as easily picture her mouth pursed on the left side as she talked out of the right, the vindictive twinkle in her eye. She continued: “It’s funny, whenever I go to a meeting, everyone asks for you and how you’re doing. Even on the phone. And then when you aren’t with me at the meeting, they somehow seem disappointed. Why do you think that is? Why do they like you so much, Alicat?”

I was silent as I listened to her stream of consciousness continue on my voice mail. “Oh yeah, I had a question for you but that thought about Simon today popped into my head. Lost the thought. Guess if it’s important, I’ll ask you tomorrow.”

Click.

I pressed 9. Message saved.

When Jennifer and I had
discovered there would be a Christian Louboutin sale on Gilt.com a week earlier, we had set a flash-sale date: noon at our computers or phones. The day was finally here and there was no one videotaping us sneaking out for it, like there would’ve been if the sale was one day earlier. I was dying for my first pair of red soles, and Jennifer wanted to add to her collection.

Of course we were both in meetings at corporate when noon rolled around, so separately, we each excused ourselves to use the ladies’ room. Coincidentally, two other corporate employees also had to use the restroom at about the same time. It was okay to take a few minutes of personal time to look at shoes, right?

As I waited for the Louboutin page to load, I checked my iPhone and saw an email from Bret that must’ve come in during my meeting. Party time?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Party

Hey Alison,

This is Bret—I met your friend Andrea at Bello a few weeks ago. I hope my email doesn’t come as a surprise. I’m having a party next Saturday and it would be great if you, Bradley, and Andrea would come. I’m looking forward to meeting you. I’ll send you the email invite, but wanted to send you an email first so it doesn’t come out of the blue. Hope you are having a good day.

Bret

I took two minutes to read Bret’s email (several times) and completely missed out on the sale. Damn. People must have been stalking their computers. It is shocking how quickly Louboutins at 50 percent off can fly (and still too pricey for me, anyway). I ran back to my meeting, fearful that someone would send a colleague into the bathroom to make sure I hadn’t fallen in.

The day of Bret’s party, I felt like I was back in college getting ready for a night out. I blasted music while I was in the shower and put on my favorite old-school getting-ready movie,
Center Stage
, as I prepped. I settled on jeans, my “special” black tank top with a subtle sequined design on it, and a little sweater. Cute, classy, and not over the top. And special because the last time I’d worn it was at Raoul’s.

On a whim during the summer, I had ventured down to Soho for a bit of window shopping to clear my head. When I passed Raoul’s restaurant, I knew the name sounded familiar. I’d dialed Madison, who knew more about NYC restaurants than I did, foodie that she was.

“Madison, tell me why the name Raoul’s rings a bell,” I asked.

“Oh, you have to go in there right now,” she replied excitedly. “It’s that legendary Italian restaurant with the fortune-teller who sits at the top of the spiral staircase. She’s supposed to be really accurate. Seriously. Go in there.”

“Should I do it?” I asked rhetorically, knowing what her answer would be. “I always want to believe that stuff but am really skeptical.”

“Why not? Nothing to lose.”

“Okay,” I said, pushing open the door and walking inside. “Call you when I’m finished.”

But I didn’t call her right when I finished. I walked out of Raoul’s like I’d seen a ghost, my eyes wide and my mind processing what I’d just heard.

“You get one question,” Izzy, the fortune-teller, had said at the end of my session. “Just one question. And then I’ll fan out the cards and your answer will lie in what you pull.”

I thought for a moment. With only a single question, I had to make it good. I spoke slowly and deliberately, knowing I had to ask her about love.

“Izzy,” I said, “you told me that my career would be a successful one, and you spent a lot of time talking about my professional life. But I’m unsure of what lies ahead for me in love. It sounds kind of cheesy or silly to be asking you this, but will I be okay? Will I find him?”

Hype or not, I mentally resigned myself to her answer as I picked a card from the left side of her fanned deck. I handed it to her slowly. She turned it over, her eyes blinking rapidly as she looked at my card.

“I think you have your answer, my dear,” she said quietly as we both zeroed in on the card she carefully placed on the table. In all gray, staring up at me was the Knight of Cups. Simply put, my knight in shining armor.

Since that day, Madison and I had been waiting for my knight to come. And I was never one of those women who thought that every boyfriend was the one, but I tried to be hopeful for each opportunity. So I was staying positive for Bret’s party. And in general.

I took a cab up to Bradley and Andrea’s apartment on Seventy-Ninth Street and then we headed to Bret’s, on Ninety-Third. I loved cab rides through Central Park, which separated the east and west sides of Manhattan. Well, I loved them when there wasn’t traffic. The park was the great divide for me, and I found it telling that Bret lived where he did. A little more alternative, casual yet still classy, the Upper West Side had fun neighborhoods with more low-key restaurants than the East Side. During the daytime, West Side moms could be seen picking up their children from school, whereas on the East Side, high-end nannies got pickup duty.

Bret’s building was modern and clean, and the doorman guessed our destination before we said where we were going. It was a great apartment with views of the city on two sides. Music was playing and about forty people had already arrived. Andrea and Bradley didn’t point out Bret right away. Perhaps he was in another room.

“I can’t wait for you to meet him,” Andrea whispered in my ear.

“I know, me too!” I discreetly pointed to a man walking out of the kitchen on the other side of the apartment. His dark hair, relaxed walk, and dimpled smile caught my eye. He was cute! “If he looks anything like that guy over there, I’m set.”

“He does, actually!” Andrea shouted as the music got louder. “He looks just like that.” She laughed. “You just found Bret.”

I smiled. Andrea clearly knew my type. I hoped that I was his.

Andrea, Bradley, and I patiently waited for Bret to make his way over to us naturally. Well, as natural as a setup could be, after Andrea had hunted Bret down on the street.

As he headed in our direction, Bret stopped by his makeshift bar and picked up three glasses of white wine.

“If I remember correctly, you drink white,” he said to Andrea, as he kissed her on the cheek and handed each of us a glass.

“Impressive. Thank you. And this is Alison.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Alison. I’m Bret, obviously. Thanks for coming, and I hope you like white, too.” I felt shy all of a sudden and was happy to now have that drink in my hand so I didn’t fidget.

Yes, yes I do.

After about two hours of mingling with Bret’s friends, and several stolen glances, smiles, and a wink from Bret from across the room, Bradley went to tell Bret that we had to move on to another event. He didn’t tell him it was late-night pastrami and Dr. Brown’s Diet Cream Soda at Artie’s Deli.

As we got our coats from the bedroom, Bret came over to say goodbye. Bradley and Andrea awkwardly made their way out of the room, leaving us alone.

“I’d love to give you a call sometime,” he said to me. “Especially since we didn’t get to talk much tonight. I have your number,” he said. “And . . .” He paused. “Well, I plan on using it, okay?”

“I would like that,” I said.

His blue eyes were light and looked right into mine. We stood just a little too close to each other to not feel like each second counted for something. The energy between us was charged, but I felt safe. And I knew he’d call.

I texted Madison before I went to bed.

ALI:
I think I met my knight.

Okay, I was going to sleep.

Not thinking about it
anymore. Yeah, right
.