3. Portia
PORTIA
On Tuesday morning, one of the assistants stops me to let me know Joe Germanotta wants to see me in his office.
“He said it’s important,” says the college intern. Her eyes round. “ Urgent .”
I sigh, barely fighting off the urge to roll my eyes.
After yesterday’s broadcast, Joe pulled me aside to let me know in not-so-subtle terms that he didn’t appreciate any attempt to change the show format, and I was better off smiling and reading off the script, no questions asked.
He called me sweetheart .
It took everything in me to not only refrain from snapping at him but to keep from kneeing him in the balls. I had to remind myself I had gone thirty-four years without seeing the inside of a jail cell and I had no intention of doing so now.
It takes similar levels of strength when addressing the college intern. I give a terse nod, muttering a quick response about dropping by his office, and then do my best to hide my scowl.
Finkle and Baron were difficult to work with at times, but they were more or less tolerable .
Joe Germanotta has proven to be the opposite.
Just another thing to make me miss Metro News…
I take my time before I finally decide to visit his office, a large room with glass walls. He flags me down the moment he sees me.
“Portia, sweetheart, there you are! I told Ashley to track you down as soon as possible. Figures she’d take her sweet time doing so. Anyway, it turns out we need you to fill in at the Dominion Honors Gala tonight.”
“You need me to… what?”
“You heard me—we need you to represent ANC tonight at the annual Dominion Honors Gala.”
I double blink. “But Barry was going to do it. He does it every year.”
“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 gown with 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.
“It’s Chuck, doll,” he answers with a short laugh. “And miss the Dominion Honors Gala? Never in a million years.”
“This is my first time attending.”
He gives an enthusiastic nod between sips of his champagne. “Right, he told me you’re taking Barry’s spot. Well, what do you think?”
“Uh…” I stammer, thinking quickly. “It’s… uh, well put together.”
Apparently, this is a hilarious comment to make. Chuck Whitmore slaps his thigh as he roars with laughter, some of his champagne swishing over the side of his flute.
“Joe was right about you!” he says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re refreshing. Must be that Newport background. But you’re right—it is well put together. Do you understand why, Portia?”
“Most galas are…”
“More than most galas.” He sidles closer, eliminating the space between us that I created. His voice drops a level ’til the buzz of conversation almost drowns him out. “We have interests to protect. Once you reach a certain level, you have to play by certain rules. You get it, don’t you?”
“Actually, I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I say bluntly, leaning away from him. “Our job is to report the news.”
He laughs again, then slops down more champagne. “Right. Within reason, of course. Can’t have certain people looking bad. It might have been different in Newport, but you’re in the major leagues now. We’ve seen your work—some charming little pieces you reported on.”
“I reported on more than charming little pieces . I was investigating important matters like the organized crime in our city!”
“Sure you did, doll,” he says. “And it was real impressive how hard you tried. But that’s behind you now. ANC has no interest in that kind of fodder. We’re much… bigger picture.”
“It wasn’t fodder!” I snap, heat flushing to my face. “It was real world events! Real crime families trying to take over Newport and hurting innocent citizens.”
“You misunderstand what I’m saying.” He extends his hand to pat my shoulder, but I promptly smack it away and take a wide step back.
“I heard exactly what you said! You’ve basically admitted you’re curating the content ANC reports on!”
Chuck glances around as several people within earshot notice our conversation’s grown heated. The wide grin he’s worn drops from his face and he says, “Lower your voice, doll. No. Need to get angry and cause a scene.”
“I’ll cause a scene if it means drawing attention to the fact you just told me you cover up organized crime.
Tell me, Chuck , which crime family has you in their back pocket?
” I ask in a sharp tone. “Actually, don’t tell me.
I’m sure if I dug around enough, I could find out myself.
And if you call me doll one more time, you’re getting a knee to the groin!
It might be time to find a replacement for Barry’s replacement. I’m out of here!”