Читать книгу Gloss - Jennifer Oko - Страница 16

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.

How did I know so much about D.C.? Full disclosure: Karen, my best friend from college, was a scientist at the National Institutes of Health and I spent a lot of time visiting her. Soon, I was going to want her to be spending a lot of time visiting me.

Anyway, I liked D.C. Many people don’t, but for me, a native New Yorker, I found it calming and almost provincial. And actually quite interesting. Karen once told me that she thought D.C. was a bit like L.A.; if you picked up the industry types and held them in the air, underneath you would find some fascinating signs of life.

“Sounds good,” I said to Purnell. “I’ve heard they have great calamari.”

We piled into the Town Car that was waiting out front, and I text messaged Mark that he should meet me at Casablanca at seven to celebrate the one-day anniversary of our first date.

“So, tell me,” I said, once I had swallowed a few calamari. They were quite delicious. “You’ve dragged me down to D.C. This had better be good.” I said it with a flirtatious air, admittedly a little full of myself (and a martini), knowing full well that no one had dragged me down but me.

Purnell laughed. Or, I should say, he giggled. “He he he.” Like that. He told me basically what he had already told me on the phone—that Vanity was going to be using Fardish makeup and models for their new line, and that the presentation would be happening very soon. He wasn’t sure he could introduce me to any of the Fards just yet, but he did expand on the story a little. He said the products would be marketed at the “tweenager” market—girls between the ages of eight and twelve. And the really exciting thing, he said, was that the products had special ingredients that would help the young girls grow into adolescence with less acne and fuller lips.

It wasn’t really information I needed to come all the way down to D.C. for, to be sure. Most of our shoots were set up from the office. Unlike the prime-time, big budget magazine programs, we rarely scouted locations or pre-interviewed in person. But this time, well, my phone started to vibrate. It was a text message from Mark. He was on his way.

“So,” I said to Purnell, trying to sound like I deeply cared about the story, which, now that I was about to see my Adonis, I really didn’t. “Those models…You never told me if I could meet any while I am in town?” But before Purnell could answer, my phone started to vibrate again. Now it was a call, but with no caller ID.

“Excuse me,” I said, and answered it. “This is Annabelle.”

“Ask him about the tests,” said a male voice, weirdly accented but now a little bit familiar.

“Who is this?”

“Just ask him.” The man hung up.

Purnell was looking at me quizzically, and I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Wrong number, I think.” I took a large sip from my second martini and ate the olive. I was trying hard to buy my own it’s-probably-just-a-crazy-viewer story, the martinis hazing my line of inquiry, allowing me to completely ignore the fact that whoever called seemed to know where I was and who I was with. But journalistic integrity demanded I ask something. “Um. Do you know anything about some sort of test?”

“What kind of test?” A small ball of sweat ran down his cheek and into his beard.

I didn’t really know what kind of test, so I took a stab. “The makeup. Is it tested?”

He giggled again. “Of course it is. Totally safe. This is a topnotch product, Annabelle. Vanity wouldn’t have considered selling it otherwise.” The bead of sweat was jiggling at the base of his beard now, ready to hit the table any second.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven. I couldn’t think of another test to ask about.

“Okay,” I said, trying just to look at his eyes, not his beard or the table below it. “So when does this all start? Who can I interview? Do the refugee models speak any English? When can I meet them?”

“Annie,” he squeaked. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” I sat back, quizzical.

“You are just doing a follow-up, right? A simple little story?”

“Right.”

“Like, three to four minutes?”

“Uh-huh.” I had no idea what he was getting at.

“So, you don’t really need to shoot a lot, right?”

“Not much. An interview or two, the models…it depends.”

“Okay, I just needed to make sure we were both on the same page here.”

“We are.”

“To Max Meyer,” he said, and, I think, attempted to wink, although both eyes twitched closed for a second, so maybe he was just squinting. He raised his near-empty martini glass. And although I wasn’t really sure what he was talking about, I met his glass with mine.

We discussed the logistics of when and where and what I could shoot, and though a little disturbed about the strange man on the phone, I was satisfied that I would be able to put a nice story together, one that would be good for Faith and make the big boss proud, easily justifying a few trips down to D.C., which truly was all I cared about.

We ordered dessert.

We talked about having some of the models live on the set for a makeup demonstration.

We discussed which shades might work best for Faith’s complexion.

We had some port.

My head was spinning and it was 7:50, and Purnell was calling for the check.

There were no text messages on my phone and Mark was most certainly not in the room. He was almost an hour late. Being stood up, even just the suspicion that you are being stood up, can deflate pretty much anyone, even a stylishly dressed New Yorker.

“Can I give you a ride to your hotel?” Purnell said.

It felt as if a calamari was lodged in my throat.

I looked at my watch again. I thought about waiting longer, but did I want to look like some desperate wench, waiting around for him with nothing better to do? I slowly nodded at Purnell and, as if to change the subject, brushed a few crumbs off my dress. Marc Jacobs. Simple, black and tremendously flattering to the figure. I had recently bought it at a sample sale and had been very excited to take it out on the town. Now it occurred to me that maybe the dress was a bad luck omen, payback because I had grabbed the last one off the rack, out from under the grasp of another eager shopper. Karma, if you believe in it. I did. The black suede boots weren’t helping the matter. I had taken them from an old roommate’s closet without asking, and hadn’t ever returned them.

“Are you okay?” Purnell asked, his voice sounding more and more like my mother’s. I had to look at him to make sure she wasn’t actually there.

“Boy trouble.” I was never very good at keeping my personal life out of my professional, and, as stated, I was a little drunk.

“That’s ridiculous. How could a young lady as lovely as you have boy trouble? Ridiculous.” He reminded me at this moment of Tweedledee. Or perhaps Tweedledum.

“Yeah, right,” I said. I just about started to tear up.

“You know what? Let’s get out of here. I can show you some things that will take your mind off this jerk.”

“It’s okay,” I said, trying to inconspicuously wipe away the tear I felt forming. “I should just go to the hotel. I could use a good night’s sleep anyway.”

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Purnell said. “Come on. We’re in this together.” He had, at this point, placed his hand on top of mine, on top of the table. It felt soft and a bit sweaty. I gently removed my hand from under his. “You want to meet some of those models. Sure, why not. I can introduce you to a couple of them right now. Plus a few of my Fardish friends,” he said.

“I thought you said they weren’t available.”

“Most of them aren’t. But a couple might be.”

It sounded interesting, but I must have looked hesitant (or just plan pitiable) because now Purnell was acting as if he was trying to prop me up.

“I might even be able to scare up a few lip gloss samples for you to take back to New York,” he said.

For a moment, in my inebriated state, that seemed to me like as good a reason to go as any. I did have better things to do than wait around for a disrespectful guy. I could meet the models tonight. I could find out more about the Fardish makeup. I could sample it. Usually, there was no need for us to investigate very deeply into our stories. They were simple and formulaic, and most of the reporting had already been done in the newspapers. But there I was, and my subject was willing to give me more time and more access. Maybe I would even think of another test to ask about. At the very least, I would get some free makeup. I could give it to Carl to pass on to whatever up-and-coming local correspondent he was dating, and he wouldn’t give me any grief about the expense of my coming down here. People in television loved freebies, no matter how big their salaries.

But I really didn’t feel like going. I felt like crawling underneath the king-size bed in my nonsmoking hotel room and never coming out again.

“Annie,” Purnell squawked, grabbing my shoulder with his inflated hand, pulling me back so I stopped slumping. “I don’t know much about dating, but I do know something about power, and it seems to me that you are giving too much of it over to this boy toy of yours.” I looked at him. I was about to take dating advice from a damp, bulbous, thoroughly unattractive, much older man. Because you know what? He might be right.

And so, check paid, we made for the door and had the valet call our car around.

“Where are we going?” I said, once I hazily realized that we had crossed the 14th Street Bridge and were headed into Virginia.

“Don’t worry so much, Annie.” Purnell patted my bare knee with his chubby hand, making me start to regret this trip. I moved closer to the window and checked my phone again, just in case I had somehow missed Mark’s call. Nothing.

We turned off at the Crystal City exit, passing Costco and the Fashion City Mall before turning into one of those bland, cookie cutter town house complexes built in the mid-1970s, probably around the same time as my office.

We got out at the last unit, number 15. The front light wasn’t on and I tripped on the first step leading up to the door, giving Purnell the opportunity to grab my arm with his puffy hand to help steady me. He had a key and opened the door, and that’s how we went inside—arm in arm.

It looked like Mecca. The bar, I mean, the one I had been at with Mark the night before. Lots of velvet cushions and hookah pipes. Except these ones didn’t have alcohol inside, these ones were real. Five men (each of a sun-weathered, indiscernible age) were sitting around, spilled out over the carpet, lounging on the pillows, puffing the pipes, filling the air with a thick smog and a strange cinnamonlike scent. There were no women in the room.

Upon seeing us, the men cried out in unison, “Cow!”

That’s what they said: Cow. There being no cows among us, I figured that was how they said hello. When Purnell said something like cow in response, they went back to smoking their pipes.

“These are my Fardish friends,” he said, motioning for me to take a seat on a large, uninhabited purple cushion pushed up against a carpet-covered wall. “They are helping us with the project.”

I sat down and out from nowhere a little girl rushed up, offering each of us a cup of tea. Purnell held his up as if to make another toast. “Here’s to New Day USA and Vanity Cosmetics!” he said, knocking his against the cup now in my hand.

The girl curtsied and quietly scampered off, but I couldn’t fail to notice her absolutely radiant skin and full, movie star-like mouth.

“She looks nice, doesn’t she?” Purnell said, having caught me staring at the child. “Fida’s a big fan of the products.”

“Fida?”

“The girl. She’s going to be one of the presenters next week. Others are coming in a few days.” Purnell, now seated next to me, took a puff from one of the pipes. “Fida and her sister are the prettiest, I think.” He looked to the door Fida had run behind. “Fida! Lida!” He said something in Fardish. At least I think it was Fardish. He was clearly fluent in whatever language it was.

Fida came back into the room, accompanied by a smaller and fuller-lipped girl who couldn’t have been older than eight. Maybe ten for Fida. Maybe.