And now I was here, in a hotel room in Las Vegas, twelve hours before an interview that nobody knew I was attending, with a water bottle and a rattled nervous system and a view of a city that never turned its lights off.
I set the water bottle down and turn toward the window.
"Dad," I say quietly, to the glittering skyline and to no one, "I'll make you proud."
I pause.
"You too, Mom."
The lights outside go on doing what they do, indifferent and brilliant. I pull the curtains closed and lie down and close my eyes and stroke the crystal underneath my pillow.
I am not in the way. I am exactly where I am supposed to be. I am almost certain of it.
* * *
The address takes me to a building on the Strip that I hadn't expected. I imagined a modest production office. Something with a reception desk and a logo on the wall and perhaps a harassed assistant carrying a clipboard. I dressed for that version of events — a navy blazer over a cream blouse, tailored trousers, heels that were professional.
I had my hair pulled back and my notes reviewed and my answers rehearsed until they sat comfortably in my mouth. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror at the hotel at six thirty this morning and went through the most likely opening questions twice.
I was ready.
The building I am now standing in front of is not a modest production office. It occupies the upper floors of one of the larger casino hotels on the Strip, all dark glass and architectural confidence.
There is no signage for Purple Horizon Media. There is no signage for anything. There is a private entrance with a security panel and a man in a dark suit who looks at my name on his list for a long moment before stepping aside.
I tell myself this is fine. Boutique production companies operate out of unusual spaces all the time. Las Vegas is an unusual city.
I follow the suited man into an elevator that requires a key card and rise without music to a floor that opens directly into what I can only describe as a hospitality suite.
There are no cameras or lighting rigs. No crew members, no monitors, no cabling, no folding chairs arranged in the choreographed chaos of a working set.
I stand in the entrance and keep my expression neutral and feel my heart begin to knock steadily against my ribs.
A woman in a suit approaches me, hair scraped back.
"I'm here for the interview," I say. My voice comes out steady. I am grateful for that. "I'm representing the Keller campaign."
She looks at me. "You were sent by Phillip Keller?" she asks. "You represent his interests?"
"That's correct," I say.
The words cost me something. I can feel my pulse in my throat and I make a point of not touching my neck. I wasn't sent by anyone. I am twenty-three years old and I am standing in a room that looks nothing like a television studio and the sensible thing, the rational thing, would be to thank this woman for her time and walk back to the elevator.
I didn't come from New York on a bumpy flight and a wing and a prayer to be sensible.
I hold her gaze and keep my chin level and she looks at me for one more moment and then she says, "One moment please," and steps away and makes a call.
She keeps her back to me and her voice low, I can't hear what she says but I watch her body language shift almost imperceptibly during the call, a small tightening of the shoulders, a single glance back in my direction, and I now know that I have significantly misjudged what this is. This isn't a small station looking for a regional scoop.
I don't know what it is. But it isn't that.
She returns and leads me without further explanation down a corridor lined with closed doors and stationed, I now notice,with men. Not hotel staff and not security in any conventional sense either. They stand at intervals with the particular stillness and they watch me pass with eyes that catalogue me.
I count four of them before we reach the room at the end.
"When does the interview start?" I ask, keeping my voice light. "I don't see any crew. Are they setting up somewhere else?"
The woman looks at me. It is a brief look, almost involuntary.
