Page 11 of Deal with the Devil
“I’m well aware of that,” he snaps, losing patience. “Unfortunately, Barry being Barry, decided it was a good idea to get plastered off two bottles of champagne and some shots at the bar counter of the Monarch. The gala’s fault for paying for open bar and bottomless champagne for this event. And if there’s one thing an alchy like Barry Bexley can’t resist, it’s an endless supply of alcohol.
“We’re in the middle of a publicity meltdown trying to get him up to a room in the Monarch away from the fifty other fucking media companies present for the event! You think ANC needs the scandal of one of its lead anchors being caught shit-faced in front of every power player in DC? It’s not an option, Portia. We need you to fill in for him for the event. Hair and makeup is expecting you at three.”
Before I’ve digested everything he’s said, he’s picking up his phone and dialing some other exec he needs to speak to as if I’ve been summarily dismissed.
I stand in his office for a few more seconds until I realize he’s fully prepared to ignore my presence until I go away.
Eventually, I turn around and walk out of his office, unsure what else I can do or say about the situation.
Last night had been frustrating enough, but now I have to fill in for Bexley at some $25k a plate dinner.
It’s true that it’s an open secret my cohost has a serious drinking problem (he’s had two DUIs in seven years), but being an otherwise polished, middle-aged White man in the news media, he’s fared pretty well. Despite his numerous scandals, he’s managed to keep his spot on Primetime DC (and had a carousel of female cohosts in and out over the years).
Since he’s basically the face of the network, he’s usually the one who gets selected to attend all the big and flashy public events like the Dominion Honors Gala.
If they’re throwing me in his place—the latest new, bright, young female cohost, it must be really bad.
I spend the rest of the day preparing for the event. Primetime DC will be broadcasting live from the Dominion Gala, which means now I have to learn everything Barry was going to do for that segment of the show.
It’s not even the worst part of the situation—it’s the simple fact I have no interest in attending that fills me with dread for the rest of the day.
The Dominion Honors Gala is some fancy, elitist, $25,000 a plate dinner where billionaires, international CEOs, media moguls, politicians from Capitol Hill, and foreign diplomats come together to celebrate visionaries shaping the future.
In reality, the Dominion Honors Gala is a smokescreen for backdoor lobbying, power-brokering, and global deal-making.
Ass-kissers like Barry might enjoy attending these kinds of public engagements, granted exclusive access as a member of the press corps, but I prefer to focus my time on real journalism.
The team in the dressing room already has an outfit picked out for me. I’m slipped into a midnight navy silk column gownwith a high neckline and slits up the side. The sleeveless cut shows off my shoulders as well as back, and once I’m in my stilettos for the night, I look damn near ten feet tall.
…or at least that’s how I feel.
My hair’s done in a sleek, low chignon, bangs and loose tendrils framing my face, and the makeup artist gives me a bold berry lip and a polished, radiant soft-glam look.
Half an hour later, I’m rushing out of the studio with my team. I have my press credentials tucked into the clutch that matches my gown, just in case the badge is necessary. It’s not like I’m Barry, who could walk into one of these events and be recognized at a glance.
From the first step inside the ballroom of the Monarch Hotel, it’s clear the event is exactly what I thought: a flashy show of wealth, prestige, and power. All from behind the thin veil of champagne flutes and charitable smiles.
The room is like a cathedral in size, with soaring ceilings and intricate crown-molded walls bathed in golden light cast by diamond-cut chandeliers. There’s a sea of men in tailored tuxedos and women in fashionable gowns, sipping on their drinks and chatting away.
I scan the room and notice several recognizable faces. Political rivals laugh like old friends while billionaire philanthropists and tech giants trade words. Media representatives from other stations have stars in their eyes as they engage with everyone they can.
Waitstaff move in synchronized silence, offering truffle canapés and foie gras toast among other delicately prepared hors d’oeuvres.
It’s funny that a room could be so full of people yet feel so empty. A feeling that creeps over me as soon as I find myself standing among them.
But this is what I thought I wanted. Leave my life in Newport behind and come to DC to advance my journalism career, yet it’s never felt more wrong…
“There she is!”
I look over at the man approaching with wide open arms and a broad grin, and I recognize him immediately.
Charles “Chuck” Whitmore is the head of content for the American News Channel. Basically, my boss’s boss’s boss.
He’s a fifty-something-year-old with no hair, bulging eyes and a narrow, lined face that looks more lizard than man. He strides toward me like we’re old friends, giving me an embrace that’s probably not so work appropriate.
I quickly draw back and put some space between us. “Mr. Whitmore, Joe didn’t mention you’d be here tonight.”
…though I shouldn’t be surprised.
