Gloss. Jennifer Oko

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      CHAPTER SEVEN

      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.

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