The drier came off of Natalie’s head. “Habibi, Karima would like to say goodbye.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Natalie Savage.” Karima’s smile glowed and her hair shone like a cascade of blue-black silk. “We will have a lovely chat on Monday.” She offered Natalie a cheek to air-kiss, gave Magda a hug, and floated off.
Magda beamed. “I told you she liked you.”
Natalie felt starstruck. “It was so nice of her to say goodbye.”
“Nice?” Magda snorted. “You are smart and stupid all together, habibi.” Magda reverted to the urgent whisper. “Keep your face down but look in the mirror at the manicure section. Do you see a girl in a very unfortunate blue sweater? Yes? That is the assistant to the editor of The EarlyBird. Karima made sure she saw you. She has done you a big favor.” Magda purred, self-satisfied. “You will appear in the newsletter tomorrow. Spotted at Salon Badem.”
Natalie felt a flash of panic. “Magda, no! I don’t want people knowing I’m getting my hair done when I should be at work.”
Magda smiled magnanimously. “Habibi, spotted talking to Karima? This is better than work. It will be very good for you, you will see. And now you owe Karima a favor in return.”
Natalie was wondering what she could possibly offer Karima in return—her grandmother’s apple crumble recipe? Wardrobe advice if she wanted to go to a costume party as one of the 32 percent?—when she felt Magda’s hands on her shoulders. “At last we come to the happily-ever-after,” she said. Looking up, Natalie was astonished by her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was not simply straight, it was Drowned Rat straight. Lifeless, dead, cooked. Tortured, sucked dry as if by hair-vampires, eviscerated—
Magda spun the chair around and explained, “For the full effect, The Treatment must stay on for twenty-four hours. You wash it out tomorrow. Today if you have a party, no dancing and no you-know-what-ing. Sweat, wet, touch too soon and is all a waste.” Magda winked at her. “You will have to be hard to get for one night.”
Natalie appreciated Magda’s notion of what her life must be like, the parties, the dancing, the men throwing themselves at her and her catching them.
Slightly shell-shocked, she thanked Magda and went to pay. On her way across the salon, she caught the woman in the ugly blue sweater, the assistant to the editor of The Early Bird, looking in her direction. The woman smiled. Natalie smiled back.
Natalie considered her cynicism about conformity in DC, about how Badem was like some kind of female indoctrination facility where individuality was leeched out from the roots of your hair on down. Now she was aware of what she’d missed, the undeniable current of power in the salon. As if here, tucked unobtrusively in the White House’s backyard, was a potent nexus of influence. One that decidedly did not smell like a men’s locker room. The Treatment was almost like a badge of solidarity.
Albeit one that was going to take out its practitioners young through early onset scalp cancer. Which meant she’d better get going.
11
Solitary Colors
It was still early in Colorado. Anita Crusoe didn’t want to reach for the phone to check the time but she assumed it had to be close to 6 a.m. She was lying in bed, her mind racing, imagining what that poor girl, Sonia Barbaro, a compatriot, must be thinking. Was she up, too, trying to make sense of the world, grasping for steady ground? She was desperate to reach out to her, just reassure her. To say, I know. I know what it is to be disbelieved or worse, muzzled. Your truth brings us trouble so you’ll have to swallow it. No seas difícil. Don’t be difficult.
But that was impossible. A call could be taped or tapped or simply leak. It would trigger international headlines, then an international incident, and then what?
Her mind turned to her husband. This was his fault. He was putting her in an impossible situation. He had to appreciate what it would stir in her. What it would unleash. She felt a welt of anger rise. She knew he could be cold, calculating, but she’d had no idea he had the capacity for this depth of cruelty.
The memories she’d worked so hard to push down, lock away, were now rushing to the surface, clamoring for her acknowledgment. She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillow, trying to hold it all back. But it was no use. They came tumbling in. The acrid smell of his sweat. The ravenous look in his eyes. The stillness of everything in the world except his body. But what haunted her most from that night were the sounds. The hungry, defiant groans. They say it’s about power not pleasure but like everything they tell you, it’s not the whole truth. There was pleasure for him. She’d heard it.
Ese cerdo.
When she’d gathered the force to kick, she’d been as surprised as he. The crunch of bone giving way under her foot. He’d started screaming, cursing them with threats and warnings. But he’d stopped. He’d dressed and left through the front door. It never happened again.
Less than a week later, she’d passed him in the street and again for so many days after that. He’d looked away, que cobarde. She’d had to see him in the papers. Watch him on television. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Didn’t matter. Pretend they’d all moved on.
Was this what Sonia was living through? Was this what her own silence was now abetting?
Her husband had to know what this meant to her. He was giving sanctuary to Rigo, a man who had his freedom because he was powerful. Patrick was putting so much on the line for these monsters. Why? It made no sense. As she felt her frustration grow into rage, she told herself she had to know the answer.
12
The Total Woman, Updated
On the street Natalie felt a little woozy, which she assumed was either due to her impending scalp cancer or her anxiety about being out of the office in the middle of Molegate, a veritable breaking news tsunami.
Or maybe this is how your soul feels when you start selling off parts of it.
She checked her watch: 10:15 a.m. That was late for work but early for doing battle with herself, which meant she needed coffee, and not the thin and watery blend they sold at the kiosk outside ATN’s offices.
Turning, she walked two blocks to BrewHouse, known as the unofficial coffee spot of the DC media-political set. With exposed brick, Marshall McLuhan quotes on the blackboard, and bearded baristas ready to tell you the birth-origin of each bean in your coffee, it was the most hipster place in the District.
Still, this being DC, it failed to attract a crowd that bore any genetic resemblance to hip. She entered to find it crowded with men uniformed in loose-fitting khaki pants and women sporting unkempt hair with not a fake lash in sight.
That could be you if you didn’t work in TV, she thought. If only you could go back to your twenty-one-year-old self and tell her to pick print instead.
Checking the time (10:21 a.m.) and the line (at least a dozen people ahead of her), she started feeling flush. Could these chemicals really be poisoning her? Maybe this was Bibb’s intention all along. Or Matt’s. He’s the one who’d insisted she listen to—what had he called her? The Machiavellian monster. Yes, this was Matt’s fault.
Her phone rang.
She put in her earpiece and answered, “I was just thinking about you.”
“I’m flattered. How is the hair?” Matt said, oblivious to the menace in her voice.
“Terrific,” she replied with a mirthless laugh. “I look like a malnourished meth head in summer.”
“I was hoping more for a Connie Chung, Lucy Liu look.”
“I’ll be sure to add Asian fetishism to your list of attributes,” she said. “What’s happening at the office? I saw the Washington Post has a story about Crusoe’s plan to increase oil imports from Latin America. We should try to get on that.”
“No go. Ryan is on the substance angle,” Matt said without a hint of irony, adding, “The Chief wants us to follow up on the mole.”
Natalie repeated his words in her head, tr
ying to make sense of them. “How do you follow up on a mole? Especially one that’s been removed?”
“Great question,” Matt said. “But we’ve got to make a mountain out of it.”
She stifled a groan. She had important things to worry about, like how to make an impression with her journalism when the network wouldn’t let her cover actual news? Scanning the coffee shop, she searched for anyone here who could give her a hot breaking news tip—maybe a White House official, a First Lady confidante, someone with expertise in Latin American dictators or international oil politics, when she turned and spotted the man in line behind her. His liquid-green eyes met hers and she felt like she’d been tased.
She had seldom seen other men like this in DC. He was tall, African American, broad shouldered, with close-cut hair and a kind of hipster confidence that just emanated hot.
She smiled, and watched as he leaned toward her infinitesimally and—sniff, had he just sniffed?
“You smell like my aunt Mina,” he said with a one-dimple smile, as if it this was the most charming thing in the world to tell a stranger.
Feeling herself blush furiously, Natalie stared at him, torn between It Wasn’t My Idea and How Dare You.
“Excuse me?” she stammered out of sheer mortification. Yes, he smelled like soap and sweat and pure masculinity while she smelled like a morgue and looked like she’d been skinny-dipping in an oil spill. But, still, it was not cool to point that out.
“Sorry, I said that out loud, didn’t I? Bad habit.” His lopsided smile made her stomach tingle. “It’s to make your hair straight, right? You know they make it with lye.”
“Formaldehyde,” Natalie corrected him, hoping she sounded confident and affronted.
“Ah, you got the organic blend?” he said jovially.
She appraised him with his single dimple and eyes that seemed permanently set to mirth. His slim-cut pants hit him in all the right places and his white broadcloth oxford managed to appear sharp and casual at once. It was all definitely working for him.
“Lucy Liu? Connie Chung?” It was Matt’s voice in her ear. “You there?”
“I’m here!” she said, turning her back on Mr. Hot Dimple.
“On Molegate, I’m thinking we should make some kind of interactive graphic. We can put it up on social media. The Chief will love it. It’ll drive up your followers.”
“Graphic of what?”
“FLOTUS’s distinctive markings. We can map all of her moles and freckles.”
“Are you kidding me? We can’t map that. We don’t know about other markings. And anyway even if we did, that’s just rude. And wrong.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
His tone of voice changed. “Hold on. Something is happening.”
She heard him put the phone down, without hanging up. Rude. So rude, she fumed, wanting to hang up but also dying to know what was happening in the newsroom.
She was staring into the sea of khaki in front of her when a sound broke through her thoughts.
“I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re looking to do some mapmaking? I’m happy to recommend an app.”
She turned and confirmed Hot Dimple was, again, speaking to her.
“Don’t tell me, Aunt Mina is an app developer?” she asked, weighing whether he was mocking her or flirting, then reminding herself that, in her current state, the latter wasn’t an option.
“Nah. But I am a cartographer.” He tilted his head to one side. “And happy to help.”
Oh really?
“You’re the neighborhood mapmaker? What do you map?” she asked, certain he was pulling her leg.
He got an excited look as he spoke. “Well, everything. Business networks. Market patterns. Topography. Maps are really just a picture of how different things relate to one another. My primary interest is boundaries, spaces between different states or states of being. Doorways. Weather systems. Neighborhoods.”
“Who is this guy?” It was Matt’s voice in her earpiece. She’d forgotten she was still on the phone with Matt. “What a total nerd. Get rid of him.”
“Don’t be an ass,” she snapped.
“Sorry.” Hot Dimple had his hands up in feigned surrender.
“No, no, I didn’t mean you,” she said, shaking her head so forcefully she hit herself in the cheek with a cancer tendril. “I’m talking to someone on the phone.” She indicated the headset.
Hot Dimple nodded, looking uncertain. She noticed that his green eyes were flecked with gold and she shivered, feeling a deep attraction.
This is what happens when you don’t have sex for five months, said a voice in her head that sounded like her sister, Sarah.
Only four-and-a-half, Natalie’s brain corrected.
She had to drag her eyes from him to keep from making a fool of herself.
“What’s this guy want?” Matt asked.
Ignoring that, she asked, “So what’s going on in the newsroom? You said something’s up?”
“I don’t know. Bibb rushed to the assignment desk and now she’s in a closed door with Hal. I’m trying to find out,” he grumbled. “Meantime, let’s pick up the mapmaker. Ask him if he went to school for that.”
“I thought you wanted me to make him go away,” she chided.
“I did. But I changed my mind. Because if you get laid, you’re going to be more relaxed on air.”
“Jerk.”
“I’m just trying to help you hook up with a guy who sounds like he might be nearly as nerdy as you.”
“Call me when you know what’s going on.”
“You are terrible at flirting.”
“Hanging up now!”
When she’d finally reached the front of the line and paid her $5.75 for a four-ounce pick-me-up, she walked to the other side of the bar and pretended to be busy on her phone as she watched Hot Dimple say something to the cute female barista who laughed and blushed up at him. Clearly every woman’s reaction to him, she thought.
She made herself busy on her iPhone until she felt Hot Dimple walk her way and stand next to her.
“Hi, again. Sorry about that introduction.” He held out his hand. “I’m James.”
“Hi, James,” she said, looking up from her phone. “If you’re not put off by the formaldehyde, I guess I shouldn’t be put off by the association with Aunt Mina.”
He laughed, and as they smiled at one another, Natalie groped for something to say, ending up with, “What do you have against straight hair?”
“Nothing really.” He shrugged. “Just that it’s controlled. Predictable. Careful.” He looked at her mischievously. “I’m always telling the women in my family that curly is way more attractive. If God gave you the curls, let them run free.” He smiled and she felt like a sparkler was crackling in her chest.
“It’s not my choice. It’s for work,” she managed.
“Really? Aren’t there laws against that?” he asked. “I thought the rules say the boss can stare at your chest and underpay you, but he can’t tell you to change your ’do.”
Her phone buzzed and she hit Ignore without even looking at it. Matt would have to wait.
“Unfortunately that’s not the case in TV,” she explained. “In TV, they can tell you how to look. Also how much to weigh, what to wear, how to do your hair.”
“You’re on TV?” He sounded surprised. “You must be a reporter. What do you cover?”
“I cover—” She didn’t want to lie but wasn’t about to tell him about the mole. “Politics, DC, whatever the echo chamber is buzzing about.”
Her phone rang again. She hit Ignore.
“And what is it they’re buzzing about today?” he asked.
“The First Lady’s headaches. A creepy twenty-one-year-old. An incompetent White House. The usual.”
Her phone rang again and
this time phones all around the café started ringing at the same time. Glancing at hers, she saw that it wasn’t Matt but Bibb.
James gave her that lopsided smile again. “Sounds like the echo chamber is calling.”
Flashing him a look of apology, she answered it.
“Natalie, there is video of FLOTUS having an affair,” Bibb said, skipping the hello. “We need you on set, top of the hour.”
Natalie’s heart soared. An affair! Breaking news! And they want me in the middle of it.
Immediately, the only thing on her mind was the fastest way to get in front of a camera. This was, apparently, the single thought of more than half the customers in BrewHouse because people were now popping up from tables like pieces in Hungry Hungry Hippos, forming into inefficiently rushing crowds, reporters and politicos stabbing at their phones, ordering Lyfts while rushing the door. She checked her watch. 10:33 a.m., it was going to be tight.
Catching her eye, James indicated the mass of people. “Want to avoid the Great Wall of Chinos?”
“Yes!”
He waved at her to follow and started walking behind the coffee bar, through a doorway marked RESTROOMS, and into a narrow pathway.
“I’m here way too often,” he said, “and doorways are kind of my thing.”
He pointed to an emergency exit door in the back.
“Amazing!” she gushed.
“Wait.” He stopped her before she could go. “How do I find you? In case you need any help mapping something.”
He wants to find me! For a moment she was at a loss for words before saying, “I’m Natalie. Natalie Savage. But I don’t have cards on me.” It was true.
“Okay, I do,” he said, handing one to her.
“Got it! I really gotta go,” she said, apologetically as she stuffed the card into a pocket.
“Say it back!”
“James, I’m not going to forget,” she said, pushing open the door and calling back. “The formaldehyde hasn’t triggered brain damage yet.”
Savage News Page 12