“Wow,” she said. “I cannot get over how candid you are! Truly, I am honoured that you found the time to speak with me and to share your compelling story.”
“The pleasure is mine” I assured her. “I appreciate your interest.”
“You are most welcome. Now, let’s see, I think that’s all of the interview questions out of the way. Just a few marketing details and I’ll get out of your hair.”
She turned off the recorder and set it on the table.
“Speaking of hair, may I recommend an excellent colourist?”
“For the photo shoot. I don’t think any of these publicity shots will, um, appeal to your readers, do you?”
“Oh, I know! I’ll make an appointment for you with my personal esthetician! Henri can do amazing things with make-up! AND he can whip those funky eyebrows of yours into shape. You don’t mind, do you?”
Three simple questions. Why couldn’t she ask tough questions like “How did you feel when your first husband left you for another woman?” or “What was it like to be called at the last minute to fill in for an ailing leading lady?”
Now I felt vulnerable. More exposed than if an army of Pulitzer winning journalists was camped on my doorstep.
Hello fame. Hello fortune. Goodbye comfort, serenity, and solitude.