What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (26 page)

To: [email protected]

Subject: Kill It

Hi Sweetheart,

I hope it goes well today—I know it will. You’re amazing and I know that you will kick ass. I loved watching you practice and almost purchased the makeup right out of your hands. Just be yourself and you’ll get the job.

I’m at your office now and just wanted to give you the heads up that SS asked about where you were today. She started grilling me on what you were doing on your personal day and when I told her that I didn’t know, she said that I was lying to her because of course I knew! So I told her that you had a family obligation because I didn’t know what to say. Intense. You’re right, she’s a weird egg.

See you later—I want to hear everything. xx B

I had never felt claustrophobic before, or had a hot flash, but at that moment, I started to experience my version of both. Suddenly hot and sweating, I wanted to rip my dress off in the middle of the street. I wanted to be able to breathe in fresh air so the feeling of being boxed in would go away.

Hair loss and now hot flashes? Something had to give, but I couldn’t just quit Sally Steele without another job. Just because things get hard doesn’t mean I walk away. I walked away from acting because it was time—I’d given it almost a decade. I couldn’t—
wouldn’t—
give this up after just ten months. Failing twice wasn’t an option. And to leave for what? Some other impulsive job without a career path attached?

“Savings are for when you’re older or if you lose your job,” my grandfather always told us. “In my generation and your parents’ generation, work wasn’t for enjoyment. It was to pay the bills. To put food on the table. You kids all think you have to love what you’re doing. We just did what we did.”

I don’t have a ton of savings—do I quit and live off my bank account while looking for a job? Or am I waiting this out?

I decided to use the rest of my personal day to walk and think.

It’s easier to get a job if you have a job.

After heading home and changing into workout gear, I walked and walked. Up the East Side, across Fifty-Ninth Street, past the Plaza Hotel, and just as I started to smell the horse manure, I turned north into Central Park.

Unemployment is not the answer.

Being in the park was the only way for me to feel like I was escaping the city. I could discover a new area of lush goodness every time. But discoveries were the last thing on my mind today. My thoughts flew from Bret to my audition to the Mongrel to my family to my bad luck and beyond. I started crying. Hard.

The waterworks began as I arrived at the Delacorte. Of course my aimless walking brought me to the famous outdoor theater. I walked inside, alone in the space, surrounded by so much of what I had left behind: the seats, the lights, the stage.

I sat on one of the plastic chairs, my feet propped up on the row in front of mine. My tears finally stopped as I took it all in. There was something about a theater—perhaps the organized rows of seats or the history—that always relaxed me. And without realizing it, lines from
Macbeth
started pouring from my mouth, quietly:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time . . .

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

I’d always loved that passage when I’d learned it in middle school. But I’d never fully understood it. Now it made so much sense. Time advancing, people’s lives progressing around me. My wheels were spinning as others’ were rolling. I had to take charge of what I could.

With a burst of energy and a feeling of resolution, I exited the row and headed to the stage. I couldn’t leave the Delacorte without standing on the famous open-air stage. Once on it, looking out at the rows of seats, I said it again.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time.”

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

I knew what I had to do.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Works to Change Your Tone

A
s I walked toward Bret’s apartment, I disregarded all emails on my iPhone, since after all, I was taking a personal day. But I did listen to the voice mail that was waiting.

“Hi, Alison, it’s Sally.”

At least she sounded like she’d taken her meds today.

“So I just wanted to ask you a question. Does your boyfriend have a brother? I mean, well, it’s just that he seems to come from a great family and is awfully handsome and smart. And I’m eligible, so I was thinking . . . if Bret can like a little actress girl turned personal assistant, his brother could just die for someone as successful as I am. And since you took a personal day today, you owe it to me to make a setup. Well, just give me a call.”

Ugh.
Even she saw me as a failure.

I was happy to have some peace and quiet alone in Bret’s apartment. And like I always did when I let myself into Bret’s, I put my key ring back into my bag and left my purse on the brown kitchen chair closest to the front door.

But I couldn’t move any farther into the apartment.

You’re kidding me.

The amount of Sally Steele makeup piled high on Bret’s kitchen table could paint the faces of a small village. She must have gifted him many hundreds of dollars’ worth of products.

Looking at the makeup on Bret’s table paralyzed me. Realizing I didn’t have the energy to wipe off the mascara that had been running down my face, I sat and waited for Bret to come home, my decision reaffirmed.

He walked in the door, glancing from my face to the table full of makeup. He put down his iPhone and took me in his arms.

“I can’t have a relationship like this, Bret,” I cried into his shoulder. Big step, yes. But if I hadn’t come right out with it, I wouldn’t have been able to get those words out at all.

“I thought with your audition you had a great day.” His tone was full of concern.

“I . . . I . . . I can’t do this relationship and my awful job,” I blurted out. “And you at my awful job with my awful boss.” I was blubbering. “I care for you too much. Just be successful, do well at your job, make lots of money selling my company. I’m sure you’ll find a great woman. Because you’re amazing. But I can’t be with you like this.” I was shaking.

“We can work this out, Alison. You’re going to this extreme place.”

“There’s nothing to work out. And I can’t help it. Unless you want to give the Sally Steele account to someone else in your department, this is just too much.”

“I can’t do that,” he said flatly.

“Why not? Then your company can still pursue ours and it’s one step removed from us.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

He paused. “I won’t,” he said quietly.

“Then we’re done,” I replied, shocked by how fast he came to his answer.

“So you just made your decision? That’s it?”

“No, Bret. You and your company made my decision.”

I have to do this—go
with my gut. I can’t be with him and work at SSC. No one is hiring me at another company right now, I can’t afford to be without a job—hello, rent and expensive NYC life—and I’m trying to do the best I can here to create a failed-actress-to-new-career identity. What I do is who I am, and I can’t give up what I do. Twice. And he won’t put me first, so why should I put him first?

I started gathering my stuff, throwing it all in a shopping bag. My heart bumping in my chest reminded me to take a deep breath.

“Forget it—just keep my crap,” I stammered as I stopped feverishly filling up the bag.

I needed to get out of there before I changed my mind.

I am not a failure; I’m a working woman.

“I think you should stay,” Bret said. His eyes looked so sad.

“Why, Bret? Why?”

“Because I love you.”

With that, I lost it. Just sat on the floor and bawled. Three little words that meant so much; I had wanted to hear them so badly. But to hear them now?

“I love you, too. I really love you! But this isn’t good for me.” I paused and took a breath. Now I couldn’t do more than whisper. “I’m sorry that your boss inquired about what I do for a living. It’s all just too much. I have to go.”

I grabbed what I could and walked to the door. Before reaching for the handle, I turned around one more time. Crap—I hadn’t thought about what would happen at the office from now on.

“If you could just have your assistant set up your company’s appointments directly with Sally, that would make things a lot easier for me.”

Only by being pragmatic could I force myself from such a wretched place. I had to make it stop, make the tornado stop.

I picked myself up and left Bret’s apartment. Too weak to walk, I splurged on a taxi to take me home. When I walked in, I saw that it was only eight o’clock. But I got into bed immediately and cocooned myself tight. Seeing what had happened by just looking at me, Jill silently climbed into my bed and swaddled me in her arms.

“I did the right thing, didn’t I? Maybe he’ll fight to win me back.”

“I love you, and it’s going to be okay. There was no wrong decision with this one, and I’m proud of you.”

I woke up the next morning, alone, with crusty eyes and puffy pink lids. Good thing I worked in the makeup industry, since that’s what would make me look human for the day. Next to my bed was a list that I didn’t remember writing. I must have scribbled it at some point in the middle of the night. I guess I was even trying to justify the breakup to myself in my sleep.

WHY?

*
 Was he in this for me or for a business opportunity?

*
 Worlds colliding
—
Bret’s daily contact with Sally being too much.

*
 Not able to leave work at work
—
Sally = party of 3 in my relationship.

*
Jobs
—
not boyfriends
—
pay rent.

*
 My job makes me feel important, finally.

*
 Krafts are not quitters.

*
 I am a businesswoman.

*
 I am not a failure.

*
 Love just isn’t enough . . .

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Pore Minimizing

T
hankfully, work was busy the next day. I could have a private pity cry when I needed to, text Jill or Madison when feeling weak, and touch up my makeup in abundance.

Despite my recent event success, I was still spending my days managing and planning Sally’s calendar. Nearly a year of combat experience told me to wait for a good mental health day to touch base with her about my job but not hold off for too long.

So even though I was emotionally raw from the night before, Sally was not. “I want to circle back with you about the discussion we had a few months ago about advancing my position within the company,” I said, catching her on a rare day in her studio office. If I didn’t have Bret anymore, I’d better try to make staying at SSC worth what I gave up.

“I’ve done a successful event for you that ended in positive dollar signs, and I’ve taken on a huge workload.”

“Let me interrupt you,” she said, looking me straight in the face. “Do you think you’ve proven yourself to me?”

She’s really asking me that?
“I think I’ve proven myself to you and this
company, yes.”

“Would you use the word ‘invaluable’ to describe yourself?”

The way she slowly said the word, emphasizing each syllable—
in-val-you-a-bull
—made every inch of my skin crawl.

“Sally, I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but I think that you’re getting your money’s worth and more from me right now. I’ve worked hard to prove to you that it’s time for me to move up, and I was hoping that now would be a good time for that.”

Oh please, please give me a break, dammit!

“You know, Alison . . .” she said.

Here it comes.

“I’m really just not convinced as of this moment.”

“Convinced of what?” I asked hastily.

“Convinced that you’re . . . irreplaceable.”

“Irreplaceable?” I asked in a high, small voice.

“Uh-huh,” she replied.

“Well, I’m sorry that you don’t yet feel that way,” I said, knowing that I was putting an end to the conversation. “Thank you for giving me a few minutes.”

I bolted, vowing not to let that woman see me cry. She would not have that pleasure. I went to my desk, my back facing her, and got to work, tears for all areas of my life pouring down my face.

Her meeting a half hour later saved me, as she left the studio. I went for a walk around the block, wanting so badly to dial Bret.

You can’t call him, Alison—it’s over. You chose her over him. And Bret’s involved with the Beast now. Call Jill or Madison instead.

Had I cut off my nose to spite my face by staying at my job instead of with Bret? Before I could wrestle that question with myself yet again, I went back to my desk to close out the day. My project: find a company to make a life-size cardboard cutout of Sally for the front of the studio. Sally wanted her fans—especially the Midwestern ones who worshipped her, and dressed in black pants and billowy flowered tops like she did—to be able to take a photograph of themselves with her even if she wasn’t there.

Little clones. If they only knew.

For someone who hated the way she looked, this was certainly an interesting choice.

“A life-size cutout of herself?” Helen squealed when I told her what I was working on. “You’re going to retouch it, I hope. We don’t have that kind of extra room here. Jesus. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any crazier in this place, we have to stare at her poster-size figure all day.” Her acknowledgment of the ridiculous brought out my smile.

One cardboard cutout, please, standard Pantone color printing package, full Photoshop retouching, and please don’t remove the hemorrhoids. Leave those on there for all to see.
I actually giggled to myself at the thought.