The first stage of the book will focus on Scarlett’s childhood and how that evolved into acting. It’s public knowledge on the internet, but I was hoping to get some hidden facts that will interest the readers, an added bonus for the die-hard fans who think they know everything about her. I tell her, “I’ll be recording the conversation.”
But she’s quick to shut down, stating, “I’d prefer this conversation not to be recorded.”
Haden needs the information, and my memory isn’t the greatest. Could this bitch be any more of a pain in the ass?
“Look, Morgan. These are Presley’s questions. I’m just doing her job for the day. I’m really not understanding why it’s such a problem.”
“Because this is Hollywood.
Anything you say can be held against you.”
Her stare is fierce, penetrating with an ice-cold expression. The glass of water sits beside her espresso. She carefully has a drink, then returns her attention to me. “Fine, if you must. Perhaps you’re not as multi-skilled as I pegged you to be.”
Did she just put me down? I’m moments away from walking out.
Taking a deep breath and remembering how much I need this job right now, I bite my tongue so damn hard I can taste the blood.
Breathe… one… two… three.
“So, let’s start with childhood. Hard and fast facts to clear up any misinformation in the media.” I press the record button. “Scarlett, real name Sarah Jo Winters, born the fifth of August 1990 in Littlerock, California.”
“Correct,” she states.
“Her father, Max Winters, was a farmer and mother, Marjorie Winters, formerly a housewife, passed away. Siblings… Violet Winters. Two years older.”
“Uh-huh.”
God. Did she suddenly climb back into that shell? I read the next lot of questions, hoping to gain more of an extended answer from her.
“Okay, so growing up, Scarlett has always aspired to be a star.”
Her body gestures indicate she’s bored with the questions. Granted, they’re not about her, but her boss instead. I finish my water in one go, counting down the time until this is over.
“From the age of three, she entered beauty contests in every county. Her mother would save every penny, sometimes doing odd jobs for locals so she could spend it on her outfits.”
“The American Dream, right?” I joke.
“To some.”
“Sorry, go on.”
“At the age of ten, a Hollywood producer happened to be driving through town and saw her at a local diner. She was singing and dancing for the patrons, and so he dubbed her the next Shirley Temple.”
“Quite an image to live up to, don’t you think?”
With a long pause, she puts the glass to her mouth and drinks some water, continuing her silence. How long do I have to fucking wait for an answer?
“She dreamed of being that. So, no, to answer your question, she aspired to something, and she followed her dream. Not many people get that chance, Noah.”
Watching her closely, Morgan fidgets with the napkin sitting on the table. The way she says those words seems odd, but perhaps I’m reading too much into it. The espresso is running through my veins, making me extremely alert.
“She’s determined,” I say.
With a darker tone, she responds, “That, and luck. She happened to be there at the right time.”
“Good karma.” I laugh inside. How ironic, me believing in karma.
“Karma?” she repeats with a sinister laugh. “C’mon, Noah, you can’t possibly believe in karma?”