such an empathetic man; compassion seeped from your pores. People talked to you the way they’d speak to a trusted family doctor, an old friend, a psychiatrist. You inspired confession like the sight of an upturned collar. You had the gift of ease, of gentle persuasion. My skill is in disappearing, losing myself, clarifying famous people’s thoughts in their own authentic voices. I know I have a long way to go before I’m as good as you were.
Soon the peaked barn roof was visible, but it appeared and disappeared with the gradations of the hills, seeming closer one minute, then farther away, like a mirage. The grass was soft and muddy from the early April rains. My boot heels sank into mush.
I felt like a battered rag doll by the time I collapsed behind the wheel, legs shaking, cheeks crinkled from smiling idiotically to myself. I slammed the door, grateful to be alone, surrounded by a precious bubble of silence. Malcolm and I had set a new time: tomorrow at three o’clock.
I was unsettled by the director in person. No matter how well I knew his voice, his actual physical presence was intoxicating, overwhelming. Query: Can the writer ever stay out of the story, keep her opinion of the subject wholly secret? I didn’t exactly venerate one of the musicians we ghosted. I won’t give her name, but you know who I mean, Teddy, the alto with the ego. I scrupulously used her exact words, but I left in a lot of grandiose statements I might have eliminated if I’d liked her better and wanted her to appear more sympathetic. She, of course, didn’t seem to mind; I doubt she noticed.
Garrett Malcolm seemed like a man who’d notice.
He wore the subtlest cologne I’ve ever smelled, a faint fragrance of fresh pine needles; either that or he had a natural scent that ought to be bottled.
I think he admired my persistence, Teddy. Once I got his attention, well, it was complete and total focus, like a searchlight. As though we had plenty of time, as though all his other work had screeched to a halt. I could still feel his eyes on my face.
I’m not used to such attention. Thinking about it gave me a pleasant shiver. He was magnetic. He was sexy. That’s what you didn’t get across. Maybe it only feels that way to a woman.
I am a woman, Teddy.
Oh, God, right there in the car, I gave myself a lecture. He’s handsome, he’s well-off, he’s famous, he works with actresses, for Christ’s sake. I shifted till I could see my colorless face reflected in the rearview mirror. I wasn’t good-looking or famous or rich. I forced myself to remember the painting of his ex-wife to the left of the stone chimney.
Claire Gregory. That would be some competition, me versus she, even with her dead. I can almost hear you laughing, Teddy. She’d been a hot leading lady, box-office gold, when the cancer took her, and even though she and Malcolm had divorced, he’d never remarried and he kept her portrait on the wall. Talk about glamour, she had it; she owned it. Talk about contrast; take a look in the mirror.
My heart started racing and my breath burned down my windpipe. I opened the window because the enclosed space of the car’s tight interior was a weight pressing on my chest. Breathe, I ordered myself. What would I do if this happened during tomorrow’s interview? How would I manage?
Forgive me, Teddy, but I couldn’t help feeling that you covered the easy stuff. I’m not disparaging the great travel interviews, and I know you were warming Malcolm up for deeper revelations. That’s how you worked, general to specific, grabbing the money quotes near the end. You got great quotes about his work, his stage and film triumphs, but I still needed to get the goods about his bad-boy days on Mulholland Drive. I needed fresh personal details about his marriage to Claire, the divorce, the custody battle over their only child. How on earth could I ask? What should I say? I hated to pry, but I needed to, if the book was to be a success. A small
Soon the peaked barn roof was visible, but it appeared and disappeared with the gradations of the hills, seeming closer one minute, then farther away, like a mirage. The grass was soft and muddy from the early April rains. My boot heels sank into mush.
I felt like a battered rag doll by the time I collapsed behind the wheel, legs shaking, cheeks crinkled from smiling idiotically to myself. I slammed the door, grateful to be alone, surrounded by a precious bubble of silence. Malcolm and I had set a new time: tomorrow at three o’clock.
I was unsettled by the director in person. No matter how well I knew his voice, his actual physical presence was intoxicating, overwhelming. Query: Can the writer ever stay out of the story, keep her opinion of the subject wholly secret? I didn’t exactly venerate one of the musicians we ghosted. I won’t give her name, but you know who I mean, Teddy, the alto with the ego. I scrupulously used her exact words, but I left in a lot of grandiose statements I might have eliminated if I’d liked her better and wanted her to appear more sympathetic. She, of course, didn’t seem to mind; I doubt she noticed.
Garrett Malcolm seemed like a man who’d notice.
He wore the subtlest cologne I’ve ever smelled, a faint fragrance of fresh pine needles; either that or he had a natural scent that ought to be bottled.
I think he admired my persistence, Teddy. Once I got his attention, well, it was complete and total focus, like a searchlight. As though we had plenty of time, as though all his other work had screeched to a halt. I could still feel his eyes on my face.
I’m not used to such attention. Thinking about it gave me a pleasant shiver. He was magnetic. He was sexy. That’s what you didn’t get across. Maybe it only feels that way to a woman.
I am a woman, Teddy.
Oh, God, right there in the car, I gave myself a lecture. He’s handsome, he’s well-off, he’s famous, he works with actresses, for Christ’s sake. I shifted till I could see my colorless face reflected in the rearview mirror. I wasn’t good-looking or famous or rich. I forced myself to remember the painting of his ex-wife to the left of the stone chimney.
Claire Gregory. That would be some competition, me versus she, even with her dead. I can almost hear you laughing, Teddy. She’d been a hot leading lady, box-office gold, when the cancer took her, and even though she and Malcolm had divorced, he’d never remarried and he kept her portrait on the wall. Talk about glamour, she had it; she owned it. Talk about contrast; take a look in the mirror.
My heart started racing and my breath burned down my windpipe. I opened the window because the enclosed space of the car’s tight interior was a weight pressing on my chest. Breathe, I ordered myself. What would I do if this happened during tomorrow’s interview? How would I manage?
Forgive me, Teddy, but I couldn’t help feeling that you covered the easy stuff. I’m not disparaging the great travel interviews, and I know you were warming Malcolm up for deeper revelations. That’s how you worked, general to specific, grabbing the money quotes near the end. You got great quotes about his work, his stage and film triumphs, but I still needed to get the goods about his bad-boy days on Mulholland Drive. I needed fresh personal details about his marriage to Claire, the divorce, the custody battle over their only child. How on earth could I ask? What should I say? I hated to pry, but I needed to, if the book was to be a success. A small
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