The one above the fireplace is the poster for Evelyn’s 1959 version of Little Women. Evelyn, Celia St. James, and two other actresses’ faces make up the image. All four of these women may have been household names back in the ’50s, but it is Evelyn and Celia who stood the test of time. Looking at it now, Evelyn and Celia seem to shine brighter than the others. But I’m pretty sure that’s simply hindsight bias. I’m seeing what I want to see, based on how I know it all turns out.
Evelyn puts my cup and saucer down on the black-lacquer coffee table. “Sit,” she says as she takes a seat herself in one of the plush chairs. She pulls her feet up underneath her. “Anywhere you want.”
I nod and put my bag down. As I sit on the couch, I grab my notepad.
“So you’re putting your gowns up for auction,” I say as I settle myself. I click my pen, ready to listen.
Which is when Evelyn says, “Actually, I’ve called you here under false pretenses.”
I look directly at her, sure I’ve misheard. “Excuse me?”
Evelyn rearranges herself in the chair and looks at me. “There’s not much to tell about me handing a bunch of dresses over to Christie’s.”
“Well, then—”
“I called you here to discuss something else.”
“What is that?”
“My life story.”
“Your life story?” I say, stunned and trying hard to catch up to her.
“A tell-all.”
An Evelyn Hugo tell-all would be . . . I don’t know. Something close to the story of the year. “You want to do a tell-all with Vivant?”
“No,” she says.
“You don’t want to do a tell-all?”
“I don’t want to do one with Vivant.”
“Then why am I here?” I’m even more lost than I was just a moment ago.
“You’re the one I’m giving the story to.”
I look at her, trying to decipher what exactly she’s saying.
“You’re going to go on record about your life, and you’re going to do it with me but not with Vivant?”
Evelyn nods. “Now you’re getting it.”
“What exactly are you proposing?” There is no way that I have just walked into a situation in which one of the most intriguing people alive is offering me the story of her life for no reason. I must be missing something.
“I will tell you my life story in a way that will be beneficial to both of us. Although, to be honest, mainly you.”
“Just how in-depth are we talking about here?” Maybe she wants some airy retrospective? Some lightweight story published somewhere of her choosing?
“The whole nine yards. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Whatever cliché you want to use that means ‘I’ll tell you the truth about absolutely everything I’ve ever done.’?”
Whoa.
I feel so silly for coming in here expecting her to answer questions about dresses. I put the notebook on the table in front of me and gently put the pen down on top of it. I want to handle this perfectly. It’s as if a gorgeous, delicate bird has just flown to me and sat directly on my shoulder, and if I don’t make the exact right move, it might fly away.
“OK, if I understand you correctly, what you’re saying is that you’d like to confess your various sins—”
Evelyn’s posture, which until this point has shown her to be very relaxed and fairly detached, changes. She is now leaning toward me. “I never said anything about confessing sins. I said nothing about sins at all.”
