Jennifer Oko - Gloss

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I said, because Lord knows that would have been a great way for Faith to wrap up the story the first time around.

“The deal just got finalized last week, after the piece aired.”

To me, that new information really only meant one thing: it was a good excuse to travel to D.C. sooner rather than later. It meant I might find time for that cup of coffee right away.

“Why don’t I come down,” I said. “We could discuss this more in person.”

“On camera?”

“Well, yes, but not immediately. I mean, we will need to do another interview on camera, but first maybe I should just come down to talk.”

Purnell hesitated. Then he cleared his throat, sounding like a jungle bird doing a mating call. I moved my phone’s headset off my ear for a moment.

“Are you there?” he said.

“I’m here. So, how about it? I could come down one day later this week.”

He exhaled loudly. “Well, at this point, Annie, I would love to see you, but I wouldn’t want you to make a wasted trip. There’s not much more I can say in person that I couldn’t tell you over the phone.”

“Well, is there anyone else I can meet? What about those refugee models? Are any in D.C. yet? Maybe it would be good for me to meet them once before we put them on camera?”

“I would need to check on it.”

“I won’t take a lot of your time,” I said, meaning it. He wasn’t the person I really wanted to see, anyway. “And it would be easier to discuss how to proceed with the follow-up segment if I could meet some of the other people involved. It’s really important that I do the best job possible on this story. Even our CEO, Max Meyer, is interested in this, so you should feel pretty good about it, Mr. Purnell.”

“Call me Doug.”

“Doug.”

Usually, people responded to a request from a network news producer as if it were a request from the president—rolling out the red carpets, bending over left, front and backward to accommodate. I’ve had people cancel school, surgical appointments, work, you name it, just for the chance to be on TV. Apparently, Douglas Purnell just wasn’t that impressionable.

“Well,” he continued, “I am not sure they are available yet. Hold on, though. Let me look at my schedule. For my old pal Max Meyer, maybe I can squeeze you in.”

“You know Max?”

“Figure of speech. Just met him at a conference once. A long time ago. Anyway, I’m leaving town later in the week.” I could hear him tapping at his keyboard. “Schedule’s pretty packed,” he said. “How about lunch today?”

“Today?”

“Sure, why not?”

Because I’d only had about three hours of sleep, that’s why. “How about tomorrow?”

“I have meetings all day tomorrow. I’m free this evening, though. How about dinner?”

Well, I figured, that would mean I would have to overnight in D.C., which would mean more time for coffee. I could always nap on the plane. If I left the office now, I’d have time to go home to grab some clothing, some perfume, and drop off a key for my doorman so he could stop in to feed Margarita, my cat.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll meet you at your office around five.”

I called travel to book the ticket and hotel, confident that Carl would approve the expense.

From: akapner@riseandshine.com

To: Mark.Thurber@whitehouse.gov

Re: Coffee

Not sure about you, but I didn’t sleep much last night. I could really use a cup of joe. And, guess what? They want a follow-up on that Ideals story. I am going to be in D.C. in a few hours.—Annabelle

P.S. The flowers are stunning.

Dear New Day USA,

I am not the sort of person who writes letters to television programs, but I just wanted to write and say that I love your American Ideals series. In times like these, it is so important for us to highlight what is good about America. Bless you all.

Jim Merit

Sterling, VA

I ALWAYS FELT THERE WAS SOMETHING MOMENTOUS about flying into Washington, D.C. Partly because they made you stay in your seat for the full half hour prior to landing, which was often the point when you needed to use the facilities. But mostly it seemed momentous because from high above, the nation’s capital looked like a very promising place. With its elegant memorials lining the banks of the Potomac and the Washington Monument proudly reaching to the sky, from just below cloud level Washington was one of the prettiest cities on earth. It was a pity that the drive downtown quickly shattered that illusion.

Purnell’s office was in Logan Circle. It was an area that just a few years prior had practically been a no-man’s land. Now it held some of the most prestigious and coveted properties in town. Like Tribeca in the nineties. Except, of course, this was not New York, so pretty much the only people wearing black were the ones heading to funerals. Anyway, while prestigious, the neighborhood was still transitional, and not three blocks from Purnell’s office it was fairly easy to find a crack house, should you want to. But that is neither here nor there. Crack has no part in this story. Like a lot of stories that take place in Washington, we will simply avoid discussing or acknowledging the fact that the capital of the richest country on earth is practically third world, what with the intense division between rich and poor, the horrendous state of local corruption, the pathetic public works and insanely high crime rate. Violent crime, I mean. Other types of crime, white-collar crimes, the sinister sort of crimes where you never see your victims so you don’t have to feel guilty, well, they do play a part in this story.

The Cosmetic Relief office was very much in the style of a New York City loft, all airy pretense and boasting with space, making it the envy of nonprofits and NGOs everywhere. I couldn’t help but think that the money spent on rent might have put a number of inner city kids through college, or, more to the point, feed a few hundred Fardish families for a year. But then there were the mural-size photos that lined the entrance walls, pictures of refugees happily putting on lip gloss, of little Fardish girls learning to apply eyeliner. If these were the models, they were worth a lot. Their lacquered smiles said it all.

“Annabelle!”

Purnell met me up at reception, open-armed, squeaking. He startled me.

“Oh! Hi.” I had been sitting on a tightly stuffed orange armchair, and when I started to stand I knocked a few magazines off the circular glass table in front of me. “Sorry,” I said, leaning forward to pick them up, belatedly aware that at that angle he might be able to see down my wrap dress. I quickly stood.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me,” I said.

“No worries, Annabelle. No worries,” he replied. He was a bit creepy. His body did not fit his voice. While he spoke like an adolescent girl, or, to be fair, a young boy whose voice still hadn’t exited the developmental stage, his body was a bit more well formed—like a big, goofy uncle figure, a Santa Claus or a Buddha. A mass of white-gray hair connected to a well-trimmed but full beard, completing a circle around his head, causing his face to look like the pit in the middle of a halved fleshy fruit. He had a lot of extra insulation; when we had done the first round of interviews it took my crew a full hour to light him because sweat kept breaking through, creating too much shine on his forehead and nose no matter how much powder we applied.

“So…” I so eloquently murmured, trying to move our conversation forward.

“So,” he said, “are you hungry? Ready to eat? We have a reservation at Casablanca.”

This surprised me, as well. Casablanca was a new restaurant, so busy it was almost impossible to get a reservation there. And it was cavernous and loud, not the typical place for an intimate business meal. I would have much preferred the Oval Room or the Palm.