Opportunity Knocks

by Alison Sweeney

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"In Opportunity Knocks, Sweeney captures the insanity of Hollywood in the perfect blend of fun, intrigue, and romance."---Portia De Rossi, actress and New York Times bestselling author of Unbearable Lightness

Alex Cleary has careened from one dead-end position to another. But suddenly the ingenious makeup artist finds her distinct talents are valued by none other than lifestyle-empire mogul Hillary P.--renowned for her golden touch in broadcast and print media, as well as for her hair-trigger temper. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to join the daytime television scene that Alex is determined not to screw up.

Then a frank word in the wrong ear puts Alex's job on the line. Alex anticipates Hillary's rage, but she can't believe that this multimillionaire is holding her newest staffer to a nondisclosure agreement that demands reparation of 5 million dollars.

Alex has only 48 hours to repair the damage. And with a vengeful Hillary P. watching the clock, the devil will have her due...

Release date: April 5, 2016

Publisher: Hachette Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

March

“You want me to put makeup on her what?” I press the phone tightly to my ear, convinced it must be a bad connection. “Who gets a tattoo there?” I mutter to myself after hanging up with today’s boss. I like that every day is a new job, always something different… but there is a downside, too. Slipping my iPhone into my back pocket, I walk to where the “models” are waiting patiently for me to get to work.

I’ve only been a makeup artist for a year. And believe me, it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be to get to the level where I’m doing touch-ups on Ryan Reynolds on the set of his latest action adventure. Honestly, if it weren’t for the way my parents look at me every Sunday night at dinner, like this time they’re sure I’ll admit I can’t hack it, I probably would have given up months ago. They probably have bets in for how long it will be before I ask for my full-time assistant job at the family company back.

“So what’d he say?” asks Bambie. That’s not a joke. Her name is Bambie—and she has it tattooed on her inner wrist. If only she’d stopped inking herself after that.

“He said he needs all of your tattoos covered.” I start digging into my special effects kit for the concealers I’ll need. It’s a complicated process. There are three different types of makeup I use to make sure the dark tattoo ink really disappears. Sometimes it’s even a four-step process, depending on skin tone. In the beauty academy I attended last year, I aced this course. I practiced on the tattoo on my hip every night until I could do it in my sleep. It’s a small butterfly, but the wings are quite dark so it takes several layers of makeup to smooth the whole thing out. The tattoo? I’m an idiot. I got that tattoo for the obvious reason: a brief high school rebellion.

“Why’s it so pink? The camera’s gonna see that, you know.” Bambie interrupts my thoughts as I soften the edges of the reddish makeup that serves as the first step.

“I’m not done yet, Bambie.” I move some of my equipment out of the way so she can brace one delicate, pedicured foot on the table. “This is actually gonna take a minute, so why don’t you rest your leg… um… here.” I would really like to block out the fact that I am applying makeup with a tiny sponge to this girl’s perfectly waxed… you know what.

Yes. That’s what I am really doing. Why? Because I didn’t know when I accepted this job that I would be spending my Saturday morning doing makeup (and covering tattoos) for a bunch of… um… call girls. Can you put that on a résumé? How was I supposed to know that Lonely Nights was an escort service? I thought it was some indie band.

Bambie pops her gum again and opens up the issue of Identity magazine she had folded in the pocket of the makeup chair. I pull out the blending kit that will go on top of the reddish makeup to match her skin tone. There’s no foundation that matches this outrageously tanned skin where a bikini bottom should be, so I feel a bit like a scientist mixing colors to blend. If only my parents could see me now.

Finally, I head to set with my model, who hasn’t bothered to put on a cover-up of any variety. I never really considered myself a prude; I grew up in LA, for God’s sake. But I can’t help but start to feel a growing admiration for the casual, confident way Bambie strolls to her position on the low tree branch where the camera is pointing.

“Wow, Alex, you did a great job; you can’t see a hint of color.” The voice of the photographer, Chris, is a bit muffled as he says this while looking through the viewfinder. It seems fabulously ironic that Chris is openly gay. Not everyone on set is. I look around, noticing the way Chris’s lighting assistant can’t seem to get the whiteboard secured into the C-stand because he’s staring at Bambie slowly positioning herself to straddle the thick tree branch. I poke Chris in the side and toss my head toward the gawking twenty-year-old.

“Bradley!” Chris barks. Bradley startles and drops both the big white square of cardboard and the metal stand he’s supposed to be securing it to.

“Sorry, Chris. It was just stuck for a second.” Bradley quickly moves to fix his equipment, and even though I am still super uncomfortable about the whole situation, his preoccupation with the naked woman makes me snicker.

“Nice assistant, Chris. Where’d you find that kid? Your old high school?”

“Watch it, Alex… I rescued you from a wedding today, didn’t I?”

“Yeah… you didn’t exactly mention we were going to be doing a calendar shoot for the Best Little Whorehouse in Ventura, though, did you?” I whisper as discreetly as possible.

Chris snaps a test shot and moves to let me lean in and examine the image.

“Whorehouse? Is that even still what you call them?” Chris teases under his breath. We already act like old friends, even though we’ve really only bonded since I responded to the ad he posted at my beauty school ten months ago.

“Who cares what they call it? The point is, I thought I was finally going to have something I could use for my website.” I take liberties with his camera, zooming in to double-check my work—I make a mental note to pump up the color of her cheeks. When I scroll down to check my tattoo cover-up, I try to maintain a professional eye, acknowledging that the lighting hasn’t affected the final result. It disappears into the rest of Bambie’s skin tone.

“Man, I won’t have to Photoshop… it… at all. You do nice work, Alex.” Chris squints at my “work” briefly before resetting the lens to the original shot.

“Thanks.” I can’t help but feel flattered. Even if doing the makeup for this calendar shoot won’t add to my credibility or give me a tear sheet I can use on my website, it’s still a job. And any chance to practice my makeup skills is a good day. Chris is the best photographer I’ve worked with so far, and I’m glad to have him as a friend.

I pull a brush and a rosy pink cheek color (coincidentally called Orgasm) from my set bag and add some color to Bambie’s cheeks before tucking myself behind the lighting equipment to watch Chris do his thing.

Bambie flips her hair around and arches her back, changing her pose for every shot. It’s impressive—no way could I do that. Even with clothes on, I am just not meant to be on camera. I hate hearing the click of the camera taking a shot when I’m on set, even though it’s just the photographer testing the lighting. At five foot five, I have a pretty good idea that my gypsy skirt and loose blouse don’t make the most figure-flattering outfit I could have assembled. I can’t help it—I’m a bit of a hippie, even by LA standards. I wear flip-flops every day, and usually a brightly patterned, cheerfully loose outfit. Everyone gives me gift certificates to Anthropologie for Christmas, which about sums up my style.

“Beautiful, Bambie. Keep it up, tilt your head up a little, find that light, honey. Yup. Just like that.” Chris keeps up a steady dialogue with his models, and I can see how well they react to his direction. He’s going to make it big someday.

With everything in Chris’s and Bambie’s hands now, I check my phone, killing time until Chris needs me to step in again. My straw-colored hair refuses to stay tucked neatly behind my ears, falling forward far enough to brush the screen. I can’t help but notice the split ends. I need to get one of my classmates from beauty school to “practice” a haircut on me soon.

A few texts are waiting for me.

Emma: You’re doing makeup for WHO? WHAT?? Are you teasing me? That can’t be real!

Emma is my best friend. We met during our freshman year of high school and hit it off immediately. I am proud to say that while I was a popular girl in my class—captain of the cheerleading squad, thank you very much—I wasn’t a bully. I used my powers for good. I welcomed Emma, a New York transfer, into our clique with the simple announcement that she was “cool beans.” And that was that. We hung out the whole year, a small posse moving from class to class. It wasn’t until she broke my heart by moving back to Manhattan the next summer that we became really tight. Even though our friendship has mostly transpired via email and text, she’s my closest ally, the person who knows all my secrets, and the only one I trust enough to tell where I am really working today. Because for all the crap we give each other, I know she won’t make fun of me for this or hold it against me as yet another reason why trying to build a career as a makeup artist is a bad idea.

Me: for REALS!!!!

I surreptitiously hold my phone to take a picture of the setup and add it to my text for Emma. You’re not supposed to take pictures of the shoots you work on, due to secrecy and whatnot, but I know I can trust her to keep it to herself. I can’t help but giggle knowing Emma is so uptight, she wouldn’t show it to anyone even if she wanted to. In fact, it somehow makes the whole nutso experience worth it, knowing I’m probably making ultra-old-fashioned Emma squirm in her buttoned-up polo shirt.

While I wait for the photo to send, I keep going through my texts.

Sean: How late do you think you’re working tonight? We have dinner with your parents, don’t forget.

Sean is my boyfriend. We’ve been dating on and off since junior year of high school. He started working for my parents that summer. I met him while he was on one of their crews building a pool at this fancy house in Encino. That’s what my parents do. They have a construction company appropriately named Pool Paradise and they build really high-end, expensive pools and patios in LA. Well, mostly in the Valley, but still… they are really nice homes.

Now, Sean has been promoted all the way to a project manager. He’s even designed a few layouts. My dad definitely sees him as his successor to running the business.

Me: I didn’t know we were eating with them tonight? I thought it was just you and me.

I’m only twenty-five and I’m definitely not thinking about getting married yet. I mean, yes, it’s hard not to feel sappy and romantic with all the brides I’ve been doing makeup for lately. I have a deal with a local wedding coordinator to do the bride, all the bridesmaids, and usually the mother of the bride, too. It’s a package deal with a hairdresser she knows. But that’s really the only time weddings are on my mind. I’m starting to build a nice savings account so I can get out of my parents’ house. That’s goal numero uno.

A quick glance at Bambie confirms that she is still looking fabulous and Chris is still snapping away—I can’t imagine what it was like when photographers had to waste time changing rolls of film. And not knowing what the photos look like until you print them out seems insane. Now there’s a crowd of people approving images in front of a computer screen while we’re still shooting. I return to my phone to see an instant reply from Sean.

Sean: I promised them we’d join them tonight. Don’t you remember? I know I told you last night.

Me: No. I don’t remember. I have dinner with my parents almost every night.

Sean: Sorry, A. You know how your dad can be, he was totally angling for us to be there, I couldn’t say no.

Staring at his text, I know it’s not fair to be upset. Even though my parents treat him like family, Sean’s admitted to me that he always feels he has to impress them. He works six days a week for them, and busts his butt doing overtime he doesn’t bill them for. One time, in a fight, I accused Sean of dating me to get in good with my parents. He was so offended and shocked I knew immediately I had been way off base. So maybe it’s not on purpose, but I do think sometimes he kinda lumps me and my family together as a package deal. His family is all spread out and he never talks to his siblings. Sean loves our big family dinners, and I can’t blame him; we come across like a pretty cool gang. So I decide to wait a second before I reply.

Before I can scroll down to the next unread text, Chris shouts my name. I tuck my phone in my bag and hurry over to where he’s standing next to Bambie.

“Her lips are smudging. Can you fix it?” I look at her bright red lipstick while I pull out Q-tips and makeup remover from my set bag. With Chris hovering over my shoulder, I trace a path around the outside of Bambie’s naturally lush lips. It’s impossible not to compare them to my own decidedly narrower ones. I clean up the line, so there’s again a clear definition between the berry red color I chose and her tan skin. I stuff the stained Q-tips back in my bag to toss out later. I reapply the lipstick with a brush to darken the color in the center without messing up the shape I just perfected.

“Don’t smush,” I instruct quickly. Meaning don’t mash your lips together, something that most women do instinctively every time they put on lipstick or gloss. Normally it’s not that big a deal, but the bright red color I used will really stain the skin around her lips if she mashes them too hard. Based on the murmuring around the computer screen, which is zoomed in to an ultra-close-up of Bambie’s lips, and Chris breathing down my neck, I can’t afford to let Bambie mess up my work.

“We good?” he asks as I swipe some loose powder across her forehead. “We’ve got eleven more months to get through before we lose the light.” Luckily Bambie is good at taking orders. She freezes her face for a second, clearly still fighting to not rub her lips together, and then shoots me a smile before she stretches back out like a cat making the tree branch her home. I clear off the set, and Chris gets back to shooting.

I decide there’s no point in running through the tried-and-true excuses I could use to get out of dinner with my parents tonight. I’m just going to have to suck it up. But I can’t help thinking I’d rather cover up tattoos on a hundred girls than hear another lecture from my mom and dad.



“Shut up!” I dig my heel into Mark’s foot under the table. For once, I wish I wore high-heeled shoes. Havaianas just don’t have enough impact when trying to inflict pain on my older brother. Well, older by like five minutes. It was Mark, then me, then Juliet, who is the baby of the family, even though she was only two minutes behind me. Yup, my mom gave birth to triplets. Not to mention our two older brothers, Sam and Brett, who aren’t here. Sam is a biotech professor at MIT. I pretty much haven’t understood anything he’s said since he got into high school. And Brett is currently serving in Southeast Asia. He’s a pilot for the navy, something he wanted to do since he saw his first airplane.

“You shut up!” Mark retorts louder, making everyone at the table, including Sean, roll their eyes at us. For some reason Mark and I can never be in the same room without regressing to ten-year-old behavior.

I shoot Sean a look out of the corner of my eye. It’s his fault we’re here, I remind him silently. If it were up to me we’d be on a nice quiet date, just. . .