What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (13 page)

That afternoon, there was a security breach at Newark Liberty International Airport in Terminal C—just where my flight was due to land.

I knew from the second I approached the United terminal that I was going to have a problem. Travelers were packed into the hallways, all on their cell phones trying to make alternate arrangements. The flights for the evening were canceled, and it wasn’t clear whether the flights the next morning would get out on time, either—if at all.

The news, broadcast on TV monitors throughout the airport, reported that a man had walked the wrong way through a one-way door at Newark Liberty and turned the busiest terminal at the airport into a human traffic jam on one of the heaviest travel days of the year. Chaos erupted and the terminal was put on lockdown. No flights would enter or exit until the man was found. The terminal was still closed after more than six hours.

Simultaneously, I waited in line and on hold (on my phone) with United for an hour. The phone representative got to me before I made it to the counter, and I explained my predicament.

“I’m so sorry for the delay, miss” came the exasperated voice on the line. I’m sure it wasn’t her favorite day at work, either. “The soonest I can get you out of California would be on Thursday.”

“I know you’re probably hearing this on every call, but I have to be at work tomorrow. It’s not negotiable.” Wow, I was sounding like Sally! And I could only imagine her reaction to my having to take four more days off because of this incident.

“I understand, miss, but I don’t have any leeway here. You mentioned that you’re waiting in line—they have more options available at the counters, so you can hold tight and see what the agent at the counter can do. I do apologize.”

At least I was dealing with a human being.

“Okay, thanks. If you could please book me on the Thursday flight, just in case, that’s a start.”

I then passed my phone to the nice man behind me in line who still hadn’t been able to get through to someone at United on his phone.

The scene around me was like those I had watched on the news showing airports in extreme weather conditions. Passengers were lying on the floor using their luggage as pillows. Sweaters and coats doubled as blankets, and faces were sullen. Cell phones were buzzing and the noise level was loud. Some were optimistic about getting on a flight by midnight, and others realized the reality of the situation—they wouldn’t be sleeping in their beds anytime soon.

I could have called Madison and had her pick me up, but I decided to wait it out. After two hours, I reached the front of the line and faced a weary-looking agent, who, from the expression on her face, might have preferred to be in my situation rather than her own. She and I discussed my options, and she offered me the opportunity to take a four-and-a-half-hour van ride to Las Vegas’s McCarran International Airport and board a plane there. I wasn’t guaranteed a flight out on Monday, but my chances were good. If not Monday, I was a sure bet for a flight on Tuesday morning.

Thus began the midnight trek to McCarran, in a van with eleven other completely frustrated strangers. Once there, I secured a seat on the 8:40 p.m. flight that evening and decided to go from gate to gate and try to fly standby on any other flight that had seats available. Good idea in theory, but there were a ton of us banking on that same strategy.

I figured it was also time to send Sally an email about the situation.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected], [email protected]

Subject: Flight Canceled

Hi Sally and Ira,

Due to the security breach at Newark Liberty Airport yesterday, current weather, and delays, my flight home was canceled. Unfortunately, I’m still out west.

I will be in touch about whether I can make it in to work today. I have my computer and will work from the airport, and I have my cell phone as well. Keep you posted. Fingers crossed.

Alison

I made friends with my fellow standbys. I was with businessmen, families, and a young woman who was flying to Newark and then to Israel to visit her dying mother. It was like a scene out of a movie.

When her name wasn’t called for the 6:25 a.m. flight, the woman, Chaya, had burst into tears. She hadn’t told anyone about her situation before the outburst, so we didn’t know that Chaya was desperately hoping to land in Israel in time to say goodbye. United wouldn’t accommodate her since she was using frequent flier miles to fly, and she wasn’t high up on the standby list.

We decided that whoever was called next for a seat on the flight would give the seat to Chaya. A few of us went to check where our names were on the standby list. Chaya joined us. The poor girl just stood there, sobbing, until the last standby passenger called on the list heard her plight and gave up his seat. With a teary goodbye from all of us, she boarded the plane.

My phone buzzed. The emails were starting to pour in, as people were back to work and attacking emails sent over the holiday. One was from Sally.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Flight Canceled

UNEXCEPTIBLE ALISON.

I did not write back but I did get a seat on the 1:30 p.m. flight. Exhausted, I slept the entire time. I made it back into the city after the studio was closed for the day. I dreaded going to work, especially after the Beast’s two-word email, but looked forward to meeting the new store manager, Jennifer. I hoped she and I would see eye to eye and that I would have an ally, and perhaps a friend.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A Powerful Combination of Unique Ingredients

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Flight Canceled

Alison,

I understand that u had some sort of dilemma with United Airlines yesterday. Not sure what you did to make that happen. U are not to book flights home the night before being due at work. Please call me when you get to your desk.

When I rang, she was as sweet as sugar—her typically manic self. “Hi, sweetheart,” she answered, like I was once again her golden girl. “I’m running into a meeting but just wanted to make sure you arrived okay. Have you met Jennifer?” She was speaking so fast, I didn’t have a second to answer her questions. “I need you to be my spy on her. You can call me with details later. And go through her purse when you can. Protection, you know? Toodles, my dear!”
CLICK.

I guess saccharine was better than vinegar.

I liked Jennifer immediately. In her early forties, blond, put-together, seemingly smart, and wearing a fabulous outfit with the highest black leather Louboutins I had ever seen. Clearly she hadn’t gotten the memo that the job involved standing. ALL. DAY. LONG.

Jennifer understood that stepping into a leadership role at SSC was tricky. She would have to show everyone that they could trust her. She would need them to like her, yet respect and listen to her.

She was warm. She was doomed.

But it seemed that after Jennifer’s first day at the studio, the girls were happy to have her. I was thrilled.

I overheard the “Welcome, Jennifer” gossip session from my desk, and it brought me back to the good ol’ days of summer when I was that new girl, bright eyed and bushy tailed. “She flips assistants like pancakes,” Carly said. “But Alison has made it way past the three weeks we all gave her.” I knew they’d taken bets on my duration, but I’d certainly surprised them. I’d surprised myself.

“And she has help at home seven days a week,” I heard Jolie say about Sally. The question of whether Sally was married then followed, as it always did.

“No,” Carly spat out. “Are you kidding me? She can keep a man like a bulimic can keep down food.”

Oh boy
, I thought,
they are really getting into it early today
.

“She actually had a boyfriend once,” Helen chimed in as she walked out to the front of the store. The girls all looked up in surprise. I did, too—I hadn’t heard this one before. “This was years ago, when Elliott was little. She signed up for a dating website called chubbychaser.net.”

“Chubby what?” snickered Jolie.

I also had no idea what she was talking about. I left my desk to join the group, praying that no customers would walk into the store.

“Chubby chasers. People—well, usually men—who have fat fetishes,” Helen explained. “His name was Afshin, or Abtin—Iranian, something like that. She was so nervous for the date, but she went on it. We never thought she would go, but she did.”

Silence filled the room.

“Sally was floored when Akmin called her the week after they went out. She had told us that he didn’t seem interested on the date. And we told her to be cautious, since he was from a dating site. This was before the Internet was popular for dating, but she was blindsided.”

Since we all knew she was single, it was obvious how the story would end. We were just hoping we’d find out what happened in between.

“What happened?” Jolie almost yelled.

“He was a sham. Out for her money. And she wanted a houseboy. So it was an interesting match.”

“You can’t just leave us with that, Helen,” Carly chimed in. “That’s a tease.”

“Okay. Fine. But it does not leave this room. Got it?”

Affirmative nods all around. Prayers that the store and the phones would stay quiet.

“He would take her out to dinner. Sometimes she would pay. He was an electrician and very handy, and since he went from job to job, she made him work in the store and fix things when they were broken. So we saw him around here all the time. He was seedy and not very nice. But Sally didn’t care. She loved to say that she had a boyfriend. And she was getting things fixed for free.”

“Oh, yeah.” Carly couldn’t resist butting in. “What else did he fix?”

Helen continued, disregarding Carly’s interjection. “So, he was all set to paint the back office over a long weekend so that it could dry and the fumes would be gone before the beginning of the week. Sally gave him a key for the weekend, since she was going to be at her mother’s home upstate . . .”

None of us were prepared for what she was about to tell us.

“We returned on Tuesday morning to find the walls unpainted, the cash drawer empty, and three used condoms on the floor in the back room.”

Nooooooo! Gross!

“Ashman, whatever the hell his name was, had disappeared. He took the cash, had his fun in the studio, and was never heard from again.”

“Did Sally report him through the dating website?” Carly asked.

“She tried, but his profile was already deleted, and his cell phone was disconnected when she tried to call it.”

Jennifer’s reaction to the story—a glinty smirk and a wink in my direction—let me know that she could handle this place. I was so convinced, I dropped a five-dollar bill into the “How long will Jennifer last?” bucket, signing my initials in the “longer than three months” column.

I think the girls were
expecting to gently ease into the new year, but when they arrived at work the next day, Sally was waiting for them—a rare treat. Or maybe punishment for the half-hour gossip session the day before. I’d always suspected the studio was bugged.

“So you weren’t expecting to see me here this early, were you, ladies?” Sally asked, squinting her eyes and speaking out of the side of her mouth. “Well, you’re in for a surprise. One of you can get me coffee and then we’ll all sit down and talk.”

When no one moved, she looked me in the face, silently electing me as her barista. I’d just read on people.com that Beyoncé and Jay Z had been yachting in St. Barts, so I decided to give today’s cup-of-Beyoncé a little tan. Hopefully Sally wouldn’t notice.

“I’m noticing a pattern of laziness around here, girls. And I don’t like it. You’re all replaceable, even though I know you don’t think so. You are lucky to have your jobs and even luckier to be treated as well as you are. I want you each to look presentable and this studio to be a well-oiled machine, yet you guys are slacking on your faces, the studio is dirty, and it only really comes to life when I’m here.”

She slickly ran her hand along the white marble countertop by the register—a white glove test minus the white glove.

“So I’ve decided to make a new daily rule for all of you,” Sally said sweetly. “Including you, Alison.”

“Okay,” I replied.
Prepare yourself
, I thought.

“New policy: beginning tomorrow, I want to see your pretty faces every morning, fully made up and polished. You will email or text a photo of yourself to me no more than a half hour after you arrive, which will inform me what time you have decided to roll in that morning. If your look is unacceptable, or I receive your photo more than thirty minutes after your start time, you will be sent home with no pay. Understood?”

No one replied—we just looked at each other.

“I will take it from your silence that you understand. If you don’t have a way of sending photos from your phone, either buy a new phone or have Alison take your picture and she can send it to me. I trust that there won’t be any resistance to this.”

“I think everyone understands what you’re asking, Sally,” I jumped in. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll see all of our pretty faces electronically.”

“Great,” she said. As the staff dispersed, she commented aloud about how much she did for “each and every member of the studio staff.”

I assumed that the girls were thinking (as I was) about her bogus reason for not giving bonuses for the holidays and how much she didn’t do for us.

So I figured I’d do something for them. I just wanted to make sure Jennifer was on board.

“Is that a normal kind of Sally request?” Jennifer asked me, once the two of us were back at my desk.

“It kind of is,” I replied. “Something totally weird and wholly unnecessary but that keeps you beholden to her.” I paused. “Sorry. I know you just started, but I’m not going to lie to you.” Jennifer made me comfortable enough to trust her. Hopefully my words wouldn’t end up in Sally’s ears.

“No, no—thank you,” she replied. “I had a feeling things were a bit tough around here, to put it mildly. And I’d rather know what I’m up against now versus learn it the hard way.”

“I’m here to help with whatever you need—seriously. We need you here, so however I can make your transition easiest, let me know.”

“Thank you. The girls seem really nice, which is good. You were honest with me, and to be honest with you, I’m excited to be here, and I want to be here, and I like to work hard—but I don’t
need
to be here.” I’d already assumed that her future red soles wouldn’t come out of her Sally Steele paycheck. “So I can enjoy this place, really try to implement some change, and not take it all too personally.”

“I wish I could say that for myself, but I’ll learn from you as you do that,” I said hopefully.
If you can do that.

To not need this place would be amazing.

“So I have an idea . . .” I tossed out, hoping she would bite. “Let’s save the girls some hassle and spend the next two hours painting different looks on ourselves, banking a few weeks’ worth of photos. You in?”

“Kind of sneaky,” she said.
Kind of fun
,
I thought. “Let’s do it!”

Best to beat her at her own game.