Page 1 of I Did Something Bad
One
“What?”
I’m glad I haven’t taken the sip of wine I was going for, because I would’ve definitely just spat it across the table cinematic-style. And spitting red wine on the editor in chief ofVogue Singaporewho is conveniently wearing an all-white Gucci pantsuit is very low on the list of things I want to do today (or, you know, ever).
Clarissa Song’s berry-red lips part once more as she repeats, “I want you to do the Tyler Tun cover story,” with as much casualness as though she’s just informed me of the way she had her eggs for breakfast this morning.
“The—” With slightly trembling hands, Idotake a sip, but only because otherwise my dry mouth isn’t going to form any words. Formulating a coherent response as I swallow, I place my glass back down beside my untouched Caesar salad and try to hide the fact that I can feel my heartbeat inside my ears. “You wantme. For the. Tyler Tun. Cover story.”
Clarissa nods, holding up her fork as she chews onherforkful of salad. At least one of us is able to eat right now. “Yes.” She nods again and swallows. “We have an exclusive. He’ll do the usual publicity tour closer to the movie release date, but while he’s shooting on location here in Yangon, we’re the only outlet who has access. Obviously, all the Asia offices fought over it, but you know me—” She puts another forkful of greens into her mouth, letting her wink finish the sentence. Because I do know her—everyonein the Asian media network knows her—and I know how the sentence ends:I always get what I want.
Which prompts me to ask the obvious with as much tactfulness as I can summon: “And you want… me? To… write it?”
“Well, obviously it’ll be more than justwriting.” She laughs. “He’s in town for almost two months—”
“I thought shooting was only a month?” I had just read an article on this very topic a couple of days ago.
“Yes, but he’s arriving a week earlier and staying behind for two weeks after filming’s wrapped up. Wants to spend time with his mother’s side of the family here. And he’s all yours for the approximate two months.”
I frown, wondering if it doesn’t seem atinybit invasive to be shadowing someone whomRolling Stonerecently called “the busiest human being in the world” when he’s specifically carved out personal time to spend with his family. But then again, I’m sure he would’ve said no if he weren’t on board. It is Tyler Tun, after all.
Clarissa is still talking. “You’ll have a company card. Charge whatever you’d like. Taxis. Food. Clothes if you feel like you need a new wardrobe. Flights if you need to follow him around the country. Trail him. You’ll get him from nineA.M.’til fiveP.M.or whenever he leaves set. Whichever is later. Except for Sundays. Nothing on Sundays.”
“I—”
I am swiftly reminded that you don’t cut off Clarissa Song. Shecontinues like she didn’t notice a thing. “It’s a weird setup, I’ll admit, but it’s all in the contract. What I want you to focus on ishim.I’m sure I don’t need to explicitly clarify what a big deal this is. Learn his favorite breakfast. If he has a running playlist. If he does, who’s his most-played artist? He has a private plane, but when he flies commercial, does he like the aisle or window seat? Is he a cat person? Dog person? Hamster person? Anything. Everything. Two months may seem like a lot, but you won’t get any chances for follow-up questions. Learn”—she leans forward to emphasize—“everything.By the time this profile comes out, I want you to know Tyler Tun better than his own parents. I want you to know if America’s favorite golden boy flosses every night, and if he does, I want you to know his favorite brand of floss.”
I nod, and, because at this point Clarissa’s finished half her salad—while IthinkI’ve had a cherry tomato?—I take a small bite off of my plate. I’m equal parts intrigued and terrified. I wonder if asking this next question will essentially be me shooting myself in the foot, but in the end, my curiosity wins out. “And… why me?”
Clarissa sits back, a small smirk curling one side of her lips. It’s not ameansmirk, but more anI thought you might ask thatsmirk. “Because,” she says, one perfectly microbladed eyebrow rising, her answer prepped and ready to go. “We needed the best of the best of the best. Not just the best, or the best of the best. The best. Of the best. Of thebest.”
But I’ve never done a celebrity profile before.
When Clarissa’s eyes narrow and she says, “And yes, I know you’ve never done a celebrity profile before,” I move slightly back. Did I say that out loud? No, I didn’t. Did I? No. I didn’t. “But every time we’ve worked together, you’ve arguably been the most professional journalist I’ve collaborated with, and I need someone who will be professional about this and not lose their mind over the fact that it’s Tyler Tun,” she says, and fear and flattery collide head-on inside mystomach. Because I’m not necessarily “losing my mind” over the fact that I’m being handed a Tyler Tun profile, but I’m only human, which means that I’m also notnot.
I inhale. Professional. I am professional, and composed, and definitely listening to what Clarissa’s still saying.
“Additionally, here’s the thing about journalism, Khin. I used to work with Neil Gaiman, back when he was a journalist, and to paraphrase something he always said, in order to be agoodjournalist, you only have to fulfill two of three criteria: your writing is good, you file on time, you’re fun to work with. If your work is good and you file on time, people won’t mind if you’re an utter asshole.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the elderly couple at the next table shoot Clarissa a dirty look, but either Clarissa doesn’t notice or she doesn’t care (probably the latter). She continues, raising a second finger. “If your work is good and you’re generally pleasant to work with, people will forgive you for missing deadlines. If you’re pleasant to work with and you always meet your deadlines, people won’t care if you’re notthebest writer in the game.”
“I see. And which category do I fall into?”
“That’s the thing. I had my assistant track down every editor you’ve ever worked with, and I personally rang each and every one of them.”
“You did?” I don’t know why I ask such an inane question, because of course she did.
“My reputation is on the line, Khin. I had staff writers and editors begging me to take them off of their previously assigned celebrity profiles so they could have this one. I said no, of course. But I also wasn’t going to hand over this assignment to just anyone.”
“And what did my editors say? Which category did I fall into?” I repeat. I mimic her smirk because I know that if there’s one thing that impresses Clarissa Song, it’s bold, unapologetic confidence. “Do I want to know?”
“You checked all three,” she says, tilting her chin upward.
I’m taken aback by her answer but am also conscious not to let my surprise show. Instead, I return a smile that conveys something along the lines ofThat’s not surprising to hear, but thank you very much for the compliment.
Clarissa pauses before she speaks again, her eyes scrutinizing my reaction. Most people would try to be subtle about it, but not Clarissa. Then again, I suppose if I’m going to be profiling one of the most famous actors in the world, she has to make sure I’m good under pressure. When she’s seemingly satisfied with whatever it is she was testing me for (or with), she says, “I needed a journalist who checked all three. If even one editor had had one complaint, your name would’ve been crossed off the list. But you’re always polite, always file ahead of time, and you have an astounding way with words.”
There’s something so finite and assertive in her tone that it zaps me out of my daze, like she’s reached across the table and slapped me.
I have this job.Clarissa Song wouldn’t have wasted her time traveling here if she didn’t have something major (and official) to say. This isn’t an interview, or her asking me to file a writing sample. I’ve got this job already. And I need to start acting like it. “Was it a long list?” I ask.
