What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (28 page)

“You know, we’re not allowed to give you a send-off,” Ira said. “We’ve been banned from wishing you well. Your superior, for another day or so, called Patti and me and said that we were not to do any sort of celebration for you of any kind. No card. No cake. No lunch. No pizza. No farewell. No nothing.”

I just looked at him. I knew the Mongrel was made of ice, but now she was channeling Mommie Dearest.

“Sorry, kid. Want me to buy you a cupcake?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

Just one more day to go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Virtually Erases Dark Spots

A
s last days often are, mine was shaping up to be uneventful. And, surprisingly, unemotional. The girls were sad and overly kind, which I appreciated. I felt like I was fleeing the nest and leaving the baby birds to their own devices from here on out.

I fielded many farewell phone calls, none of which came from Sally Steele herself.

And then the red devil rolled up to the studio at 3:30 p.m. The girls didn’t need to give a warning as I was on the floor with them and saw the red firsthand. The room went silent, and I braced myself for an unexpected in-person goodbye.

Elliott tumbled out of the backseat and ran into the studio. No other doors opened.

“I just need to use the bathroom,” he said, brushing past me.

Is she coming inside? Do I go out there? Stay and wait?

Paralyzed, I did nothing but watch her son run to the back of the studio. After another static minute I walked back to my desk and sat down. Lost in my own thoughts about why Sally wouldn’t come inside, I didn’t hear Elliott until he was right next to me.

“My mom told me it was your last day today, Alison,” he said tentatively.

“It is my last day—just two more hours, in fact.”

Elliott dug into his pocket, pulled out a small square of blue construction paper, unfolded it, and handed it to me. He had drawn a picture of a curly-haired girl sitting at a desk. He’d written my name in red.

“I made a picture for your new desk at your new job,” he said. “Please keep it secret, though. I don’t think I was supposed to do that.”

I gave him a hug. “Elliott,” I said softly, trying to manage my gratitude. “Thank you so much for this. Really, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said and started to bounce away.

“Um . . . Elliott?” I called after him. He turned back to me. “Is your mom coming inside?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think so. She just told me to use the bathroom quickly so we could go home. Bye, Alison.”

Bye, Elliott.

Twenty minutes later, I had nothing else to do but gather my things and head out. Since it was almost four o’clock and all I’d seen or heard of Sally in seven days was her car, I dropped the expectation that she would give me some sort of goodbye. Sally had dismissed me at four on my first day, so I chose to leave at four on my last.

I put my remaining things together in two Sally Steele shopping bags and took one last look around the office. I said goodbye to my computer, which still had the photo of my summer camp on the screen (let someone else figure out how to change it), adios to my desk, my chair, the security cameras, and boxes of product that still had to be put away.

Yet it was as if she saw me pack up. Maybe she did, because my phone rang just as I hoisted one of the heavy bags onto my shoulder. I put the other bag down on my chair and reached for the phone.

“Thank you for calling Sally Steele Cosmetics, Alison speaking.”

Would that be the last time I ever said those words?

“Hi, Alison. It’s Sally.”

The Beastmongrel actually knows how to give a proper greeting.

“Hi, Sally, how are you?”

One last time to go through pleasantries.

“I’m good. I just wanted to call you and say goodbye.”

“Oh . . . thanks,” I replied hesitantly.
What is she up to?
“I mean, thank you for this great opportunity, Sally.”

Like learning how not to run a company and how not to treat people.

Long pause.

I wasn’t going to fill it this time. Not anymore. I had learned from her that silence yielded power.

“Look, Alison. I know that it hasn’t always been easy for you here. In fact, I know it has been quite hard for you here. But I just want you to know that you will always have a place in my heart.”

Vomit.
A place in her heart? Was she kidding me? A good place? A bad place? Her heart was so tiny, I probably wouldn’t fit.

“Thanks, Sally. That’s very nice of you to say.”

“Well, goodbye, Alicat. Don’t miss me too much.”

Hardly.

The last
CLICK
. And we were done.

It amazed me how light and free I felt when I walked out of the studio for the last time.

It took all my restraint not to call Bret, but for all I knew, he was working for the Beast. Maybe she’d even called his office to tell him of my departure. I could see her doing that, which made my chest tighten.

Breathe, Alison. You’re free now. Push Bret out of your mind
.

Three days later, feeling like
my stiff body was thawing out and the old Alison was starting to reappear, I realized how wonderful it was to be on a vacation when I didn’t have to worry about what was going to be waiting for me at the office when I returned. A true vacation.

Madison was filling me up with tons of water, kale, and kombucha. Other than having to run to the bathroom every half hour, I was easily adjusting to the Los Angeles way of life.

But there was one more letting-go ritual I needed to perform.

Madison and I woke up early, as the cool air was starting to fade and the sun was peeking through the clouds. We put on our workout gear and drove to Runyon Canyon for a hike. Last time we’d hiked together it was to rid Madison of her ex-boyfriend. The time before that was when I lost out after a final callback for the role of Logainne Schwartzandgrubenierre in
The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee
on Broadway. We would huff and puff our way to the top and slowly let our anger, fear, and sadness dissipate on the obviously less grueling way down.

I loved this hike, and the path was surprisingly empty, so today the climb felt like our own private catharsis. When we reached the peak, after stretching our legs on one of the slatted wooden picnic benches at the top, Madison handed me a small bag of my Sally Steele business cards. I tore the cards into little pieces, hoping our ritual wouldn’t get us busted for littering.

“It’s time for you to join the smog, Sally Steele,” I said quietly, almost reverently, as the shredded paper fell through my fingers and flew over the edge. “My new life starts now, and you won’t torment me anymore. I won’t let you.”

My eyes teared up as Madison came and wrapped her arms around me. We stood there together, thinking our own thoughts but fully connected. In silence, we walked down the canyon. When we got back to Madison’s car and checked our cell phones, I had a message from Dave Captin, the QVC casting director.

“Alison, it’s Dave. I know it’s been a while. I need you to give me a call. I hope you like deer and grouse.” Still sweaty and a bit out of breath, I returned his call. Deer and grouse? My heart raced.

“Hey, hon! So glad you caught me,” he said, as if I had spoken with him only moments earlier, not weeks.

“Me too. What’s going on?”

“I’m calling you about QVC. Hope you like rural Pennsylvania, because you’re moving there—you got the hosting job!”

“Oh my God, Dave! This is so exciting. Thank you,” I said, leaning on Madison’s car, needing to prop myself up, so suddenly overwhelmed.

I got it I got the job holy shit I got the job my life is changing this is insane holy— Oh my God what the hell!

“I—I’m in LA for the week, Dave. And I’m honestly in shock so I don’t even know where to start, but is being here right now going to be a problem?”

“No, no, not at all. Enjoy LA. We’ll send contracts over to your agent in the next two weeks or so, so you have time.”

Contract
s, agent, hosting, me playing the role of me.

Before I could even tell Madison the specifics, she pounced on me with the biggest bear hug and accompanying squeal I’d ever heard.

I felt like I could hike Runyon ten more times, the good news like a drug, and I couldn’t stop running my mouth. “I’m going to send you a shit-ton of products and cool gadgets and you’ll have to come and see how it’s all done there. Oh my God, I’m going to be a host. A QVC host.” All of it, pouring out. “When you’re going to bed at midnight in California, you can turn the TV on to see me peddling products at three in the morning. This is insane!”

And then we did what we always tended to do. Miraculously. We said essentially the same thing at the same time:

And then we cracked up.

“Madison,” I said, looking her straight in the eyes, the celebratory air turning still between us. For the first time in our lives, I don’t think Madison knew what I was going to say. “Sally Steele wasn’t ‘it,’ ” I said. “It was the ‘it’ to get me to ‘it.’ We’re going to Pennsylvania!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Helps to Soften the Look Of

M
y ability to sleep on planes got me through the red-eye home from Los Angeles. That, my mind spinning about all the products I’d sell, and the cute guy sitting across the aisle. I’d say from where his head hit above the headrest, he had to be at least six foot three, with dark beard scruff, Vans, and hipster jeans cuffed at the ankles.

Cute hipster—okay, Los Angeles must have really taken hold of my brain.

I was hoping that hottie hipster would start a conversation with me and ask what I did for a living so I could try out “Oh, you know, I’m a host over at QVC—no biggie.” Premature, yes, but ahhhhhh!!!!!

And it was the first time since ending my relationship with Bret that I felt “interested.” And attractive. And confident. So much so that when Silver Lake didn’t make a move, I flipped on some music and went to sleep.

Barely awake, I turned on my cell phone when we landed in NYC. I was happy to be back. Along with the countless emails that one amasses overnight were a few voice mails: Mom, Jill, Bradley and Andrea (I loved when they left messages together) . . . and Bret.

Two messages from Bret!

KABOOM!
Nope, not the plane—just my heart.

Damn—why? And at merely seeing his name pop up in my visual voice mailbox. Hadn’t enough time passed?

Sure, I hadn’t expected to hear his voice at all, let alone twice. I replayed his messages to make sure I wasn’t imagining them.

“Alison, it’s Bret. My assistant called your office the other day and was told that you left the company. Congratulations. You always deserved better. Um, well, truth is, you do deserve better—in everything. I made the wrong decision not to fight more for us. You probably hate me right now, but I was hoping to catch you and talk. I think that—”
BEEP
.

He was cut off by my machine.

Next message: “So this is embarrassing. I don’t think I’ve ever called back to finish a message before. Alison, I miss you, and I’m not calling because the deal with your former boss’s really messed-up company didn’t go through (and by the way, you weren’t kidding—she is rabidly dysfunctional) but because I realize that I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I still love you. Please call me back.”

Even after playing both messages three times, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

He still loves me.

Bret still loves me.

But is that enough? I miss him. But would I go back? My life is moving forward right now. Focus, Alison.

Fighting the strong desire to listen to Bret’s voice mails on a loop, I attempted to distract myself by going through the pile of emails that had come in during my flight.

The taxi from the airport took no time to get back to my apartment. Still thinking about Bret’s messages and all the change that was coming, I bounded out of the yellow cab and greeted my doormen with a big hello, thrilled to be home. It took a few tries for my mailbox key to twist the lock open, with a week of mail packed inside the tiny box. I quickly sifted through the stack and tossed the junk into the mail room trash bin.

A postcard fell out of my pile and hit the ground, the back side facing up. The handwriting made me stop and pause before bending to pick it up.

I had designed this postcard.

Alison,

Id recommend you buy some of the new lipstick colors that I’ll be selling on QVC next week. You really shouldn’t look so sallow when starting a new job. If you spend $100 or more you’ll receive a free gift w/ purchase.

Sally Steele

A deep laugh came pouring out of me, the sound reverberating against the copper mailboxes. I must have sounded like the mail room madwoman, gleeful and a bit crazy. “Until we meet again,” I said to the glossy cardstock, bending it in my fingers, arching it like a deck of cards about to be shuffled—thinking about how Sally Steele and I would soon be on the same level playing field. I went to tuck the postcard into my mail pile but quickly realized that no, I didn’t have to take
her
home with me anymore. So instead, I shoved it into the trash.
Bon voyage, maquillage!

Once inside my apartment, I dropped my keys and the mail on the kitchen table, rolled my suitcase inside my bedroom, and slowly unpacked. My Los Angeles clothes, still smelling of fresh air, sweat, and the canyons, joined the small pile already in the hamper. I poured a glass of home-brewed iced tea and threw on an old pair of sweats. As I put my bath products back into the bathroom cupboard, I caught my own eye in the mirror above the sink. Drawn in, I took a good look at myself. Curly hair, the same sparkly green eyes, slightly uneven brows from hasty tweezing at the studio. The beauty mark on my left cheek—yep, still there.

But I was different. And I couldn’t believe it, but I felt grateful. To Sally Steele. “Thank you, Beastmongrel,” I said out loud. “Thank you.”
Because through your hatred I realize that I love myself. And I choose happiness. I’ve stopped pretending, and now my life is real. It took artifice, facade, and cosmetics to strip away my fear, my tics, the crutches I so held on to.
And what was underneath was simply . . . me.

Working for her company was the best detour I ever took. I wasn’t faking it. I was making it.

“See ya at QVC, Sally-cat.”