Gloss. Jennifer Oko

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ