Her skin is glowing and just the littlest bit red, as if it’s been rubbed clean. She’s wearing false eyelashes, or perhaps she gets eyelash extensions. Where her cheeks were once angular, they are now a bit sunken. But they have just a tint of soft rosiness to them, and her lips are a dark nude.
Her hair is past her shoulders—a beautiful array of white, gray, and blond—with the lightest colors framing her face. I’m sure her hair is triple-processed, but the effect is that of a gracefully aging woman who sat out in the sun.
Her eyebrows, however—those dark, thick, straight lines that were her signature—have thinned over the years. And they are now the same color as her hair.
By the time she reaches me, I notice that she is not wearing any shoes but, instead, big, chunky knit socks.
“Monique, hello,” Evelyn says.
I am momentarily surprised at the casualness and confidence with which she says my name, as if she has known me for years. “Hello,” I say.
“I’m Evelyn.” She reaches out and takes my hand, shaking it. It strikes me as a unique form of power to say your own name when you know that everyone in the room, everyone in the world, already knows it.
Grace comes in with a white mug of coffee on a white saucer. “There you go. With just a bit of cream.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, taking it from her.
“That’s just the way I like it as well,” Evelyn says, and I’m embarrassed to admit it thrills me. I feel as if I’ve pleased her.
“Can I get either of you anything else?” Grace asks.
I shake my head, and Evelyn doesn’t answer. Grace leaves.
“Come,” Evelyn says. “Let’s go to the living room and get comfortable.”
As I grab my bag, Evelyn takes the coffee out of my hand, carrying it for me. I once read that charisma is “charm that inspires devotion.” And I can’t help but think of that now, when she’s holding my coffee for me. The combination of such a powerful woman and such a small and humble gesture is enchanting, to be sure.
We step into a large, bright room with floor-to-ceiling windows. There are oyster-gray chairs opposite a soft slate-blue sofa. The carpet under our feet is thick, bright ivory, and as my eyes follow its path, I am struck by the black grand piano, open under the light of the windows. On the walls are two blown-up black-and-white images.
The one above the sofa is of Harry Cameron on the set of a movie.
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.”
I back away slightly. I’ve ruined it. “I apologize,” I say. “That was a poor choice of words.”
Evelyn doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hugo. This is all a bit surreal for me.”
“You can call me Evelyn,” she says.
“OK, Evelyn, what’s the next step here? What, precisely, are we going to do together?” I take the coffee cup and put it up to my lips, sipping just the littlest bit.
“We’re not doing a Vivant cover story,” she says.
“OK, that much I got,” I say, putting the cup down.
“We’re writing a book.”
“We are?”
Evelyn nods. “You and I,” she says. “I’ve read your work. I like the way you communicate clearly and succinctly. Your writing has a no-nonsense quality to it that I admire and that I think my book could use.”
“You’re asking me to ghostwrite your autobiography?” This is fantastic. This is absolutely, positively fantastic. This is a good reason to stay in New York. A great reason. Things like this don’t happen in San Francisco.
Evelyn shakes her head again. “I’m giving you my life story, Monique. I’m going to tell you the whole truth. And you are going to write a book about it.”
“And we’ll package it with your name on it and tell everyone you wrote it. That’s ghostwriting.” I pick up my cup again.
“My name won’t be on it. I’ll be dead.”
I choke on my coffee and in doing so stain the white carpet with flecks of umber.
“Oh, my God,” I say, perhaps a bit too loudly, as I put down the cup. “I spilled coffee on your carpet.”
Evelyn waves this off, but Grace knocks on the door and opens it just a crack, poking her head in.
“Everything OK?”
“I spilled, I’m afraid,” I say.
Grace opens the door fully and comes in, taking a look.
“I’m really sorry. I just got a bit shocked is all.”
I catch Evelyn’s eye, and I don’t know her very well, but what I do know is that she’s telling me to be quiet.
“It’s not a problem,” Grace says. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you hungry, Monique?” Evelyn says, standing up.
“I’m sorry?”
“I know a place just down the street that makes really great salads. My treat.”
It’s barely noon, and when I’m anxious, the first thing to go is my appetite, but I say yes anyway, because I get the distinct impression that it’s not really a question.
“Great,” Evelyn says. “Grace, will you call ahead to Trambino’s?”
Evelyn takes me by the shoulder, and less than ten minutes later, we’re walking down the manicured sidewalks of the Upper East Side.
The sharp chill in the air surprises me, and I notice Evelyn grab her coat tightly around her tiny waist.
In the sunlight, it’s easier to see the signs of aging. The whites of her eyes are cloudy, and the complexion of her hands is in the process of becoming translucent. The clear blue tint to her veins reminds me of my grandmother. I used to love the soft, papery tenderness of her skin, the way it didn’t bounce back but stayed in place.
“Evelyn, what do you mean you’ll be dead?”
Evelyn laughs. “I mean that I want you to publish the book as an authorized biography, with your name on it, when I’m dead.”
“OK,” I say, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to have someone say to you. And then I realize, no, that’s crazy. “Not to be indelicate, but are you telling me you’re dying?”
“Everyone’s dying, sweetheart. You’re dying, I’m dying, that guy is dying.”
She points to a middle-aged man walking a fluffy black dog. He hears her, sees her finger aimed at him, and realizes who it is that’s speaking. The effect on his face is something like a triple take.
We turn toward the restaurant, walking the two steps down to the door. Evelyn sits at a table in the back. No host guided her here. She just knows where to go and assumes everyone else will catch up. A server in black pants, a white shirt, and a black tie comes to our table and puts down two glasses of water. Evelyn’s has no ice.