Necessary People

by Anna Pitoniak

  “I always thought we were the most important thing in each other’s life,” she said, gesturing across the table. “This. Our friendship.”

  “Of course this is important.”

  “But I feel like you don’t love me anymore.” She furrowed her forehead sulkily as she sipped her wine. It was manipulative, but nonetheless it worked.

  I sighed. “It’s temporary, Stell, I promise. The story airs on Tuesday.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what it is?”

  When I hesitated, she rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Half the newsroom must know by now. I saw you guys meeting with Ginny. So you can tell Ginny, but you can’t tell me?”

  “Well…” I said. Once upon a time, Stella and I had told each other everything. And she was right: word was getting out, she’d know the story soon enough. “Okay. But promise me, you have to keep this close to the vest.”

  “Duh,” she said. “So what is it?”

  She listened attentively as I talked. Her eyes grew wider and wider. She didn’t interrupt, which was an accomplishment for her. “Wow,” she said, at the end. “Wow. That’s crazy. Danner—that’s, like, a household name.”

  “Yup. And it’s been going on for years. The whole company is rotten.” A flash of worry, remembering the picture in Stella’s father’s study. “But Stella, listen. You really can’t tell anyone. Especially not your family.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Give me more credit than that.”

  “I know, it’s just that—”

  “I’m a little offended by your implication,” she said. “But never mind. This is impressive, Vi. You did all of this? You tracked these people down—the girl in Florida, everything?”

  “Not alone, of course. Jamie has been a huge help.”

  “Speaking of Jamie,” she said.

  My stomach twisted. “Is everything okay?”

  She looked puzzled, almost annoyed. “Why would you say that? Everything is great. In fact, what I was going to say is that—”

  “Excuse me?” An older woman approached our table, with a big smile and the excited air of someone overstimulated by visiting New York for the first time. “Excuse me, Stella Bradley? I’m a huge fan. I just love you on KCN.”

  “Oh, wow,” Stella said. “I love meeting my fans.”

  “Could I”—the woman blushed—“could I have a picture with you?”

  “Of course,” Stella said.

  “Do you mind?” the woman said, handing me her phone. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said afterward, her adoring gaze fixed on Stella. “I just love you, I really do. I had to come over and say hello.”

  “You’re so sweet,” Stella said. “Enjoy your dinner. And don’t skip dessert! The crème caramel is amazing. It’s my favorite.”

  The woman blushed again. “Oh, but I’m on Weight Watchers. I can’t spare the points.”

  “I won’t tell,” Stella said, raising an eyebrow. “If you won’t tell.”

  The woman laughed. “This is the highlight of my whole trip! Stella Bradley. I can’t believe it. You are just so wonderful. God bless you, honey.”

  “God bless me?” Stella said, after the woman walked away. “Blech.”

  “You’re pretty good at faking it,” I said.

  “So where was I?” Stella poured more wine into our glasses. “Right—Jamie. He told me he wanted to talk.”

  “Oh.” I coughed. A sharp flake of baguette caught in my throat.

  “Yeah.” Her eyes glimmered. “You don’t schedule a talk, not unless it’s major. We’re having a late dinner on Tuesday. He told me to set aside the night.”

  I gulped water from my glass, attempting to dislodge the painful lump.

  “I have no idea what it is,” Stella continued. “No, that’s not true. I have a few theories. You want to hear them? I bet he’s asking me to move in. Don’t you think that’s the most likely thing? Although, you know, it did occur to me that he might ask me to marry him. But then I thought, that’s crazy. That’s way too fast. Right?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “Or maybe not. I’m so curious!” Stella’s laughter was thin and giddy. She was not good at recognizing her own emotions and was probably mistaking her anxiety for excitement. “He’s been acting so nervous lately. I mean, it’s been over a year. That’s not actually that fast, is it? And wait a second.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you in on this? On whatever he has planned?”

  “I promise you, I’m not.”

  She smiled. “Well, you’d have to say that no matter what, wouldn’t you?”

  On Monday morning, I made the call to Danner’s public relations team, running through the litany of allegations and asking for their comment on each one. If the woman on the other end of the phone was surprised, she didn’t betray it. “I’ll have someone get back to you,” she said crisply. “Could you please spell your name for me?”

  “How’d it go?” Jamie said, after I hung up.

  “Cool as a cucumber,” I said. “I have to say, it was weirdly anticlimactic.”

  “So they have twenty-four hours to comment, otherwise we’re going ahead.”

  “And what do we do now?” I said.

  “We wait,” Jamie said.

  The day passed with excruciating slowness. I managed to get through all of my work—calls, e-mails, follow-ups, fact-checks—and it was still only noon. I was either insanely productive, or I was losing my mind.

  “How do you stand it?” I said to Jamie, who was calmly reading a report about cancer research. He was making notes and highlighting things, engaging his brain in a level of deep thinking that was currently inconceivable to me.

  “This is your first real baby.” He didn’t look up from the document. “The second one’s less exciting, I promise.”

  Throughout the day, I caught glimpses of the KCN feed on screens in the newsroom. Promos for the story were running during commercial breaks. Rebecca was going to appear on KCN’s morning show to tease the story. She was also planning to tip to it at the end of that night’s broadcast. Hank, the floor director, let me watch from inside Studio B.

  “And be sure to tune in tomorrow night,” Rebecca said, as the D block edged toward the close, “when we’ll take you inside the explosive story of how far one Fortune 500 company was willing to go to increase their profits. You won’t want to miss it. Until then, I’m Rebecca Carter. Thank you for watching, and we’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

  “Clear,” Hank yelled.

  Rebecca’s smile vanished. She glared into the camera. “Who the hell booked that idiot? I told you a thousand times I can’t stand those people from the Heritage Foundation.”

  The guest in the last segment had been particularly pompous, extolling the virtues of privatizing Social Security. Rebecca kept her cool during the interview, but if you knew what to look for, her twitching frustration was obvious. She shook her head at whatever Eliza was saying into her ear. “I don’t give a shit, Lizey. Never again, got it?”

  Rebecca yanked out her earpiece. She spotted me as she made for the studio door. “Was that guy as big a blowhard as I thought he was?”

  “Worse, actually,” I said. “You should read his latest white paper.”

  “I’ve had enough masochism for one day, thank you,” she said, as we walked up the stairs from the studio, back to the newsroom.

  Eliza was waiting outside Rebecca’s office. “You were good tonight,” she said. “That color really works on you.”

  Rebecca glanced down at her hot pink blouse. “I hate this. I look like Barbie.”

  “Pink tests well,” Eliza said. “The viewers think it makes you look sassy.”

  “Jesus Christ, Eliza, are you trying to kill me?”

  Eliza smiled. “Maybe just a little.”

  She followed Rebecca into her office. A moment later, their laughter echoed into the bullpen. With Rebecca and Eliza, there was always a clean separation between their professional rancor and their friendship. They could
yell at each other, no-holds-barred, but within a minute or two, it was like nothing had happened. For this dynamic to work, the two of them had to be equally and fully confident in themselves. Both Rebecca and Eliza knew how good they were. And I suspect that each believed—in her heart of hearts—that she was slightly smarter than the other. But only slightly. Close enough that no one else would notice. This led to a certain generosity in their friendship, a constant forgiving of the other person. Jealousy was a non-factor, because why be jealous when you knew that you had it better?

  Later that night, as the office was emptying out, my phone rang. It was a blocked number. “Frontline,” I said. “This is Violet Trapp.”

  “They only gave me your number.” The woman’s tone was icy and impatient. “I need to speak to Eliza Davis.”

  “Can I ask what this is about?”

  “Put me on with Eliza.”

  “I’ll have to check—”

  “Now, please.”

  I punched the hold button and stuck my head into Eliza’s office. “Call for you on line one,” I said.

  She glanced at the clocks on her wall—New York, Los Angeles, London, POTUS—and then raised an eyebrow. “Someone from Danner?”

  “I think so. I tried to ask, but—”

  “It’s just an ego thing,” Eliza said. “They want to talk to the person in charge. Makes them feel better. Here, sit down.”

  Eliza pressed the blinking button and put the call on speaker. “This is Eliza,” she said.

  “Eliza. This is Mary. I’m the head of communications here at Danner.”

  “What do you have for us, Mary?”

  “These are serious allegations you’re making. We don’t take any of this lightly.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “We believe there has been a fundamental misunderstanding. This story doesn’t reflect the truth, which is that the culture of Danner is a healthy and supportive one, for all employees. There were a few reckless actors, driven by greed, who did unforgiveable things. We have every intention of dealing with this in a manner that reflects the severity of their actions.”

  “Is this your statement? Should I be writing this down?”

  “I’m doing you one better. Our CEO wants to sit for an interview. He was extremely upset by these allegations, and he feels that he should explain Danner’s side of the story.”

  “Okaaaay,” Eliza said. “But this wouldn’t be softball.”

  “Nothing is off limits,” Mary said. “We only have one condition. We get to select the interviewer.”

  “It would be Rebecca, obviously.”

  “We had a different person in mind.”

  “You know that Rebecca will give him a fair shake.”

  “It has to be Stella Bradley,” Mary said.

  “What?” Eliza said.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper-choke-coughed, but Eliza waved at me to shut up.

  “Stella Bradley. He likes her work.”

  “Stella Bradley is approximately ten years old.”

  “She’s an excellent interviewer, and from what I understand, she’s a rising star at KCN. Your bosses probably wouldn’t be happy to hear you speaking about her in that way.”

  “I don’t give a shit what they think. Mary, come on.”

  “I’m serious.” There was a long pause. “It’s Stella, or no dice.”

  Eliza pressed her index fingers against her temples. “She may not be available on such short notice. She could be out on assignment.”

  “I have a feeling she’ll make herself available for an opportunity like this.”

  Eliza stared at her phone, at the digital readout that showed the seconds ticking by. “Okay. I’ll talk to my people and call you back.”

  After the call ended, Eliza was quiet. My heart was pounding.

  “Eliza,” I said, my voice high and shaky. “This isn’t a good idea. We can’t do this.”

  She looked up at me, quizzically. “I thought you two were friends.”

  “We are,” I said. “But this just isn’t—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Eliza said. “We have to take this seriously. Can you find Rebecca and Jamie? And I’ll get Ginny on the phone.”

  “I don’t like this, Gin,” Rebecca said. We had assembled in her office, and she was seated behind her desk, talking to the speakerphone. “Why does he get to call the shots?”

  “We have to let Danner respond to these allegations.” Ginny’s voice was cool and controlled. “It’s their right, and our duty. It would be irresponsible to run the story without it.”

  While Ginny spoke, Rebecca pressed the mute button. “What the fuck, Lizey? When have you known Ginny to give a plum like this to some JV player?”

  “You know how Ginny is,” Eliza said. “Stella’s one of her favorites.”

  “This is bullshit,” Rebecca muttered. She unmuted the call, and said, “Yeah, okay, I hear what you’re saying. If you think this is the right thing to do.”

  “Thank you, Rebecca,” Ginny said. “I knew you’d understand. Eliza, you’ll call them back? And someone will get hold of Stella?”

  “Violet can wrangle her,” Eliza said. “Then let’s regroup, okay?”

  When I texted Stella, she was just wrapping up a hit in the 9 p.m. hour. Several minutes later, she arrived at the newsroom, looking especially glamorous in her full hair and makeup. Exactly like the person you’d want conducting a high-powered interview with a CEO. “What is it?” she said to me and Jamie. “You didn’t say in your text.”

  “Let’s go into Eliza’s office,” Jamie said. “She’ll want to explain it herself.”

  When I didn’t follow them, Stella said, “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Some stuff I need to catch up on,” I said, my jaw clenched tight.

  Jamie paused for a moment, looking back at me. He knew exactly how much this was crushing me. He also knew how pointless it was to fight their decision. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed, his eyes sympathetic.

  When Stella emerged from Eliza’s office a few minutes later, she was grinning from ear to ear. “Holy shit,” she said. “Violet. Holy shit. You heard, right?”

  “Can I talk to you?” I took her hand and dragged her toward the kitchenette. This was my last-ditch attempt. If I couldn’t stop this from happening, Stella still could. I jabbed at some buttons on the coffee machine, hoping the noise of it would cover our conversation.

  “You can’t do it,” I said. “Please.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The interview. Say no. Say you’re not comfortable with it.”

  “Are you insane? This is, like, career-making. This is my big break.”

  “This is supposed to be my big break,” I said. “It’s my story.”

  “It’s not your story. It’s KCN’s story.” Stella put her hands on her hips. “You should know that, Violet. And this is very selfish of you. Why aren’t you happy for me?”

  “Because you’re going to get all of the credit,” I said, my voice splintering.

  What was I hoping for? If she wasn’t going to change her mind, at least I wanted her to admit to the unfairness. She would have done that, in the past. I know this sucks. I wish it hadn’t worked out this way. The words running through my head were too pathetic to say out loud: You’re my friend, Stella. You’re supposed to love me. What happened to us?

  She smirked. “Well, I’m the one who landed us this interview, right?”

  The interview was scheduled for 2 p.m. the next day, giving us just enough time to cut the tape and edit the package before broadcast. I knew the story better than anyone, so it was my job to brief Stella ahead of the interview. As the night went on, the newsroom emptied. Eventually it was only the guy at the overnight desk and us in the conference room, papers and coffee cups scattered across the table.

  “Say that one more time,” Stella said, around 3 a.m.

  “Danner’s market cap increased to $150 billion last year.”

  �
�Wait, slow down. Market cap? What’s that?”

  I was tempted to slam my forehead against the table. It was like that all night: stop, start, stop. Either Stella was being extra diligent, or she was in way over her head. And which scenario was worse? That she blew the interview and the story along with it—or that she nailed it?

  The next morning, Stella had a rack of clothing wheeled into her office. She enlisted Ginny’s help in selecting the right outfit: she had to look authoritative and tough, but not too tough, because she also had to be a stand-in for the regular viewer at home. Ginny, president of KCN, undoubtedly had more important things to do than parse wrap dresses and cap sleeves. But she didn’t seem to mind. As Stella held up options, pressing them against her torso, Ginny’s affectionate gaze was like a scene from a gauzy movie: a mother watching her daughter trying on wedding dresses, the big day on the horizon.

  “Let’s never forget,” Jamie said. “We’re the real story, not them.”

  “Huh?” I’d been staring through the frosted glass walls of Stella’s office.

  “How is it possible you’ve never seen Broadcast News?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. I’m spacing out.”

  “You don’t want that,” Jamie said, nodding in Stella’s direction. “It’s a shitty bargain. The second you appear on camera, you’ve got a giant target painted on your back. That’s why they’re all so insecure, you know. They know people are gunning for them to screw up.”

  “It’s not like I wanted the interview for myself,” I said. “I just don’t want her to have it.”

  “You have to let it go,” he said. “This is too important for that.”

  I had heard it said that there were only so many stories in the world. That everything could be distilled to an archetype. The hero embarks on a journey. Boy meets girl. The fatal flaw leads to tragedy. I wondered about the truth of this. Did every story follow these patterns because there were, in the end, only so many paths that human behavior could take? Or was it that the storytellers were responding to the demands of the audience?