The Opposite of Me - Excerpt

Chapter 2

"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 favorites 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.