Chapter 7
When my alarm goes off, I wish for death.
Ian snores softly next to me, passed out on his stomach. He didn’t get home till after three, which means I’ve been asleep for maybe four hours. He’s never done anything like that before. Where the hell was he? Do I even care, as long as he feels bad enough about it to just do what I fucking want?
As soon as I sit up, my head begins to throb. I stumble into the bathroom and inspect the damage in the mirror. My lips and teeth are stained purple—Brinjal by Farrow my grandparents pitched in a little, too.
I only majored in communications because it seemed like a catch-all for someone who hated math.
I’d spent a lot of time by myself when I was little, scribbling down stories in my room to pass the hours alone, but I didn’t realize that I had a talent for writing until I took an intro to journalism elective my sophomore year.
The same semester, I volunteered to cover a war protest for the school paper and felt the rush of reporting for the first time.
I was harder-working than nearly all my classmates, obsessive about getting the story.
One of my professors was impressed enough that she emailed a former colleague at The Washington Post to help me snag the entry-level aide gig.
Back then, I would’ve told you I planned on becoming an editor one day.
But when Ian quit the law firm, I had to rethink everything.
The real estate idea came to me first. We were still digging out of the recession, so home prices weren’t terrible—at least not by DC standards—and Ian’s parents had given us $30,000 to spend on our wedding.
If Ian and I (well, mostly Ian) threw in our savings, we’d have a decent down payment for something small.
And if we chose the right neighborhood, with the right potential, we could build serious equity in just a few years.
Ian initially hated the idea, but all it took was a little reminder of how horrific weddings can be for the environment. “Just think of all those floral arrangements, all that leftover catering, rotting away in a landfill,” I said. “A traditional wedding just feels so off-brand for you.”
Not long after, Erika told me about the open position at Buzz.
She’d been on the business beat for a year, and Jordana had become a source for stories about the hospitality industry.
“She’s a total badass,” Erika said. “I think you’d love working for her.
And after that mess with the councilman, maybe the timing is right for you to make a change. ”
Every reporter knows the PR option is out there, beckoning with its promise of luxuries like predictable hours and a living wage.
I’d been promoted to general-assignment reporting on the local desk by then, but I was still barely cracking $40,000.
I figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least send Jordana an email inquiring about the details.
When she sent back the ballpark salary, I was convinced I must be hallucinating. I went in for the interview two days later. And look at me now—Our Lady of the Black Wristbands.
Jordana swivels her chair toward our senior vice president of events. “Okay,” she says, “I’ll turn it over to Taylor, before we get Margo’s update on Rivière.”
“Thanks, J,” Taylor says chummily. Of all of us, she’s closest with Jordana.
Not that I don’t like my boss. I do. Erika was right, she is a badass.
But unlike her and Taylor, I can’t bring myself to take this stuff too seriously.
The work is fun enough—and I do a good job—but it’s a paycheck. A means to a lifestyle.
Taylor is the one with the cousin and the off-market house.
She told me about him on the Tuesday that offers were due on house number seven.
We were eating salads from Sweetgreen together in the conference room, and I was obsessively checking my phone for any updates from Ginny.
Watching me sweat it out, Taylor felt compelled to share her opinion that “it’s basically impossible to buy a house in DC right now, unless you’re paying all cash. You guys aren’t paying cash, right?”
“Definitely not,” I’d said, faking a laugh.
“Well, the other way is to find something off-market. That’s how my cousin and his wife just did it.”
“How’d they manage that?”
“They knew the sellers. Their kids all go to Sidwell together,” she’d said nonchalantly. “They figured if they put a deal together themselves, they’d save a fortune on the agent commissions.”
Of course, I’d heard of this as a possible strategy. But Taylor’s cousin was the first tangible proof I’d gotten that it could really work.
Now Taylor launches into a lecture about the step-and-repeat for Thursday night and how critical it is that every guest have their photo taken in front of it.
The key to her plan is the coasters. She holds one up—black cardboard embossed with gold lettering.
“These will be at all the bars, and on every cocktail table,” she says.
“They’re printed with the QR code to download the step-and-repeat photos, and The Bexley’s Instagram handle so everyone knows who to tag when they post.” It is our sworn duty, Taylor explains, to point out the coasters to all the reporters and influencers in the room.
Before I deliver my update—a recap of the media plan around the restaurant—I take a sip from my Swell bottle. The water hits my stomach like a glug of battery acid.
At some point after thirty, my hangovers started to do this—lie cold and still long enough to make me think they’re dead, only to heat back up just when my defenses are down. I close my eyes and take a shallow breath.
“Margo?” Jordana says. “Are you all right?”
“Yep, all good, let me just find the right file here.” I buy some time while I pretend to search my laptop. “Okay, here we go … we have confirmed RSVPs from all the usual local suspects. The crew from Washingtonian magazine, the editor of Eater DC, a couple from The Washington Post’s dining team.”