Farah Dhaliwal turned off a quiet wooded road onto the long driveway that was—according to her directions—the entrance to Senator John Bright’s summer home in the Berkshires. She was met by a closed gate.
Farah hadn’t been expecting a gate at the end of the Brights’ driveway, and she wasn’t sure how to proceed. She could call the Senator, but they’d never spoken before, and it wasn’t how she wanted to introduce herself. Was she supposed to have a passcode? Farah was sure that this had been her screwup somehow, and that it was an inauspicious start to this, her first solo project as a documentarian.
She pulled out her phone and called Wayne, her supervisor and executive producer of the Domestic Affairs: The Real Lives of Elected Officials series. It rang three times.
Finally, there was a click at the other end. “Wayne here.”
“Wayne, it’s me. I’m sitting in my car at the edge of Senator Bright’s driveway.”
“What are you doing there?”
“The gate’s locked. Was I supposed to have a key or a passcode or something?”
“Oh, right. Shit. My bad. I have a code for you to punch in.” Farah waited while Wayne riffled noisily through papers at the other end. “Okay, keypad is on the inside of the gate. Password is 7-8-9-10. Incredible! The people in charge of the nuclear codes, and they can’t be bothered to think up a fucking password.”
“I think the president has the nuclear codes.”
“You know what I mean.”
Farah looked out at the tall, leafy maples and the winding dirt driveway ahead. She shouldn’t be here, she thought. This project wasn’t for her.
Farah had been working for Torch Media for five years—most of her professional life—and in all that time, she’d assisted mostly in the production of climate change documentaries and cultural tourism. She’d recorded a C-list celebrity’s tour of the best noodle bowls in Vietnam and did a series about gay-pride parades in Brazil. Their productions were vaguely political, culturally progressive series targeted at younger viewers. They had an edgy guerrilla aesthetic, even years after the independent company had been swallowed up by a media conglomerate. Torch viewership had been modest but cultish until a few years ago, when the appetite for fresh documentary TV started to take off. Suddenly, the streaming services couldn’t acquire this stuff fast enough, and Torch was riding a wave. Now they were making more content with more of an explicitly political bent than they could keep up with: a documentary on the inner workings of the Trump White House, a day in the life of a neo-Nazi, voter suppression efforts in the South. Domestic Affairs was to be the next in that wave.
Domestic Affairs had been pitched internally as “a look inside the private lives of America’s professional political class.” Torch wanted to follow a handful of old political lions near the end of their careers to expose their expensive tastes, their disconnection from the constituents they served, and the relentless ambition that drives them. (To the subjects themselves, it had been pitched as “a humanizing biopic of America’s most influential leaders.”) If it was good, Farah was told, all the big streaming services would get into a bidding war over it. And if it wasn’t, then it would be a financial boondoggle for a company that was, year after year, spending more than it was earning.
“I’m nervous,” Farah said into the phone. “I don’t really know what I’m doing out here.”
Wayne sighed. “I know you’re nervous, but you’ve got this. Just follow the guy around with a camera. Follow his kids around. Look for the incongruities, the indulgences. And keep an eye out for the weirdness.”
“Right, the weirdness,” she agreed distractedly.
“But don’t call it weirdness. Call it color, if you have to call it anything at all. Which you don’t. The point of this series is to pull the curtain back on these people to see what really makes them tick, good or bad. My guess is, this guy doesn’t know what the fuck to do with his time anymore. He’s been out of office a few months now, finally cleaned out his desk and got rid of his staff. He’s already tired of playing golf and hanging out with his family. He’s on the brink of either a new endeavor or an existential crisis. Hopefully both, for our sake. These guys fall apart when they don’t have anywhere to go in the morning. That’s what the Senator Bright story arc is, I think. Look out for that.”
Farah sat with that for a moment. “Wayne, what does Senator Bright think I’m here for?”
“He thinks you’re there because he’s a dazzling and righteous elected official. We didn’t tell him much because he didn’t ask many questions. You have to understand, Farah, these people don’t need to be convinced of why we want them on TV. They already know—or they think they know. Senator Bright thinks you’re there for an inside look at the personal life of one of the Senate’s great heroes and bipartisan negotiators. And you are! Sort of. Just don’t let him steamroll you with a false show. Get the hidden stuff, the parts he doesn’t want you to see.”
“Okay, okay. I got it.” Farah had been over this with Wayne before. She knew why she was there. She just didn’t know why she was there alone. She had only ever been an assisting producer on these projects, never the person in the lead. “And you don’t think I should have another producer here with me?”
“Sorry, the suits nixed it. They aren’t completely sold on the premise of the series, so we need to do it on the cheap. If it works out and Netflix, or somebody, buys it, then you’ll get all the credit. And you’ll have a team at your disposal for postproduction. If it doesn’t work out...well, then at least we’re not too far in the hole.”
“Assuming we still have jobs after that happens.” Farah took a breath. “Wayne, is that really the reason I’m running this project—because the suits said no?”
“Yes, but not entirely. I gave you the Bright project for selfish reasons—because I don’t want you to get bored and leave. You’re overqualified for the work you’re doing here now, Farah. You’re not challenged. And one of these days, you’ll realize that it isn’t fun to be broke in New York...and your college loans will start to keep you up at night...and you’ll decide that this isn’t enough. Then one of those fuckers at Vice or somewhere will call you up and offer you something better for more money. So I’m giving you a push into the big leagues because I don’t want to lose you. And if you do well with this documentary, it will make a good case for your promotion. That’s what you want, right?”
“Yes, definitely.” In fact, she’d been quietly plotting ways to approach Wayne about a promotion in the weeks before he gave her this project. “Yes, of course that’s what I want.”
“Good. Then act like you know what you’re doing. You do. And when you don’t know what you’re doing, fake it.”
“I can do that.”
“Just don’t go native, or fall in love with any of them.”
Farah smiled. “Don’t worry about that.”
“I don’t know... I hear those Bright men are dreamy.”
“I hate you. But thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Godspeed!”
The line went dead, and Farah sat for another minute in her car. She could do this. She would do it. She would make an interesting documentary out of what sounded like a mostly boring idea. It would be so good that she’d forget all about that pilot for the show about Sherpas in the Himalayas—the show she really wanted to work on—and she’d learn to care about politics, or political families, or handsome Irish Americans or whatever this show was supposed to be about. She’d make this work and then she’d get a promotion.
Farah drove the car right up to the keypad affixed to the gate. She entered the number, heard a buzz, and the gate opened for her. She drove through it, then watched through her rearview mirror as it closed behind her. The gate bounced lightly against itself once, failing to latch, and then again. Finally, there was a click of the lock, loud enough to hear through her open window. She was secured inside the compound.
Farah drove along the winding driveway, through a thick canopy of mature trees. Cool air swept through the car from both sides. There were actual birds chirping.
About a quarter of a mile ahead, the trees opened up to a sprawling lawn, at the center of which sat an enormous colonial-style home: the Bright lake house. It was a creamy white, with a perimeter of impeccable landscaping surrounding it. Americana-style bunting accented the doors and windows. Behind the house was the lake, shimmering.
Beside the house sat a detached garage that had been designed to look like a vintage carriage house with large barn doors. One of the doors was open, revealing a room filled with water floats, a small sailboat, paddles, life vests and bins of sports gear.
Farah parked in the gravel driveway and got out of the car. If she looked to the right or the left of the house, she could see the Brights’ little private lakeside beach. There was a kayak resting at the edge and water lapping its nose. The smell of the air around her was aggressively different from the city. It was cut grass and freshly laid soil; she thought she could smell the cold water somehow.
Farah walked up the front steps and examined the old-timey iron knocker on the knotted-wood door. It didn’t look functional, so she pressed the buzzer off to the side. It was clear now that this house was probably less than twenty years old, despite its vintage stylings. It was a jumbo reproduction of an iconic New England home, painted all the shades of the Benjamin Moore historical series. Through the window, chrome appliances gleamed beside custom cherry cabinetry. It was all a bit flashier up close.
Farah pulled a small notepad from her back pocket and began writing a quick note to herself about the details she’d need to get on camera. Her first impressions should be the viewers’ first impressions. Chrome, cherry, sparkling water, American flags, manicured lawn, straw hat on Adirondack chair, birds in trees, potted peonies. Calibrated perfection.
The door swung open, and a slight blonde woman was smiling wide before her. It had to be Patty Bright, the matriarch. According to Farah’s notes, she was seventy, though she looked far younger.
“Welcome! You must be Farah.”
Farah put her hand out. “Mrs. Bright? Thank you for having me.”
The woman shook it with both of her hands and laughed. “Oh, call me Patty. Please.”
“Okay, thank you, Patty.”
This woman didn’t look like the overly polished person in all the Senator’s pictures. She wore sporty olive shorts with functional pockets. The purple cord of a bathing suit peeked out at the shoulder from beneath a white T-shirt. She was strikingly fit and emitted a youthful bounce. There was no makeup on her face, but she had the inexplicably poreless skin of a particular variety of wealthy women with the time and the will to maintain it.
“C’mon in and get comfortable. John should be back any minute.” The Senator’s wife put a hand on Farah’s back and led her gently toward a grand kitchen. She smelled like sunscreen. She filled a water glass and placed it before Farah. “So it’s Farah Dhaliwal? Am I pronouncing that right?”
Farah took a sip and nodded. “Yes, that’s fine. It’s Indian, from my dad’s side.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful! I’m just embarrassed I have to ask. Really lovely.”
Farah took another sip.
“So...do you want to bring your things in?”
Farah looked around. “Um, yeah. I should probably do that first. I have a few cameras and tripods that I’d like to set up around the house, if that’s okay. They won’t be in your way, I promise. And the rest of the equipment I’ll just keep in my room.”
“Of course. No problem,” Patty assured her with a wave.
This was the problem with filming famous, or semifamous, people: they were too comfortable with the cameras. They liked them. And when people are that familiar with the cameras, their behavior on-screen could look too practiced—like actors playing the role of themselves in their own lives. It meant that she’d have to work harder and longer to capture authenticity. Farah hoped she was wrong about it, but she had good instincts about these things.
“I’ll get us some snacks while you get comfortable,” Patty said. She pointed back outside. “You’ll be staying in the in-law apartment above the garage. There’s a set of stairs around the back that lead up to a private entrance. It’s small, but it has everything—bathroom, dinette, a large closet. I hope that will work for you.”
“It already sounds better than my apartment in New York,” Farah laughed nervously.
“Oh, I love New York...”
Patty looked wistfully out the window, and Farah was sure that whatever romantic vision she had at the moment bore no resemblance to her apartment in Bushwick, with its clanking radiators and peeling linoleum. Farah wondered if she’d remembered to tell her subtenant to jiggle the handle on the toilet and not to let the mail pile up in the entryway. She couldn’t think about those things right now.
“Have you been doing this a long time, making documentaries?”
“For the last five years, yes.” Farah nodded. “I usually work on the environmental and social justice projects, so this is a bit of a departure for me.”
Patty ran a colander of strawberries with the greens still attached under tap water. “Well, it sounds like fascinating work. We’re glad they sent you.”
It was clear that Patty Bright either didn’t know or didn’t want to know the motivations for Torch Media’s presence in her house, and the fact that this wasn’t likely to be a glowing biopic about her husband. This made Farah feel slightly guilty, but it also made the work easier.
“Thank you again for having me,” she said. “And, Mrs. Bright... Patty, may I ask, where’s the rest of the family? I’d love to capture everyone’s arrival, if possible.”
“Yes, of course! Well, you’re just in time. JJ, Spencer and Charlie should all be here within the hour—with their respective families, of course. And Philip is coming later this evening.”
Farah pulled out her notebook and searched for the relevant page. “Great. And I have here that JJ and Mary-Beth are coming from DC...”
“Bethesda, yes.”
Farah made a note. “And Spencer and Ian are coming from Manhattan. Charlie and—is Charlie arriving with anyone?”
Patty rolled her eyes as subtly as eyes could be rolled while still technically doing so. “Yes, I believe he’s bringing a girlfriend. I’m afraid I can’t remember her name, though. She’s British, as I recall.”
Farah made another quick note, then flipped the pad closed. She could feel Patty trying to peer down at the paper.
“And what about Philip? I don’t have anything here about Philip.”
A nervous laugh. “Yes, well, Philip is coming from Central America, by way of Boston. He’s been traveling a lot lately.”
Patty bit her lip, and Farah waited for her to say more.
“Philip is a roamer,” Patty said finally. “It has taken him a little longer to find his calling... But he says he has some big announcement this week, so who knows, maybe he found it! Do you want lemonade?”
Farah smiled and pushed her notepad back into her pocket. She sensed there was something weird about this Philip brother from the way Patty spoke of him. Farah hadn’t been able to find anything about him on the internet, and the Senator hadn’t provided any biographical information about him beyond his existence.
Keep an eye out for the weirdness, her boss had said.
“Lemonade would be great. I’ll just grab my stuff.”
Farah let the screen door slam behind her as she went to the car. She could hear Patty Bright humming softly to herself through the open kitchen window.
Tripods, shotgun mics, three-point lighting kits, boom poles, cables, shoulder-mount rigs... Farah pulled them out one by one and laid them in the gravel. Packing for this had been scarier in the abstract: trying to imagine what she’d need for this project in an unseen location. But now that she was here, she could see it beginning to take shape, the beauty of it all. This inviting home on a private lakeshore. All the charmed Brights gathering together. It was exquisite—but that wasn’t the only thing Farah would need to capture on camera. There was a feeling that she couldn’t quite identify yet, like being on the set of a movie. Something about it all felt staged, artificial. There was something else here, too.
Farah carried her things up the stairs that ran up the back side of the garage to the in-law suite. From the landing at the top, she could see the lake and the lush border of trees that encircled it. A canoe was a speck on the water at the far end, the slightest mark of a painter’s brush. She wasn’t sure yet what she was supposed to see in it all.