Consider the money. Think of the experience. With Frederic d’Estang’s biography on your CV you could approach other publishers for high-profile work. Your education is coming to an end. It’s time you consider what comes next.
I remember how little there is in my savings account and try to put my embarrassment aside for a moment. Write Frederic d’Estang’s biography. It would mean delving into the private life of a man who’s kept a tight lid on it for most of his life; who’s performed in some of my favorite productions; who knows so much about many of the characters I love. Writing the book would mean getting to ask him about his inspirations and finding out about all the backstage stories. I could ask him if he thinks Frollo could have been redeemed, or if he believes the Phantom truly loved Christine. I could ask him anything. I bite my lip, more tempted by this than I am by the money and opportunity.
I think about how shameless Mona is about putting herself forward when she wants a job. It even works now and then. I still want to strangle her for sending him my fan fiction, but I know she was only trying to help.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “It’s a yes to talking about it.”
Chapter Four
Frederic
“Just so you know, I thought about it and I’m not going to take the job.”
Surprised, I look up from the menu at Evie. We’ve been sitting down in the restaurant for about thirty seconds. The waiter hasn’t even had time to bring bread yet. She’s looking at me with a mixture of defiance and awkwardness that’s so cute I have to bite down on a smile.
Laying the menu down, I say, “Oh? Why is that?”
The evening is still very hot and she’s twisted her hair up off her neck, though it’s blessedly cool inside the air-conditioned restaurant. Her pale blue dress reveals her creamy shoulders and there are small silver hoops in her ears. The effect is simple, but attractive.
“I don’t want to sound rude but it’s occurred to me that you want someone inexperienced to write your biography so you can boss them about and control what they say about you.”
I’m surprised, wondering where she could have got that idea. It’s not that I don’t think people would do that, I just wonder what has given her the impression that I would. Sometimes silence is more effective than words so I let hers hang in the air.
After a moment, she says, “I guess that did sound rude, huh?”
Little bit, chérie. “Any other concerns?”
“No,” she says, but her voice goes up at the end. “All right, yes. You’re about to start work on a new show so I doubt you even have time for lengthy interviews about your life.”
Her hands are working in her lap as if she’s twisting her napkin. I wait, sensing there’s still more.
“And I don’t think you really want your biography written at all. It was someone else’s idea and you’re going along with it. You’re not much fussed who writes it.”
Ah, her sister will have passed this tidbit on, based on the conversation she overheard between myself and Anton. Dear Mona doesn’t seem to have much tact. “That’s a lot of reasons. And I was trying to decide between the steak tartare and the Dover sole.” I take a sip of water, looking at her. “If you have such grave concerns I wonder why you agreed to come at all.”
Evie scrunches her nose, rueful. “Well, I didn’t have them, not right away, and then...and then I thought there’d be air-conditioning and I wanted to get away from my sisters for the evening.”
With the straightest face I can manage, I say, “That’s the most flattering reason a young lady has ever given to have dinner with me. Shall we put it in the book?”
She gives me a sheepish grin. “Sorry. It’s hot and they’re tiring.”
I wonder if I should feel annoyed. But though we’re here to discuss the book, in a roundabout way she’s taking my mind off it and the complicated mess of feelings I have about it, so I don’t mind at all if to her I’m no more than a respite from the heat and her sisters. She’s a respite from Anton’s probing questions. “You do realize that not all of your concerns can be true. Either I want to boss you about, I don’t have time or I don’t want the book to be written. It can’t be all three.”
She leans forward. “Which is it?”
“In fact, none of them are true. Now, let’s stop talking about the damn book and just eat, shall we? What looks good?”
Evie takes ordering very seriously, chattering through the options, agonizing over what to have. I watch her, amused, noting how different she is at this dinner table than the one at her home. She was like this in the garden, too, before Mona came along and embarrassed her—at ease and talkative. I guess that she’s at ease now because she’s decided that she’s not going to take the job, and she doesn’t know yet that I’m going to change her mind.
While we eat she tells me about her studies, carefully excising from the discussion, I note, any books that she’s written stories about or that I’m connected with. When we’re not speaking her eyes dart around the restaurant curiously, and every now and then she leans across the table to whisper, “The couple in their fifties over there, do you think it’s a first date?” or “The waiter with sandy hair, he looks so unhappy, and the barman keeps giving him sad looks. Do you think they’ve had a row?” She watches me from beneath her lashes as I effect a casual glance in the direction she’s indicated before turning back to give my opinion. As we play this little game I think of the dolls she sews, and I find it charming, her tendency for make-believe and stories.
I wait for dessert to arrive before I say, “We need to talk about the book now, Evie.”
She’s got a spoonful of chocolate fondant in her mouth, and her face falls. The spoon gets put back on the plate. “Oh. I was enjoying that.”
“You eat the chocolate, I’ll talk. Go on.” She doesn’t look happy, but resumes eating.
“All your concerns about the job are legitimate ones,” I tell her. “You don’t have the sort of experience that the publisher will expect. I am about to start rehearsals for a show and I have some recording commitments in Paris next week as well. And you’re right, I haven’t been keen on the idea of the book from the start. But despite all that, I do think the book needs to be written now, and I want you to do it.”