Chapter 6 Marsh #2
“Yeah, so for example: Does the chair make me feel like I’m a CEO at a company?
Or does it make me feel like I’m about to attend an AA meeting?
If it’s sunny, does it feel like nothing can go wrong?
Or does the overcast give me an unsettling feeling?
Was I attracted to my server or did she remind me of my grandma? Things like that.”
For a moment I’m dumbfounded. In complete awe of Lucy’s approach and how she’s innately a storyteller. There’s something so raw and authentic about Lucy’s column that when I read it, I couldn’t possibly imagine hitting an emotional nerve the way she does.
“Wow—”
“But I so appreciate this perspective,” she says. “To observe everything and take it in allows me to separate myself from the story and not make it so personal.”
“No, no.” I shake my head. “I meant wow in a good way. Your approach is something that I should be doing more of. It’s just impossible to make stories personal when you’re churning out bylines about school shootings, gang violence, and immigration laws. You kind of have to be numb to it.”
“Oh, I know how to be numb,” she laughs to herself, but I don’t see what’s funny.
On Thursday afternoon, Lucy and I find ourselves sitting in comfortable silence at a coffee shop in Brentwood waiting for Christina Logan. I pretend I don’t overhear a conversation between two women and the fact that both their dogs are Virgo moons—whatever that means.
“So.” Lucy’s body shifts to me as she takes a sip of her iced latte. “Are you excited?”
I chuckle because I don’t think that’s the word I would use. “Are you excited?”
“Hell yeah I am! Marsh, this is fun,” she says in a way like she’s trying to convince me.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t having fun.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” I say.
“Do you ever get nervous?” she asks.
“Yes, I get nervous.”
“When was the last time you were nervous?” she prods.
“Lucy.” I side eye her. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to break the ice,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“With me?” I clarify. “We already know each other.”
“Oh, we have barely scratched the surface, my friend,” she scoffs. “Before this month is up, I’m going to know you better than I know where my G-spot is.”
“Are you always this blunt?” I ask.
“Yes. Are you always this reserved?”
“No,” I say, and then through the window I spot a blond woman getting out of her car.
She doesn’t look identical to the photo that I found online, but I’m now realizing the photo I obtained was much more airbrushed.
“I think that’s Christina.” The woman enters the coffee shop, and I stand up and shake her hand.
“Christina, nice to meet you, I’m Marshall Oakley. News reporter at The Journal.”
“Hi, Marshall, nice to meet you,” Christina says.
“And this is my colleague Lucy Reid.” I gesture to Lucy and the two of them shake hands. “As I mentioned in my emails, she’ll be observing our interview.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucy,” she says.
“Likewise, Christina.”
“What can I get you to drink?” I ask Christina.
“Oh please.” She waves a hand. She places a black Chanel purse on one of the chairs and pulls out her wallet. “I’ll get it.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I get points here.” She walks over to the lengthy line.
Lucy and I take our seats, and we both pull out our notepads and pens.
I start jotting down small details: the car Christina drives (black Jaguar), the color of her hair, height, etc.
After Lucy’s done her notes, she shows me her page, and I tip mine in her direction.
On hers I see bullets that read 6 feet and 80 pounds, lips have fresh filler, hair is fake and as blond as Gwen Stefani’s, makes me feel poor but also rich at the same time for some reason.
I let out a snort and she gives a little shrug.
When Christina comes back, she has some kind of cold foam drink in her hand and then situates herself across from Lucy and me.
“All right, let’s do this,” she says. After doing my research, I know that this is not the first press outlet that Christina’s talked to about her experience. Her story is straightforward, so my questions aren’t lengthy.
“Thank you for meeting today,” I say. “This shouldn’t take up too much of your time. Confirming that I’m free to record this conversation in its entirety? Anything that you say on record can be used in this piece.”
“I’m an open book,” Christina says, and from that cue I place my phone on the table closer to where she’s sitting and hit record.
“As mentioned over email, I’m working on a story inspired by the recent news about Alf Olson’s involvement with a private escort service—”
“Oh yeah,” she laughs. “I’m familiar.”
“You’ve been open about your experience as an escort,” I say. “How did you get into that profession?”