Farah could barely keep her eyes open by the time she returned to her room. She pulled two thumb drives out of her pocket, wrote the date in black Sharpie across each and dropped them into a shoebox of thumb drives. Her bounty. As the shoebox filled with Bright family footage, her anxiety mounted with it. There would be so much video to watch and sort and cull later. But of course, the more she had, the more potential there was for something great. Much of the footage she’d shot herself with a camera in hand, but almost as much of it was recorded passively while she was elsewhere, so who knows what treasures were hidden there. And now that things were really happening with these people, the likelihood of making a story out of their lives was improving.
Not that Farah liked to think of it that way. She wasn’t writing stories, but relaying them, finding the most salient plot in the overwritten, unedited jumble of real life. She would never describe herself as someone who composed fiction. But of course, she was. It was easy to hide behind the reality of live footage, but the assemblage of that footage was only as real as the filmmaker chose to make it. Her job was either real-ish fiction, or fiction-y real life, depending upon the project. It was never completely true.
Farah peeled off her clothes, which were damp with sweat after a full day of ninety-five-degree heat, and fell into the unmade bed in her underwear. With her head on the pillow in the dark bedroom, she pulled out her phone and began scrolling through email.
It had been only three days since John Bright formally announced his run for governor, but it felt like a week had passed. Since then, he’d done in-person editorial meetings with three state newspapers, hosted a dinner for major donors at the lake house, recorded four robocall messages and conducted two conference calls with grassroots volunteers. Farah had been with him for all of it.
Patty was in and out constantly, as the unofficial head of the fund-raising operation. JJ traveled with his father for most of the outside events, while Spencer handled all writing and policy platforms. Charlie was in charge of list-building, whatever that was.
Most of what the Brights talked about was meaningless to Farah—a coded campaign-speak that excited them. But she understood the broad strokes of their efforts and the wild energy it imbued.
She understood that John Bright Senior had thrown his hat into the ring of the governor’s race before he had a proper campaign apparatus established. It was plainly clear that he had a lot of fund-raising connections, but as far as Farah knew, he didn’t have any major commitments for donations yet. Funds had to be shifted from here to there, and promises made for later payment in order to hire a website manager, pollsters and a printing company for all the paraphernalia. Unpaid interns would be hired in the fall, and Spencer had said, “Thank goodness for that cheap labor pool.” There were so many calls to make to people who felt entitled to calls. They didn’t have enough of anything and had to beg for it all. It was exhausting just to watch. It seemed to Farah that campaigning was primarily an exercise in ass-kissing and apologizing.
And there had been a lot of apologizing in those three days, a lot of contrite explanations about lessons learned and family values restored. John Bright Senior had admitted to his past affair, and Patty Bright assured the world that he was a changed man, that she loved him more than ever. They were falling over themselves with this redemption story and the press was eating it up. Even Farah found herself accidentally believing it. She almost felt bad for the man.
The new busyness of their lives made the days pass faster. She woke early, filmed all day and felt exhausted each night—just the way Farah liked it. Another benefit to the frenzied energy at the lake house was that it effectively neutralized most of the weirdness between her and Charlie. If he was still hurt that she’d rebuffed his advances, he didn’t show it.
Earlier in the day, Farah had traveled with John and JJ to a local newspaper bureau, a senior center and a greasy-spoon diner for a highly staged lunch with local laborers. Each campaign stop was the same, whether John Bright was talking to cops or senior citizens or college unions: (1) speech about the need to strengthen law and order at the state level (peppered with some lefty issues); (2) marriage redemption story; (3) roll up the sleeves and answer some hard questions with folksy wisdom. With young audiences, he’d spend some time on social justice. With old audiences, he’d talk more about tax reform. Jobs. Middle class. Massachusetts values. Progress. Pride. Security. Terrorism. Reforms. Safety. He didn’t sound much like a Democrat to Farah, but JJ said no one does in the wake of a big terrorist attack. And suddenly, it seemed, an attack was occurring every other day in some part of the Western world.
Remarkably, John’s strategy appeared to be working. Since making the premature announcement of his campaign and admitting to the past affair, no news organization had pursued the story. The woman in question refused to speak to the press, and it seemed possible that they had neutralized the threat, as Spencer would say. Someone had just attempted to bomb a movie theater in the Netherlands, and according to Patty, that had “helped,” too. What a dumb, fickle place—this world of politics, Farah thought. Everything big is small the next day, forgotten in a week. Why bother? Her job, on the other hand, was getting better all the time.
Reclining in bed, Farah answered a few emails from friends back in New York, one from her dad and six from work. She ignored a reminder for a teeth cleaning and a long string of angry emails on her apartment building group chat regarding someone’s barking pit bull.
She was almost free to turn off her phone and sleep when a new email came in. It was from a name she hardly recognized at first—and then it hit her. It was her old roommate’s boyfriend, from several years ago. She didn’t really know him at all.
Hi there, Farah. I hope you’re well. I’m actually writing in a professional capacity. I don’t know if Liz told you but I’m in Boston now. Anyway, I heard that you’re embedded with the Brights these days, which is very cool. I’ll be covering his campaign for a new investigative outlet and I’ve got a scoop that I wanted to run by you if you’re interested. Could be something we can collaborate on. Mutually beneficial, I promise.
Would love to chat further about it. You can call me anytime on my cell: 555-347-9822.
Cheers, Jeff.
Farah remembered Jeff clearly now. He’d been in and out of the apartment for the three months he dated Liz. He talked fast, slept little and fancied himself the smartest guy in every room. She remembered not liking him at all. He was at the Daily News then (or was it the New York Post?) and then somewhere else after that. Good for Liz for breaking up with that guy. Farah couldn’t imagine what he had that would be beneficial to her.
It was almost 11:00 p.m., but the email had come in seconds ago, so he was probably still working. She dialed the number.
“Jeff here.”
“Hi, Jeff, it’s Farah Dhaliwal. I just got your message.”
“Farah! Thanks for calling me. So, ah, how are you?”
“I’m fine. What’s up?”
“All business, as always, Farah. So listen, I’m following a lead that could turn into something big, and I was wondering if you can help me. Or actually, if we can help each other. You interested?”
“I don’t know. What do you have? Who do you work for?”
“Right, sorry. I work for a new political news site called the Electorate Informer. We’re about a year old.”
Farah googled it and found a link to a site that looked legitimate, if low budget. She was already pretty sure she wasn’t going to help this guy.
“So anyhow, I’ve got some information about John Bright’s personal life...his affairs.”
“You’ll need to go directly to John and the campaign for a statement on that. They’re taking all those questions.”
“I already asked them, and they declined comment. But this isn’t about the lady he had an affair with. It’s something new.”
“Seriously, this isn’t what I do.” Farah sighed. “But what’s the story?”
“How about you get me on the phone with John Bright Senior and I’ll tell you both.”
“That’s not my job, Jeff. I don’t work for the campaign. And I can’t imagine how that would be useful to me. I have to go to bed.”
“It’s useful to you because you get to be there, recording the exact moment at which John Bright realizes that he’s been made.” Jeff was getting excited at the other end of the phone, his voice growing louder. “We have something significant. This is going to be huge, Farah.”
“Jeff, I can’t get John on the phone with you. You’ve got to use the proper channels for that. Again—not my job.”
“You’re missing out here, Farah. I’m telling you...”
“Actually, it sounds like you don’t have much. If you had this supposed information verified, then you’d just publish it. You don’t need me or John for that.”
“Fine, that’s true. But we’re close. And, with or without Senator Bright, we’ll get it eventually. The offer stands if you want to change your mind.”
“I’m good, thanks.” Farah put her head down on the pillow. “Jeff, I have to go to bed.”
“Your loss. Call me if you change your mind.”
“Bye.”
She placed her phone on the floor beside the bed and closed her eyes.
Jeff what’s-his-name probably didn’t have anything. Not that she’d put it past John Bright Senior. No, she’d done the right thing in declining his offer.
On the other hand, Farah thought, I should stay close, just in case.