The Stager: A Novel (16 page)

Bella was in her early thirties, although in her own career path nothing had been left to chance, even if her trajectory didn’t follow the typical straight line. She had a fierce ambition, and had set out to collect as much varied work experience as possible to add to her already impressive résumé, which included a stint teaching English in China, a year interning at an investment bank in Hong Kong, an M.B.A. from Wharton, and now this prestigious internship.

It was the kind of hellishly humid evening that caused me to recall that Washington was once considered a hardship post for foreign diplomats; I self-consciously slipped into garden-party small talk about this with two of my fellow interns who happened to work on the Metro desk. With the summer air so thick you could almost hold it in your fist, along with a malarial mosquito or two, incentives were needed to lure people here. For most of the ascendant young professionals—the men in khakis and preppy striped ties, the women in floral summer dresses, everyone looking like slightly poorer, shabbier versions of the senior editors they hoped one day to be—the promise indicated by an invitation to a party such as this was surely all the incentive that was required. Besides, anything was possible on an evening like this. The editor-in-chief’s wife, for example, had been a somewhat mousy brunette from the class of 1990; rumor had it that she’d apparently had too much to drink the evening of her own intern party and had dived naked into this very same swimming pool. Her wild streak, not to mention her presumed promiscuity, was the talk of the newsroom for a while, but a month or so later, a monster rock showed up on her ring finger, and she proclaimed herself the fiancée of our boss, at which point the rumor mill froze; as if in a game of verbal tag, no one wanted to be remembered as having said the last, wrong thing. Once his divorce was finalized, she became the fourth Mrs. Roth, and had held that spot for seven long years, which was, apparently, a record. This was what I’d heard, anyway, as prelude to the pool in the lunchroom that day regarding whether it was time for a fifth Mrs. Roth, and if so, who from our intern class was most likely to take the literal plunge. Bella’s name topped the list, notwithstanding that she was already married.

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WHAT I FOUND
most inspiring about Bella Sorkin wasn’t her beauty—although she was striking in an unconventional way, a newsroom Modigliani with her crooked nose and hazel eyes that didn’t quite match, everything just slightly, perfectly, askew—it was that she looked like she belonged. Not just there, at that garden party, but wherever she happened to be. She didn’t look like me—a recent transplant from the Midwest with a thin résumé and a marriage that was beginning to show its first cracks—in fact, I think part of my attraction had to do with the impression she gave of being so blessedly unfettered. At least, that’s what I thought as I studied her from a few feet away, while feeling a pang of guilt over having left Vince at home. Discussions about whether he would come with me this evening had been fraught. I was of the school that this was not a big deal unless he allowed it to be, that the thing to do was simply to shrug off the surely random rejection by the selection committee and accompany me to the intern party and move on, look for a job, maybe even make a connection or two at this event. He was extremely talented, and it was easy enough to imagine the scenario that had him in a position of power at this or some other newspaper just a few years down the line, laughing about that moment when his wife got the job and he did not, the way an actress might boast about the number of auditions endured before the big break. Perhaps it was easy for me to say I would have happily accompanied him had the shoe been on the other foot. Nevertheless, he had said he’d come with me that evening but then pleaded the sudden onset of a summer flu.

I stood inside the gazebo, watching Bella while half engaged in a conversation with my colleagues about the capture two days earlier of a local serial arsonist who had been making headlines for a couple of months. It had been the predominant story in the region all summer, and most everyone was giddy, having been up for nearly forty-eight hours, getting the newspaper through two cycles of breaking news. I felt slightly guilty, or at least like I wasn’t pulling my weight, having been sequestered over in the Home and Design section, working on a story about the best places in the Mid-Atlantic region to view the forthcoming fall foliage. I listened to Ahmed, a twenty-two-year-old whiz kid who had been the editor of his college newspaper, explain that he’d been instructed to call victims for reaction quotes, and how embarrassed he was to have to interview people who’d just lost their homes, their pets, and in some cases even their families, and ask such stupid and invasive questions.

I made a quip about how, if there was going to be a spate of serial arson, it wasn’t surprising it should have happened this summer, what with the record-breaking heat. I should have stopped there, but in a short, boastful monologue that would later make me cringe, I heard myself go on about how it had been so hot the entire month of August that meek little wives would fondle the edges of their carving knives and study their husbands’ necks.

I drew perplexed stares, and felt suddenly old. I turned my gaze toward Bella, a few feet away, and watched her throw her head back and laugh at some thread of conversation I strained unsuccessfully to hear. No sign of nervousness, no darting of the eyes as she mingled with her superiors, no sign of concern as she bit into another piece of sushi that she might have just said something profoundly dumb, or that she felt self-conscious about her age. I sensed I was observing a woman who did not appear to have spent the better part of the week fretting about what to wear to this party, or what she should, or should not, say, to any number of the important people in this room, including the newly elected mayor of D.C., or the famous financier turned poet, Raymond Branch, who had roomed with our boss, Norman Roth, when they’d both spent a year at the London School of Economics back in the 1980s. They had remained close friends.

Bella must have noticed me staring, and she looked at me and smiled. She then came over to where I stood, and we all shook hands and made the usual round of introductions.

“Eve sounds a little unhinged. She was just going on about wives and carving knives and husbands’ necks. Ought I call and warn someone?” Ahmed asked.

“Oh, I love Raymond Chandler!” said Bella.

I felt like throwing my arms around her, and I confess I nearly did. Quickly the conversation moved on to other books we loved. Joan Didion essays punctuated by dust motes, gauzy curtains, and certain slants of light. I had never before encountered anyone with a specific memory of the description of, yes, of all things, a chair, from
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
More specifically, one sofa and chairs, plural: “fat chairs upholstered in that itchy, particular red velvet that one associates with hot days on a train.”

Was this enough of a foundation upon which to build a friendship? A mere convergence of taste in books? Well, it’s not nothing, not something to be shrugged away. But with hindsight, to have thrown myself at Bella as if I had just found true love, to have assumed we spoke the same language, that we would make the same well-considered choices, that we would never betray a husband or a friend? That’s a different story, as it happens. I can only say that, just like that, Bella Sorkin was my new best friend.

This may sound like a stretch, and yet it’s true that, at some basic level, everything you need to know about me and about Bella Sorkin, the entire DNA of our friendship, is contained in the moment of our meeting. Though there’s a painful and salacious narrative that bookends the then and the now of me and Bella Sorkin, it’s also true that you can isolate that moment at the party and map the entire me-and-Bella story, the arc of my conflicting, jealous emotions so easily tamed by her attention. Of the wrenching outcome when things went bad.

It’s mind-boggling to consider that there at the party was Raymond Branch. He seemed to me a bit of a cad, what with his slicked, thinning hair, the smart linen suit with a silk handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket, the polished wingtips—who dressed that way for a casual summer garden party, in Washington, in August? But he was so handsome in that worldly way of an older man that his vanity was forgiven, at least by some. One other distinctive thing about Raymond that added to his supposed allure (please know that he did nothing for me personally): while he was spending that year at LSE, he rode in a subway car that got blown up by the IRA. His leg was mangled when the aluminum ceiling collapsed, pinning him for hours, and he also lost a thumb. Oh, he was a catch, all right, but I’d suggest that, had he been anything other than a gazillionaire with two celebrated collections of published poetry—had he been employed as, say, a Target cashier—a girl might not necessarily have swooned to see him wobble through the crowd, his four fingers clutching the stem of a glass from which wine sloshed over the rim.

At some point while Bella and I were talking, I noticed the two of them connect. He walked over to us, and small talk ensued. The weather provided a natural opening, since we were clearly moments from the eruption of a violent summer storm. Quickly the subject drifted to baseball—there was a game of some import that night, and they were concerned it would be rained out. Bella and Raymond discovered they were both Yankees fans, which, too, would prove farcically, tragically significant. Then a woman who was presumably Raymond’s wife came over, and he put an arm around her waist and introduced her as Seema. Raymond’s wife was Indian, or so I presumed from her coloring and jewelry, and the textured shawl draped artfully around her shoulders. Bella and Seema began to chat. Bella complimented her on her shawl, and Seema unwound it from her shoulders so both women could inspect the cloth, and then Bella tried it on. Moments later, pictures of the three Branch children were produced from Seema’s small jeweled bag. Bella made a fuss, asking their names and ages, then cooing loudly about the adorableness of each one.

Did I sense, all at once, something bad in the air? By this I mean something more than the obvious rumbles of thunder. I don’t mean to suggest that I’m prophetic; if I were able to see the future, then I’d have no excuses for my own bad choices, including the one I made that night to attach myself to Bella. I could tell, or I thought I could tell, that Bella had her sights set on Raymond, which made me uneasy. I politely excused myself, aware that I had become extraneous to this conversation.

Inside the house, alone in the dining room, I watched the catering staff tend to some final arrangements. A woman roughly my age, dark eyeliner unsuccessfully masking too many late nights working parties such as this, gave me a weary smile as she lit the votive candles scattered throughout the room. Another waiter appeared and poured ice into the tubs behind the bartender’s station, while a third made final adjustments to the arrangement of the food platters, in one case replacing the plate of poached salmon with the cold sliced meats, only to have the woman with the eyeliner swap it back. I felt more comfortable around the catering staff than around my new colleagues, even if I could more or less hold my own. After my parents split, my mother waited tables for years. We were hardly destitute—my father was not a monster, and he wrote his monthly checks—but she had no professional skills, and she said this occupation at least gave her purpose. I spent a lot of time as a kid waiting for her in the back of a variety of diners, and in college I followed in her footsteps, waitressing myself through school. Which is only to say that I am not averse to hard work. I take each job as it comes. I have no chip on my shoulder about what some might consider menial labor.

I watched these quiet, familiarly soothing machinations while inhaling the cool indoor air and studying the sumptuous surroundings. Above me hung an enormous crystal chandelier, the set of Louis XVI dining-room chairs pushed against the wall to provide better access to the imposing table upon which the buffet was spread. I studied the frightening mythical creatures carved into the table’s knees, observing the way they then tapered into fluted shins and sharp-clawed paws. I pulled out my notebook and did a quick sketch.

Through the window I watched a bolt of lightning strike just beyond the swimming pool. An intern from the sports desk dropped her wineglass, which shattered on the flagstone. She looked around, terrified, as if she might be instantly relieved of her position, but no one seemed to notice in the chaos as everyone rushed inside. Alone by the pool, she knelt to begin picking up the shards.

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  Statistically, staged homes sell faster and for more money.

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  Ninety-four percent of staged homes sell in one month or less.

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  Homes that were staged spent 80 percent less time on the market.

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  Staging increases perceived value.

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  Staging is cheaper than a price reduction.

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  Today’s sellers must do more than ever to compete.

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  A staged vacant house sells faster than an empty property.

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  Home staging can average 340 percent return on the investment.

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  Most buyers take three to six minutes to decide if they like your home.

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  Seventy-nine percent of sellers are willing to invest up to five thousand dollars on staging.

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  Sixty-three percent of buyers will pay more for a house that is move-in ready.

I am not the sort of home stager you see on those popular television shows—the ones who flit about in heels and perch fetchingly on ladders, pink cocktails in hand. I don’t use words like “sizzle” and “pop,” and I avoid the trends; you will never hear me advise a client to purge his books, or remove their jackets and then color-coordinate the spines. I go about my work quietly, intuitively, certainly, like a fussy old aunt who comes into your room and tells you to clean things up.