Sheer, page 15
“Thanks, I’ll have a Johnnie Walker Black neat,” I cut in before Chip could order for me.
The waiter glided away. Chip’s eyes traveled the length of my bare shins. He met my gaze and his wrinkled face settled into a smirk.
“So you’re the famous Maxine.”
“Feel free to call me Max.”
“I prefer Maxine. It’s more elegant, don’t you think?”
I shrugged to show him he couldn’t rattle me, though my jaw started to throb. “Up to you.”
The waiter returned with our drinks. Chip’s order was a smoky single malt, whose peat I could smell from three feet away. He clutched his cut-crystal tumbler.
“Cheers,” he said.
I clinked glasses with him. Butterscotch filmed my tongue.
“I’m glad we’re doing this. Ellen has told me so much about you. I had to put a face to a name.”
Though he must have been barely forty-five, Chip’s hairline was departing briskly. He had combed his gray-streaked mop to the side of his face, mitigation for this recession.
“Ellen tells me you’d like to invest in Reveal and that you have some friends who would join you.”
Chip guffawed. He sipped his single malt.
“Cutting right to the chase, aren’t you? I might. Depends on what you’re offering.”
My jaw still throbbed, but I kept my voice even. “Our first product was Flush. It sold out of Bloomingdale’s and Henri Bendel within a month of its release. We introduced more colors of Flush and also Glow, a highlighter, that’s doing the same all over the country. And I have plenty more ideas to expand.”
“Impressive.”
“We’ve been called a cult brand. Unlike our competition, we’re purposely maintaining a very minimal lineup. Keeping our offerings tight.”
“Just how I like it.”
My stomach clenched and my molars ground against each other.
“I’m more interested in you,” Chip continued. “Tell me about yourself, Maxine. Where are you from? What do you do for fun?”
I reached for my tumbler of whiskey and gulped a mouthful.
“I’m all about my work,” I said. “What’s fun for me is watching Reveal succeed.”
Chip leaned forward. Beneath the table he placed his small, manicured hand on my upper thigh. He ran his hand down it, then patted my kneecap.
“Relax, honey. I want to know you. We’ll get to your little business, I promise.”
I was tempted to slap him or toss my drink in his face, get up from that stupid armchair, and leave the hotel. Reveal’s future kept me in my seat. We needed money; Ellen had made that clear. For all his sleaziness, Chip ran in powerful circles. He could be a help—or a hindrance.
I rested my hand on Chip’s tiny paw.
“I have a boyfriend,” I said.
Chip’s paw tightened its grip. His gold wedding band pressed into my knee.
“Of course you do.”
“He’s a heavyweight boxer.”
The fingers of Chip’s hand stiffened.
“He has a bit of a temper. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”
I widened my eyes a smidge, in mock concern. I removed my hand from Chip’s paw, and he retracted his arm immediately, and sat back in his chair, like he couldn’t get far enough away from me.
“Understood,” he said. “Thank you for letting me know. So about this Reveal of yours…”
Back at my apartment, the phone rang while I was changing. I freed myself from the black jersey dress and picked up the receiver.
“Chip was very impressed,” Ellen cooed. “Whatever you did, it worked.”
“He’s a sleazebag,” I shot back.
“He agreed to invest in Reveal and pitch it to his friends.”
“Ellen, he felt me up at the table. He clearly wanted to sleep with me.”
There was a pause on Ellen’s end. I could hear her shallow breaths. When her voice returned, it had an edge.
“As I said, whatever you did, it worked.”
“I didn’t sleep with him!”
“I never said you did.”
A realization came over me.
“Why did you tell me to wear a dress and heels to drinks?”
“I wanted you to look presentable. Chip is more old-fashioned, as you likely gathered. He doesn’t react well to a woman in pants.”
I squeezed the phone’s handset so tightly, I thought it might shatter.
“Ellen, did you know he was going to hit on me?”
There was another pause and more breathing. This time, I filled the dead air for her.
“Jesus, Ellen. How could you not have warned me? You sent me in there like a sacrificial lamb.”
“If I had warned you, you wouldn’t have shown up. I couldn’t risk that. We need the money. Besides, I knew you would handle yourself. You’re such a strong girl and you’ll do whatever it takes. I’m proud of you, Maxine.”
Ellen hung up the line. I placed the handset in the phone’s cradle and sat on the edge of my bed. Ellen’s cavalier attitude terrified me. Though I had never mistaken our relationship for a bond between equals, it hadn’t occurred to me that I was disposable.
I could stand up to Ellen, make her promise never to do anything like this again. Threaten to take my company elsewhere if she refused to apologize. However, just as with Chip, pragmatism intervened. I needed Ellen’s connections, her money. One call from her and the entire city would turn its collective back on me.
It was more than necessity, though. Her final words, “I’m proud of you,” settled in my chest. My father and mother had never said the same. I had no doubt that when neighbors asked after me, they hung their heads in shame. Ellen had sent me into a lion’s den with full confidence that I would emerge unscathed. I had fulfilled her very high expectations. Leaders were supposed to be tough. They were supposed to compartmentalize. These were Ellen’s lessons. I saved Reveal and I made Ellen proud. To my younger self, that was a worthy reward.
So once again, I accepted Ellen’s tough love. I accepted Chip and his buddies, too. The irony is not lost on me that a company founded on beauty through a female gaze was now, thanks to these new investors, a brand funded by men. If I’m honest, it had been this way before Chip came on board, I just hadn’t been willing to acknowledge it. As a child, I had vowed never to make myself reliant upon men. Adult Max broke this promise many times over.
* * *
—
The morning of her interview for the public relations job at Reveal, Elizabeth Sanders strolled into my glass-enclosed SoHo office in one of the dowdiest outfits I have ever seen. She wore a beige skirt suit made of an awful rayon material that managed to look cheap and overwrought at the same time. The jacket was too tight in the shoulders. The skirt puckered and ballooned in places with extra space that Elizabeth’s proportions didn’t require. I almost sent her packing on the spot. How could I delegate the messaging of Reveal’s public face to someone who couldn’t style an inoffensive outfit?
Ellen had raved about Elizabeth to me. Elizabeth’s résumé, spackled with an Ivy League degree and stints at the best PR agencies in the city, spoke to this confidence.
“Nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said, as she reached across the desk to shake my hand. Her grip was firm and her face was bare. Bold move, I thought, to show up to an interview at a beauty company cosmetics-free. There was a genius that I respected. Elizabeth needed to sell Reveal’s story to the outside world. Her ability to do that didn’t require that she partake of the goods. I’d bet money there are nicotine executives who have never smoked a cigarette.
“You’re probably wondering what kind of lunatic shows up for an interview at Reveal with no makeup on,” Elizabeth continued as she sat in the chair across from me.
“No, of course not,” I replied.
Elizabeth grinned, a mischievous parting of her lips that was at once all-knowing and playful.
“I won’t pretend that I’m a cosmetics expert or that I understand beauty. I couldn’t care less what lipstick a woman puts on.” Elizabeth paused. Her shoulder-length brown hair was in desperate need of a trim.
This was either the dumbest or the most brilliant sales pitch I had ever heard. “Go on,” I said.
“What I care about is Reveal’s messaging. If you hire me, I will do everything in my power to ensure that the face Reveal shows the world is exactly the look you want.”
I leaned back in my desk chair, which creaked its displeasure at my shift in position.
“What I offer you is consistency and transparency. I am telling you who I am. My place is by your side. I am essentially a professional wingwoman.”
Elizabeth walked me through some of her previous PR campaign successes, then it was her turn to lean back in her chair. She crossed one beige nylon leg over the other—did I mention that she was wearing stockings—and flashed me that same grin. She had nailed the interview. It was merely a question of how soon I could make her a proper offer.
Elizabeth officially signed on as the director of public relations for Reveal within the week. Thirteen years later, she is now part of the company’s executive team, too. Hiring her was one of the best decisions I made throughout my career, not only because she is loyal and unflinching in her assessment of what is needed. She is also my friend, one of the few people to whom I would apply that term. I can say with some certainty that when another disaster befalls this great city, Elizabeth will search for me in the streets. For that, I am forever grateful.
Day Five
Afternoon
Following Sandrine’s rousing visit earlier, I finally have the motivation to leave my apartment. Amanda’s lawyer thinks I’m a monster, a creature who should be locked up under house arrest. Well, I’m no monster, I have nothing to fear. This is my narrative and in my narrative, I save the document of my life story, and I go for a run. Besides, my wrists need a break from the keyboard.
It is my first time outside in five days, since that ill-fated sunset reservoir stroll. The air smells like burnt caramel. I wear my usual workout uniform of black leggings and a zipped black pullover. My hair is in a low, neat ponytail. A baseball cap shades my face, which is slathered in SPF 50+. I don’t normally run in the middle of the day, at a peak-UV-strength hour. Still, what little of the sun makes its way onto my skin feels calming.
I avoid the reservoir path—too soon, as they say—and elect for the concrete of the main park drive. I am struck by all the random people out at this hour. They walk their dogs. They ride their bikes. People frolic on grassy knolls in plaid shirts and denim jackets, earbuds in, books on a blanket or bench beside them. Who are these people? The perpetually unemployed? The genetically wealthy? Not all these idlers, I imagine, can be the victims of corporate accusations and Board treachery like me.
The repetitive movement of my run shakes loose the anger from my meeting with Sandrine. What was a dense wall of fury slowly transforms into a pile of benign rubble, bits and pieces scattered here and there until they are indistinguishable from the gravel of Central Park.
I am on the east side of the park drive, three miles into the six-mile loop, when a young Asian girl, maybe four or five years old, dashes in front of me. Her shiny dark hair is in two uneven pigtails tied with pink bows. She has on a matching pink plaid dress with a white turtleneck underneath. I am wearing earbuds, though the 1980s new wave station is playing at such a low level, I can easily hear the conversations of nearby pedestrians, runners, and cyclists. My environmental awareness is not impaired. The girl comes out of nowhere. I try to swerve, but she is so close to me, I end up accidentally kicking her in the shin—lightly, so lightly—with my left foot.
The young girl begins to cry. Her little face scrunches up like a used tissue. I scan her leg for blood and find none.
“Are you okay?” I ask her. “You really need to be more careful,” I add. “You can’t run out into the street like that.”
An Asian woman, presumably the girl’s mother, runs toward us.
“Esther,” she admonishes the child, “what were you thinking? You could get hurt. You never run into the street like that!” This is my type of mother, one who blames her reckless child, not the grown adult minding her own business. Too many parents today coddle their children like they’re made of handblown glass. I have no doubt these children will grow up to become insufferable wimps in the office, whining about working long hours and unable to weather criticism. A decade from now, we’ll reminisce about the days when we thought millennials were the problem.
“That’s exactly what I just told her,” I say.
“Mooommmmy,” the girl cries.
I thought Asian kids were always quiet and well behaved.
“I’m sorry about this. She knows better,” says the mother. She turns to me. “Wait. You look so familiar. Have we met?”
My skin suddenly feels cold. The evaporating perspiration and slowing heart rate, I assume. “I don’t think so,” I say.
The mother stares at me. The young girl stops crying. She stares at me, too. I watch the mother’s eyes narrow, her long thin brows angle downward. I step away, ready to finish my run.
“I should go,” I say. “I’m glad she’s okay.”
“Reveal,” says the mother. “You’re Maxine Thomas.” She clutches her daughter’s hand and pulls her closer.
“You’re a fan of our products?” I ask, my voice shaky.
“Get up, Esther,” she tells her daughter. “Now.” The mother stares at me. “You stay the hell away from me and my child,” she yells. “You racist bitch.”
My skin is frigid now. People around us stare. My lungs are so tight, I can’t breathe. I start to run. To sprint. I don’t stop until I am at the front door of my building.
I don’t know what this woman read or heard about me, as I dismantled the Google alert for my name when I saw the first round of abhorrent headlines. I’ve avoided the internet altogether in the previous five days, my search for Caroline aside. Did this mother read a newspaper story? A social media post? She recognized me; that means there was a photo involved. What photos are people publishing? I’m sure the media is probably picking the most hideous photos imaginable—ones where my bare arm is shot from such an angle that it appears twice its actual size, or ones with stark overhead lighting. Perhaps they’re even painting horns and a trident on me for good measure.
Thank god this mother didn’t get a picture of me, though that may not stop her from a Facebook post of her own. I can see it now. Status update: My daughter was attacked in Central Park by the beauty mogul Maxine Thomas. She is evil incarnate. Should I warn Elizabeth? Call Sandrine?
All I know is there will be no more Central Park visits until this ordeal is over. When it comes to controlling my narrative, typing is far safer than running.
Friends and Family
The end of my twenties sprinted by. Reveal continued to grow, with new hires in design, R&D, sales, and marketing. We expanded from suite 506 to half the fifth floor of our SoHo office building.
Product wise, we expanded, too, though we did so at a very measured pace. The idea was to treat Flush and Glow as verticals; we would go deep within each category instead of building out new ones. If a customer liked Flush, they’d want everything associated with it. “Highly selective” was our business motto.
There were more shades of Flush—the range now included ten colors total. We offered them in three different concentrations, Watery, 50/50, and Potent, like cocktails, so customers could decide how strong their look would be. We added tinted lip balms, Flush for Lips, in the same range as Flush, and released copper, rose gold, bronze, and silvery iterations of Glow. We celebrated Reveal’s fifth anniversary with Glow and Flush for Nails; they referenced the original vessel I had used for the concoction that became Flush. Our packaging designer dreamed up expensive, double-sided Lucite compacts that contained a cream-solid Glow and Flush for Lips. Ellen convinced Donald, Chip, and his buddies that they were worth some extra cash—appearances mattered as much as the contents. It was an adage Donald understood well.
The early aughts were a sea of earnest girliness and strip club sexuality, an unholy pairing that only American culture could produce. Grown women coated their lips in ultra-shiny lip gloss that was so sticky it caught any blowing strands of their hair like they were human Venus flytraps. Runway and editorial models trended toward girls with enormous, innocent eyes and cherubic features. Meanwhile, Tom Ford, who was the creative director of Gucci, debuted an ad campaign featuring a model whose pubic hair had been shaved into the brand’s logo. Average women wore the waistbands of their jeans so low that their pink lace thongs poked out at the top. Eyebrows continued to be pin-thin to a degree that many women now regret. Beneath those perilous tightropes sat frosted eye shadow that gave the effect of zero-Celsius conjunctivitis. Tacky, shameless, balding, frozen: by comparison, Reveal makeup was the portrait of subtlety.
Fortune put me on the cover of their Innovators issue in 2003. A well-known conglomerate had expressed interest in acquisition and, though we turned them down because Ellen—or Donald—thought the company had undervalued Reveal, that it would be worth far more after some serious years of growth, the rumor garnered us much-welcomed heat. For the cover, I wore a white pantsuit from Helmut Lang, its lapels hanging off the front like first-prize ribbons.
“You look like you’re waving a flag of surrender,” Ellen chastised me over the phone when she received her subscriber copy of the issue. “We need you to project strength.”
“It’s a reference to the suffragettes,” I argued, though the real motivation behind my fashion choice came from a sinewy saleswoman at Helmut Lang’s SoHo boutique.
“Oh, come on. What does the right to vote have to do with Reveal?”
