Interview

She was the most coolly elegant woman I’d ever met, and frankly, I was terrified. She sat across from me on the other side of a low table in the hotel foyer. Her bodyguard, lean and middle-aged, had positioned himself a few feet behind her right shoulder. No doubt, from there he could scan the room and the hotel entrance.

Her signature jet black hair tumbled over her shoulders, and she fixed me with her exquisitely made-up eyes. The dark brown orbs seemed to drink me in while also asking what the hell someone like me was doing here.

“Hello, darling,” her voice was unusually deep for a woman. “Call me Carolyn, please”.

“Hamish,” I said, taking her proffered hand, which she quickly withdrew as soon as my fingers brushed hers.

“Well, Hamish. This is nice,” she smiled her famous enigmatic smile.

She was dressed in a knee-length black dress with diamond earrings and nothing around her neck, somehow accentuating cleavage that I was desperately trying not to stare at. Her legs were crossed, left over right, with the sharp toe of one black high-heeled shoe pointing at me accusingly. I knew that meant something in body language, but I couldn’t remember what exactly.

“Tell me, Hamish,” I loved the way she said my name. “Have you been to any of my concerts or TV shows?”

I swallowed before answering. “No, but I did catch your book tour in San Francisco.” I had a lot riding on this. I could stay here if I got the gig, but if I didn't, I’d run out of money soon and probably have to go home. LA was expensive and I had been couch surfing for a few weeks now, trying the patience of my friends.

“Ah, at the Golden Gate Theater,” she nodded. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes, I did. Thanks. You were great, as usual”. She must think me an idiot and she was right. I could see she was not overly impressed by my Marks & Spencer chinos or my faithful old brown leather jacket.

“Have you seen any of my movies?”

“Yes.” More than once.

“And what did you think?” She moved her head slightly to look more directly into my eyes. She thinks I’m flattering her like those ridiculously sycophantic showbiz interviewers.

“I think you have a rare talent. When you sing, you really put your heart into it. The sincerity shines through, and it’s the same for your acting. Hence the Oscar, well deserved if I may say so”. I could see she liked this, and I had the impression that I might have passed some sort of test.

“Can I just call you ‘babe’, as everyone else does?”

She laughed. “So that’s how it is. You don’t know me well enough.”

I waited for the ‘yet’ but it didn’t come.

“Of course, you must be used to that sort of thing,” I ventured. How could any red-blooded male know her and not fall in love?”

“I wouldn’t quite put it like that. But it’s okay,” she laughed again. Ah, the ice is broken.

I wondered again why she had agreed to this meeting based on an incoherent request from an unknown, wannabe writer to her manager.

“I want to write about you,” I ventured. I knew she was looking for a ghost writer.

“I’m already working on my memoirs,” she paused, adding, “As you know.”

“Yes, and it’s great. Reading it is fantastic preparation for what I want to do. But I want to go deeper into the real woman behind the mask, under the glamour and glitz. Reach the child within, so to speak.”

She looked at me sharply. “Wow, that sounds risky. I’d better watch out.” She laughed.

“You’ll have full editorial control, of course. If you don’t like something, it won’t go in.” I knew she had problems in the past. It won’t happen with me, babe.

She looked at me doubtfully. “What if we disagree?”

“I may try to persuade you, but you’ll have the final say. That will be in the contract.”

“What if I just don’t like your writing?” She was looking at me intently now, her eyebrows furrowed very slightly.

“You’ll have the final word. I promise.” I swallowed. Was I making progress or not?

She was silent for a moment, then took her phone out of her gold lame handbag and pressed it a couple of times.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said finally. “Now I have to go.”

From where I sat, I had seen the Rolls-Royce pull up outside the hotel. The driver got out, checked his watch, and came into the lobby. He exchanged a word with the hotel manager, who had been hovering near the reception desk, and came over to us. It seemed the meeting was over. She stood and held out her hand.

“It was lovely meeting you,” she said. Send everything to my manager’s email.” I knew what that meant.

I leapt up to shake her hand, resisting the temptation to kiss it. I watched her go with a sinking feeling. They went out through the glass doors. The driver held the car door open for her while the bodyguard walked around to the other side. They got in, and the car glided noiselessly out of sight.

She was gone.