Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

“You’re still here?” she said. “Violet, you have to get some sleep.”

“I’m just checking one more thing,” I said.

“Direct orders,” Eliza said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’re in good shape. It’s diminishing returns at this point.”

Darkness came early in November. I wrapped my scarf tight as I walked home, shoved my hands deep in my pockets. It was good to breathe the fresh air, to watch taxis speeding through intersections, to smell the sweet roasted chestnuts, to let normal life serve as distraction from the somersaults in my stomach. The thought of waiting another two days for the story to air was almost unbearable. I was confident that the story was good, that it was important, that it was ready. What I didn’t know was how the world would react to it.

When I got home, Stella was in the living room, paging through the Sunday Styles. She pretended to be interested in the articles, but really she was just looking for pictures of herself amid that week’s social scene. “ There you are,” she said. She folded the newspaper, a perfect facsimile of a responsible adult. “You’ve been ignoring my texts all weekend.”

“I’ve been a little busy,” I said. How much had changed from years ago, when I was alone in this apartment, eagerly waiting for Stella to text me back.

“Hungry?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Starving, actually.”

“Good,” she said. “Let’s go out.”

On the walk to the restaurant, Stella huddled close, her arm looped through mine. She smelled like the sweet chemical tinge of hairspray from her hit that morning, and the same musky perfume she’d worn for the last seven years. The bistro was on a quiet street near our apartment. It was authentically French, the kind of place that had no menu, just a chalkboard listing the day’s items. We ordered a bottle of Burgundy, and when the waiter filled our glasses, Stella lifted hers to touch mine.

“It’s been a million years since we did this,” she said.

“Well, we’ve both been busy,” I said. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

She tilted her head. “You know, Violet, you seem different.”

“What do you mean?” I took a chunk of bread from the basket, spreading it with a thick coat of butter. Stella wouldn’t touch it; she was exceptionally weight-conscious these days. She subsisted mostly on wine, lettuce, and green tea.

“I always thought we were the most important thing in each other’s life,” she said, gesturing across the table. “This. Our friendship.”

“Of course this is important.”

“But I feel like you don’t love me anymore.” She furrowed her forehead sulkily as she sipped her wine. It was manipulative, but nonetheless it worked.

I sighed. “It’s temporary, Stell, I promise. The story airs on Tuesday.”

“Why won’t you tell me what it is?”

When I hesitated, she rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Half the newsroom must know by now. I saw you guys meeting with Ginny. So you can tell Ginny, but you can’t tell me?”

“Well…” I said. Once upon a time, Stella and I had told each other everything. And she was right: word was getting out, she’d know the story soon enough. “Okay. But promise me, you have to keep this close to the vest.”

“Duh,” she said. “So what is it?”

She listened attentively as I talked. Her eyes grew wider and wider. She didn’t interrupt, which was an accomplishment for her. “Wow,” she said, at the end. “Wow. That’s crazy. Danner—that’s, like, a household name.”

“Yup. And it’s been going on for years. The whole company is rotten.” A flash of worry, remembering the picture in Stella’s father’s study. “But Stella, listen. You really can’t tell anyone. Especially not your family.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Give me more credit than that.”

“I know, it’s just that—”

“I’m a little offended by your implication,” she said. “But never mind. This is impressive, Vi. You did all of this? You tracked these people down—the girl in Florida, everything?”

“Not alone, of course. Jamie has been a huge help.”

“Speaking of Jamie,” she said.

My stomach twisted. “Is everything okay?”

She looked puzzled, almost annoyed. “Why would you say that? Everything is great. In fact, what I was going to say is that—”

“Excuse me?” An older woman approached our table, with a big smile and the excited air of someone overstimulated by visiting New York for the first time. “Excuse me, Stella Bradley? I’m a huge fan. I just love you on KCN.”

“Oh, wow,” Stella said. “I love meeting my fans.”

“Could I”—the woman blushed—“could I have a picture with you?”

“Of course, ” Stella said.

“Do you mind?” the woman said, handing me her phone. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said afterward, her adoring gaze fixed on Stella. “I just love you, I really do. I had to come over and say hello.”

“You’re so sweet,” Stella said. “Enjoy your dinner. And don’t skip dessert! The crème caramel is amazing. It’s my favorite.”

The woman blushed again. “Oh, but I’m on Weight Watchers. I can’t spare the points.”

“I won’t tell,” Stella said, raising an eyebrow. “If you won’t tell.”

The woman laughed. “This is the highlight of my whole trip! Stella Bradley. I can’t believe it. You are just so wonderful. God bless you, honey.”

“God bless me?” Stella said, after the woman walked away. “Blech.”

“You’re pretty good at faking it,” I said.

“So where was I?” Stella poured more wine into our glasses. “Right—Jamie. He told me he wanted to talk.”

“Oh.” I coughed. A sharp flake of baguette caught in my throat.

“Yeah.” Her eyes glimmered. “You don’t schedule a talk, not unless it’s major. We’re having a late dinner on Tuesday. He told me to set aside the night.”

I gulped water from my glass, attempting to dislodge the painful lump.

“I have no idea what it is,” Stella continued. “No, that’s not true. I have a few theories. You want to hear them? I bet he’s asking me to move in. Don’t you think that’s the most likely thing? Although, you know, it did occur to me that he might ask me to marry him. But then I thought, that’s crazy. That’s way too fast. Right?”

“I don’t know, I—”

“Or maybe not. I’m so curious!” Stella’s laughter was thin and giddy. She was not good at recognizing her own emotions and was probably mistaking her anxiety for excitement. “He’s been acting so nervous lately. I mean, it’s been over a year. That’s not actually that fast, is it? And wait a second.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you in on this? On whatever he has planned?”

“I promise you, I’m not.”

She smiled. “Well, you’d have to say that no matter what, wouldn’t you?”

On Monday morning, I made the call to Danner’s public relations team, running through the litany of allegations and asking for their comment on each one. If the woman on the other end of the phone was surprised, she didn’t betray it. “I’ll have someone get back to you,” she said crisply. “Could you please spell your name for me?”

“How’d it go?” Jamie said, after I hung up.

“Cool as a cucumber,” I said. “I have to say, it was weirdly anticlimactic.”

“So they have twenty-four hours to comment, otherwise we’re going ahead.”

“And what do we do now?” I said.

“We wait,” Jamie said.

The day passed with excruciating slowness. I managed to get through all of my work—calls, e-mails, follow-ups, fact-checks—and it was still only noon. I was either insanely productive, or I was losing my mind.