Chapter 1 Lucy #2
“Doesn’t matter. I’m Asian-looking enough that it does the job for him.” I check my inbox to make sure there are no urgent emails. What I do see is a last-minute meeting invite with my editor, Eman, and no subject. I turn to Jonah. “Did you get one of these from Michelle?”
Jonah leans over to look at my screen. “No, but Michelle’s out for the week.”
I swear his editor is always out, but that’s not my business.
“Do you think it’s about layoffs?” I whisper.
The landscape of journalism has changed since I graduated.
As if cost-cutting strategies and declining ad revenue weren’t bad enough, people don’t necessarily want to be reading articles upon articles.
Social media headlines are how people get their information, and rarely do people click on links in bio to “read more.” A lot of publications have been doing mass layoffs the past year; my college classmates and former co-workers are living proof.
The Journal is one of the largest news organizations in North America; based on industry rumblings, and the recent numbers, it’s inevitable our company is next.
Jonah lowers his voice. “I heard that if they’re doing it, it’ll be in Q4.”
“That’s in like two months!” I whisper-shout.
“You’ll be fine,” Jonah says. “Your column is one of the more popular ones. There’s no way they’re letting you go.”
“I guess…” I sit back in my chair. This is my first full-time job—a job that’s allowed me to get an apartment in West Hollywood and lease a car that doesn’t break down every other month.
With real financial obligations, I can’t go back to getting paid for one story every three weeks… and that’s if I’m lucky.
“So, what now?” Jonah spins his chair back to face his laptop. “Any more dates lined up?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Maybe I should take a break…”
“Okay,” Jonah scoffs. He knows as well as I do the chances of that are slim to none.
“I swear,” I say, looking at him, “every single man I’ve gone out with in the past few months gets weird when work comes up.”
Once men find out a woman writes about sex, they’re either a) convinced they’re getting laid that night or b) instantly intimidated by someone so sex-positive and c) never interested in anything else the woman says because they’re not capable of hearing anything past “sex writer.”
“You’re giving men too much credit. They’re just men,” Jonah says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t care how old they are, or how well their mamas raised them. If they’re straight, they’re all the same.”
I stand up. “I need a coffee.”
“What happened to I’m going to start making my coffee at home?” Jonah mocks but starts following me anyway.
“It never tastes the same,” I say with a pout, knowing very well that the strongest sign of restraint is not buying an eight-dollar latte every morning.
“How’s your week looking?” I ask as we start walking in the direction I just came from.
Past the sound of office chatter, photocopiers, and the newest Taylor Swift song playing from someone’s computer in the distance.
“I have to go to Vegas Saturday to cover that music festival,” he says.
“While you do that, I’ll be ripping my clit in half to make this deadline.”
“Oh, poor you,” Jonah says as we walk into the thankfully empty elevator. “You’re getting paid to orgasm.”
“Hey.” I hit the ground floor button. “Sometimes it’s a lot of work!”
“Oh, I also meant to tell you: Jay’s last day is Friday.” He takes a sip of his coffee. Jay Dunn is one of the senior news reporters at The Journal. I’ve never met him myself but am familiar with his bylines. “He’s having a going-away party Friday night…I’m gonna be so tired.”
Once we get outside, my eyes squint from the sunlight.
It’s barely nine-thirty a.m. and the temperature is already in the mid-nineties.
I pull out a hair tie from my pocket and wrap my hair in a topknot.
We walk around the block to our local coffee spot that’s, as usual, way too packed.
Beneath the palm trees sits an eclectic mix of people taking meetings from their AirPods and people who just finished their eight a.m. Pilates class.
“Jay’s leaving?” I ask once we get in line.
“Yeah, did you know he’s been working here longer than I have?
” Jonah has worked at The Rue for almost seven years.
When it comes to historical knowledge of the publication, who people are, how things work, he knows it all.
“Iced Americano,” Jonah says to the man at the front sporting a handlebar mustache and overalls.
He still has his current iced coffee in hand, but I don’t say anything.
“Iced oat latte, please,” I say after he pays.
“Come with!” Jonah says.
“Is it just for people at The Journal? Would that be weird?”
“No, it’s company-wide.” Jonah grabs his coffee and adds a packet of stevia. “It’s a good networking opportunity, plus there’s free food.”
It doesn’t take much persuasion on Jonah’s end. Networking, free food, and hanging out with one of my best friends on a Friday night? That gets me off more than the idea of using the Cleo.
I’m patiently waiting inside one of the conference rooms for my managing editor, Eman.
She’s your typical older millennial on the cusp of Gen X who secretly thrives off being everyone’s best friend at the office.
When Eman enters, she sits back, crosses her legs, and lets out a signature exhale like she has the best gossip on the tip of her tongue.
“How was your weekend?” she asks in a singsongy tone.
“It was fine.” I smile. “How was yours?”
“Oh, you know.” Eman gets a text on her phone and starts responding. “Had some friends in town so we went up to Solvang.”
“I love it up there.” I lean in, excited to talk about SoCal’s little Danish-style town. “Was that your first time?”
“Hm? Yeah, it was so cute! Loved it.” She continues typing and then finally sets her phone face down. “Okay, so I have an update.”
I do my best to maintain a poker face because an update can quite literally mean anything if it comes from Eman. One time an update meant that we were going from two to five days in office, and another time it meant that she tried out this new Botox place.
The fate of my career is at the forefront of my mind, but I remember what Jonah said earlier. In the three and a half years I’ve worked here, I’ve never missed a deadline, and my stories are some of the ones that have the most traction. I manifest that this is going to be a good update.
“Your column is amazing, Lucy. You already know that I love everything you write. Your voice, the topics, all of it.” Eman takes a sip from her obnoxious reusable water bottle. “You had an eight percent click-through rate when you started, which is unheard of.”
I smile because I already knew my column was one of the most popular columns at The Rue. This recognition, though, really solidifies it.
“That’s amazing to hear, Eman, truly.”
“But the last three months your CTR has been at two percent,” she says.
My stomach plummets. “What?”
“Two percent isn’t bad! But there’s been a significant decrease lately.”
“Have we not been getting as much traffic?” I ask, concerned about what this means for us as a company.
“Oh no.” Eman shakes her head. “The Rue has been fine. It’s your column,” she says with a pang of regret in her voice.
“Oh…” I say, not understanding where this is going. “I-I had no idea.”
“I’m just going to be straight with you, Lucy. We need more clicks. We need more brands, and we need those brands to buy more sponsored stories.”
What most people don’t realize is that although my job may seem like all fun and sex games from the outside, I still very much work for corporate America.
That means to run a publication and pay its employees, The Rue needs money.
Most of that money comes from sponsored stories.
There’s a reason why we’re plugging five different vibrator brands next week in a spotlight placement.
I nod. “I totally understand. So, what can I do?”
“Well, to start, it’s a sex and relationships column and your stories are leaning more sex than relationships.”
I frown. “I write about relationships all the time.”
“You write for women not in relationships,” Eman says, correcting me.
“Dating tips, overcoming a breakup, how to pleasure yourself without a partner. The occasional ‘how to find a partner’…but never what happens once you do. Most of your pieces have been leaning a little more progressive, and it’s rubbing some of our readers the wrong way. ”
I gape. It’s not my job to convince people that women shouldn’t be shamed for having casual sex.
“But that’s the interesting stuff!” I defend myself.
“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Eman says. “But we did a focus group. That’s just a small part of the issue. The readers that started off with you are now in relationships and they don’t find your content relatable anymore.”
My face scrunches. “You pulled together a focus group to talk about my column?”
“Among other things,” Eman says. “The partnerships team pulled numbers across all our verticals. We saw that seventy-eight percent of our readers are in relationships. They want to know how to deal with their current partners, not find new ones. That’s just a fact.”