Interview
Celebrity interviews ho hum
SHORT
David
1/1/20264 min read
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 foyer of the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Her bodyguard, lean and middle-aged with close-cropped grey hair, 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 exquisite eyes beneath the long black lashes. 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 quirky little smile.
She wore 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. She crossed her legs, left over right, with the sharp toe of one black high-heeled shoe pointing accusingly at me. I knew that was supposed to mean something in body language, but I couldn’t remember what.
“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 caught 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’s right. I could also see my Marks & Spencer chinos did not overly impress her, nor my faithful old brown leather jacket.
“Have you seen any of my movies?”
“Yes.” More than once, darling. More than once.
“And what did you think?” She adjusted her head 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’? Everyone else seems to.”
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, inexperienced writer via manager.
“I want to write about you,” I ventured. I had heard she was looking for a ghost writer to help with her life story.
“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 again.
“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.
“You decide what you want to say. Speak it out loud as if you telling stories over dinner with a few close friends. People you like and trust. I’ll keep that tone and write it down. Then we review and revise until you’re happy.”
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 and that’s how I work.”
“What if I just don’t like your writing?” She was looking at me intently now, her eyebrows furrowed slightly.
“You’ll have the last word. I promise.” I swallowed. I’d made my pitch now. 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 twice.
“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, out of earshot but ready to intervene if needed. It seemed the meeting was over. She stood and held out her hand.
“It was lovely meeting you,” she said. “My people will contact your people, if we want to go ahead.”
I leapt up to shake her hand, resisting the temptation to kiss it. Then watched her go with a sinking feeling. The driver opened the door for her, and she went out through the glass doors, the bodyguard close behind. 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.
Then she was gone.