It was weeks of checking the newspaper – breaking out into the cold of the morning, every morning, in a robe and a sleeping mask tucked into her hair – before she realised the article wasn’t going to be published. One was lucky enough, right? Didn’t know what she’d done wrong, or how it’d gone wrong, when she’d met with the journalist over coffee. Rhiannon had been well dressed and well spoken. Kind and considerate. She’d emailed the paper a few times– tried to call for an appointment with Livia Dunne, too, without response.
She didn’t know what to do.
She didn’t even know why it was so important.
The AJC was bustling. Maybe the article was being reserved for a slow news day? Rhiannon felt small– let her posture go, with a trench coat tucked over her forearm. She didn’t know who to ask; tried to pick out an employee that wasn’t rushing around the office, or juggling coffee cups with pieces of paper.
There was a woman poring over her desk. Rhiannon approached with a tentative smile. “Excuse me, I was wonderin’ where I could find–” she stopped at the sight of a familiar face. Easily distracted. “Sinclair, right? I’ve seen you on TV– I’ve read your column before. It was really beautiful, from everythin’ I got to see.”
So much time was spent in her office that Margot often forgot the entire ecosystem of newspeople running amok at the AJC headquarters. The space she held -- - shared with the only four investigative journalists belonging to the team she proudly called her home - -- was much quieter by comparison, punctuated only with the click of keys and ringing of phones. On occasion, the group would express their disdain for a certain piece, but everything ran smoothly in her neck of the woods. It was more familiar to be caught up in the larger crowd, which was perhaps why she found herself offering to carry old clippings from the basement to the office.
As luck would have it, she was en route to the basement once more when she was stopped by a stranger. Even if she was only looking for someone to chat with, Margot turned to face her with a smile that was all dimples and teeth.
Sinclair. Television. Column.
The Washington Post. Of course. That was all the information Margot really needed to realize that she had been recognized from that column about her parents. It wasn’t the first time she had been recognized, but it was never something she minded. Actually, one could safely assume that her day had been made by the all-too-familiar looking girl carrying a trenchcoat.
“That’s me, yeah. Margot’s fine -- - thank you. That means a lot to me, it really does.” Margot’s smile became something more appreciative as she shifted the box in her arms, balancing it between elbow and hip so she could extend her hand however awkwardly. “I’m sorry, you look... really familiar, actually.” Her curiosity was genuine, gaze fixated on the curve of the stranger’s cheekbones and, more importantly, her hair. Even though it took some doing, the penny dropped and left Margot nodding enthusiastically. “Holbrook! Rhiannon Holbrook, right? You... Someone interviewed you, I think? I saw a couple stories about you.... Horses? You ride them? I think?” She hoped, anyway, as their exchange was going to become painfully awkward if she was wrong. “But what’s up? You look like you’re trying to find something. Are you here for another interview?”
