“If you are heartbroken right now, then I feel for you deeply,” Evelyn says. “That I have the utmost respect for. That’s the sort of thing that can split a person in two. But I wasn’t heartbroken when Don left me. I simply felt like my marriage had failed. And those are very different things.”
When Evelyn says this, I stop my pen in place. I look up at her. And I wonder why I needed Evelyn to tell me that.
I wonder why that sort of distinction has never crossed my mind before.
* * *
ON MY WALK to the subway this evening, I see that Frankie has called me for the second time today.
I wait until I’ve ridden all the way to Brooklyn and I’m heading down the street toward my apartment to respond. It’s almost nine o’clock, so I decide to text her: Just getting out of Evelyn’s now. Sorry it’s so late. Want to talk tomorrow?
I have my key in my front door when I get Frankie’s response: Tonight is fine. Call as soon as you can.
I roll my eyes. I should never bluff Frankie.
I put my bag down. I pace around the apartment. What am I going to tell her? The way I see it, I have two choices.
I can lie and tell her everything’s going fine, that we’re on track for the June issue and that I’m getting Evelyn to talk about more concrete things.
Or I can tell the truth and potentially get fired.
At this point, I’m starting to see that getting fired might not be so bad. I’ll have a book to publish in the future, one for which I’d most likely make millions of dollars. That could, in turn, get me other celebrity biography opportunities. And then, eventually, I could start finding my own topics, writing about anything I want with the confidence that any publisher would buy it.
But I don’t know when this book will be sold. And if my real goal is to set myself up to be able to grab whatever story I want, then credibility matters. Getting fired from Vivant because I stole their major headline would not bode well for my reputation.
Before I can decide what, exactly, my plan is, my phone is ringing in my hand.
Frankie Troupe.
“Hello?”
“Monique,” Frankie says, her voice somehow both solicitous and irritated. “What’s going on with Evelyn? Tell me everything.”
I keep searching for ways in which Frankie, Evelyn, and I all leave this situation getting what we want. But I realize suddenly that the only thing I can control is that I get what I want.
And why shouldn’t I?
Really.
Why shouldn’t it be me who comes out on top?
“Frankie, hi, I’m sorry I haven’t been more available.”
“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Frankie says. “As long as you’re getting good material.”
“I am, but unfortunately, Evelyn is no longer interested in sharing the piece with Vivant.”
The silence on Frankie’s end of the phone is deafening. And then it is punctuated with a flat, dead “What?”
“I’ve been trying to convince her for days. That’s why I’ve been unable to get back to you. I’ve been explaining to her that she has to do this piece for Vivant.”
“If she wasn’t interested, why did she call us?”
“She wanted me,” I say. I do not follow this up with any sort of qualification. I do not say She wanted me and here is why or She wanted me and I’m so sorry about all this.
“She used us to get to you?” Frankie says, as if it’s the most insulting thing she can think of. But the thing is, Frankie used me to get to Evelyn, so . . .
“Yes,” I say. “I think she did. She’s interested in a full biography. Written by me. I’ve gone along with it in the hopes of changing her mind.”
