pyramid scheme. Plastering a friendly smile on my face, I take in the crowded room and the people filling it. I can’t grasp how these women are entertained weekend after weekend by attending these parties and spending hundreds of dollars on overrated products.
It's odd. No, it’s fucked up. They believe in all this shit like it’s the gospel. The gospel of collecting crap for obscene amounts of money. They fucking trade one another. One woman sells makeup to her friends, then turns around and spends more money than she’s made on candles, dishes, clothing, and God knows what else.
None of them sees the vicious cycle that they’re all in—or maybe they do, which makes it far more fucked up.
My wandering gaze falls on an unsuspecting blonde across the room. She’s tall, her narrow frame dressed in black leggings and a red crop top, topped off with three-inch stilettos and dazzling accessories. From here, I can tell that her two sets of earrings, two chain necklaces, and four bracelets, are valuable. Not all are diamonds and gold, which is smart—otherwise, she’d be a walking target for theft. The expensive crystals that she mixes in don’t do much to help her case.
“Who’s that?” I ask, elbowing Olivia until she follows my gaze.
“That’s Emily,” Olivia says. “She’s cohosting with Claudia.”
If I were ten years younger and crossed this lady on the streets of New York, I’d consider which pieces I could easily slip off her and disappear with. I consider it now, in this place, but I expect to see these women again. I’m in it for the long game.
“She’s a perfect target,” I whisper, a smirk crossing my face.
Some of the color drains from Olivia. She audibly gulps before continuing her mission of informing me who everyone here is.
“Camille sells the fitness clothing that Emily’s wearing.” I look in the direction she’s pointing toward a woman who’s hovering around a display of workout gear. “She makes a killing with so many women living in leggings and sports bras.”
Fitness fucking luxury.
A woman pokes Olivia on the shoulder, and I take her distraction as an opportunity to browse the clothes. Anything for a moment of peace. The mask on my face from the other lady pushing products is drying, and it’s irritating.
I run the material of a hot pink sports bra through my fingers, then set it back down.
“It’s cute, isn’t it?” a woman asks.
I glance up from the table of sports bras to make eye contact with Camille. Great.
“Very cute,” I coo.
“If you’d like, I can make a list of item numbers for you so you can easily add them to your shopping cart on your phone.”
She poises a silver pen atop a purple notepad, and she hovers in the air.
“Sure,” I say. “These two sports bras and that crop sweatshirt.”
I point out the items slowly as she writes down the numbers from the tags. She tears the paper from her pad and hands it to me.
“My link is there.” She points to her contact information imprinted on the paper. “I’m Camille.”
“Elle.” I reach out and take her hand, shaking firmly. “I’m Olivia’s friend. We’re starting our own business cleaning and appraising jewelry.”
It’s not lost on me that Olivia’s inching up behind me. Keeping close tabs.
“Oh wow,” Camille says energetically. “Congratulations. You two will love having your own business. It’s so rewarding.”
“We’re very excited,” I say, turning to Olivia. “We should see if Camille would like to host a party.”
Olivia covers her own face in a fake grin and pulls her shoulders back. “I think Camille would be great. What do you think, Camille? Would you be interested in hosting a party?”
“Maybe,” she says, wavering now that she’s not the one selling something. “My schedule’s pretty busy, though.”
“We’ll work around you. We could have an event with you. Collaborate like you’re doing today,” Olivia encourages.
“Jewelry cleaning and fitness clothes together?” Camille asks, clearly uncomfortable.
“Women need extra encouragement to buy their workout clothes and go to the gym. If their jewelry is in tip-top shape, they’ll be buying things from you to get into the same shape as their shiny accessories.”
Olivia pulls up the calendar on her phone, nailing down a date. No backouts, no excuses.
I fold the list Camille gave to me into a napkin and drop it into the trash as I walk by.
I’ll need to go to Target after this—get the same quality at an affordable price.