“This is what you learn when you work in TV long enough,” Jamie said, on yet another Friday night. Halfway through his second beer and he was getting philosophical. “It’s all manufactured. Even the serious stuff. You think 60 Minutes doesn’t use clever editing and camera angles to get their point across?”
“Oh no,” I said. “Jamie. Are you actually a conspiracy theorist? Are you about to tell me the moon landing was faked?”
“Well, why haven’t we gone back?” he said. Then he laughed. “No. Here’s what I mean. Even if the story is manufactured, even if it’s contrived a certain way, the reaction isn’t fake. If a viewer starts to cry, or laugh, or get angry—that emotion is real.”
“So we’re manipulating them? We’re tricking them into feeling something?”
“You have to make them feel something. Your goal can’t be pure verisimilitude. If you just served up the news with no editing or storytelling or tension, the viewer wouldn’t feel a thing. And that’s bad for them. That’s bad for the world.”
“Treat the news as advocacy. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Treat it as a story. Use the tools at your disposal. Viewers need us to make them care.”
I waved to the waitress, signaled for the check. “You ever think about writing this stuff down? Turn this into Journalism 101. Professor James Richter.”
“I’m selective about my students,” Jamie said. “Gotta make sure it’s worth it.”
On the night of Rebecca’s holiday party, a Saturday in December, Jamie texted to see if I wanted to head uptown together.
Sorry, no can do, I wrote back. Having a wardrobe emergency. Original, right?
Sounds dire. Want company and/or help? he wrote.
Sure, I wrote, then gave him the address and told the doorman to let him up.
My wardrobe could stretch through a workweek. Cotton dresses that didn’t require dry cleaning, layered with cardigans and tights in cold weather, scarves and accessories from thrift stores. But the invitation to the party had said “Dress Code: Festive” and there was nothing in my closet that came close to festive. I could show up in one of my Monday-to-Friday dresses, put on some red lipstick and dangly earrings, and that would be fine. But was it a crime that I wanted to feel pretty? This was another TV trick. You dress for the role. The outfit is part of the story. When Rebecca was interviewing strongman dictators, she wore tailored black suits. After a natural disaster, she was in khakis and field vests. With a teary-eyed widow, she wore pastels in soft textures. Tonight, I didn’t want to look like my regular self. I wanted to look like the person I was becoming.
In college, Stella let me borrow clothes, but only on her terms—these were her things, and she hated it when I didn’t ask in advance. There was no time for that now. If I texted her, how likely was she to respond? So I selected several options from her closet and laid them on the bed. Rich silks and velvets in jewel tones and elegant blacks, infinitely more beautiful than anything I owned. There was a plum-colored wrap dress with a subtle gold pattern that fit me well. In Stella’s en suite bathroom, I cranked up the shower and hung the dress from the rod to steam loose the wrinkles. I was considering her array of shoes and jewelry, humming to myself, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Fuck!” I said, jumping several inches.
Jamie raised his hands in apology. The shower had covered his footsteps. “Just your friendly neighborhood wardrobe consultant,” he said. “This is what you’re going with?”
I glanced down at my leggings and T-shirt. “Yes, Einstein,” I said.
“Is this your room?”
“My roommate. I’m raiding her closet.”
“That’s nice of her.” Jamie stuck his head in the closet. “Is she rich?”
I laughed. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been in enough dressing rooms to know how much those cost.” He pointed at a pair of high heels with signature red soles. “More than any normal person can afford.”
“She is rich,” I said. “But I’m guessing the apartment tipped you off already.”
He smiled. “I like to give the benefit of the doubt.”
“I need another ten minutes,” I said. “There’s wine in the kitchen, if you want.”
The bathroom was steamy from the shower. I rubbed clear a circle in the fogged mirror and examined my reflection. The dress looked good on me. The wrap accentuated my waist, and the neckline plunged to just the right point, highlighted by the delicate gold necklace I’d found in Stella’s closet. I slipped into a pair of her nude pumps, and spritzed on her perfume for good measure. I felt like an entirely different person. I felt confident and attractive—and, at the same time, ashamed of my own vanity. Wasn’t it worrying, how much I’d grown to like these trappings? The clothing, the jewelry, the fancy parties?
Jamie was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a glass of wine in one hand and his phone in the other. Until this moment Jamie had only existed in the office, or extensions of the office. It was jarring—strangely and suddenly intimate, like his life had superimposed itself over mine. Jamie was, I realized, the only person I’d ever brought into the apartment.
He glanced up from his phone. “Looks good,” he said, giving me a thumbs-up, with no special affection. I felt a private relief: he’d come over as my friend, nothing more.
The elevator opened into the foyer of Rebecca’s apartment. It was a small room with colorful wallpaper, a gilt-edged mirror, an umbrella stand, a table holding a miniature Christmas tree. Through the front door I saw a much larger Christmas tree in the living room. It had to be at least ten feet fall.
The party was in full swing. There was a jazz trio, waiters with hors d’oeuvres on silver trays, a crowd at the bar. The living room was a long rectangle, with windows facing south toward the Midtown skyline. The décor was tasteful, the art expensive-looking. Everyone was dressed up and sipping carefully, mindful of the carpets and furniture, not yet buzzed enough to forget that this was the boss’s apartment.
The party had self-segregated by occupation. The camera guys and editors were over by the couches; the ladies from hair and makeup were laughing by the bar; the writers were huddled in a serious-looking conversation. Even the producers broke down into distinct groupings: the live producers, who tended to be extroverted and chatty; the field producers, who were adrenaline junkies with intricate war stories; and the tape producers, who had a hard streak of independence. The assistants were scattered throughout the party, identifiable by their timidity. By rights I should have been with them, but instead I stuck with Jamie.
Beneath the ornamented tree was a pile of wrapped boxes and gift bags. “Remind me what she got you last year?” I said.
“A first edition of The Sound and the Fury.”
I rolled my eyes. “Is that really your favorite book?”
“No,” he said, grinning. “But Light in August is.”
“Are you trying to impress me? Because it’s not working.”
“Liking Faulkner is a requirement if you’re from the South.”
“Don’t remind me.”