The List

by Karin Tanabe

  “No, you definitely should. Even if he doesn’t comment, you can spin it into him avoiding orgy questions.” Julia registered my lack of speed and frowned. “Can’t you move any faster? I’m about to shove you on a beverage cart and wheel you around.”

  That sounded awesome. “Go ahead of me,” I told her. “I’ll catch up.”

  Julia sprinted ahead to catch Mr. Brat Pack, and I shuffled along at my porcupine pace, trying to keep her in my line of sight. I looked around the tented patio area. Lots of people. Most of them old, all of them chatting animatedly. Everyone looked important, in that Washington way, and all of them loved looking important in that Washington way.

  And then, because of one panoramic look around the room, I lost Julia. Her red dress had been just ahead of me, but the crowd absorbed her. I wasn’t in the mood to chase after her. I wasn’t in the mood to do anything but think about Olivia and her gorgeous husband and the fact that they were married and that the senator, whom she was sleeping with, had to be nearby.

  I didn’t chase after Rob Lowe, and I didn’t look for Simon and his video camera. I knew we had more than enough footage for a good video, and I had enough reporting for three stories. We had stopped the live blog of the red carpet arrivals, and seating for dinner had not yet begun.

  Instead, like a Civil War soldier marching directly into the line of fire, I went off to find Olivia and her husband.

  The Washington Hilton was a mess of rooms and floors and, of course, men all wearing the exact same outfit. Tuxedos swarmed everywhere. I was certain I saw Mr. Olivia Campo on the ground floor near a bank of escalators, but the man in question turned out to be too pale. Olivia’s husband had dark skin and wavy black hair. He looked Central American or South American. Sandro Pena. I said it a few times softly, just to hear the vowels roll off my glossed lips. It sounded like a name from somewhere well below the Rio Grande. I thought back to our shared moment on the Mall. I should have confessed my love to him then. I could have played dumb; I didn’t know he was married. He was wearing brown leather gloves when we met at the rink. What was I supposed to do, rip them off to confirm his married status?

  It was on the second floor of the hotel, where smaller pre-parties were being held in a row of conference rooms, that I finally saw Sandro. He was holding a glass of red wine, standing in a crowd near the Reuters party. His hand was on the small of his wife’s back, and they were both turned away from me. A few feet ahead of him were George Stephanopoulos and his blond actress wife.

  I kept walking. Ten feet away, then five, and then suddenly they were right in front of me. Keeping as quiet as I could, I leaned toward Sandro’s back, almost letting the tuxedo cloth touch my face. He smelled like musky cologne and maleness and alcohol and every other mineral that existed on earth. That was it: he smelled like the earth. I could picture him meeting me at the church altar, whisking me away to honeymoon in Madagascar and fathering my children.

  His deep voice broke my reverie. “Let’s get out of here, go to the dinner,” he said to his wife. “I’d like to just sit down next to you and get away from this crowd. I haven’t seen you in so long.” He ran his hand up and down her lower back as he talked, touching her with the intimate affection of a married man. She gazed up at him lovingly, smiled, and put her arms around his neck. He laughed and kissed her on the top of her head.

  I backed away, now terrified that they would see me, and took the escalator downstairs, clutching the rubber handrail until my fingernails left marks.

  I was having a lot of trouble thinking about my job. I was supposed to be hog-tying celebrities and coercing snappy quotes out of them, but all I could think about was Sandro’s face and the fact that he was with Olivia. How could she cheat on him? He was gorgeous and clearly crazy in love with her. Why would she ever get close to Stanton, risking her marriage in the process—when her husband looked and acted like the ideal man? I wanted someone to kiss me on the head in public and beg to spend alone time with me. Didn’t every woman deserve a man who smelled amazing and liked hockey and wore a tux better than James Bond? Olivia had all that and was willing to ruin it all so she could have sex with an old man! She was soulless.

  I stood outside the closed doors leading into the main ballroom and gripped the doorknob. I was an idiot who had given up her glitzy New York job, moved to a barn in Middleburg, and gotten mixed up in something messy. And it had just gotten even messier.

  The dinner started and finished in a blur. Julia and Isabelle were writing the main story about the dinner remarks and I was tasked with feeding them color from the dining room. In a daze I emailed, “Sen. Prescott ate four dinner rolls, Michelle Kwan said dress was given to her by Vera Wang, Melania Trump said her husband’s legs are his best feature. Called them ‘beautiful.’ ” People laughed, people drank, and I just kept working, stuck in a state between shock, anger, and puppy love. And then half an hour before the crowd filed out, it was time for me to get myself together and beat them to the after-parties so I could cover their glamorous arrivals.

  CHAPTER 10

  I had filed six stories from the dinner at the Hilton and made seven videos with Simon. I was now allergic to famous people and standing upright. I wanted to crawl into my car, take off all my clothes, and fall asleep in the peaceful company of Olivia Campo’s husband. But I couldn’t. I still had to cover the Vanity Fair after party at the French ambassador’s sprawling stone residence, the most exclusive soirée of the night.

  I jumped out of a cab and got as close as I could to the red carpet set up in the foyer. I was ready to attack. As soon as the overpaid celebrities made it the ten blocks from the hotel to the party, I would start screaming questions about the president.

  My scream was more like a hoarse whisper.

  After two hours of collecting celebrity quotes while stuck behind a velvet rope, I was exhausted, my feet felt fractured in eight places, and I was still far from calling it a night. I needed some air.

  Behind the French ambassador’s residence was a huge patio extending into a dark, forested yard. I walked out onto the terrace and looked at my watch: 2 A.M. I had to drive back to Middleburg and file my nightly wrap-up piece, but I wanted three minutes to take in the atmosphere without having to interview anyone. I was at a French manor in a Galliano dress and fate had thrown me into the same room as the man who took my breath away. There were a handful of pesky details that turned the fairy tale into a horror movie, but I was choosing to temporarily ignore them.

  I walked down the slate steps and onto the soft, dewy grass. My heels sank right into it. To avoid falling over, I slipped off my shoes and leaned my body against the stone wall.

  In a few short hours my brain had gone from obsessing over Olivia and the senator to being consumed by Sandro, Olivia, and the senator. I couldn’t believe he was married to her. Of all the men in the world, she had to be married to the beautiful hockey fan. I took out the Flip camera and watched my footage of Sandro on mute. I watched as he spoke to Isabelle, nodding politely and laughing at her jokes. His face was smooth, but slightly square around the jaw. He had a small widow’s peak and bright, easy expressions. He was perfect.

  The feeling of grass on my flat feet and Sandro’s gorgeous image had brought me close to nirvana when I heard a voice I recognized. From where, I wasn’t sure. I leaned my head back against the wall until it started to hurt. When the voice got closer, not louder, I realized it was from the movie where that guy saws off his own arm. It was James Franco. Most definitely. That confused, intellectual stoner voice was one of a kind. I peered around the wall to confirm. Franco was in the far corner of the terrace, near my hiding spot, talking to Walter Birnbaum, a former aide to the president who had just gotten the governor of New York reelected.

  It was a perfect D.C.-meets-Hollywood moment. One that begged for me to walk up there, obnoxiously interrupt their conversation, and ask for something on the record.

  As I sat down on the grass to strap on my shoes, I heard Franco’s
voice again.

  “I’m done with it. I’m done sucking at the teat of phony power. I want to do something real. That’s why I’m jumping into the Los Angeles mayoral race.”

  “Are you really?” asked Birnbaum with excitement in his voice. People in Washington are simply mesmerized by Hollywood stars. They find them as fascinating as talking dogs.

  “I’m dead serious,” said Franco. “It feels right. I plan to announce my exploratory committee in late May.”

  Was he really dead serious? I craned my neck around the wall to make sure Franco’s face looked serious and not like he had just dropped PCP. I mean, this was the man who chose to teach a college class on himself.

  “I want you to help get me elected, Walt,” he said. He looked soberish. Sober enough to be quoted. I pushed record on my BlackBerry, which had never left my hand.

  “Do you really? Shouldn’t you talk to a few people first?” said Birnbaum. I was ready to throw my phone and hit that naysayer on the head. Who was he to dissuade Franco? The actor’s mind was made up! He wanted to change the course of history. Let the skinny man soar. Plus, think of all the articles I could write. I would become a Franco campaign expert and Upton would just waltz up to my desk all the time and casually ask me what time we were having lunch with our buddy Mayor Franco. One P.M., I would reply before I reminded him that Catherine Zeta-Jones was also lunching with us. Then I would smirk at Olivia and ask if her husband was free to join us, too.

  “I have talked to people,” said Franco. “I’ve talked to plenty of trusted, quiet people and I’ve made up my mind. I want to put my money where my heart is. Think about it,” he said to Birnbaum, placing his hand on the latter’s shoulder. God, where was my undercover video crew when I needed them? Why did everything have to be so by the book at the Capitolist?

  “I don’t have to think about it. I’ll do it. If you’re serious,” the wonk replied. He looked down at Franco’s glass. “Is that”—he leaned over and sniffed the drink—“absinthe you’re drinking?” The glass was filled with two inches of a light green liquid. Oh crap. Could you quote a man drinking illegal Czech liquor?

  “It is. It is. I always have a little with me. Fly the stuff in from Prague. Really gets the job done,” Franco confirmed with a masculine chuckle. “But don’t think I’m going all Toulouse Lautrec on you here. I’m not going to paint some tart in pantaloons doing the cancan. I’m serious about what I said. And I’m holding you to your ‘yes.’ ”

  Oh, that was so quotable. The man was sober as a judge! He was talking about French artists. I could tell his mind was crystal clear. I pushed stop on my recorder and typed out “HUGE SCOOP” in an email. I sent it directly to Hardy, followed by “James Franco is leaving Hollywood. Dropping out of acting. Has plans to run for mayor of Los Angeles. Asked Walter Birnbaum, THE Walter Birnbaum to advise him. Is announcing exploratory committee in May. Said this while drinking absinthe, which he had flown in from Prague, but swore he was serious. The two discussed alone in the backyard of the French ambassador’s residence at the Vanity Fair party. I have the murmurings recorded on my BlackBerry. I hid behind a wall and listened. Filing NOW.”

  “Send! Send, send, send, send,” I willed my phone as I waited for the stupid check mark to appear on the screen.

  “How positive are you. Scale 1 to 100,” Hardy wrote back immediately.

  “100. I have it all recorded. 110. Filing now.”

  “Fine.” He wrote back. “You better not be wrong. If you are wrong, Upton will can you. Will put up immediately. Will ask to have in F2 on home page. File now.”

  F2! The second lead on the website’s main page. It wasn’t the top space, but it was the next best thing. I’d take it.

  I wanted to ask Franco to elaborate on the record, but if I approached him, he would probably get his rep to keep me from running it. I decided to skip a direct comment, file from the car, and then head for home.

  I walked around the side of the wall to try to find a way into the house without looking like I’d been eavesdropping, but I found myself looking directly at a wall of the Chinese Embassy next door.

  Crap. I forgot how close the two massive buildings were. I was going to disappear into thin air like that peaceful flower protester in Tiananmen Square. Entire websites would be dedicated to my whereabouts. I was going to be known as the disappearing girl in the golden dress.

  Instead, thanks to the annoyance that is the modern security camera, a French assistant came out and escorted the poor confused reporter back into the house through a side door after advising her to wear shoes. I thanked the assistant for his hospitality and slipped out the double doors without any trouble.

  The piece went up just before four. By eight the next morning, after I had been asleep for two hours and had to cover a brunch at noon, my BlackBerry started to ring.

  “Adrienne, it’s Jenny from media team,” an excited voice screamed in my ear. “Amazing piece.” She caught her breath and kept talking. “Because of it, Franco released a statement of intent this morning! You were totally right. Hardy emailed you twice about it, but you didn’t respond.”

  I looked at my phone and opened the first email from Hardy, which had come two hours ago. It read, “You were right. Which is good, because if you were wrong, you would be seeking other employment right now. Good job.”

  Good job. Wow. I had never seen those words in a Capitolist email to me.

  “Adrienne, Adrienne, are you listening to me?” said Jenny, more businesslike now. I wasn’t, because I was so tired I had just hallucinated that a pig wearing a beret was talking to me. “Adrienne, CNN wants you. They’ll send a car. Ten minutes on the Franco stuff. Can you do it?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, rattling off my address.

  “You live where?” Jenny dropped the phone in shock. I heard it bang on her desk, followed by a slew of curses. “Oh, Jesus, sorry, I . . . I didn’t know people actually lived there. I’ll tell them to drive fast. Okay, they just texted back, they’re on their way now. After CNN, you have a really quick C-SPAN hit and then a pretape for the CBS Early Show for Monday. I know you have the McLaughlin brunch at noon, so they’ll drop you off there. How does that sound?”

  “Err . . . fine?” I replied, scanning the floor for something to wear and ripping the cap off a 5-hour Energy drink. I spilled half of it on the floor, which meant I only got two and a half hours of energy. I would have to supplement by eating espresso beans and a scoop of sugar-free sugar.

  “I know you’re tired, but you really can’t say no,” said Jenny. “It’s CNN. The car will be there in precisely forty-three minutes. The driver just wrote. Okay, that’s all, bye.”

  The rest of the morning was a tornado of sound bites and pancake makeup. I talked animatedly at a black wall in the CNN cubicle in Northeast Washington, and somehow that translated into a live television appearance. The host kept pronouncing my name Alien. Alien Brown. But I was too tired to correct him. At the Early Show studio I tried to sound as upbeat as possible, which was possible thanks only to three Excedrin and a diet Mountain Dew, which I stole from their break room. Then I found myself wandering around the Hay-Adams hotel with a notepad in my hand, trying to cover the very last party of the week that would never end.

  This, I told myself, was just a tiny taste of the exhausting whirlwind I would experience if I decided to go public with the Olivia/Senator Stanton story. I would be making media rounds in the back of town cars for months. But I would never be just another reporter with a byline no one could connect with a face. And no one would call me Alien Brown.

  Walking out onto the terrace space called Top of the Hay, I was trembling. I was interviewing Dennis Quaid, and the room started to spin like a carousel. Of course, I wasn’t in a room, I was on an outdoor terrace overlooking the White House. But all of a sudden, that started spinning, too. As soon as Quaid finished his sound bite, I excused myself and lunged at a waiter with a tray of orange juice. “Sorry, but if you don’t mind, I’ll take
two,” I murmured. I pushed my way inside and found a bathroom.

  Sitting on the floor of the handicap stall, I drank both glasses of juice and started to file my report from the floor. It was terribly boring, but I didn’t care. The quotes were right and there were going to be tons of photos to brighten up the blandness of my copy.

  Then I put my head on the toilet seat and threw up. Along with the orange juice, my body was rejecting weeks of fear, exhaustion, frustration, obsession, and panic. I dabbed my face with a wad of paper towels and tried to collect myself. I put lipstick on my chapped, pale lips and walked out of the room with a forced smile on my face.

  I was about to walk downstairs when I remembered that I had come into D.C. by town car. Though I probably would have driven myself into a ravine if I had tried to operate a car, I was an idiot for accepting that ride. Now I had no way to get home. So, like a stranded fifteen-year-old, I called my father and begged him to come pick me up. He said yes and told me to sit tight. I ran back to the bathroom to be sick again.

  Shakier than before, I cut through the south terrace to the service elevator that would take me down to the back of Off the Record, the famous bar in the basement of the hotel. I wanted to avoid small talk, celebrities, any conversation at all. But when the doors of the elevator opened into the bar, which I thought would be empty given the hour, I was confronted with a packed house. There was yet another Correspondents’ weekend brunch taking place in the popular watering hole.

  The mere sight of the crowd weakened me. I plopped onto a red padded banquette. My breath was short; I was exhausted. I needed the weekend sprint to end. I must have looked pretty rough around the edges, because the man whose table I had collapsed next to pushed his glass of water toward me, along with a napkin. I thanked him, touched my upper lip, and realized it was covered in beads of sweat. Embarrassed, I quickly wiped it off and explained that I was just a bit under the weather.

  “Drink the water,” he urged. “I promise it’s untouched.” I didn’t care if it was toilet water. It looked cold, and I was tempted to dump it on my head. I drank half of it, thanked him, stood up, and said I needed to be outside.