For me, one of the most frustrating parts of my job is how many hours I can spend trying to find what seems like a relatively innocuous bit of information – and worse, often come up empty handed.
It’s not breaking Watergate or anything, but sometimes you have to make so many phone calls that finding out that, say, the white wine in someone’s glass was pinot grigio (as opposed to chardonnay, pinot blanc, etc.) feels like a major breakthrough.
You laugh. For every day spent sitting poolside at a Portuguese palace doing an interview or swanning around a celebrity party is about 50 zillion faxes, phone calls, emails, and enough general logistical ridiculousness to make the 19th century Russian army (and OK, early 20th century, too) look like a well-oiled machine. And you thought we just sat around and made this stuff up. I wish.
Consider today: The girlfriend of a royal was out and about this weekend at a ball in an evening gown. Besides the questions about what she and her boyfriend did that evening, there is: Who designed the gown? (Sounds like this should take about five minutes, right? Ha.)
As the girlfriend of a royal, not only does she not have a spokesperson of her own, but the royals’ spokespeople will not comment on anything having to do with her as they don’t comment on the royals’ private lives. So no help there.
10:12 a.m.: Look on ball web site and try to email press guy, but email bounces back. Email sponsorship guy and ask for help reaching press guy.
10:23 a.m.: Realize one of organizers of ball is someone I spoke with for a Time story ages ago. He’s a guy, so his chances of knowing the designer are low, but maybe he’ll know something. Dig out his number and the minute he hears the girlfriend’s name he slams shut (very common with royals reporting). Dead end. He offers to put me in touch with the guy doing press for the ball, though.
10.39 a.m.: Call press guy from ball, who has the poshest voice I’ve ever heard in my life. Mobile connection is terrible and he says he’ll call back from his land line.
10.45 a.m.: Morning meeting, a ritual I loathe, as everyone seems to need to add in his or her own two cents on every single topic of the day. Rarely get out of there in less than a half hour.
11:20 a.m.: Press guy from ball has left a message, and now I call him back. Ask a few polite questions about the ball, the charity, and then drop in the first question concerning the royals. Again a brick wall. Make a joke about men and fashion and whether he’d know anything about the gown. He doesn’t bite.
11:50 a.m.: Make a few inquiries at shops girlfriend is known to frequent, but press people – not keen to lose a customer – are not forthcoming. Cannot rule out any of these shops as source of dress, either, as press people have annoying habit of refusing to confirm or deny anything. Sigh. Call a couple of editors at fashion glossies in case one of them recognizes it -- a long shot, as girlfriend doesn't wear the sort of flashy expensive gowns that lodge themselves in the brain.
12.27 p.m.: Idly click through pictures of the ball on media server – meaning I can see all the pictures the photographers submitted, as opposed to just the ones that ran in the newspapers. Notice that one of the girls sitting with girlfriend is an up-and-coming fashion designer. She does not do evening gowns that I know of, but it is as good an opening line as any…
12:53 p.m.: Dig through phone numbers acquired from various London Fashion weeks and finally find her PR person. Not ideal, as relaying questions through a press person is like playing Telephone, and anyway, there's no chance of catching anyone off guard. Debate calling the number listed as her studio as surely it's a rather small operation and someone might just hand the phone over to her. Call the studio and she answers herself. Hurrah! Does she do evening gowns? Well, she does do some evening pieces. Might the dress be one of hers? “No, I wish, but she mentioned she bought it at [well-known and very posh London shop].” Progress.
1:09 p.m.: Call posh London shop, almost certain they will be of no help when they hear who it was that wore the gown. (Plan B is going to the shop myself to have a look, something I so do not have time for today, especially because the shop is rather large.) Call four times until I get someone I don’t recognize, as perhaps he will not be steeped in the culture of nonresponse yet. He does not end the conversation when I say the gown's owner – instead asks me to send over a JPEG.
3:47 p.m.: He emails back the name of the designer. Call appropriate department and get price of gown, and saleswoman helpfully tells me they have one left in a size medium. No, thank you, I don't need you to hold it so I can try it on.
Hang up phone triumphantly. Victory. How sad is it that that’s the word I use for it?
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