These Girls (41 page)

My storyboard and sample ad were still propped up on easels and covered with drape cloths, I was happy to see. I wouldn’t have put it past Cheryl to steal my presentation props. Seriously; they’d gone missing a few years ago and I’d unearthed them in a Dumpster fifteen minutes before my presentation began. Cheryl blamed the maintenance man, but she’d smelled suspiciously like old eggs and wet newspapers. (Maybe I wouldn’t have to check the “paranoid freak” personality box, after all. I could probably upgrade to the “anal-retentive, neurotic-celibate-workaholic” box. I’d better hire a bodyguard to ward off the men.)

“Espresso?” Mr. Fenstermaker grunted as he sat down.

I’d read that he was as miserly with his words as he was with his money, at least when it came to things other than his personal toys.

“Of course,” I said, mentally thanking last year’s
New York
magazine profile for mentioning that he mainlined espresso.

I poured some from a silver thermos into a tiny china cup and added a twist of lemon peel on the side. I turned to Mrs. Fenstermaker, who was glaring at her blood-red lipstick in her compact mirror as if it had just insulted her.

“Is room-temperature Pellegrino still your preference?” I asked.

She snapped shut her compact and took in the gleaming wood buffet I’d stocked with their favorite treats—bagels with Nova Scotia lox and chive cream cheese for him, frozen organic grapes for her. Green grapes, by God. I’d also ordered croissants, muffins, exotic sliced fruits, and fresh-squeezed juices from one of the city’s best bakeries, just in case Mr. Fenstermaker’s assistant had steered me wrong when I’d called about his culinary preferences. And Donna was standing by, ready to race out and fulfill any other requests.

My smiling lips were slicked with a fresh coat of Cherrybomb, and Gloss’s signature perfume, Heat, filled the room. A crystal vase overflowing with purple orchids imported from Thailand—Mrs. Fenstermaker’s flower of choice, according to her personal secretary—sat squarely in the middle of the conference table.

Mrs. Fenstermaker looked at me for the first time. At least I thought she did; she’d put on her sunglasses again after she checked her lipstick, but her face was turned in the right general direction.

“Are you always this thorough?” she asked, sounding more bored than curious.

Mason strode into the conference room just then, his Converse sneakers squeaking against the wood floor.

“I can promise you she is,” he said. “Lindsey’s one of our best. You’ll be in good hands with her, and you’re going to love what she’s got in store for you. I know you’re busy people, so let’s get right to it.”

He turned to me. “Ready?”

I nodded and stepped to the head of the conference table. The sun had just broken through a cloud, and the room was flooded with light. It seemed like a good omen. My throbbing head, the knot in my neck, my nails, which were bitten so close to the quick that they hurt, my body that cried out for sleep—it all evaporated as the eyes of three powerful people turned toward me. Everyone was waiting to hear what I had to say, waiting for me to dazzle them with my skill and smarts and preparation. The bad taste in my mouth from the muffin disappeared. Now the only thing I could taste was the vice presidency.

THREE MINUTES INTO
my presentation, things were going better than I’d hoped. I’d just pulled the drape cloth off my dummy magazine ad, revealing a blown-up photograph of Angelina Jolie smoldering at the camera. Her lush lips pouted ever so slightly, and her famous mane blew back from her face, courtesy of two standing fans I’d spent a half hour adjusting during the shoot, which had stretched until 2:00
A.M
. last Saturday night.

Except it wasn’t really Angelina. The people at Gloss were cheap bastards, remember? I’d found an Angelina clone at the Elite model agency, a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl from Russia who didn’t speak a word of English and whose scowling father accompanied her everywhere, on the lookout for the cocaine-wielding photographers he’d heard roamed freely in America. The poor makeup artist was still recovering from offering him a Tic Tac.

The copy underneath the ad was simple and boldface: “Isn’t that . . . ?”

Then beneath, in smaller type: “Nope, but you can have her red carpet lips. Just slick on Gloss Cherrybomb and wait for the double takes. Brad Pitt clone not included.”

The corners of Mr. Fenstermaker’s mouth twitched when he read my copy. Mrs. Fenstermaker’s sunglasses were still turned in my direction, which I sensed was a major triumph.

“We’ll unveil our print ads and thirty-second television spots simultaneously,” I said, my voice ringing with confidence, my posture ramrod straight. “I recommend an initial saturation in midwestern cities: Chicago, Indianapolis, St. Louis. We’ll focus-group to test the appeal of different celebrities in each market and tweak each campaign before we take it national. If Jennifer Garner tests well in Iowa, this is the ad we’ll run in Des Moines.”

I unveiled my storyboard for a thirty-second TV spot. It featured an ordinary girl (you’d be surprised by how shockingly ordinary most models look without makeup) taking a swipe at Cover Girl: “Of course actresses look gorgeous; they’re paid to have flawless skin. But what about the rest of us?”

A quick cut to her makeup bag—filled with Gloss products in their trademark black and silver tubes and bottles—and voilà! Our ordinary girl is transformed through the miracle of modern mascara into a Jennifer look-alike as the voice-over announces our tagline: “Gloss: Gorgeous for Every Day.”

“When we spread to the coasts,” I continued, “we can look at television tie-ins. Drew Barrymore is producing a new HBO series about colleagues at a fashion magazine. It’s going to be this decade’s
Sex and the City
. We’ll want to look at a product placement deal.”

“How much is this going to cost me?” Fenstermaker grunted.

Probably less than the Jacuzzi you had to scrap, I thought.

“Eight million for the initial phase,” I said, making sure my voice didn’t contain a hint of an apology.

“Can you guarantee I’ll earn it back?” he asked.

“I think our track record speaks for itself,” I said. “We can’t make you more money unless we spend some first.”

Fenstermaker grunted again. There was a bit of cream cheese on the tip of his bulbous nose.

“I could swear this is Angelina,” he said, almost to himself, as he looked at my dummy ad again. “Just met her last week. She wanted me to donate to some orphanage.”

He batted around his hand, as though the orphanage was a pesky fly he was trying to swat away.

“Every second our targets spend looking at that ad and trying to figure out if it’s really her means that much more time for the Gloss name to brand itself into their subconscious,” I said. “We’ll make the fine print as fine as our legal department allows.”

I was moving into my finale. I walked over to a row of three easels and whipped off the drape cloths, revealing three photographs.

“Surveys of plastic surgeons show that women want Angelina’s mouth and Keira Knightley’s eyes and Cameron Diaz’s cheekbones,” I said, gesturing to enlarged photos of each celebrity. “On the back of every package of Gloss cosmetic, we’ll have a diagram showing women how to replicate the look of their favorite celebrity. For instance, Keira wears black mascara and eye shadows in the peachy-brown family for most of her red carpet events. Those colors are already all in the Gloss arsenal, meaning we don’t need any new R and D, which we all know is the real money drain. What we’ll do is shake up the packaging and marketing.”

I stepped back to the front of the table and looked directly at Mr. Fenstermaker. I knew he was the decision maker; he’d dropped out of college during his junior year and built his empire from scratch. Behind his bulldog exterior was a whip-smart brain.

“We’re not just selling lipstick,” I said, lowering my voice and speaking slowly. This was it; I was rounding third base and running for home with everything I had. “We’re making the childhood dreams of every woman in America come true. They’re all going to become movie stars.”

Fenstermaker nodded and swallowed a second bagel without appearing to chew.

“Any questions?” I asked. “No? It’s been a pleasure.”

This time Fenstermaker reached out to shake my hand first. It was a subtle detail, but I felt Mason notice it. I nodded and smiled at Mrs. Fenstermaker and headed for the door.

“Nice job, Lindsey,” Mason said under his breath as I passed him.

As soon as I stepped out of the conference room, I lost it. Stage fright never hits me when I’m giving a speech or presenting to a client, but the second I’m done, I start trembling and my mouth goes dry.

“How’d it go?” Matt said as I stumbled into his office, which was directly across from the conference room.

I collapsed into a chair and put my head between my knees.

“That good?” he asked, putting down the photographer’s proofs of turkeys—Matt was on the Butterball campaign—that he was studying with a little magnifying glass called a loupe. “Usually you just turn white. You must’ve done really well if you’re about to puke.”

“Give me a second,” I croaked, waiting for some blood to rush to my head. “He kind of smiled at the end of it. That’s good, isn’t it? And she nodded twice. Her expression never changed, but I think it’s because of the Botox.”

“Better than pelting you with frozen grapes,” Matt agreed.

“Helpful,” I said, lifting up my head to look at him and grinning for the first time that day. Really grinning; my client smiles didn’t come from the heart. “Supportive and positive. I think I got everything in. Focus group response, magazine ad placement, budget increases tied to performance targets—”

“It’s in the bag,” Matt interrupted. “I overheard Mason on the phone saying your campaign blows Cheryl’s out of the water.”

“He said that?” I asked eagerly.

“Not in so many words,” Matt said. “I was just trying to get you to stop babbling.”

“You’re such a liar,” I said, twisting my head around so I could peek into the hallway and see if Cheryl was approaching the conference room. “How can I trust you when you’re such a liar? God, I hope I nailed it—”

“Look, can I ask you something?” Matt interrupted again, his fingers fiddling with the yellow grease pencil he’d been using to circle the photos he liked the best. “Why do you want the vice presidency?”

I stared at him.

“Seriously, think about it,” he said. “Tell me why you want it so badly.”

“Why did I become friends with someone who was a psychology minor?” I moaned. “I hate it when you do this.”

“Classic case of avoidance.” Matt pretended to scribble something in a notebook. “Look, you’re making plenty of money. You’re working hard. All a promotion would mean is more money and more work. Is that what you really want in life?”

“Lots more money,” I pointed out.

“Okay, lots more money,” Matt said, leaning back and putting his feet up on his desk. “But you make a ton already. And can I be brutally honest? You’re not looking so good these days.”

“Hey,” I said, wounded. Maybe I wouldn’t tell him black was his color after all. Maybe I’d say it was fuchsia. Unless he thought I was getting alarmingly thinner, in which case, all was forgiven.

“Do you even sleep?” Matt asked. “I got an email from you at two
A.M
. last week.”

“Psychology minors with detective skills,” I joked. “Lethal combination.”