The Dollhouse(41)
The minute she’d woken up that morning, Rose had showered and dressed, and snapped Bird’s leash onto his collar. But instead of heading outside, she’d sat on the sofa, waiting for the elevator’s bright ring or the slamming of a neighbor’s door, and then sprinted with Bird to the front door.
She and Bird would pop into the hallway and cheerily greet whichever neighbor was making her way out. When the neighbor inquired about who she was, she stopped and chatted, mentioning that she was helping out Stella with Darby’s dog while she was away. Luckily, Stella had made many more friends than Darby over the years, and the neighbors responded with sympathetic clucks and expressions of gratitude. Most had recognized her from the news and, after she mentioned that she was doing a story on the elegant lives of the Barbizon ladies, four had immediately agreed to do a sit-down interview within the next two weeks. In one case, the woman had gone on at length about Sylvia Plath, whom she’d seen once in the lobby, before Rose could impress upon her the idea that she was interested in her own story. Blushing, she’d readily agreed.
After each chat, she’d taken Bird around the block and back into the apartment, where she’d lain in wait for her next victim. She’d also reached out to Stella, who’d sounded annoyed at being stuck in New Jersey but relieved to hear that Bird was doing fine, and had agreed to be interviewed next week. Including Alice, that made six interviews lined up. Poor Bird was exhausted, and she’d given him a long ear-scratch for his troubles.
Her phone rang. Jason.
“I’m in the neighborhood; why don’t you show me around the building?” He didn’t even bother saying hello.
Rose’s mind raced. He would have to see the building at some point, particularly if they were going to get the women on camera in their apartments. And she’d have to get permission from the management company to film B-roll in the public spaces. Video sucked. If she were writing a piece for The New Yorker, she wouldn’t have this problem. Ten thousand words, maybe a few photographs. But at WordMerge, even if it aspired to be a site for narrative writing, images and video were required. No one could be bothered to use their imagination anymore.
Since it was Saturday, Griff and Connie were probably up at the house in Litchfield, so she would be less likely to run into them. “Okay, but we can’t film today.”
“Fine. Just show me the place so I can figure out what we’ll need.”
She arranged to meet him at the service entrance. He wore the same army jacket and jeans, looking like a war correspondent on his day off. Which, of course, he was.
“So this is the place, huh?” He looked up and squinted in the bright sunlight.
“Yup. Follow me.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
She brought him inside, past the porter who worked the door on weekends.
“How’s Mr. Bird’s stomach?” he asked. He was a young kid, new to the doorman’s union and eager to please.
“What?”
“You’ve been in and out all morning. Figured he’d eaten something that wasn’t agreeing with him.”
“Right. Little guy’s got the runs, but he’s doing much better now, thanks.”
She entered the stairwell.
Jason’s heavy steps trudged behind her. “Three questions.”
“Shoot.”
“Is Mr. Bird a bird, do birds get the runs, and why are we going up the back way?”
She reached the second-floor entrance. “Mr. Bird is a dog I’m dog-sitting, I don’t know the answer to question number two, and we’re going up the back way because it’s a more direct route to where I want to take you.”
She led him down the hallway and pushed open the door to what the real estate agent had called the lounge, a public space that ran the length of the building.
Jason gave out a low whistle. The room remained a showpiece of the art deco era. Cream ceilings and walls contrasted with the polished mahogany floor, and love seats and sofas had been arranged in tableaux over geometric-patterned rugs. A black baby grand piano gleamed in the center of the room. Hardly any of the residents used the lounge, as far as Rose could tell. It had an air of sterile elegance, the walls dotted with black-and-white photos of some of its more famous residents.
“This is one of the public rooms, back then and still today.” She hugged her arms to her chest. She would have sworn the air still held the weak scent of perfume and cigarettes.
He took out his phone and shot some rough video, as well as several photos. “We should do the interviews in here. How many do you have lined up so far?”
“Seven.” She included Darby in her count, even though she probably ought not to assume.
“Nicely done.”
“Thanks. But keep in mind, this is a print story first and foremost.”
“Print is dead. Or seriously ill, at any rate. Your story is going online, with video elements.”
“I didn’t mean print like paper.” She hated how flustered he made her. “I meant that the words come first, then the visuals.”
“What do you have against video?”
“Nothing. I just prefer long-form writing. Where the writer tells the story, visually, using words. I think we rely on images far too often these days. No one can be bothered to learn about any subject in depth, because it’s all about the images. There’s no intricacy.”