Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “But it’s my thing, Violet.” He was doing his best to soften his tone. “It’s important to me. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

I ignored him, moving north on Broadway to get upstream of the other people trying to hail cabs. When we climbed into a taxi, I said, “I’m leaving, Oliver.”

“What are you talking about?” he said.

“You know how I was in Washington on Monday? Well, I was interviewing for a job. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to get it.”

He was quiet for a long time. “You said you were there to work on a story,” he finally said. Then he added, “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it was real.”

“But why? Where is this coming from?”

“This is a big move for me, Oliver. Plus”—I paused, took a breath—“I need a fresh start.”

“A fresh start from what, exactly?”

There was a new kind of anger in his face. For the first time, I was frightened of Oliver. Maybe I’d gotten it wrong. Maybe he was exactly as cutthroat as his sister.

“Say it,” he said in response to my silence. “I want you to say it out loud.”

“From Stella,” I said. “From everything.”

He closed his eyes for several seconds. Then he opened them and said, “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to let her win. Not this time.”

“You’re not letting anyone win. This is something I’m doing for me. For my career.”

“You need a fresh start?” he said. “Well, if it weren’t for Stella disappearing, you wouldn’t be leaving New York. Isn’t that true?”

What could I say? Yes, but that was beside the point, because if it weren’t for Stella disappearing, Oliver and I would never be together in the first place.

Oliver smirked at my lack of retort. “No,” he said again. “She ruins everything, but I’m not going to let her ruin this.”

THE NEXT WEEK, after wrapping Wednesday night’s broadcast, Rebecca and I wound up in the same elevator. “I hear we’re about to lose you,” she said.

“Nothing’s definite yet,” I said.

“The way Trish has been talking, I’d say it is. She’s thrilled, you know. Most of the good people want to stay in New York. Washington isn’t exactly glamorous.”

“That’s what I like about it.”

“You’ll be back, though.” We walked through the lobby, toward the street. Rebecca’s black town car was idling by the curb. “They’ll give you a few years to turn that place around, then they’ll call you back up to the majors.”

As I walked home that night, I wondered if what Rebecca said was true. If the tether of KCN eventually reeled me back to New York, I’d be returning as a new person. Washington would be a fresh start, and this chapter would become a tragic footnote. There were a lot of people in television like Corey, who had married young and then realized their ambition was so much larger than that of their spouse. So they divorced, and it was unpleasant, but eventually the memory receded. It seemed like half the people in TV had failed starter marriages. Maybe Stella had been mine.

At home, when I unlocked the door, the lights in the apartment were on. I froze in the doorway, keys in hand.

“Hello?” a voice called, from inside the apartment. “Violet? Is that you?”

Oliver appeared, holding two glasses of wine.

“You let yourself in?” I said. “Oliver, you have to give me some warning.”

He handed me a glass and smiled. “You know, this apartment is growing on me. I’m thinking I might give up my place and move in here.”

Oliver had been acting strange since the opera on Saturday. His charm had become more brittle than usual, his conviction absolute. He seemed determined not to relive any of the weekend’s unpleasant arguing, but the result was that he said outlandish things—like “I’m moving in”—and before I could respond, he quickly changed the subject.

Well, so be it. I only had to tolerate this for a few more weeks. The next morning, in the kitchen before work, I said, “Will you let me know if I need to do anything about the apartment—paperwork or anything like that?”

Oliver was reading the paper, waiting for his coffee to cool. “I doubt it,” he said, idly turning a page. “The apartment is under my parents’ name. It’s simple enough for me to move in. I’m immediate family.”

“I meant taking my name off,” I continued. “When I move out.”

He looked up, smiling and tilting his head, as if befuddled.

“I have to pack this weekend,” I said. “Trish, my new boss, she was talking about a start date in early June. I might go down to D.C. on Sunday to look for an apartment.”

“But you haven’t been offered the job yet, right?” Oliver said.

“Not technically,” I said. “She’ll probably make the offer today.”

Oliver shrugged. “Why get ahead of ourselves? If you get the job, then we can talk about the particulars.”

“I am getting the job, Oliver.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said, returning to the newspaper.

At work, later that same morning, Ginny asked me to come to her office.

Compared with the newsroom, the executive floor was quiet and elegant. The carpeting was thicker, the furniture a richer shade of walnut. There were no eager young interns and assistants running around to oil the machinery. Here they had executive assistants, serious middle-aged women who sat sentry in the hallway, their desks pristine except for the occasional vase of flowers. The woman outside Ginny’s office said sternly, “Are you Violet Trapp?”

“Yes,” I said, standing up straighter. She wasn’t my boss, after all.

“Ms. Grass is ready for you.” She gestured at the open door.

Ginny was reading something on her screen as she motioned for me to sit down. She let out a small, frustrated “hmmph.”

“Busy morning?” I ventured.

Ginny raised her eyebrows, suggesting that the nature of her morning was absolutely not my business. “I spoke to Trish yesterday,” she said. “You’re not going to Washington.”

I had guessed this might be the reason for the call. A counteroffer, an attempt to make me stay. I’d already rehearsed my response: “I’m very grateful for every opportunity Frontline has given me. But, with respect, this role would be a new challenge. And I think I can be an asset to the Washington bureau. With that in mind—”

Ginny shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m not trying to convince you to stay. You are staying. You didn’t get the job in Washington.”

“I—I’m sorry? I’m a little confused.”

The look on Ginny’s face confirmed what I’d always suspected: she hated me. Completely hated me. “I don’t see what there is to be confused about.”

“It’s just that Trish, and also Rebecca and Eliza, they were even talking about start dates—it just seemed like…”

Ginny wasn’t going to help with my floundering silence.

“I don’t understand what changed,” I said finally.

“I’m the president of KCN’s news division,” Ginny said. “That means Trish reports to me. So does Rebecca, and so does Eliza. If I think they’re making a foolish decision, I have the power to overrule them.”

There was a credenza behind Ginny’s desk with a number of framed photographs, most of them with politicians and dignitaries. She didn’t have a single family photo. That’s because she doesn’t have a family, I thought spitefully. She’s a miserable old woman. Cold and lonely and miserable. Even her own sister didn’t love her enough to stick around.