The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo(26)

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.”

“A biography? You’re taking our story and turning it into a book instead?”

“It’s what Evelyn wants. I’ve been trying to convince her otherwise.”

“And have you?” Frankie asks. “Convinced her?”

“No,” I say. “Not yet. But I think I might be able to.”

“OK,” Frankie says. “Then do that.”

This is my moment.

“I think I can deliver you a massive, headline-making Evelyn Hugo story,” I say. “But if I do, I want to be promoted.”

I can hear skepticism enter Frankie’s voice. “What kind of promotion?”

“Editor at large. I come and go as I please. I choose the stories I want to tell.”

“No.”

“Then I have no incentive to get Evelyn to allow the piece to be in Vivant.”

I can practically hear Frankie weighing her options. She is quiet, but there is no tension. It is as if she does not expect me to speak until she has decided what she will say. “If you get us a cover story,” she says finally, “and she agrees to sit for a photo shoot, I’ll make you a writer at large.”

I consider the offer, and Frankie jumps in as I’m thinking. “We only have one editor at large. Bumping Gayle out of the spot she has earned doesn’t feel right to me. I’d think you could understand that. Writer at large is what I have to give. I won’t exert too much control over what you can write about. And if you prove yourself quickly there, you’ll move up as everyone else does. It’s fair, Monique.”

I think about it for a moment further. Writer at large seems reasonable. Writer at large sounds great. “OK,” I say. And then I push just a little bit further. Because Evelyn said, at the very beginning of all this, that I have to insist on being paid top dollar. And she’s right. “And I want a raise commensurate with the title.”

I cringe as I hear myself asking for money so directly. But I relax my shoulders the moment I hear Frankie say, “Yes, sure, fine.” I breathe out. “But I want confirmation from you tomorrow,” she continues. “And I want the photo shoot booked by next week.”

“OK,” I say. “You’ve got it.”

Before Frankie gets off the phone, she says, “I’m impressed, but I’m also pissed off. Please make this so good that I have to forgive you.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I will.”





WHEN I WALK INTO EVELYN’S office the next morning, I’m so nervous that my back is sweating and a shallow pool is forming along my spine.

Grace puts down a charcuterie platter, and I can’t stop staring at the cornichons as Evelyn and Grace are talking about Lisbon in the summer.

The moment Grace is gone, I turn to Evelyn.

“We need to talk,” I say.

She laughs. “Honestly, I feel like that’s all we do.”

“About Vivant, I mean.”

“OK,” she says. “Talk.”

“I need to know some sort of timeline for when this book might be released.” I wait for Evelyn to respond. I wait for her to give me something, anything, resembling an answer.

“I’m listening,” she says.

“If you don’t tell me when this book could realistically be sold, then I’m running the risk of losing my job for something that might be years away. Decades, even.”

“You certainly have high hopes for my life span.”

“Evelyn,” I say, somewhat discouraged that she still isn’t taking this seriously. “I either need to know when this is coming out or I need to promise Vivant an excerpt of it for the June issue.”

Evelyn thinks. She is sitting cross-legged on the sofa opposite me, in slim black jersey pants, a gray shell tank, and an oversized white cardigan. “OK,” she says, nodding. “You can give them a piece of it—whatever piece you like—for the June issue. If, and only if, you shut up about this timeline business.”

I don’t let my joy show on my face. I’m halfway there. I can’t rest until I’m done. I have to push her. I have to ask and be willing to be told no. I have to know my worth.

After all, Evelyn wants something from me. She needs me. I don’t know why or what for, but I know I wouldn’t be sitting here if that weren’t the case. I have value to her. I know that. And now I have to use it. Just as she would if she were me.

So here we go.

“You need to sit for a photo shoot. For the cover.”

“No.”

“It’s nonnegotiable.”

“Everything is negotiable. Haven’t you gotten enough? I’ve agreed to the excerpt.”

“You and I both know how valuable new images of you would be.”

“I said no.”

OK. Here we go. I can do this. I just have to do what Evelyn would do. I have to “Evelyn Hugo” Evelyn Hugo. “You agree to the cover photo, or I’m out.”

Evelyn sits forward in her chair. “Excuse me?”

“You want me to write your life story. I want to write your life story. But these are my terms. I’m not going to lose my job for you. And the way I keep my job is I deliver an Evelyn Hugo feature with a cover. So you either persuade me to lose my job over this—which is only possible if you tell me when this book is being sold—or you do this. Those are your options.”

Evelyn looks at me, and I get the impression that I am more than she bargained for. And I feel good about that. There’s a smile forming that is hard to keep in.

“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?” she says.

“I’m trying to protect my interests.”

“Yes, but you’re also good at it, and I think you’re delighting in it a bit.”

I finally let the smile out. “I’m learning from the best.”

“Yes, you are,” Evelyn says. She scrunches her nose. “A cover?”

“A cover.”

“Fine. A cover. And in exchange, starting Monday, I want you here every waking moment. I want to tell you all I have to say as soon as possible. And from now on, when I don’t answer a question the first time, you don’t ask it again. Do we have a deal?”

I get up from behind the desk, walk over to Evelyn, and put out my hand. “Deal.”

Evelyn laughs. “Look at you,” she says. “You keep this up, you might just rule your own part of the world one day.”

“Why, thank you,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says, not unkindly. “Sit down at the desk. Start recording. I don’t have all day.”

I do as I’m told, and then I look at her. “All right,” I say. “So you’re in love with Celia, you’ve divorced Don, it looks like your career is down the tubes. What’s next?”

Evelyn takes a second to answer, and in that moment I realize that she has just agreed to the very thing she swore she would never do—a Vivant cover—just so I won’t walk.

Evelyn wants me for something. And she wants it bad.

And now I’m finally starting to suspect that I should be scared.





Gullible Mick Riva





PhotoMoment

February 1, 1960




EVELYN, GREEN’S NOT YOUR COLOR

Evelyn Hugo showed up to the 1960 Audience Appreciation Awards on the arm of producer Harry Cameron last Thursday. In an emerald-green silk cocktail number, she failed to wow like she has in the past. Evelyn’s signature color is starting to seem like a signature bore.

Meanwhile, Celia St. James dazzled in a stunning pale blue beaded taffeta shirtdress, updating the typical daytime look with a glamorous, fresh twist.

But the icy Evelyn didn’t say a single word to her old best friend. She avoided Celia all night.