EMMA
I walk away from him as quickly as I can, digging in my bag for my phone. I text Phil. Thatcher Stag is a sleazeball. He just made a pass at me.
My editor responds almost immediately. All men are assholes. Find someone from the conservatory to help you. Get this interview, Cheswick.
Unbelievable. I bite my lip and tap my foot, trying to figure out what to do next. I decide to just start wandering the space before the crowd arrives. As I walk through the purple and pink orchids, I see more of what must be Thatcher's art. His glass is delicate and ferocious at once. The contrast to the green surrounding it is stark, and yet I can tell each piece was placed intentionally, thoughtfully. His work is not so different from the flowers in the room. Some of the orchids sprout seemingly from nothing--no roots or dirt to be seen. His glass seems more natural here than those delicate, outlandish blooms. How can one man create something so beautiful and also be such a jerk?
When I've made a full lap of the inside, I've sufficiently calmed down to go searching for the PR staff from the conservatory. A smiling woman named Linda shakes my hand warmly and hands me a whole packet of information about the exhibit, the flowers that accompany it, and the conservatory's vision in hiring a glass artist to embellish their space.
"Anything else I can help you with, Emma? You know we're always thrilled for page space in the Post."
"Well," I say. "Actually…about Thatcher…"
Her face falls. "Yes. About Thatcher."
"I need to get a few quotes from him, but he seemed…distracted when I tried to speak with him earlier."
Linda rolls her eyes. "Will you be here for awhile? Do you want to give me your questions and I can make sure he answers them? I've got an intern who can record him talking while he…finishes setting up."
"Oh! That's a perfect solution." I mean, it's not. Third-hand interviews are a terrible idea, but Phil did say it was a puff piece, and I did tell him the source was a dick. So I tear my question list from my notebook and hand it to Linda. "I'll just interview some of the guests about their feelings when they experience the exhibit and I'll make sure I find you before I leave?"
Linda nods and marches off. I see her hand over the slip of paper before embracing someone from Pittsburgh Magazine. I wander through the garden, chatting with people about the glass and the flowers. An hour or so later, I've almost forgotten that Thatcher Stag lured me into a hallway and tried to make out with me. Almost.
I finish up my conversation with a middle-aged woman named Marge, who drove in from south of the city to enjoy the show. She's got me answering questions about growing up in the same suburban town where she lives, and when I see Thatcher approaching us, it takes me a real minute to figure out which scenario is less annoying.
He sidles up to us, snagging two glasses of champagne from a server standing nearby. "May I offer you ladies a drink?" he says, smiling a crooked grin that only raises one side of his mouth. Why am I looking at his straight, white teeth? Maybe because I want to punch them out, I decide.
I shake my head at his offer. "No, thank you. I'm on the clock. Marge was telling me how much she's enjoying your art, though."
Marge is delighted. "Oh are you Thatcher Stag?? This Stag Glass show is simply superb." She flutters a hand to her chest and takes a flute of champagne from Thatcher. I smirk at him and duck away. Seeing Linda glide past, I rush over to her.
"I see you've got him distracted," she says as she hands me a thumb drive and my question sheet, where the intern has scribbled a few mono-syllabic answers to my carefully crafted questions. "Anyway. I think we've got about seven or eight words from him…his contact information is in the packet I gave you if your fact checker wants to verify any quotes you can garner from that file."
"Thanks for trying, Linda. I appreciate you looking out for me." I assure her that I will talk to Phil and come back sometime to write an in-depth piece on the conservatory and their efforts to revitalize and attract more guests. "Phil loves when I find him good tourism leads," I assure her.
I head for home, frustrated and pissed off at my editor, Thatcher Stag, and anyone else I happen to encounter as I go. I send Nicole a series of furious texts and she sends me angry GIFs. I can't believe your boss still wanted you to interview that scumbag after you told him he hit on you. I'll never buy Stag's bullshit tchotchkes.
Thank you! You're a true friend.
In the morning, I sulk my way into work and bang out the meanest review I can tactfully write about the show and submit it to my editor before he leaves for lunch. Not ten minutes later, his admin pokes her head over my cubicle wall.
"Hey, Emma," she says, grimacing.
"That bad?" I sigh and start to stand.
"Phil wants to see you right away."