Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  My mind drifted to the audition I’d done before the chicken one.

  “We’re ready for you, Alison,” the casting director had said as she ushered me into the audition room. At the table in the middle of the space waited the playwright and the director. “I’ll read the first scene with you today, and if we have time, the second.”

  My hands began to shake as I moved the chair to face her. My toes were freezing in my shoes so I clenched and unclenched them. Time slowed down and beads of sweat dripped in places I didn’t know had sweat glands. As if it had a life of its own, my body betrayed me, and my mind couldn’t keep up.

  Needless to say, we didn’t get to the second scene. After following my dream for a solid eight years, I went to every audition accompanied by anxiety. With time and experience, audition nerves should decrease, not increase, right? Where I used to walk into an audition room to face casting directors confidently, I now shook.

  I knew that if I didn’t leap out of showbiz before turning thirty—a mere two years away—I would regret not pursuing other passions. Even with my Northwestern University theater training, it was clearly time to close the door.

  My immediate pursuit was of a more tangible reward: a Starbucks chai tea soy latte. And thank God for plastic, where the damage of a $4.76 drink could be put out of mind with one sweet swipe.

  “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” I said as I bumped into a woman’s coffee at the milk station. Thankfully only a little spilled out. My haze clearly hadn’t dissipated.

  “No worries at all,” said the pleasant middle-aged woman, clad in a ’90s shade of dark brown lipstick á la Shannon Doherty circa 90210. She smiled, and I imagined how much brighter that smile would look rimmed in baby pink. “I was going to dump out some of the coffee to add milk anyway, so you sped up the process.”

  I laughed inside, glad for her kindness.

  “Do you work around here?” she asked politely as she mopped up my mess with her napkin.

  “Y-yes,” I said, stuttering a bit. “I work right across the street. You?”

  “Oh no, but my husband does. I just came into the city for a little day of wandering and to meet him for lunch,” she said, a singsong lilt to her voice. “What do you do?”

  “Makeup,” I said without blinking. “I work for a makeup company. And the hottest lip color of the spring is baby pink, by the way. It would look amazing on you!” Much easier to go out on a limb and randomly suggest a new lip shade to a stranger than have to endure the routine “I’m an actress” conversation.

  “Oh, what do you act in?”

  “I’m just auditioning at the moment, so nothing right now.”

  “Have you been in anything I would know?”

  “Not if you blinked during the opening credits of Pitch Perfect.”

  The sides of her brown lips turned up and her eyes sparkled.

  “What a fabulous job! I’m not creative at all, but wow, how fun makeup must be for you. And thank you for the tip!”

  “It’s my dream. I’m living my dream,” I gushed, smiling at the fact that I was finally doing some decent acting today.

  Before my nose started to grow, I hightailed it out of Starbucks and back onto the bustling streets. That poor woman needed more than new lipstick, but it was a good start, I thought.

  I remembered a makeup class I’d taken at Saks as a high schooler. “You’ve got talent, young lady,” Bobbi Brown, the makeup guru, had told me. “Your eyeliner looks perfect, even at the corners. The toughest part.” I had felt so important.

  Since I was a little girl, playing in my mother’s makeup box – lipstick everywhere but my lips - makeup excited me. But my curiosity about the cosmetics industry was piqued that day at Saks. I was a total product whore. My bathroom housed the latest gadgets for whitening and brightening and sample-size creams, soaps, and lipstick colors. Working in makeup would be a natural fit. Real makeup, though. Not like the Manhattan elementary school fair face-painting circuit I did every fall. (Another odd job.)

  As I walked, my mind raced about my potential new life. I needed to get rid of the constant pit of dread in my stomach. I would turn auditions into job interviews as soon as possible.

  For years, my days had been so filled with auditions, acting gigs, and these other piecemeal positions that I couldn’t fathom getting up and going to the same job every day. I craved normalcy and wanted to use my brain in new ways, but what would that actually be like? Amazing, I told myself. It would be amazing.

  By the end of April, I still couldn’t admit to my agents, friends, or college acting professors that I was going to make the big switch. If pursuing the dream had been difficult, halting that pursuit was even more emotionally taxing. I’d told everyone and anyone since the age of three—when I performed my own abridged version of Annie for my classmates daily (how annoying for them!)—that acting was my future. Now all I could hear in my head was the word “failure.” My sun-filled, yellow-walled apartment couldn’t lift my down mood, and neither could Jill, my surrogate sister and roommate of six years (two in college and four in New York).

  Instead, I found solace in more Fatty Sunday’s chocolate covered pretzels and buttered-popcorn jelly beans than I would like to admit.

  While particle-board Ikea furniture had served me well for almost a decade, the thought of finally being able to replace it with something not made of sawdust and glue encouraged me to ask everyone I knew if they’d heard of open positions.

  “I’m sending you an article that I just read in Crain’s New York Business,” blurted Madison, my bestie from the Westie, over the phone on a warm day in early June. Though it was probably warmer for her in Los Angeles. “It’s about this makeup company, Nancy Stone Cosmetics. Do you know it?”

  “I do, yes,” I said. “They have a makeup studio on the Upper West. I think that’s where my crazy aunt Farrah gets her makeup done.”

  “Your crazy, psychopath, stalker aunt Farrah? Who you almost needed a restraining order against in college?”

  “Yep, that’s the one!”

  “Well, we can worry about her if we must,” she replied, “but you have to read this article. I have a good feeling about them.”

  She continued with her best Diane Sawyer impression, being the talented actress that she was. “The article says that even in these tough economic times, the company is growing exponentially, and that it’s constantly hiring to keep up with the growth.”

  “I have to work for them!” I said impulsively. “And you need to forget acting and go into news. Seriously. Let’s find a way in. Upper West Side, right?”

  “Yep,” Madison replied, in her typically blunt tone. “Now do something about it.” Since meeting each other freshman year of college, we’d had the special ability to read each other, even though our lives kept us at opposite ends of the country.

  “Do you think I can just drop by?” I asked.

  “Why not? Just go for it. You’re so good at putting yourself out there. I know they’ll fall in love with you.”

  “I’ll text a picture of my interview outfit to you for approval later tonight. Good?”

  “You know it,” she said, and I could hear her smiling through the phone receiver three thousand miles away.

  Twenty blocks north of my apartment and straight across town, past my local David’s Tea and Ess-a-Bagel, was the Nancy Stone Cosmetics Studio. I had spent an hour the night before writing my cover letter and doing online research about Nancy Stone and her company. I felt ready to put myself out there. I woke up, put on my Madison-approved black skirt with silver trim and a fitted three–quarter-sleeve sweater—professional yet fun—and sat in front of my mirror, unsure of how to do my makeup for the big event.

  The goal was to look my age, late twenties, and not like the sixteen-year-old for whom I was often mistaken. I settled on purple eye shadow to bring out the green of my eyes, feathery lashes, flushed cheeks, and nude lips. My pale skin and light eyes sparkled, looking more Irish or English
than Long Island Jewish.

  I looked at my outfit. Fitted enough to highlight my size-eight curves while still hiding those pesky back bra lines. Back fat. Hate it. Did I look skinny? (Always a concern before an audition.) I had to remind myself that cosmetics was a business, and I was probably not going to be judged by my weight for this one. After a half hour of straightening my unruly blond curls, and topping off my outfit with platform heels not really meant for walking, I set out to make a career in cosmetics my new reality.

  When I arrived at the Nancy Stone Cosmetics Studio, the lights and the black power cords lining the floor made me think I had just missed a photo shoot. I didn’t want to intrude, but since I was prepared—physically and mentally—I was going in no matter what.

  “Hi, can I help you?” said an attractive older woman. Picture your Bubbe with tight pants, short coiffed hair, and style.

  “Hi, yes, I hope so,” I replied timidly. “I would love to speak with Helen Grossberg, if she’s here.”

  I had read that Helen ran the wedding business for Nancy Stone Cosmetics. I figured I should start with her, since it was a shot in the dark whether Nancy would even be in.

  “I’m Helen,” the older woman said, smiling warmly.

  “Oh, great. I’m Alison. I read about you and your company in Crain’s,” I told her. “I’m not sure if you can help me, but I’m looking for a new job, and after I read about Nancy Stone Cosmetics in the article, I wanted to drop off a résumé.”

  I could feel the energy of the studio slow down and Helen’s ears perk up. “I’m not sure if we have any openings at the moment,” Helen said, her head cocked to the side, “but I’ll certainly take your résumé and pass it on.”

  “Fantastic. Thank you.” I handed over my carefully typed packet. “I know that I would be an asset to your company.”

  She paused for a moment, her brow furrowed only slightly—a movement I could only attribute to the fine hands of an expensive plastic surgeon on Madison Avenue.

  Is she taking me seriously?

  “Well, Nancy is here, actually. But she’s had a busy morning. I could try to get you to meet her, but she probably won’t remember your name in fifteen minutes,” she said with a chuckle. “What the hell—stay right here. Let me grab Nancy and see if she can chat.”

  Helen turned the corner and disappeared.

  Okay, past step one.

  A few moments later a short, corpulent woman with platinum-blond hair, a pointed nose, and a full face of makeup came out to greet me. Her loose flowery top sashayed as she walked and her eyes took me in from shoes to hair. Nancy Stone.

  “Hello there,” she said, in a deep tone. “I’m Nancy, how can I help you?” I felt like I was under a spell. Dynamic and at ease, Nancy smiled like the sun, welcoming me into her world. Before I could answer, she continued. “I’m told I should be talking with you right now. It comes as a tall order from Helen over here. We always listen to Helen.”

  Her white teeth glistened under the most perfect shade of plum-wine on her lips as she looked me directly in the eyes. With just an unguarded and familiar glance, I felt like I knew her—or at least had met her before. I went in for the kill.

  “I’m here because I want to work for you. I can see that you’re a busy woman and I don’t want to take up much of your time, but I believe I can be great for your company.”

  Her eyebrows peaked.

  “I’m versatile and have a lot of experience,” I said as I pointed to my résumé in her hands. “I’m also organized and hardworking.” I didn’t want to come off as desperate, but she had to know my strengths. It was the acting role of a lifetime as I presented myself, Alison Kraft, like a publicist introducing the next Emma Watson to the world.

  “So wait—back up,” she said. “How did you hear about my makeup line and studio?”

  “I read about you in Crain’s,” I said. Oops, maybe I was so excited that I forgot to mention that.

  “You read that? Impressive. Well, based on that, I should offer you a position on the spot!”

  Score one for Madison.

  “Do you have cosmetics experience?” she asked.

  “I have business experience, and I took makeup-training classes at Northwestern University. And I’m passionate, a fast learner, and can tackle anything.” Hoping I didn’t seem overeager, and choosing to leave out kiddie face painting from the roster, I tried to temper my excitement during the conversation, but I felt like a puppy begging at the dinner table.

  “I can see that,” she said. She paused. “Here’s the thing, Alison.” She remembered my name! My proverbial tail wagged.

  “I haven’t ever hired anyone without cosmetics industry experience before. And the positions that were mentioned in the Crain’s article were really upper-management positions—which you’re not at the level for just yet, especially with no makeup experience on your résumé.”

  The wind in my sails started to deflate.

  “But . . .” she said, with a long pause as she scanned my face, “I like you.” Wind picking up again! “I’m going to introduce you to my international makeup artist, Giuseppe Giampietro, and then send you downtown to our corporate office. You can drop your résumé off with Keira Brendan, our VP of sales, and if something becomes available, she will have your information.”

  With a voice like bells, Nancy trilled, “Guiseppe! Come meet Alison!”

  As Nancy wrote a note on her official letterhead, Giuseppe Giampietro pranced his way through the door. Dressed in black, with a crisp blazer and black-and-white patent leather wingtip shoes, he looked like Don Juan—except gay and Italian.

  “Hiiiiiiii, I’m Giuseppe. You’re so cute! Nice to meet you. I’m Nancy’s right and left hands and I go with her everywhere,” sang the extremely tan middle-aged man standing in front of me, kissing me on both cheeks.

  “You as well,” I replied. “I’m hoping to work with—”

  “Bellissima, my darling,” he interrupted. I could have double-kissed him back just for sparing me from having to repeat my entire tale again.

  “Alison,” Nancy said, returning her attention to Giuseppe and me, “ you need to head downtown with your résumé and this note. Here’s a goody bag of makeup as well.”

  Sweet!

  “Thank you. Are you sure?” I didn’t want Nancy to think I was ungrateful or expected freebies, even though I was already mentally unpacking the contents of the bag with glee.

  “Absolutely. Just enjoy and make sure to let me know how you like them. My card is in the bag.”

  She smiled at me, though this time she didn’t look me straight in the eye and I could see that there was some other thought running through her mind.

  “One more thing,” she called out as I was just turning to leave. My heart started pounding as I turned back around, my eyebrows communicating for me with an arch that wavered somewhere between “uh-oh” and “yes?”

  “Nice face.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Noncomedogenic

  Résumé, cover letter, and shopping bag of makeup in hand, I took the handwritten note from Nancy and walked across the park and down the twenty blocks I had walked up an hour earlier, past my apartment building, past David’s Tea, and to the eighth-floor corporate offices of Nancy Stone Cosmetics. When the fast pounding in my chest slowed to a normal heartbeat, I proceeded to the reception area.

  A tall, statuesque girl who looked about my age and was dressed for the runway came down the hallway and greeted me formally. There was definitely a different tone to “corporate” from what I’d experienced at the studio. Austere and devoid of color, the lobby held a seriousness I hadn’t expected—probably due to my lack of office experience.

  “I’ll take your résumé and pass it on to Keira Brendan, our VP of sales,” the tall girl said, clearly already aware of why I was there.

  “Thank you so much,” I told her, “but I would really like to introduce myself to her if at all possible.” Was I really being so aggressive? �
��I can wait, if necessary.”

  “Let me see if she’s available,” said the beanstalk, as she turned away from me with a smile on her face masking some sort of feeling that I assumed would be discussed with Keira in about three minutes.

  The five-minute wait in the office lobby felt like a good twenty, measured by the loud ticking of the clock by the elevators. But I wasn’t shaky or cold, as I would have been in an audition. I had unearthed confidence I had never felt before. Play this new role, Alison, I thought. You can be this girl.

  When Keira Brendan came out to meet me, I figured there must be a height requirement for the corporate office. At five foot two, I felt dwarfed next to Keira, who was pushing six feet. Her hair was styled after Kris Kardashian’s pixie, and her heels were just as tall as mine. She was both gorgeous and professionally presented—I wanted to look like her in five years.

  “Hi, I’m Keira Brendan. I guess we’re having an impromptu interview. Follow me back to our office and we can talk.”

  I had never seen an office like this in my life. The actual room was a box with no windows on a floor rented with many other companies. Once inside the box, however, I saw what I hoped would be my future: three desks, four file cabinets, and a full makeup counter. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to sit next to a console of makeup. I had to make it happen.

  We talked for about fifteen minutes at Keira’s desk (one of the three in the box) before she said, “Look, I’m impressed by you. And I think you would do extremely well in this industry and at our company.”

  Before I could get out a thank-you, she continued. “I don’t have any open positions right now that aren’t senior-level management. But I would like us to stay in touch and I will certainly keep you in mind if a position that you’re right for opens up.”