Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

At 8 o’clock, the newsroom was quiet as the Frontline theme played. When Rebecca appeared on-screen, she looked different. Her hair was in soft waves instead of her usual sleek blowout, and her dress was a pastel floral instead of her favored bright solids. This was the Rebecca Carter who remembered her years in family-centric morning television.

“Good evening,” she began. “At Frontline, we have one mission. Keeping you, our audience, as fairly and accurately informed as possible. You’ve probably noticed that I don’t often speak about myself. That’s because this hour isn’t about me—it’s about you. But tonight, we’re featuring a story that hits close to home. So I want to speak to you personally. I want to speak to you as a mother.”

Fifteen minutes later, when the story ended and we went to commercial, the newsroom exploded in applause. Jamie broke into a grin, and slung his arm around me. “You’re good at this,” he said. “You know? You’ve got it, Trapp.”

In the past year, evidence of my contributions had appeared on-screen in small ways. A statistic that I’d dug up, or a change made after my fact-check. But this was different; this was bigger. A contribution big enough that it might actually compel a viewer to keep watching. It might stick with them. It might change their mind.

After the broadcast, everyone gathered in the newsroom. Rebecca and Eliza believed in traditions, and one of them was marking a big story with good champagne. A few minutes later, Eliza came over with two plastic flutes. She handed one to me, then tapped hers against mine.

“We’ll have to wait for the overnights,” she said. “But I have a good feeling.”

“Rebecca was great,” I said.

“Remind me how long you’ve been here?” Eliza squinted at me.

“A little over a year.”

“You’re a quick study.”

I glanced over at Jamie, across the room. “I’ve had a good mentor.”

“So you’re modest, too.” Eliza smiled. “Follow me. I want you to meet someone.”

Rebecca was in the corner with a handful of executives, some of whom I recognized from her holiday party. There was an older woman, deep in conversation with Rebecca. She looked like the kind of woman who would be friends with the Bradleys: ash-blond hair, a tweed suit that suggested Chanel. Eliza tapped her on the shoulder.

“Ginny,” Eliza said. “This is Violet Trapp, the young woman I was telling you about. She’s our newest associate producer. Violet, this is Ginny Grass, president of KCN.”

“I’m—what?” I said.

“She just got promoted,” Eliza added. “Approximately five minutes ago.”

“Congratulations,” Ginny said, shaking my hand. Her voice had a crisp delivery that reminded me of old black-and-white movies. “Lovely to meet you.”

“Thank you,” I said. Then to Eliza and Rebecca, I said. “Wait, really?”

“So what do you think, Gin?” Rebecca said. “Think we beat MSNBC?”

“Let me worry about that,” Ginny said. “Just enjoy yourselves tonight.”

“Oh please.” Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Give me the numbers as soon as you have them.”

“You’d think a Peabody and six Emmys would help with her obsession, but you’d be wrong,” Eliza murmured to me.

“Don’t let her fool you,” Rebecca said, hitting Eliza on the shoulder. “She’s a whore for the ratings just like the rest of us.”

Ginny wore a strained smile. I got the sense she disliked my witnessing this level of candor—and insecurity—among my superiors. “It’s an achievement no matter what,” she said. “We should all feel proud of this story.”

“I can feel proud and still envy Fox’s audience, can’t I?” Rebecca said.

Eliza nudged me. “Go on, go celebrate. You don’t have to hang with the old folks.”

Jamie was by the kitchenette, which had been turned into a makeshift bar. He refilled my plastic flute. “You look like you have some good news to share,” he said.

I paused. “Did you know?”

“Just a few minutes before they told you.” He grinned, then leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Congratulations.”

I touched my cheek in surprise. I blushed, and so did Jamie. The moment stretched on for several long beats, until Jamie glanced away. “Your phone,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Your phone.” He pointed at my hand. I’d gotten into the habit of bringing my phone everywhere, even the bathroom. “Someone’s calling you.”

“Oh,” I said. “Just a second.”

I stepped away, stuck my finger in the other ear. “Hey,” I answered. “I can’t really talk.”

“Violet!” Stella had to shout over the music in the background. “You need to get down here, stat. This party is crazy.”

“I’m still at work.”

“It’s nine thirty. The show’s over, isn’t it? You can bring that guy, you know, whatshisname. Frank. Isn’t his name Frank?”

“His name is Jamie.”

“Okay, sure. I’m putting your names on the guest list.”

“Stella, I can’t—”

“Nope,” she said. “Just one night. I’m forcing you not to be lame for just one night. Don’t be such a baby, Violet. Get your ass in a cab.”

“You talking about me?” Jamie said, after I hung up.

“Will you come to this party with me?” I said, before I could think better of it.

The party was at the Boom Boom Room, at the top of the Standard Hotel.

“The what? ” Jamie said, as we rode the E train downtown, swaying back and forth from the rhythm of the tracks. “That’s really what it’s called?”

Stella may not have known the difference between Sunni and Shia, or Myanmar and Mozambique, but she did possess a specific and potent kind of vocabulary: the name of every chic restaurant and club and boutique and designer on the island of Manhattan. She always assumed I knew what she was talking about, because it was unthinkable not to know these things. What is New York if not the places where the wealthy and beautiful go to exercise their wealth and beauty? Her mental map of the city must have been a funny thing. Clusters of bright pinpoints in SoHo and the West Village and Chelsea, a few along Madison Avenue on the Upper East Side. The rest of the island just darkness. Although we had been sleeping under the same roof since January, Stella and I lived in virtually different cities.

“I’ve never been,” I said. “But she’s there all the time.”

“It’s kind of a ridiculous name,” Jamie said.

“Well, she’s kind of a ridiculous person.”

“She works in fashion?”

“Part time, a few days a week. She’s what you might call a lady of leisure.”

We walked west down Thirteenth Street toward the Standard. It was a Thursday night, which meant the neighborhood was thrumming. The lobby was packed with people waiting for the elevator to the rooftop club. “Wow,” Jamie said. “Doesn’t anyone have work tomorrow?”

“We do. And we’re here. We’re guests of Stella Bradley,” I said to the woman with the clipboard, who crossed off our names and gestured us into the elevator.

At the top of the elevator, a mirrored and carpeted hallway led to the club. I stood on my toes, trying to catch a glimpse of Stella. A gorgeous redhead in a tight white dress appeared next to Jamie and me, holding a silver tray with glass flutes. “Champagne?” she said, towering in her stilettos. She smiled and laid a manicured hand on Jamie’s arm.

I shook my head. Who knew what a drink at this place cost? Payday was eight days away, and I had to make the seventy dollars in my bank account last until then.

“Okay,” Jamie said, watching the woman walk away. “I get it.”

“You know, they’re paying her a lot of money to flirt with you. It’s her job.”