Read Online Love, Accidentally by Sarah Pekkanen - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Pekkanen
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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.
“We’ll unveil our print ads and thirty-second television spots simultaneously,” I said, my voice ringing with confidence, my posture ramrod straight. “I recommend an initial saturation in midwestern cities: Chicago, Indianapolis, St. Louis. We’ll focus-group to test the appeal of different celebrities in each market and tweak each campaign before we take it national. If Jennifer Garner tests well in Iowa, this is the ad we’ll run in Des Moines.”
I unveiled my storyboard for a thirty-second TV spot. It featured an ordinary girl (you’d be surprised by how shockingly ordinary most models look without makeup) taking a swipe at Cover Girl: “Of course actresses look gorgeous; they’re paid to have flawless skin. But what about the rest of us?”
A quick cut to her makeup bag—filled with Gloss products in their trademark black and silver tubes and bottles—and voilà! Our ordinary girl is transformed through the miracle of modern mascara into a Jennifer look-alike as the voice-over announces our tagline: “Gloss: Gorgeous for Every Day.”
“When we spread to the coasts,” I continued, “we can look at television tie-ins. Drew Barrymore is producing a new HBO series about colleagues at a fashion magazine. It’s going to be this decade’s Sex and the City . We’ll want to look at a product placement deal.”
“How much is this going to cost me?” Fenstermaker grunted.
Probably less than the Jacuzzi you had to scrap, I thought.
“Eight million for the initial phase,” I said, making sure my voice
“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.
“We’ll unveil our print ads and thirty-second television spots simultaneously,” I said, my voice ringing with confidence, my posture ramrod straight. “I recommend an initial saturation in midwestern cities: Chicago, Indianapolis, St. Louis. We’ll focus-group to test the appeal of different celebrities in each market and tweak each campaign before we take it national. If Jennifer Garner tests well in Iowa, this is the ad we’ll run in Des Moines.”
I unveiled my storyboard for a thirty-second TV spot. It featured an ordinary girl (you’d be surprised by how shockingly ordinary most models look without makeup) taking a swipe at Cover Girl: “Of course actresses look gorgeous; they’re paid to have flawless skin. But what about the rest of us?”
A quick cut to her makeup bag—filled with Gloss products in their trademark black and silver tubes and bottles—and voilà! Our ordinary girl is transformed through the miracle of modern mascara into a Jennifer look-alike as the voice-over announces our tagline: “Gloss: Gorgeous for Every Day.”
“When we spread to the coasts,” I continued, “we can look at television tie-ins. Drew Barrymore is producing a new HBO series about colleagues at a fashion magazine. It’s going to be this decade’s Sex and the City . We’ll want to look at a product placement deal.”
“How much is this going to cost me?” Fenstermaker grunted.
Probably less than the Jacuzzi you had to scrap, I thought.
“Eight million for the initial phase,” I said, making sure my voice
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