Chapter 6 Marsh
Marsh
I’m used to being called a good writer. Hell, I’m even used to being called the best damn writer we have on the team.
There’s an innate, journalistic instinct that I possess; I’m constantly curious about people and the world around me.
I trust my instincts, and I’m able to connect with a broad audience.
While I believe in quality over quantity, my average story count is six to eight bylines a day.
The world is a scary place right now and I have thick skin.
Thankfully, I can still stomach even the toughest stories people can’t bring themselves to read.
I’m aware of my valuable skill set. But when Lucy sat there and asked about me, as a person, it meant something.
Writing can be such an isolating experience, which is why I do best alone.
I’m sort of a closed book in that sense.
Given my line of work, it would only hinder me to wear my heart on my sleeve.
Rarely do I open up about anything going on in my life, and rarely do people even ask.
There’s a bit of a shell around me that people prefer not to crack… but not Lucy.
From the drive back home from the sushi restaurant to taking a shower to now brushing my teeth, all I’ve been able to think about is Lucy.
Her self-confidence, her spontaneity, and how she manages to make me feel at ease.
As I climb into bed I think of the waves of her dark hair, how her eyes light up when she laughs, and her damn fingers.
I’ve never in my life thought about a woman’s hands, but she has these long nails and dainty gold rings that are for some reason making a lasting impression.
This is not okay. I cannot be thinking of Lucy in the dark while I’m lying in bed.
She’s doing me a huge favor by helping me out for the wedding, and she sees me as someone she can trust when it comes to her career.
What I’m not going to do is start blurring the lines.
No matter how attracted I am to her. I’m most definitely not going to be thinking about how her hair smells like strawberries and how every inch of her skin that’s not covered by clothing is somehow shimmery, or how she’s going to be spending the next five weeks pretending she’s my girlfriend.
I reach beneath the waistband of my boxers and then stop myself. “Fuck, Marsh, get it together,” I huff.
I turn over and force myself to sleep.
While LA rush hour is unbeatable, The Journal’s nine a.m. morning rush hour is a close second.
I’m practically pinned to the back of the elevator as everyone makes their way inside, and Drew on world news squeezes next to me.
We briefly used to work together at The Times so it’s nice seeing a familiar face.
“Hey, Marsh, how’s the first week?”
A few people get off on the third floor and more space lets up.
“I’m now understanding why Jay was here for so long,” I say.
Drew laughs. “He’s a lucky son of a bitch, though, isn’t he?”
“You mean you’d rather be doing nothing in Portugal than reporting on what’s going on overseas right now?”
The elevator doors open to the fourth floor, and we both take a step out and head down the hall.
“We can’t all be you, Marsh,” Drew says. “I personally would love a break but there’s so much bullshit happening right now.”
“Stay strong,” I call back as we head in opposite directions.
My main priority is the escort feature, but I still have a quota of three stories a day on top of that.
On deck I have stories about the most recent LA fire, the California Coastal Commission, and a two-million-dollar sex abuse settlement.
I go to The Journal’s instant messaging app and the first thing I see is the name Lucy Reid with a little green circle.
She’s the last person I messaged so naturally it makes sense.
Ignoring the unfamiliar urge to click her name, I open a new tab to dive into my first story.
My brain feels like it’s wired and my fingers try to keep up. In less than an hour, I get through story one. Forty-five minutes after that I’m almost done with story two. I decide to skip lunch, and before two p.m. I’ve finished all three bylines and have them sent over to our editor.
My cursor goes to my file named Olson x Singh.
Alf Olson is the sixty-two-year-old founder and former CEO of Tango, the multinational tech company that has a hand in e-commerce, digital software, automotive parts, and artificial intelligence.
Aditi Singh is the forty-year-old environmental philanthropist who is filing for divorce after ten years.
Aside from their age difference, their story isn’t anything that would make you bat an eye—they met at a charity dinner, got married a year later, and have been keeping to themselves ever since.
The Journal has been reporting the latest developments on Olson’s infidelity. My story needs to be a bit more evergreen if it’s going to come out closer to the trial.
My fingers strum my keyboard, and then I get a text:
Lucy:
Hey!
Marsh:
Hey. How are you?
Lucy:
Oh, you know…deep in the world of throating
A puff of air shoots out my nostrils.
Lucy:
See what I did there?
Marsh:
Yes. Very funny.
Lucy:
We got some free donuts over here and I snagged a couple. Want one?
There’s a warm, fleeting feeling in my chest. The fact that Lucy thought of me shouldn’t mean as much as it does.
Marsh:
Oh thanks for thinking of me. Sure, why not?
Lucy:
Be right down!
It takes barely another sip of my now stale coffee before Lucy’s at my door. She’s wearing some cream-colored oversize knit sweater with jeans. “Knock, knock,” she says.
“Hey,” I say. “Come in.”
She heads straight for the chair she sat in yesterday, offering me a choice of a chocolate glazed doughnut or a French cruller.
“Thank you.” I take the cruller. “What’s the occasion?”
“Someone’s birthday.” She takes a bite of her chocolate doughnut. “How goes it? Working on anything fun?”
“The peg is the recent development about Alf Olson’s involvement with the escort service.”
I don’t go into too much detail about the divorce because working at The Rue and being as social media savvy as she is, Lucy most likely knows the details. As I predicted, she nods like she’s already understanding.
“What direction are you going in?” she asks. “There are so many.”
“Like?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
“Well, I mean there’s the nuances of sex work.”
“Right,” I reply in agreement.
“Or you can get ethical and keep the focus on infidelity,” she says. “Or could something like the history of sex workers work?”
“It would be a great read, but when I think of that, it’s more of a topic than a story. I’d have to dig a little deeper.”
She sits up, something in her curious. “What about why women go into escorting, having ownership of your body, the stigma of sex workers…”
“You’re absolutely right, and I love those angles,” I say. “That voice is—”
“Opinionated.” Lucy finishes my sentence, already knowing the problem. “I know that’s news journalism 101, but I would find it so hard to be unbiased in stories.”
“You get used to it,” I say. “But yeah, sometimes it’s challenging. Don’t get me started on how many times I had to report on certain political views and interview people I didn’t want to. I just sat there and bit my tongue.”
“Oh my god.” Lucy’s face scrunches. “How do you do it?”
“I just accept I have to write things I don’t want to sometimes.” I tip my forehead in her direction. “Kind of like your column.”
Her lips purse and she looks down. “You know…that oddly helps.”
“Yeah?”
She smiles. “I think I needed to hear that.”
I slide over the printed documents and let her read them. “I’m working on getting interviews with the names on that other paper. I have two locked down already and I should find out more next week.”
“Which ones?” Lucy looks at me.
“Christina Logan and Brixley Carter. One an escort, the other an OnlyFans model.”
“Would I be able to send you a list of questions?” Lucy asks. “You don’t have to use any, but I’m really fascinated by all this.”
I take a bite of my doughnut and contemplate this offer. “Do you want to come?”
She looks up at me like I just invited her on a free trip to Aruba. “Can I?” she says slowly.
“It would have to be strictly as an observer,” I clarify.
“Yeah, of course.” Her eyes light up like she’s truly appreciative of this opportunity, which is only more reason why she should come along. “Thank you, Marsh.”
“Sure,” I say.
“So, uh, what’s your process like for a story like this?” Lucy prompts.
“Well, usually I’d be finding out all of the information I can about a certain topic—in this case, escort services.
” I sit back in my chair and try to think of all the steps that come so naturally to me at this point.
I’ve never had to list them out. “So, the different types of escort services, infamous escorts, even sex workers that haven’t necessarily been made newsworthy.
Then, I would learn everything I can about each person I’m interviewing.
Most times I would do enough research for the interview and then let their answers determine the rest.”
“Noted,” she says. “Empathizing with them.”
“If time permits, and depending on how big the story is, sometimes I’ll go to their hometown, see where they grew up, then see where they worked, their interests, what they like, et cetera.”
“And then what do you do in that instance?” Lucy asks. “Document everything?”
“Everything,” I agree. “I don’t necessarily take pictures or anything like that but aside from the recording of the interview I make notes of everything I see.
What kind of chair am I sitting in, what’s the weather like that day, who was the server bringing me my lunch, anything I observe I try to make note of it. ”
“That’s so interesting.” Lucy takes a final bite of her doughnut.
“What about you? What’s your approach?”
“I’m sort of similar,” she says, wiping her hand on the side of her jeans. “I just write down everything I feel.”
“Huh.”