Free What Pretty Girls Are Made Of by Lindsay Jill Roth Page A

won’t hire someone to work in the studio if she isn’t attractive enough?”
    “Because she doesn’t love herself,” I answered. “It all makes sense, actually. Her narcissism is rooted in shame. Maybe even self-hatred. And all the makeup in the world won’t help that.”
    Wow. Deep discussion for the middle of the workday.
    “Look at you,” Carly jumped in, “hiding those brains behind that pretty face. Very intuitive—I like it. When you get bored here, you could always become a social worker, but I just figured out how Helen gets all of her gossip—when Sally’s under the influence.”

    I walked home from the studio that night, my head still spinning from the discussion about Sally. What Sally was most self-conscious about was what made her such a hit throughout the country and the world. It was easy for a large woman who wasn’t exactly attractive to sell makeup. Her television viewers weren’t threatened or jealous when she talked to them through the monitor. When she mentioned her dark circles, people believed she really had them. Her physicality gave her credibility and made her different.
    Our customer service department—oh wait, that was me—would receive the occasional email pointing out that QVC should put her behind platforms and tables that were closed in the front, not open, to hide how much space she took up underneath.
    And while it was unacceptable for one of her artists or front-of-store staff to report to work with a blemish (“Please stay in the back today,” she would urge the unfortunate staffer), her skin was a mess of bumps that only a talented makeup artist could cover up. And talented she was. When Sally painted a face, you could tell that it was her work. She was a true artist. Except lately, her eye and lip lines were messy and wobbly because she refused to get glasses or contact lenses. But she was so beloved on TV that even in high definition, her customers would buy anything she demonstrated.
    There were two very old TV monitors in the studio, one above my desk and one in Sally’s office. They were connected to a camera in the front of the studio so that someone sitting in the back could see if the store was getting busy. They had been there for many years and since Sally’s office was where everyone liked to congregate when Sally wasn’t at the studio, it allowed the staff to hang out in the back when the shop was empty and take their lunch breaks while still being able to see out front. The screen in my office was my only view of the outside, too, since my hallway had no windows.
    At 1 p.m. on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, through the television monitor above my desk I could see a little pale-skinned boy run out of Sally’s red Mercedes and into the store. Would I finally meet Elliott Steele?
    “Hi, Alison,” Elliott said as he came back to my office.
    Elliott was a good-looking kid, though skinny and small for his age. His big brown puppy-dog eyes and bushy brows slanted downward just enough to make you hope he wasn’t sad, but rather introspective and thoughtful.
    “Hi, Elliott,” I said. “Hey, how do you know that I’m Alison?”
    “Well, because you’re the only person I don’t know here and you’re sitting where Jamie used to sit.”
    “That’s smart of you. Nice to meet you.”
    No coy, youthful smile. Elliott got right down to business. “How much money is in the register? Did you make a profit today?”
    Clearly his mother’s son.
    “I’m not sure, but you can ask one of the girls out front. Is your mom coming inside?”
    I was hoping he would say no, since after my delicious half bagel with olive cream cheese, I didn’t have lipstick on.
    “Nope. She just sent me inside to get her mail. She doesn’t want to get out of the car this week because of Grandpa.”
    “That’s not a problem, Elliott. Can you tell your mom that I have a conference call in five minutes or else I would come out and say hello?”
    I handed him the bag of