Seven Books for Seven Lovers

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

  “Thank you so much, Keira. I would love that.”

  “Madison, I know that something is going to come of this, I just know it!” I squealed into the phone once I was outside the building. “All the women seemed so great. I wish you could have seen their studio and the office with the makeup counter in it.”

  My heart raced as I spoke, my mouth trying hard to keep pace with my racing brain.

  “I’ve wanted a real job for a while, but today was the first time I really wanted to be at a specific company. I wasn’t talking with these people and thinking about my past. It didn’t feel like I would be settling for something random just because it would be a steady job. And you know how badly I need a job. This one felt different. I have to go home and write my thank-you notes.”

  “Slow down, crazy lady,” Madison, ever the realist, interrupted. “It sounds super positive, but they told you there were no positions available. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up if nothing comes out of this.”

  But I could hear something else in her tone as she cautioned me. It was excitement. We both knew.

  Exactly one week and one day later, I woke up at 10 a.m.—one of the benefits of working the odd-jobs life—to a voice mail: “Hi Alison, it’s Keira Brendan from Nancy Stone Cosmetics. How are you? Listen, I got your lovely and thoughtful thank-you note—great stationery, by the way—and funnily enough, a position opened up yesterday that we thought you would be interested in. Before we make this position public, we would like to know if you could come over to our corporate office today to meet with Nancy and our team. Give me a ring. Thanks.”

  I called her back and we set the meeting for 2 p.m. Perfect. Enough time for me to get showered, dressed, made up, and over to Sephora to play with some of the Nancy Stone products. I figured I’d better learn a bit about them before my meeting.

  At two, I was ushered into a small conference room, where Nancy was waiting for me. With no makeup counter in sight and only a conference table and chairs separating me from a potential job, Nancy dove right in.

  “Who knew that your timing would be so on point, Alison?” She paused. “My executive assistant gave her notice yesterday and we all immediately thought of you as a replacement.”

  I nodded, acknowledging my presence in the conversation. “It often comes down to timing, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, yes,” she said. “And while I’ve never hired anyone without prior cosmetics experience before, there’s just something about you that intrigues me. If you want to learn, work hard, and invest yourself, there could be significant growth for you here.”

  I was so excited that I barely heard the actual description of what the job entailed: something about QVC, scheduling, television appearances, phones, and travel. At that moment my pursuits seemed limitless.

  “Well, we’d love to have you as our new ‘it’ girl, because that’s what my assistant was—an ‘it’ girl. So if you’ll have us, I’ll have you sign some papers and we can make this happen.”

  She must have seen the smile on my face and the sparkle in my eyes, because before I could utter the words “I do!” Nancy was standing up and reaching to shake my hand.

  One Greek salad, one feta cheese egg-white omelet, and one hamburger later (not all eaten by me!), Jill, Bradley (the third of our Northwestern-to-NYC trifecta), and I excitedly discussed my soon-to-be new life at our local twenty-four-hour diner—so local, in fact, that it was located across the street from the apartment that Jill and I shared.

  Midtown Restaurant was the scene for celebrations, first dates that we knew weren’t going anywhere, teary breakup dissections, and that oh-so-nice basket of french fries after a long night out. It only felt right to be planning the future from “our” booth.

  “I know this is probably jumping the gun,” Jill said, her mouth full of omelet, “but I’m calling dibs on the makeup that you bring home. I know you’ll want to give some of it to your mom, but your roommate has to get some love, too.”

  “Oh man,” Bradley interrupted before I could reply. “The makeup talk I’m going to have to endure is already killing me. I have enough of it with Andrea.” He rolled his eyes. “Is this like if I were to get a job with the Rangers and you guys were fighting for free hockey tickets?”

  “Yes, just like that, Brad.”

  “So you’re really going to make the switch and just go for it?” Bradley asked.

  “Yes, I’m ready. I’m going to dive in one hundred percent. I’ve always had the cosmetics bug, and it’s time to see it through. And health insurance is part of the deal, which is a nice first for me.” I will not bungle this opportunity.

  These two were my buddies, my support staff, and my family. With them by my side and Madison supporting me from afar, I was ready to start a new adventure.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cell Turnover

  My office wasn’t at “corporate.” It was at the Nancy Stone Cosmetics Studio. It sat between the stairway to the basement shipping area and the hallway to the bathroom, and was positioned in an alcove directly in front of the passage to Nancy’s office—she had offices at both the studio and corporate —where everyone seemed to congregate.

  But being at the studio had its perks, since I was with the makeup artists. And the lemon meringue scent in the air—whether from cleaning products or the candle burning in the front, I did not know—made me want to bring the essence home and bathe in it.

  On my first afternoon, I took a few minutes to look around Nancy’s empty office, seeking (not snooping for) clues about my new boss that would help me know the woman whose schedule I would now keep. It was filled with tchotchkes of all sizes, giving me the impression that a cameo on Hoarders could be in this woman’s future. The walls and desk were white, her chair black, and all the accents a vivid red. Nancy’s signature logo was a red lipstick tube.

  Her shelves were cluttered with lipstick-shaped pillows, a lipstick-shaped telephone, lipstick-shaped picture frames, lipstick-shaped business card holders, and lipstick-shaped makeup mirrors. I assumed that for the past ten or so years, everyone gave her gifts related to this fetish. If a product was shaped like a lipstick, Nancy had it in her office.

  What I didn’t understand was the photographs and articles about Nancy and her business that covered the walls. They were in frames hanging in a seemingly random pattern. It wasn’t the pride in her company that confused me, but the sporadic scattering of these tributes.

  “She likes organization,” I heard Jolie, one of the resident makeup artists, say with a chuckle from behind me. (Busted for snooping—I mean seeking.) “But none of us understand her wall pattern. One of the many great mysteries of this place, I guess.”

  “Got it,” I said, curious as to what the other mysteries were.

  “Your brows need work, hon,” Jolie kindly mentioned to me. “Come into my makeup room when you have about fifteen minutes and we’ll shape them.”

  “Do you think Nancy would mind?” I asked, hoping for a no.

  “Of course she wouldn’t mind. She likes it when her girls look perfect. Always makeup, always mascara—even if she doesn’t always wear it—and she gets pissed when you don’t have color on your lips.” Jolie’s Bulgarian accent was adorable, and with dark hair down to the small of her back and lips akin to Kerry Washington’s perfect pout, she was an “it” girl to a T.

  “You can never wear snow boots, okay?” she urged. “Never wear flip-flops, and she hates bad skin. Oh, and you must always wear black.”

  “All right. I’ll keep that in mind.” I couldn’t wait to be given products of my own so that I could put on a great face every morning.

  A half hour later, my brows were tweezed. My first perk! And great timing, since I had a first date that night—lots of firsts. The other artists had appointments, so it was the perfect time to catch up with Jolie about the day and get the scoop about my new company.

  For example, she told me that snack time almost always involved fro-yo and cookies, wh
ich didn’t seem to show up on the asses of the tiny makeup artists.

  “Jan Lupman was here, did you do her today?” Carly asked with a smirk, peeking in to see how my brows were coming along. Her client was using the restroom and Carly was taking a minute to wash her brushes.

  “Big surprise,” Jolie replied. “She’s here every day. She told me yesterday that she had a funeral to go to and had to have her makeup touched up before, after, and tomorrow for the shiva. She said she wouldn’t wash her face last night since we could only fit her in for a touch-up this morning.”

  “Seriously?” I asked. She could afford to have her makeup done here almost every day but wouldn’t wash it off at night?

  “Yeah,” said Carly, “she was doing us the favor by sleeping in it. Crazy, right?”

  “Well, I guess if she can afford it, it’s a nice luxury to have,” I replied.

  “I’m moonlighting tonight,” Carly said. “I have to leave after this client if I’m going to make the train.”

  “You’re moonlighting doing what?” was my reply.

  “I make some extra money a few days a week doing mortuary makeup after work.”

  I stared blankly.

  “Yes, dead people,” she said, reading my mind. “It’s really not that bad. And they let you do whatever you want to them. The best clients are the ones that don’t talk back.” She laughed, the deep, throaty laugh of a smoker. “Okay, have to get back to my client so I can get out of here. Your brows look great—Jolie’s the best.”

  Oh my God. She uses Nancy Stone Cosmetics on corpses. Note to self: you need to learn more about this.

  Not wanting to gossip, but really wanting to gossip, I asked Jolie to fill me in a bit about Carly’s life.

  “How old is Carly?” I asked, then quickly clarified, “Sorry, was that rude? She just looks like she could be either thirty or a great-looking forty-five.”

  “She’s forty-six, can you believe it? It’s that baby face of hers. She’s had it tough, but it doesn’t show on her face.”

  Jolie explained that Carly’s canary-colored hair, fair skin, and WASP-y manner hid the past five years of her life.

  “She literally escaped from an abusive Italian husband, was never able to have children, and has a three-hour commute each day and the exhausting job of taking care of her elderly parents.”

  I hoped my life couldn’t be so easily compressed into a single sentence.

  Quite sad. Carly, I learned, grew up eating Spam from a can, loved her Gucci handbags, slept with married men, and made extra money putting faces on dead people.

  For real?

  Sounded to me like a character out of a Mamet play.

  The first chance I had to look at my watch turned out to be 3:30 p.m. Weren’t work hours supposed to creep by slowly? Not at a makeup studio, I guess, though my first day was probably way more social and full of getting to know the product and brand than subsequent days would be. Just as I made a mental note that I hadn’t spoken with Nancy since the morning, Helen’s voice, with more than a touch of Jersey, boomed through my intercom.

  “Alison, pick up line five. Nancy is holding for you,” she said.

  “Sure thing, thanks.” Okay, breathe, Alison. She’s so excited to have you here and there’s nothing to be nervous about. Play the part. You’re meant for this job. I grabbed the receiver in haste, clenching it perhaps a bit too tightly.

  “Hi, it’s Alison.”

  “Hey, Alicat, how’s it going so far?” Nancy asked.

  Nicknames already. Amazing!

  “Hi, Nancy! It’s great, thanks. I can’t believe it’s almost four o’clock. The day has gone by so fast.”

  “I’m happy to hear that,” she said. “I’m very excited that you’re here. So listen, you’ve put in a long day so far and it’s gorgeous outside. Go home, relax, and enjoy your night.”

  “Are you sure, Nancy? I don’t mind staying a full day.”

  “No, I insist. Get out of here and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Click.

  Apparently she was off. And so was I. At a little after 4 p.m. on a sunny and warm late-June day.

  Oh my God, did I hit the career jackpot?

  So with freshly shaped brows and heightened confidence, I walked home to prep for my eight o’clock date.

  I hadn’t been set up with anyone in a long time, and had almost walked into a telephone pole (who even knew they still existed!) when a friend’s husband had hopped on her cell phone a week earlier to tell me excitedly about the potential match.

  I’d been told that Christopher Pickelz was a successful trader, very family-oriented, and ready to settle down. He was forty-three, a little older than the men I was used to dating, but I was a new woman with new eyebrows and a new job, so why not? With weddings being the latest weekend activity, I found myself putting more pressure on each date. “Another one bites the dust,” my friends would say whenever the “I’m engaged” phone calls came.

  “Madison, it’s either drought or deluge, and my drought is ending tonight,” I told my friend optimistically as I touched up my makeup and changed my shoes to higher heels.

  “I’m excited for your setup,” she replied. “So much more reliable than random online dates, you know?”

  With Madison in California enjoying the auditioning-actress life in ways I never had, embracing the uncertainty rather than crumbling under it, the three-hour time difference worked in our favor. I could be getting ready for a night out while she drove to an audition with me on Bluetooth.

  “Okay, have to run,” I mumbled, glossing my lips. “Call you after . . . or tomorrow morning.”

  She laughed and I pressed the End button.

  I hadn’t been to the Metropolitan Club before, so when I arrived, the decor—marble and gilded molding—only upped my excitement. It appealed to my classically traditional taste, my love of chivalry and party dresses, and my belief that in a past life, I had lived in Downton Abbey.

  While tonight’s date was just a drink, it occurred to me that it could be the last “just a drink” I would ever have to have.

  The maître d’ pointed me toward the table by the bar where Christopher was seated Like a gentleman, he stood when I arrived. And that’s when I panicked.

  Standing, he could barely see over the high-top bar table.

  This wasn’t going to work. I don’t think I’d ever stood taller than a man before. At five foot two, I had been fortunate enough never to have looked down upon bald spots. But with no preplanned exit strategy, I would have to let this thing run its course.

  “Alison, so nice to meet you. I’ve heard such wonderful things.”

  “Thank you, it’s great to meet you as well.”

  Mini gherkin. Oh crap. Why did I have to think like that? But the analogy at least kept me entertained throughout the date. I understood why Pickelz felt the need to tell me how many millions of dollars he managed in his fund, and he was a nice man . . . he just felt taller standing on his wallet.

  I knew that my mom would tell me to give him three dates, the rule in her house growing up. Except that the rabbi’s son had to get at least five dates. “A shanda,” my grandfather would say, “to deny yourself the opportunity to be with the rabbi’s son. What an honor.” Thank goodness I didn’t belong to a temple.

  Pickelz walked me to the subway after our date. He looked up at me, rose to his toes (hey, that’s my move) and kissed me on the cheek. “I had fun,” he said.

  “As did I. Thank you for the drinks,” I replied, feeling very post-date scripted. And had we been on set, I would’ve yelled, “Can someone please get this man an apple box?”

  Note to self: next blind date, don’t go in with such tall expectations.

  A young woman struggles to find her way while working for a notorious makeup mogul, only to discover that life and love are never quite cruelty-free . . .

  What Pretty Girls Are Made Of

  * * *

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  One
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br />   The time has come to summon my pommel-horse mojo. The mojo that earned me a medal at Bob Smiley’s Gymnastics Studio for Budding Olympians a decade ago. The medal was for most improved, but still. A medal is a medal.

  So here goes: I take a few steps and commit. Planting my hands on the Metro turnstile, I launch myself into the air. Yep, this is happening.

  For one glorious slow-motion moment, I’m flying above the turnstile bars in my pin-striped pantsuit as my arms support the weight of my body. I can almost hear Bob Smiley shouting, “Strong wrists, Piper!” But while I’m focusing on my wrists, I lose track of my legs. Before I can rotate them into perfect landing pose—with my feet together and my arms in a triumphant V—the ground rises up to meet me. My ankle hits first and the rest of me follows. The momentum sends one faux-leather high-heeled shoe spinning off into the crowd.

  The soundtrack of my defeat is all percussion: the thud of my body hitting concrete, the cymbal clash of my keys sliding across the ground, the thwack of my portfolio as it spread-eagles. And—oh shit—an entire pack of skateboard-wielding teenagers is clapping.

  As I scramble to my feet and pretend to ignore the teens, I lock eyes with the Metro security guard. In that instant, our surroundings transform. Bermuda grass creeps through the cracks in the concrete. The turnstiles sprout bush willow limbs. He’s the cheetah, and I’m the gazelle.

  At second glance, he’s not quite the cheetah. Maybe if said cheetah had been transported from the savanna to a comfortable suburban life offering a plethora of meat cutlets and donut shops.

  But let’s be fair, I’m not exactly the gazelle in this scenario, especially in my currently compromised state. Maybe a malnourished wildebeest. Awkward, head too big for the body, hair in funny places. I glance around as if my pack might offer some assistance. But this is Washington, D.C.: No one gives a flying wildebeest crap about my problems. It’s every beestie for herself.