I don’t think I would have ended my marriage without Evelyn Hugo.
I don’t think I would have stood up to Frankie without Evelyn Hugo.
I don’t think I would have had the chance to write a surefire bestseller without Evelyn Hugo.
I don’t think I would understand the true depths of my father’s devotion to me without Evelyn Hugo.
So I think Evelyn is wrong about at least one thing.
My hate is not uncomplicated.
WHEN I GET TO EVELYN’S apartment in the morning, I’m unsure when I even made the actual decision to come.
I simply woke up and found myself on my way. When I rounded the corner, walking here from the subway, I realized I could never have not come.
I cannot and will not do anything to compromise my standing at Vivant. I did not fight for writer at large to bunt at the last minute.
I’m right on time but somehow the last to arrive. Grace opens the door for me and already looks as if a hurricane hit her. Her hair is falling out of her ponytail, and she’s trying harder than usual to keep a smile on her face.
“They showed up almost forty-five minutes early,” Grace says to me in a whisper. “Evelyn had a makeup person in at the crack of dawn to get her ready before the magazine’s makeup person. She had a lighting consultant come in at eight thirty this morning to guide her on the most flattering light in the house. Turns out it’s the terrace, which I have not been as diligent about cleaning because it’s still cold out every day. Anyway, I’ve been scrubbing the terrace from top to bottom for the past two hours.” Grace jokingly rests her head on my shoulder. “Thank God I’m going on vacation.”
“Monique!” Frankie says when she sees me in the hallway. “What took you so long?”
I look at my watch. “It’s eleven-oh-six.” I remember the first day I met Evelyn Hugo. I remember how nervous I was. I remember how larger-than-life she seemed. She is painfully human to me now. But this is all new to Frankie. She hasn’t seen the real Evelyn. She still thinks we’re photographing an icon more than a person.
I step out onto the terrace and see Evelyn in the midst of lights, reflectors, wires, and cameras. There are people circled around her. She is sitting on a stool. Her gray blond hair is being blown in the air by a wind machine. She is wearing her signature emerald green, this time in a long-sleeved silk gown. Billie Holiday is playing on a speaker somewhere. The sun is shining behind Evelyn. She looks like the very center of the universe.
She is right at home.
She smiles for the camera, her brown eyes sparkling in a different way from anything I’ve ever seen in person. She seems at peace somehow, in full display, and I wonder if the real Evelyn isn’t the woman I’ve been talking to for the past two weeks but, instead, the one I see before me right now. Even at almost eighty, she commands a room in a way I’ve never seen before. A star is always and forever a star.
Evelyn was born to be famous. I think her body helped her. I think her face helped her. But for the first time, watching her in action, moving in front of the camera, I get the sense that she has sold herself short in one way: she could have been born with considerably less physical gifts and probably still made it. She simply has it. That undefinable quality that makes everyone stop and pay attention.
She spots me as I stand behind one of the lighting guys, and she stops what she’s doing. She waves me over to her.
“Everyone, everyone,” she says. “We need a few photos of Monique and me. Please.”
“Oh, Evelyn,” I say. “I don’t want to do that.” I don’t want to even be close to her.
“Please,” she says. “To remember me by.”
A couple of people laugh, as if Evelyn is making a joke. Because, of course, no one could forget Evelyn Hugo. But I know she’s serious.
And so, in my jeans and blazer, I step up next to her. I take off my glasses. I can feel the heat of the lights, the way they glare in my eyes, the way the wind feels on my face.
“Evelyn, I know this isn’t news to you,” the photographer says, “but boy, does the camera love you.”
“Oh,” Evelyn says, shrugging. “It never hurts to hear it one more time.”
Her dress is low-cut, revealing her still-ample cleavage, and it occurs to me that it is the very thing that made her that will be the thing to finally take her down.
Evelyn catches my eye and smiles. It is a sincere smile, a kind smile. There is something almost nurturing about it, as if she is looking at me to see how I’m doing, as if she cares.
And then, in an instant, I realize that she does.
Evelyn Hugo wants to know that I’m OK, that with everything that has happened, I will still be all right.
In a moment of vulnerability, I find myself putting my arm around her. A s