Evelyn nods. She has been expecting this question. “For now, think of it as a gift.”
“But why?”
“Next question.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously, Monique, next question.”
I accidentally drop my fork onto the ivory tablecloth. The oil from the dressing bleeds into the fabric, turning it darker and more translucent. The chopped salad is delicious but heavy on the onions, and I can feel the heat of my breath permeating the space around me. What the hell is going on?
“I’m not trying to be ungrateful, but I think I deserve to know why one of the most famous actresses of all time would pluck me out of obscurity to be her biographer and hand me the opportunity to make millions of dollars off her story.”
“The Huffington Post is reporting that I could sell my autobiography for as much as twelve million dollars.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Inquiring minds want to know, I guess.”
The way Evelyn is having so much fun with this, the way she seems to delight in shocking me, lets me know that this is, at least a little bit, a power play. She likes to be cavalier about things that would change other people’s lives. Isn’t that the very definition of power? Watching people kill themselves over something that means nothing to you?
“Twelve million is a lot, don’t get me wrong . . .” she says, and she doesn’t need to finish the sentence in order for it to be completed in my head. But it’s not very much to me.
“But still, Evelyn, why? Why me?”
Evelyn looks up at me, her face stoic. “Next question.”
“With all due respect, you’re not being particularly fair.”
“I’m offering you the chance to make a fortune and skyrocket to the top of your field. I don’t have to be fair. Certainly not if that’s how you’re going to define it, anyway.”
On the one hand, this feels like a no-brainer. But at the same time, Evelyn has given me absolutely nothing concrete. And I could lose my job by stealing a story like this for myself. That job is all I have right now. “Can I have some time to think about this?”
“Think about what?”
“About all of this.”
Evelyn’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “What on earth is there to think about?”
“I’m sorry if it offends you,” I say.
Evelyn cuts me off. “You haven’t offended me.” Just the very implication that I could get under her skin gets under her skin.
“There’s a lot to consider,” I say. I could get fired. She could back out. I could fail spectacularly at writing this book.
Evelyn leans forward, trying to hear me out. “For instance?”
“For instance, how am I supposed to handle this with Vivant? They think they have an exclusive with you. They’re making calls to photographers this very moment.”
“I told Thomas Welch not to promise a single thing. If they have gone out and made wild assumptions about some cover, that’s on them.”
“But it’s on me, too. Because now I know you have no intention of moving forward with them.”
“So?”
“So what do I do? Go back to my office and tell my boss that you’re not talking to Vivant, that instead you and I are selling a book? It’s going to look like I went behind their backs, on company time, mind you, and stole their story for myself.”
“That’s not really my problem,” Evelyn says.
