“Whoa not so fast, missy!”
“Sorry! I’m rushing these Gaultier testers to my team.” She arched a heavily pencilled brow. “You’re the one responsible for all that Madonna business down there?”
“I am.”
“Then I can blame you for losing my own outpost these past two weeks to some no name newcomer?” Her voice held scorn but pancake makeup, overlaid with rouge, eyeliner and mascara, made it hard to read her expression.
“Gaultier is the fragrance to watch.”
She looked over the rail at the display and back at me. “That I grant you. A niche fragrance company competes with the likes of Estee Launder and L’Oréal. I’m annoyed but impressed.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She smiled and I hustled on. A tribute from the competition!
Within days of the closing our Chicago sales were on par with the top five U.S. markets. The vice-president wondered what had spiked the statistics. “We pulled out all the stops,” I told him. Under the radar preparation, over the top results.
Of course I told Andrew over the top results called for over the top thanks. His eyes sparkled. “I’ve been thinking the same thing since our opening. The entire cosmetic department got behind us. They need to know how grateful we are.”
I grinned. “Your thoughts?”
*“The Garage.* Hottest bar in town, gay or straight, plus, my tranny pal Nell-E’s just who we need to pull off this celebration of all celebrations. She’ll call in the troops.”
It took costume designs from his New York theatre connection, rehearsals, and as much coordination as the fragrance launch. Nell-E designed a catwalk to fit the space. The night arrived. Marshall Field’s cosmetic department employees, from senior managers to the cliques, to part time college kids, gathered round, drinks-in-hand.
Madonna tunes filled the room and transgender models emerged through the curtains, lip syncing as they Vogued their way past the guests to cheers, catcalls and applause. I stood in the wings with Andrew, heart racing until bam, Our cue.
Express Yourself began. Out we went, identically dressed in Madonna-inspired black suits, iconic Russian Red Mac lipstick and beauty marks. We morphed into precise imitations of the one and only, mastered her dance moves, and managed to stay synchronised.
At the end of the catwalk, at precisely the right musical cue, Andrew and I ripped off our jackets revealing gold and pink Cone Bras.
Chapter Five
Now that I no longer sought emotional or financial support from my parents, our relationships eased and I shared work highlights. My mother regaled her eccentric friends with my catwalk escapades. Dad shared the racy and ridiculous at Rusty’s Bar and Grille. Cousin Neil got an earful on a rare visit and dropped me a congratulatory note. I kept his monogrammed Cranes card on my dressing table for inspiration.
Genevieve married her high school love. Her heart of gold lead her to certified work for children and the disabled in a downtrodden area worse than Brucknerfield. By the time I pranced down The Garage runway, she was pregnant for the second time.
By the mid-nineties Ethan’s routine defined our marriage. Baseball teams traded, cut, and re-signed him. In March he left for Spring training then pitched April into September on mounds dictated by the current season’s league. After a two-week break, Fall Ball kicked in, then home from December until March. We survived via those rambling phone messages or callbacks, now from my first-class hotels and Ethan’s motel rooms too often on par with Gerty’s. The major leagues remained his dream as New York City became mine.
On my professional front, Olympia Beauty, a cool indie makeup artist brand, nipped at Gaultier’s heels with its combination of colour make-up, skincare, and decent fragrance. The start-up had gained enough traction in the Midwest to require an account executive. I imagined a global trend, tracked down the Olympia contact information, landed an HR phone interview, submitted the usual paperwork, and was told to call Field Vice President Linda Clarkson in New York.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants, dialled and unleashed my short, sweet sales pitch. “No one will work harder for Olympia than me.” I cursed my grammar skills. “Than I will. I’d welcome the chance to talk about the position or my career. Honestly, I am your perfect candidate.”
“Ms Paige, that will be my decision.” I closed my eyes.
“Which requires an interview in person. I’ll be back in your territory the first of the week. Let’s put something together at the airport Thursday before I leave for JFK.”
I tried not to sound like a thrilled and grateful teenager. Thursday afternoon, still tamping down nerves, I entered the VIP lounge. A middle-aged woman, bemused, smug, and as heavily made up as when she’d confronted me at the top of the escalator during my Gaultier launch, stood and motioned to me.
“Ms Clarkson! My gosh, I’m sure you don’t remember—”
“We’ve met. I’ve seen your work, Emma.” Gaudy Lucite bracelets jangled over her minty linen sleeve as she opened her file and what passed for my resume. “Frankly, your Robinson May store managers and buyers tell me you’re worth this interview. They had lots to say about your enthusiastic intensity.”
“You won’t regret it!”
“Some of it cautionary.”
I kept my mouth shut as she launched into responsibilities, outlining expectations in bulleted sentences. When she finished, I shook her hand. “Ms Clarkson, I know a lot of people want this job. I admit up front I have no college degree; I’m rough around the edges. I know I’m the most unqualified on paper.” I held her eye-shadowed gaze.
“I also know I’m the most skilled at getting results. That’s the qualifier that counts.”
She flat out grinned. “Enthusiastic intensity noted.”
All the way home I recalled and obsessed, recalled and obsessed over every interview detail. Linda Clarkson knew damn right well who I was, how we met, how I performed. Even before she made the phone call, manipulation and savvy business skill kept her ahead of me, a fact worth emulating.
I heard from Olympia within days, this time for an interview at O’Hare with the vice president of sales. I timed it with a routine Chicago district trip and tried not to let anyone know how distracted and edgy I felt. The VP might as well have been a banker, all business and projected sales figures with none of the Clarkson panache or frank opinions. I raised my lack of credentials, countered with my own sales stats, and how I could apply techniques to Olympia. He was impossible to read. Weeks passed. I worked from Indiana through Ohio. By the time I returned to St. Louis, I’d made peace with my lack of education and the brashness so hard to shake off. On my second morning home I pulled on pantyhose as the phone rang.
“Emma? Linda Clarkson from Olympia Beauty, How’s it going?”
I hopped to the edge of the bed. “It’s going great. I’m just on my way out to make some sales.”
“Just what I like to hear, Kiddo. Ready to join my team?”
Kiddo! “Really? That is, yes. Yes, of course.”
“You’re in. I’m keeping you in your familiar Midwest territory. You’ll start for us in two weeks.”
“Two weeks!” Mental math and my memorised calendar filled my head. “Thank you so much. I’ll give my notice tomorrow.”
“No, you’ll need to give your notice today.”
