Page 18 of Best Offer Wins
Subtext:You owe me.
On the walk downtown, I cautiously polish off an egg-and-cheese bagel. It seems to do the trick. By the time I swipe in, I can feel my hangover receding.
Our office hasn’t been this full in months. But it’s all hands on deck this week for the opening party we’re throwing Thursday night for a new hotel client—a boutique operator out of Amsterdam called Mythos Group. They’ve transformed a nineteenth-century church in Penn Quarter into their first stateside property, The Bexley. It has ninety-eight rooms, an art-deco-meets-mid-century design, and a French brasserie in the lobby helmed by a Michelin-starred chef.
So far, Mythos Group has only hired us to handle the marketing around their US debut. But if we do well, they’ll put us on a monthly retainer. And with plans to open at least two more hotels in the area, they could turn into one of our most important clients.
About twenty of us file into the fishbowl conference room in the middle of our space. A few of the younger staffers wear masks—a passive-aggressive middle finger about the mandatory in-person meeting. Fucking Gen Z.
Jordana arrives last, towering over the rest of us in black patent-leather Louboutins as glossy as her dark curls. Those shoes could probably cover a third of our rent.
“Nice to see so many bright, shining faces here today,” she says, claiming her place at the head of the table. “Hope you all got some rest this weekend, because we have a full week ahead. As you know, I’m personally handling the national design and travel press attending on Thursday. We’ll send around the complete list right after this, so you can review it in advance. But in case you forget who’s on it, all the VIPs will be wearing black wristbands.”
She pauses to let the life-or-death matter of the wristbands sink in.
“Black. Wrist. Bands,” she continues, tapping her own, Cartier-clad wrist. “This is very, very important. If you see someone in a blackwristband and their cocktail is empty, or they’re alone, or they look otherwise unhappy or bored, step in immediately. Our number one job is to make sure they’re experiencing the fun and the luxury and the sexiness of The Bexley at all times.”
Jordana settles her gaze on a young assistant named Beth. “You’re in charge of the gift bag table, just like when we did the Viceroy opening. But this time, the VIPs are all spending the night in comped rooms, so before they go upstairs, they’ll also get a morning-themed giftboxwith monogrammed espresso cups and Chef’s house-made granola. Are you taking notes?”
Beth nods solemnly.
“Whatever you do, Beth, do not give those boxes to our regular guests. They are VIP only.”
Beth nods again, this time while typing furiously on her laptop.
If you’d told me when I moved to DC that I would spend my days thinking about wristbands and which members of the media were worthy of gift bags versus gift boxes, I might’ve punched you in the face. I came here to be a journalist. And to start fresh—with an entire continent between me and the wreckage of my family’s briefly charmed life.
Student loans and waitressing paid most of my way through the University of Washington; my grandparents pitched in a little, too. I only majored in communications because it seemed like a catch-all for someone who hated math. I’d spent a lot of time by myself when I was little, scribbling down stories in my room to pass the hours alone, but I didn’t realize that I had a talent for writing until I took an intro to journalism elective my sophomore year. The same semester, I volunteered to cover a war protest for the school paper and felt the rush of reporting for the first time. I was harder-working than nearly all my classmates, obsessive about getting the story. One of my professors was impressed enough that she emailed a former colleague atThe Washington Postto help me snag the entry-level aide gig. Back then, I would’ve told you I plannedon becoming an editor one day. But when Ian quit the law firm, I had to rethink everything.
The real estate idea came to me first. We were still digging out of the recession, so home prices weren’t terrible—at least not by DC standards—and Ian’s parents had given us $30,000 to spend on our wedding. If Ian and I (well, mostly Ian) threw in our savings, we’d have a decent down payment for something small. And if we chose the right neighborhood, with the right potential, we could build serious equity in just a few years.
Ian initially hated the idea, but all it took was a little reminder of how horrific weddings can be for the environment. “Just think of all those floral arrangements, all that leftover catering, rotting away in a landfill,” I said. “A traditional wedding just feels so off-brand for you.”
Not long after, Erika told me about the open position at Buzz. She’d been on the business beat for a year, and Jordana had become a source for stories about the hospitality industry. “She’s a total badass,” Erika said. “I think you’d love working for her. And after that mess with the councilman, maybe the timing is right for you to make a change.”
Every reporter knows the PR option is out there, beckoning with its promise of luxuries like predictable hours and a living wage. I’d been promoted to general-assignment reporting on the local desk by then, but I was still barely cracking $40,000. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least send Jordana an email inquiring about the details.
When she sent back the ballpark salary, I was convinced I must be hallucinating. I went in for the interview two days later. And look at me now—Our Lady of the Black Wristbands.
Jordana swivels her chair toward our senior vice president of events. “Okay,” she says, “I’ll turn it over to Taylor, before we get Margo’s update on Rivière.”
“Thanks, J,” Taylor says chummily. Of all of us, she’s closest with Jordana. Not that I don’t like my boss. I do. Erika was right, she isa badass. But unlike her and Taylor, I can’t bring myself to take this stuff too seriously. The work is fun enough—and I do a good job—but it’s a paycheck. A means to a lifestyle.
Taylor is the one with the cousin and the off-market house. She told me about him on the Tuesday that offers were due on house number seven. We were eating salads from Sweetgreen together in the conference room, and I was obsessively checking my phone for any updates from Ginny. Watching me sweat it out, Taylor felt compelled to share her opinion that “it’s basically impossible to buy a house in DC right now, unless you’re paying all cash. You guys aren’t paying cash, right?”
“Definitely not,” I’d said, faking a laugh.
“Well, the other way is to find something off-market. That’s how my cousin and his wife just did it.”
“How’d they manage that?”
“They knew the sellers. Their kids all go to Sidwell together,” she’d said nonchalantly. “They figured if they put a deal together themselves, they’d save a fortune on the agent commissions.”
Of course, I’d heard of this as a possible strategy. But Taylor’s cousin was the first tangible proof I’d gotten that it could really work.
Now Taylor launches into a lecture about the step-and-repeat for Thursday night and how critical it is that every guest have their photo taken in front of it. The key to her plan is the coasters. She holds one up—black cardboard embossed with gold lettering. “These will be at all the bars, and on every cocktail table,” she says. “They’re printed with the QR code to download the step-and-repeat photos, and The Bexley’s Instagram handle so everyone knows who to tag when they post.” It is our sworn duty, Taylor explains, to point out the coasters to all the reporters and influencers in the room.
Before I deliver my update—a recap of the media plan around the restaurant—I take a sip from my Swell bottle. The water hits my stomach like a glug of battery acid.
