The Beautiful Misfits, page 3
Josie nodded, her head like a flashing strobe. All she wanted to do was check her phone to see if Frank had any news related to Finley. He was her only connection to her son and he’d blocked her after the on-air incident. It was a crazy dance, and Frank called only when it suited him or when he wanted money. Few things were more panic inducing than not being able to reach your children.
“So, how would you close this sale?” Fabiana asked and placed a fist under her chin.
Josie knew what Fabiana wanted to hear. “Shall I put all this on your Brigman’s card today and give you the chart on how to use these wonderful products at home?” Be kind. Be nice. Get through this bullshit because it’s a job that pays enough to keep a roof and essentials.
Fabiana twisted her dark-red mouth. “Okay, not bad. But you must always try to work into the consultation how using our line can prevent facelifts and such down the road. You could add something like, ‘Prevention is the key to avoiding expensive surgeries.’”
Oh god. Josie wanted to go home. She endured another half hour of such ludicrous scenarios before Fabiana scribbled the last of her notes and directed Josie to the counter where Pauline’s client sipped a mimosa as she awaited her La Belleza experience. Josie figured she’d already blown the big Q&A with Fabiana, so she had to shine during the live consults and makeovers.
She exchanged a look with her friend Monica, who mouthed, “Bathroom. Now.”
“I need to freshen up a little if that’s okay,” Josie said to Fabiana. “I’ll be quick. A jiffy.” Oh, Lord. Why was her speech so juvenile when nervous?
“Two minutes,” Fabiana said.
She found Monica at the mirror brushing a pink color onto her white cheeks.
“I don’t think I can do this,” Josie said, peering under stalls for feet. Seeing no one, she continued, “You should have seen Pauline seethe when we walked up. There’s something up with her…I don’t know.”
Monica flipped her head to fluff her straight black hair, which had no intention of showing signs of body. But with a figure like hers, hair shouldn’t be a concern. Josie would love to have a shape like Monica’s. Not too thin, curved where it counts, long legs, Hilary Swank arms, and full pouting lips, not filler inflated. “She was dead set on them hiring you,” Monica said. “She’s a hard one to figure out, but don’t feel bad. She steals all our sales too. Except for Philly’s. She’s scared of that one.”
Josie rearranged her hair, hoping the hair spray from this morning would keep its hold in the back. “I’m going to do my best to ignore most of her comments.”
“Hey, listen, Philly’s coming back from her little sabbatical today.” Monica grinned like a child expecting Santa. “You’ve got to meet this crazy-ass ex-supermodel working over in Lancôme. She comes in at noon and I’ll bet she’ll do her announcements. That ought to make Pauline lose her cool.”
Josie had no idea what she meant but was ready for anything to distract Pauline. “I’d better head back,” she said, giving Monica a quick hug. As soon as she rounded the corner, she heard a rip. Her skirt had caught on a clothing bar and a six-inch gash gaped, her underwear now in full view of the Lord and everybody. Thankfully, the counter had a stapler.
When she returned, Pauline was boring her client to death, still yammering about Sergio and what he peddles on QVC. “He can simply transform a woman to her supremeness,” she said, while Fabiana beamed, reminding Josie of a proud dance mom hanging on to every word. “He gives us all the chance to be Venezuelan-caliber beauties.”
“And to avoid costly surgeries down the road,” Fabiana chimed in while the client reached her limit and made a call, scowling and speaking rapid Spanish into her phone.
“Okay, Josette,” Fabiana said, nodding toward a woman waiting on the sofa. “Please seat Mrs. Whitson. And offer her another mimosa.” Then, quietly, she added, “Booze opens those Prada bags.”
The cheapo knockoffs, too, Josie wanted to say, her hand grasping the giant hole in her skirt she’d meant to staple together. She smiled at the middle-aged woman dressed in tailored, lawyer-ish clothes. Clothes like those Josie’s mother favored. “Hola, Mrs. Whitson,” she said loudly so that Fabiana could hear she was using the official greeting. “Buenos dias and welcome to La Belleza.”
Mrs. Whitson winked, olive eyes shining with conspiracy. Josie realized with alarm the woman must have recognized her from the news. “I’ll take these for you,” Josie said, throwing the client’s empty cup and plastic plate into the trash, then stashing her vintage Fendi in a cabinet. Quickly she found some tape and slapped it onto her torn skirt.
As she prepared for the woman’s makeover, Fabiana’s eyes burned hot on her back. Josie locked eyes with Mrs. Whitson, who winked again. “Would you care for another mimosa before we…we…” God, she was tongue-tied. What was the line they’d learned? “Before we…”
Fabiana interrupted. “Before we get started on the most amazing, skin-glowing, and youth-activating experience you’ve ever imagined.”
Mrs. Whitson focused only on Josie. “Great. I’m all yours,” she said with excitement before turning to Fabiana. “Could you please give us a moment?”
Fabiana, pouting, stepped aside to watch her star beauty adviser, Pauline Succop (a.k.a. Suck Up), in action while spouting every cliché La Belleza had ever invented.
Mrs. Whitson reached for Josie’s hand. “I want you to know that you saved my son’s life.” Her eyes swam with tears. “He watched that four-part series you did—The Heroin Highway: A Millennial Apocalypse. Watched it over and over and came to me one night and let everything out. I had no idea he was hooked on opiates.” Josie handed her a tissue. “He’s been clean two years.”
Josie’s throat knotted. “Thank you. I’m so glad he’s doing well.” Hearing of other mothers whose kids got clean brought conflicting emotions. She was happy for them. And sad that sobriety eluded her son.
“Not just well,” Mrs. Whitson said, still holding Josie’s hand. “He lived for a year at that halfway house you helped fund. He’s married. Has a job.”
She thought of Finley. Was he sleeping in a Florida crack house, feeding his monsters in a filthy den of spent needles and burned soda cans? The gorgeous blue ocean and powdered beaches on the other side of his misery? If he’d been jailed, Frank would have called asking for money as usual. If he’d been in the hospital, both would have been notified.
She could all but smell her son’s Dior, witness in horror his ever-diminishing body as the demons fed from him like parasites. He believed that poison would plug holes in his empty places and make love to his mind, forgetting how it fucked his brains.
Not much left she could do. She was numb and had exhausted all avenues. He invited these beasts. Threw out the welcome mat and served them his soul. It was up to him to send eviction notices.
Here she was, able to save other people’s children with her words, her works. Just not her own. “That’s wonderful he got his life back,” Josie said to Mrs. Whitson, a weak spark of hope crackling when hearing of an addict’s recovery. “You’re overdue a bit of luxury. I know you must have gone through so much.”
Fabiana walked up and eavesdropped. Josie’d better tamp down the personal talk and get straight to business. The woman ignored her and continued speaking. “How is your son? Is he doing better?” She had likely read about him in the papers.
Josie noticed Fabiana staring at her with an expression that seemed to say, Get back on track—the money track.
“He’s…well…I’m not sure.” Her voice broke and tears pricked.
“As long as they’re breathing, there’s hope,” Mrs. Whitson said, giving Josie’s hand a final grip before letting go.
Fabiana cleared her throat. “Josie, let’s start with cleansing her skin.” And so the routine and testing began.
“Tell me about your skin and your concerns,” Josie said, widening her eyes so Mrs. Whitson knew she was doing as advised.
“Oh, well,” she said, playing along. “It’s just horrendous. I can’t seem to get rid of these dark spots and deep wrinkles. I look like a potholed road in need of a good fill.”
Fabiana jumped in, as excited as a kitten lapping up a tin of Fancy Feast. “We’ve got so many products and serums that can address and cure all that.”
“Fabulous,” Mrs. Whitson said. “Do you mind stepping back for a while and letting me work with this delightful creature.” She tipped her head toward Josie. “No offense. We need a bit of space.”
Fabiana’s nostrils flared as she spun toward Pauline’s client. For the next forty or so minutes, Josie cleansed, toned, moisturized, and applied cosmetics to this woman who spoke her language. A woman who knew how it felt to watch a child turn against his teachings and make choices that could—would—kill him. When she finished the makeover, she led Mrs. Whitson to a large mirror facing the entrance where the lighting was perfect.
“Who is that woman?” she said, viewing her face from multiple angles. “I want every single thing you’ve put on my old face.”
Josie ran a mental tally. This would come to well over a thousand dollars. “You don’t have to buy all this,” she whispered.
“I saved more than ten times this when your work gave my son life instead of a funeral,” she said, and then addressed Fabiana. “She’s a keeper. I’m not sure who you are, but I’d guess from your hovering you’re the ringleader. Let me say this. You’re a lucky lady to have this one.”
Josie flushed as she rang up the massive sale and threw in all sorts of treats and samples.
“We certainly are fortunate,” Fabiana said curtly, joining Josie by the register and casting a warning look over the number of samples she was giving away. An hour after Mrs. Whitson left, a second client had also spent a small fortune and loved the look Josie had created.
Then at five past one, all hell broke loose. A third woman, the last before lunch, took her mimosa and a place in Josie’s hot seat. This client, nose scrunched as if smelling something unpleasant, wore silk and sneers.
Nothing, absolutely nothing Josie did, suited her. The lip color was tawdry, the brow groomer stained her skin a pinky red, and the serum felt like rancid honey. The perfumes made her sneeze. And the creams, so she said, caused itching and instant inflammation.
Without a second thought, Josie knew the woman was a plant. She saw Pauline watching with a creeping smile. Flustered and weak from hunger, Josie moved to the back side of the counter, out of view, to collect herself.
Monica, from the Clinique counter, rushed over. “I’ve got your back,” she said. “You wait and see.” She snickered as she walked back to her bay.
Josie popped a mint into her mouth and returned to the hard-to-please customer. “Shall we try another color palette?” she suggested. “We want to do our best to make sure you—”
The woman wriggled in her chair. She slammed her mimosa on the table and stood as Fabiana lingered next to Josie like lint. “I’ve decided this line is not for me. I am going back to Estée Lauder immediately to have one of their more skilled girls reverse this facial travesty.”
Josie heated with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. We can always—”
“ATTENTION, BRIGMAN’S BEAUTIES!” a woman shouted from the store’s intercom system. “Are you hearing me loud and clear, ladies? If you have a hankering for free samples of our five-star products, you need to STOP, DROP, AND ROLL ON OVER TO THE LANCÔME COUNTER IMMEDIATELY! No, it’s not a fire drill, but we’ve got a few surprises over here at LANCÔME that might light a fire in your heart. OR…put OUT the fire that Brigman’s card is burning in your pocket. And, ladies, don’t forget my motto. Say it with me. One, two, three…BETTER LATE THAN UGLY!”
The booming voice, with its slight Jamaican accent, broke apart in laughter. Fabiana clutched her heart as if she were about to meet her maker. The crotchety lady who was waddling to Lauder quickly redirected toward Lancôme.
This must be Philly. Josie adored her already. Pauline’s face blazed rose, then red, and peaked at puce.
“ONCE AGAIN, LADIES, STOP AND DROP EVERYTHING AND ROLL ON OVER TO LANCÔME. We’ll give you free foundation, or if you prefer, we’ll wipe you down, then grease you back up and start from scratch.”
Josie peeled off a bark of laughter and clutched her stomach. Do not laugh, not in front of Fabiana. As soon as you get a break, make a point to meet this woman who seems to enjoy a good gag as much as you do. Well, used to, before Finley found salvation in substances.
The store grew silent, except for a few laughs from customers and associates. Philly seemed to have finished.
Pauline abandoned her client and beelined around the corner. “Somebody get Philly off the PA right now. Now with a capital N! If that woman makes any more announcements during our certification event I’ll go—”
“To Mr. Hoven,” said a woman as tall as a professional basketball player and with another foot of upswept hair. She pushed her chest right into Pauline’s bird face. “Run. Find Mr. Hoven, you little windbag.”
“This is our event, Philly, and you’ve been warned not to make those announcements when other lines are having certification training. Do it again. I dare you.”
“Oh, you wait. I’ve got an entire script for today’s menu of glory,” Philly said as Pauline turned and stomped off. Fabiana monitored the drama as she sipped a frappuccino.
Finally, she spoke. “You. I need you over here, please.” She all but shoved Josie behind a towering shoe display for privacy. “I’ve seen all I need to see today, so I’m heading back to Charlotte. I’ll let you know in a few days my thoughts on an official certification.” She exhaled sharply. “And also, whether you’re a true fit for this line. Don’t think I didn’t see that tape running up and down your skirt.”
Josie’s hand flew to the tear. She’d meant to tie a sweater around her waist but forgot. Maybe she should go ahead and let Fabiana know Pauline had set her up.
Then again, best to just let this all go. She certainly had deeper concerns than cream-to-powder blushes.
Once in her car, after the long, exhausting day, she remembered the newspaper still damp on the seat. She had a peculiar urge to open it, and when she snapped the rubber band, her eyes widened at the headline below the fold. South of the latest Trump news, and a piece on a woman stabbed downtown, someone had circled an article in black Sharpie and included exclamation marks around its borders. Read this! Words in the left margin. And words to the right: It’s the only way to save your son!
She clutched her throat where a fast pulse thrashed. Her breathing turned shallow.
The headline—Experimental Rehab and Resort Shows Signs of Hope—stretched across the top photo of two young adults sitting in front of a tiny aqua camper shaped like a canned ham. Three chickens pecked at their feet, and behind the youth, dozens more campers in pink, red, and canary yellow filled the frame. She read the article.
A well-respected and former Atlanta psychologist is gaining attention for his experimental and highly unconventional rebab and resort combination located in Burnsville, forty miles west of Asheville. On a sprawling organic farm surrounded by the Cane River, Vintage Crazy Resort and Rehab is showing promise in recovery rates, an area in which traditional rehabs have too often failed. Paul Gavins has opened what he calls a “cafeteria approach” to treating addiction, meaning the traditional Twelve Steps aren’t the only option for addicts. At Vintage Crazy…
Josie shook her head as she read further. This sounded nuts. What kind of rehab gives a person such options as moderation and harm reduction? Medicines to ease cravings? She tossed the paper in the plastic grocery bag she used for trash.
Ridiculous. Another crackpot cashing in on people’s fragilities. Whoever meant for Josie to see this had to be deranged. And she was determined to figure it out. Someone knew exactly where she lived. And she’d never told anyone. Not even her mother.
3
Before she became one of them, Josie used to avoid women like herself. She would cast her eyes in another direction as she passed their glass counters, that place where youth is promised for a price.
Many a woman spent idle time prowling these glittering department stores, buying handbags and shoes on credit to ease the brunt of sour marriages and unmet dreams. Buying half-empty promises and believing that something as simple as the perfect cream could restore fire in the cold, darkened places in their lives.
In her previous, pre-meltdown life, Josie had experienced their magazine-ad eyes in smoky hues, matte lips as startling as Anne Hathaway’s. They were young and luscious, anxious to succeed. Or they were middle-aged women beautiful in that way of roses two days gone. Outer petals dry and crumbling and those within still vibrant and velvet soft.
They wouldn’t give up until they took a final breath, continuing the tillage of their faces, fertilizing the skin with thousands of dollars’ worth of products claiming to restore what time had plundered. A second harvest from land once fallow.
They hypnotized potential buyers with three-dimensional displays, banners, and backlit posters of celebrities and models, creating an illusion that anyone, if properly tended, could resemble Natalie Portman, Lupita Nyong’o, and Julia Roberts.
Maybe a potential customer strolled in to buy sheets or towels on sale in the home department. Perhaps something as practical as a Vitamix or a Cuisinart. She might be on her way out the door with a grocery list in her wallet next to her credit cards and yellowing family photos.
But when she passed the counters strategically placed in center court near the exits, if she so much as paused, so much as peeked in their direction or lifted a bottle of perfume for a quick smell, the drawbridge opened. Soon she was submerged, treading floodwaters and knowing only a new Elizabeth Arden lipstick or Lancôme’s gel-to-oil night cream would bring her to safety.
