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“See what I mean?” I said to Denise. “Demoralizing.”
Before we had a chance to do a sound check and color balance, the MMS sauntered into the suite looking all kinds of dapper, his trademark salt-and-pepper hair combed back, his bemused grin firmly in place, his dimpled chin a kind of taunt, his gravelly voice beautifully calibrated. It looked so easy to be him.
“Ms. Faraday, it’s an honor,” he s
aid, his eyes smiling. “Thank you for agreeing to do the interview. I know this isn’t your usual beat.”
What happened next was embarrassing; I blushed. And my reaction was so sudden and difficult to mask, I had to avoid eye contact with Denise lest I appear a total hypocrite.
The thing about charisma is you can’t fake it. Phony charisma falls flat. I had interviewed enough politicians, including Bill Clinton when he was the governor of our neighboring state, to know the difference between fake and real charisma. So let it be said that despite his considerable charms, Bill Clinton had nothing on this MMS. He had a gravitational pull, this man. You wanted to get right up into those dark eyes and run your fingers through that thicket of hair. I shook the MMS’s hand warmly, and then he introduced himself to my crew as if they didn’t know who he was.
We sat in our seats opposite each other, and the DOP gave me the thumbs-up sign for We’re rolling.
After the requisite chat about the movie at hand, and how great it was to shoot in New Orleans, blah blah blah, we launched into a discussion on his favorite topic: how to get the right people to run for office.
“That’s something you’ve said you’re firmly not interested in, right? Running for office yourself?”
“Too much dirt on me,” he said, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “I wouldn’t survive the scrutiny and I hate to waste people’s time.”
“Surely there’s no more dirt on you than there was on Clinton. And he served two terms.”
“True. He came out of that relatively unscathed. Can’t say the same for the women in his life.”
He gave me his infamous smirk, while undoing the cuffs on his shirt. I, too, had to uncross and recross my legs, squeezing my thighs together. Shake it off. Don’t go gaga.
“Are you saying a vivid sex life disqualifies you from holding public office?”
“No. But having one you’re completely unapologetic about does tend to make it hard for America to love you. That is what I’m saying. You are free to do what you want, as long as you exhibit a bit of shame now and again. I’m just not willing to do that.”
“You could help lift that stigma. Take the shame out of sex.”
“That’s not my job. I’m just a guy who dresses up and pretends to be other people for a living.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking about what would happen to my career and my credibility if my membership in S.E.C.R.E.T. were discovered. It would be over for me. There might even be questions about my fitness as a mother, though I doubted they’d come from Julius. He might not be impressed, but he wasn’t the kind of man who thought having a bunch of sex disqualified you from anything, let alone motherhood. Still, I shuddered at the thought of being exposed.
The MMS changed the subject. He began discussing some of the humanitarian work he’d done overseas, particularly in Sudan. I challenged him on his follow-through and on why people don’t take the political and social endeavors of Hollywood stars seriously.
“I don’t expect anyone to take me seriously,” he said, leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees. “I expect people to take the issues seriously though. People are crazy if they think wars overseas have no effect on their local economy, let alone on national security. There’s a reason you have to take off your shoes to fly from Petaluma to Peoria and it has everything to do with what’s going on in places like Syria and Darfur.”
As planned, we wrapped up a little late. Once our mics were off, he stood to shake my hand, holding it between both of his for a few lingering seconds. Or maybe I imagined that.
“This was an enlightening conversation. It’ll be a great segment. Thanks,” I said, reluctantly prying my hand loose.
“Other way around. Thank you, Solange Faraday, for asking real questions.”
First and last name? And a grin? Wow. Okay.
We watched him disappear to an adjoining suite followed by his publicist and a dozen other people in his entourage. My guys silently rolled the cables. Denise folded up the tripods. I changed into my flats. Just as I was about to duck out with my crew, the MMS reentered the suite, this time wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, his face freshly washed.
“They keep the booze in this part of the suite,” he explained. “Have a drink with me, Solange.”
My crew suddenly turned sheepish. Denise shot me a look that screamed: Holy shit! Do not turn him down! But I was thinking this: What if everyone in the newsroom knew I flirted with the subject of an interview? What would they think?
The answer that came to me was delivered in Marsha Lang’s inimitable voice: Who fucking cares, Solange? Our male network on-air talent had bedded plenty of women who were attracted to their minor celebrity. And Bill Rink, weather jackass, was a renowned cocksmith due to … what? His ability to wield a dry-erase marker over a plastic map of Louisiana?
I am forty-one years old.
I am a grown woman.
