Читать книгу Gloss - Jennifer Oko - Страница 15

PERHAPS I SHOULD STEP BACK A BIT, EXPLAIN how the whole refugee cosmetics story fell in my lap in the first place. It was a little different from our typical fare, because, typically, unless a piece had already been covered by, say, the New York Herald, we would not consider doing it. Seriously. A huge number of the stories we produced were stolen from a newspaper story, wire copy or magazine article. Or, sometimes, from a noncompetitive television program, like something that aired on CNN or MSNBC, or, on rare occasions, from public radio. Our senior staff, especially Carl, were very reluctant to approve an unproved entity. But the best way to have an idea okayed? Tell the seniors that the other morning shows were hot on it already. Which is why, when Carl handed me a press release from Cosmetic Relief, I was fairly surprised that there were no supporting articles or transcripts to go with it, much less outside interest.

“We want you to produce this,” he said, coming up from behind me, putting a single sheet of paper on top of my keyboard. “It will be a Faith piece. Don’t fuck it up. It came from Max’s office.” Max Meyer. He was above Tom. He was above us all. He was the CEO of Corpcom.

“Max’s office?” This was a first. This would be like Bill Gates telling a junior software programmer that he had a suggestion for some code.

“Yes. Max’s office.”

I took a quick glance at the pitch. “Why was this sent to him?”

“Annabelle, I have no idea, but it’s here now, on your desk. I e-mailed it to you as well.” He was clearly exasperated by me (this was already more work than he usually did) and started to walk away.

“So, can I go over there, to this refugee camp?” This was a very exciting prospect; I had never been sent abroad for work.

“What do you think?” he said, turning back toward me, glaring as if that was the stupidest question in the world. “Of course not. Just coordinate with the foreign desk for the pickups. And apparently Cosmetic Relief has some footage we can use.”

Years ago, almost a decade, when I was in journalism school, all green and idealistic and out to save the world, we had a class on ethics. The class was supposed to be pragmatic, sort of a guide for us innocents for when we went out into the big scary world of modern media. But what the aging, Ivy-shielded professor failed to mention—and what we would all find out way too soon—was that there were two sides to the ethics camp, especially for those of us who wound up working in television. On one side, you could make a living, perhaps a decent one, so what if you had to compromise a little? And on the other? Well, most of us had student loans to pay. So, if my boss told me to put together a story using footage provided by the very people I was doing a story about, who was I to argue? And of course we would credit it on the screen so the cereal-eating, coffee-sipping, lunch-box-packing viewer would have full disclosure.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll get right on it.” And I did. And, apparently, I did a good job.

But now, to follow it up, I really wasn’t sure what, beyond perhaps another interview with Purnell, I could throw together. So I called him in the hope that there were some new developments—particularly some that would bring me to Washington.

“Annabelle!” he said, once I got him on the phone, “I’ve been meaning to call. We absolutely loved the story!” Purnell had a very feminine voice for a man, and it took a minute to register that it was him speaking and not, say, his secretary.

I thanked him for the compliment and told him about my plight, and he said he was of course thrilled to get more publicity for his cause and was happy to help. In fact, he told me, it just so happened that a rather big story was about to break. Vanity, the cosmetics company that was funding his venture, had decided to start using some of the Fards as models for their new line of lipsticks and lip gloss. A delegation of select refugees was coming to Washington to kick off the campaign.

“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