She obviously has a professional interior designer. The whole place has hardwood flooring, with these oriental rugs creating “conversation areas.” I sneak a few pictures on my phone while waiting for Hillary. Obviously I’m not going to send them to anyone, but I figure next time I’m with my mom I can show them to her; she would especially appreciate the attention to detail evident in every corner.
“Alex. There you are. My car’s coming in twenty. I cannot be late.” Twenty minutes? Why the hell didn’t she have me come sooner? But of course I don’t voice this question aloud.
“Where do you want me to set up?” I ask calmly. I’ve learned Hillary does not handle other people’s stress well. She leads me into her expanse of a bathroom, where there’s a huge vanity mirror with makeup lighting and a wide marble counter for me to lay out all my stuff. But of course there is no time for that today. Hillary sits in her custom cushioned makeup chair as I dig out her foundations and quickly start mixing up her base color.
“What are you wearing tonight?” I ask, getting right to business. I brush on the combination of foundation and bronzer to even out her skin tone and create that dewy glow she loves.
“A black Chanel dress,” she answers, already typing on her phone. For once, I’m happy about her digital distraction because it will at least keep her still, which makes my job easier. It’s usually a nuisance when she’s typing or playing word games because to apply makeup I need her cooperation.
“Look up,” I say, the foundation brush poised under her eyes. She ignores me for several seconds, finishing a text. Then she looks up. I barely keep my sigh from escaping. I probably have less than seventeen minutes at this point to get her done. Keep focused, Alex. “Do you want to go glam? Or keep it simple? What’s the dress like?”
“It’s the black strapless that drove everyone mad in Paris this year,” she brags dreamily. My reaction is more confused than impressed. “Fashion Week?” she prompts me, which of course does nothing to help me figure out what the dress looks like. I feel the clock ticking away like I’m failing my eleventh-grade chemistry final all over again. “It was on the cover of Vogue, for God’s sake. Plebeian.” She huffs, starting to get out of the chair.
“Stay,” I bark before my sense of self-preservation can stop me. Her eyes widen at my tone. Which makes my stomach tense, but I know better than to back off. “I’ve got less than fifteen to get you done, Hillary. You don’t want to look like I rushed.”
“All right, all right.” She settles into her chair, and while a part of me is freaking out that I schooled Hillary P. and got away with it, I remind myself it’s not over yet. She’d better have a perfect face or I’ll get shredded.
Without asking any more questions, I decide to go for an Old Hollywood glam look. Very clean eyelid, lots of dark lashes with a bright red lipstick. I realize as I’m trying to draw the thin black eyeliner across the edge of her lashes that perhaps I should’ve done this style on a day when my hand wasn’t trembling. I take a break in the middle to steady my right hand with my left.
“Look at me.” I’ve finished lining both eyes and need to make sure they’re even. She looks into my face as I examine my work, with a Q-tip ready for any incremental changes. Hillary briefly fills me in on the event she’s attending tonight.
Still concentrating on cleaning up the tiny winged edge of her left eye, I murmur a reply without really listening.
“They’re putting my new cookbook in the goody bag.” Brushing another coat of super-black mascara into her upper eyelashes is impossible while she’s talking, I hold the brush away from her eye, and that’s when I notice a bit of tension there. “I’m making a speech, actually, and accepting an award.”
“That’s great,” I say, uncomfortable with the idea that she needs or wants a pep talk from me. “Congrats.” But by the time I think of anything else to add, she’s on her phone again, so I must’ve misread her. Maybe her Botox is fading. Finally satisfied with the look of the positioning of the dark strip of lashes I added, I grab my lash brush. “Look straight.”
Before I can even tell her I’m finished, she stands up and leans into the mirror, examining her eyes and the red lipstick. A loud, old-fashioned ring echoes through the apartment. She grabs the closest extension from the bathroom. “Okay.” She hangs up. “My car is here.”
“Let me help you dress,” I offer, since there’s no one else here. I hadn’t really noticed the absence until just now. I wonder why Cameron isn’t clucking around her. Does she have a boyfriend? Hillary P. normally has a small crowd of people constantly buzzing around her at the show. Maybe she likes having peace and quiet for once. I try to look nonchalant as she casually strips her clothes off and shimmies into the gorgeous black dress she’s pulled off the hanger.
She presents her back to me and I start to pull the zipper up from her waist, but it’s too snug. Holy crap. I instantly panic. This is a nightmare I never even imagined. I am completely unprepared for what to do if this damn dress doesn’t fit. I try not to let her see I’m freaking out. Pulling the two sides in tight, I think it’ll close, but I need an extra set of hands. “Can you just push the edges together here?” Without comment, Hillary does, and I manage to force the zipper all the way up without breaking a sweat. Maybe it was meant to be tight, since she didn’t freak out about it. She pauses to preen in front of the mirror.
“Fits you like a glove,” I say to fill the silence. And it does look spectacular as I step back to take in the whole look. The Chanel silhouette is stunning on her, especially after she slides into her sparkling silver Louboutin four-inch peep-toe stilettos. I take a minute to appreciate how perfectly my makeup complements the dress. “You look fabulous.”
“I love it,” she tosses out while grabbing a matching clutch from the puffy stool in the center of the walk-in closet. Was that a compliment for me or Coco Chanel? As she walks to the front door, she says over her shoulder, “You can let yourself out.” I follow her toward the door, somewhat stunned that she’s leaving me alone in her apartment.
“Have fun,” I say awkwardly.
“Always,” she replies, letting me see her paste on her bon vivant smile. She steps into the waiting elevator, and when she turns there is no hint of the irony from moments before. I wonder at the glimpse behind the mask she’s shared with me. It feels like progress.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
May
Not even Monica’s crappy attitude can ruin my good mood this morning. It’s been impossible to wipe the smile off my face since I woke up. Things have been going great. Hillary and I have found a rhythm that seems to work. And while I can’t dodge every arrow she slings at me, I like to think I’m developing a tough skin. Something my parents never thought possible. And finally, last night, having Emma’s apartment to myself for once, I worked up the courage to call Billy. What started off as a tentative conversation from my end quickly turned into an all-out late-night heart-to-heart. It was sexy. It was sincere. I would never have believed how easy it was to open up to him. And when I could hardly keep my eyes open, curled up on my side with the phone tucked between my pillow and my ear, he promised to come pick me up after work today. We’re going on a date.
Billy: What time you think you’ll be done?
Me: We have pickups after the show so, 6 pm? Is that too early?
Billy: not soon enough.
I kept rereading his texts during the show today.
“Hey, Alex. The boss wants to see you.” I’ve just finished cleaning my brushes from this morning when Andy pops his head into the makeup room. “She’s in her office.” Monica looks at me gleefully.
“Okay, Andy.” And he’s gone before I can ask any questions. I can’t help but respond to the smirk Monica doesn’t even try to contain. “What? What are you so happy about?”
“It’s never good news when you’re called into her office.” She makes sure all her irons are off before prancing away. “Let me know how it goes,” she calls out as she disappears ar
ound the corner.
Since I can’t imagine what I could possibly have done wrong—well, other than the usual criticisms about how I missed a spot when I touched her up between commercial breaks—I’m not particularly alarmed at this point. Hillary reviews every minute of every episode for flaws and has made it clear I’m expected to do the same. Even though I watch it happen from the monitors onstage, during my first midnight phone call from Hillary she insisted that I be current on how viewers see the show at home. I swear to God, she’s even quizzed me on edits to make sure I really watched it. Two nights ago we discussed her conviction that I must have used a different lipstick to touch her up after act three because “Clearly,” she insisted at two in the morning, when I was too vulnerable to defend myself, “it’s an entirely different shade of nude.”
Since it’s way too soon for Hillary to have reviewed today’s show—we just wrapped fifteen minutes ago—maybe it’s good news. Maybe she loves the paparazzi photos from last night’s event. I certainly did. Since this time I had more time to prep her, and Monica had done this kick-ass vintage hairstyle, I was refreshing my Twitter feed every few minutes looking for pictures of Hillary at the Women in TV celebration. The pictures I found online looked fantastic. It was pretty cool, actually, to see my work under the glitzy lights of a red carpet.
Arriving at her dressing room door, I knock softly.
“Come in.” Hillary isn’t alone. There’s an older man in a conservative suit that completely clashes with the chic floral print sofa he’s sitting on. He doesn’t even look up at me when I walk in; he’s focused on some papers strewn on her delicate, antique-looking coffee table.
“Andy said you wanted to see me?” I ask, since Hillary isn’t really saying anything.
“Yes, I do.” She sits down in her plush armchair next to the suit.
“Do you remember signing this?” he asks, all business. I’m starting to get the picture that this isn’t going to be a cheerful conversation; the guy hasn’t even introduced himself. I take the paper he’s holding out to me. It’s my confidentiality agreement.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Then you know you owe me five million dollars, you little—”
“Hillary.” He holds up his hand, which, remarkably, actually stops her short. “I’m Douglas Fircham. Hillary Pinche’s attorney.” He gestures for me to sit in the cozy overstuffed armchair positioned at the end of the coffee table. Not knowing what else to do, I sit. “It has come to our attention that you have violated the terms of this agreement. So your employment here is immediately terminated. And we will pursue legal action if you do not produce the liquidated damages you agreed to pay if you violated the agreement.”
It’s like he’s not even speaking English anymore. This Fircham guy doesn’t even have an unkind face. He’s definitely older, midsixties. But he has that trustworthy look about him. I hear the seriousness of his tone, but nothing is processing. “Wait, you think I talked to someone. About Hillary? I didn’t!” Now that I’ve figured out what they’re accusing me of, I quickly work to defend myself. “I swear, Hillary, I didn’t. I would never!”
“We know it was you, Alex. Don’t bother denying it,” she spits at me. Clearly the guy has been her lawyer for a long time; he is completely unfazed by her outburst and simply puts a calming hand on her arm to keep her… in place, I guess. She looks like she’s about to attack me.
“Why would you think that? Hillary, come on!” I see on her face that she doesn’t believe me, and I desperately try to come up with a way to defend myself.
“I am going to make sure you never work in this industry again,” Hillary says, completely unaffected by my pleading innocence.
Determined to get someone to listen, I focus on the lawyer. His freshly shaven face shows wrinkles and laugh lines, so he must have a heart. “Why? Why do you think it’s me? I haven’t even been online today, I don’t even know what you think I might have said.”
“Your lies are not helping you here.” He calmly gestures to Hillary’s irate face. “We know it was you because you’re quoted as a source. Hillary was given the final copy of Nicholas Slants’s ‘unauthorized’ biographic article on Hillary for Identity magazine. The magazine was hoping for a response from Hillary to add to the piece.” I’m hanging on his every word, waiting for anything he says to make sense. “She was quite shocked to see that you had provided specific stories. Not just your grossly exaggerated description of Hillary’s character, but you recounted incidents that only you would’ve known about. Of course it was you.”
“But I didn’t!” I say again. My eyes fly across the pages of the printout he’s handed me, and there it is. All spelled out in black and white. My name, my words. I slowly read every line, thinking somehow it can’t be true. I didn’t even tell my parents my horror stories about Hillary. “Late-night phone calls” and “bipolar” leap off the page at me. Nick. My friend from TJ’s. The guilt swamping me must be written all over my face. “I never told him your name. Hillary—I swear to you—I never even told him I worked in TV. How did he know?”
“If what you say is true, then he set you up.” Mr. Fircham collects the pages from my numb hands. “Which makes your crime no less egregious. You agreed to the terms and now you’ve admitted to violating them.”
“But not intentionally!”
“My firm will be contacting you to make arrangements to initiate proceedings to collect the five million dollars.”
It’s impossible to think straight. My heart is slamming against my chest. My whole life is flashing before my eyes. “Hillary, you know I don’t have five million dollars! Not even close. I can’t pay that.”
“You should have thought of that before you stabbed me in the back,” Hillary shoots back with venom. “You will be destroyed for this. I will sue you for everything you’ve got. I will garnish every paycheck you ever earn at whatever minimum-wage job you find for the rest of your miserable life. You’re going to have to hand it all over to me. Now get out.” Hillary turns her back on me, and her lawyer takes my elbow, steering me toward the door.
“Wait! Wait!” I slip out of his grasp and run around the chair to lock eyes with Hillary. But I see there is no use. I’m nothing to her. Fircham is by my side in a second. This time with a firmer hold on my arm, he starts me toward the door again. “Give me a chance to stop it. I can stop him.” I don’t know what I’m promising, really, but I grab hold of the idea with everything I’ve got. “Hillary, you don’t want my money. And even destroying me isn’t going to change anything once this story gets out.”
“If you think I’m going to let you get away with ruining my reputation—validating his story, you’ve lost your mind.”
“But what if I can stop the story from coming out at all? Then your reputation isn’t ruined, right?” I must be saying something worthwhile, because the lawyer has stopped trying to physically remove me from her dressing room. “Just give me a chance to stop the story from being published. If I can do that?”
“Why should I?” she spits.
“You think you can succeed where my entire legal team hasn’t?” Fircham looks skeptically at Hillary.
“You’re never going to work for me again, no matter what.”
I let that pass, as if I would want to after this. But I’m fighting for my whole life here. “But you won’t sue me for the money? Right? If I find a way to stop that article from being published, you won’t do anything to stop me from working other places?” The room is so quiet I can practically hear Hillary’s wheels turning as she considers my offer.
“I’ll give you two days.”
“What?” That’s no time at all. “Two days isn’t enough—”
“We have to start damage control. Forty-eight hours is all we can afford to waste on this folly,” Fircham interjects. “Ten o’clock Friday morning, if you’re not here with proof that this problem has been eradicated, I will file the paperwork.”
Clearly the friendly, fatherly lawyer t
hing is a façade. His words are laser sharp, as clearly he takes my offer as somehow undermining him.
“Okay, fine. But if I stop this story, that’s it? You won’t come after me?”
“I’ll draw up an agreement stating such, Ms. Cleary. But you only have until Friday morning. You’d better get moving.”
I look at Hillary, wanting to hear it from her.
“I don’t break my word.” That stings as much as she wanted it to.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I’ve finally ditched the security guards that watched me pack up my makeup kit and escorted me to the lobby. They were actually quite polite, but that didn’t stop it from being humiliating. With Monica watching over her station as if I was going to steal something from her, I’m glad the guards were there or I might have slapped that smug smirk off her face.
I roll my suitcase toward the doors, hardly aware of the people moving through the building around me. The ringing in my ears is so loud my eyes start to blur with tears I absolutely refuse to shed. When I stop to wait my turn to get through the revolving doors, a firm hand grabs my arm.
“What the hell?” I lurch back, expecting Hillary or her goons on the attack.
“Alex. I’ve been calling your name. How could you not hear me?” I am now blocking the flow of foot traffic. It’s hard to focus on Sean’s face, even though he’s a foot from me.
“Sean. What are you doing here?” I’m completely gobsmacked.
“I came here to see you, obviously,” he says with a chuckle, pulling me away from the exit. Here we are in the bright, sterile lobby of the building where I just got fired. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to still be here. And now my ex-boyfriend is hugging me as if we were forced apart by external influences rather than him breaking up with me.
Opportunity Knocks Page 9