The words are loaded, the look she gives me even more so.
I feel myself respond despite all the lectures I gave myself to the contrary before she got here. But she’s got a good laugh and an even better outlook on her life. Plus that word, masochistic, calls up all kinds of images of her that are better left unimagined.
Still, now that it’s out there, I can’t just leave it alone. The descriptor is way too powerful for that. “Is that what acting is?” I ask after a moment. “Masochism?”
“If you do it right.” She takes another sip of her water, her eyes locked on mine as her tongue darts out and licks a stray drop of moisture off the perfect bow of her upper lip.
“And do you? Do it right?”
“I think that’s for you to say, not me, isn’t it?”
That’s when I forget how to breathe. For one second, two.
She’s talking about being at the mercy of the audience—a stern taskmaster, no doubt—but at this moment, that doesn’t seem to matter. Not when it feels very much like she is the one in control. Of her career, her destiny, and this interview.
But there’s a gleam of triumph in her eyes that says she knows it and that jump-starts my brain. This interview is a two-day marathon and I’m not prepared to go down this early or this easily.
“I’m more than happy to be the one who says it,” I answer with complete sincerity. “The emotion you brought to the Belladonna was breathtaking, and somehow totally authentic despite the subject matter.”
“It was a brilliant role. Thank you for writing it.”
“All I did was write the book. Derek James wrote the screenplay. And you brought her to life.”
She shakes her head at me, tsk-tsks a little. “False modesty is so unbecoming. It’s one of the first lessons they teach you in Hollywood. Is it not the same in New York?”
“False modesty? Yes. But a writer had better be modest if he wants to be any good. Especially a non-fiction writer.”
“Why non-fiction specifically?”
“I think you know the answer to that question better than anyone. Because it’s never about me. It’s always about them. Isn’t it the same for you?”
“I’m not known for my modesty,” she says with a laugh. “Just ask my ex-lovers.”
“I don’t need to ask anyone. I’ve seen you act.”
“What does that mean?” For the first time, she looks wary.
“It means you become every character you play. From the ingénue to the queen to the—”
“Sociopath?”
“I was going to say savior, but yes. There are times in the footage I’ve seen that I can’t distinguish you from her. And I spent hours, days, interviewing her.”
“That’s quite a compliment.” And yet her voice says it’s anything but.
“It was meant to be,” I try to soothe. “What’s it like, being so talented that you can be anyone you choose?”
“I think that’s a question I should be asking you. You’ve written books on two serial killers, one mass murderer, and two of the most notorious unsolved murder cases of the last century. To write the way you do, you have to get inside the murderer and his victims. The same goes with the profiling you did early on in your career. What does that feel like?”
Like I’m balancing on the edge of an abyss, waiting to fall in.
Like I’m sinking in quicksand with no hope of ever being pulled out.
Like I’m drowning.
“Disturbing. Fascinating. Sometimes sad.”
She tilts her head in acknowledgment. “Exactly.”
I hope not. For her sake, I really hope not.
Before I can say anything else, our lunch is delivered. She smiles at the waiter as he slides her salad in front of her and he gets so flustered that I nearly end up wearing my hamburger and fries. She pretends not to notice.
Once our food is delivered, our water refilled, and extra napkins placed in a position of honor on the table, there’s no other reason for the waiter to hang around, much to his dismay and my amusement.
I give her a couple minutes to eat undisturbed before diving back in. “So what’s that like?”
“What?”
“Men falling all over you everywhere you go.”
She could pretend she doesn’t know what I’m talking about—just like she pretended not to notice how flustered our waiter was. But she doesn’t. Instead she turns the tables. “What do you think it’s like?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”
She gives me a slow, thorough once-over. “I’m pretty sure women must fall all over you—”
“When are you going to stop deflecting and actually answer what I ask you?”
She freezes. “Excuse me?”
“I’m here to interview you and the last few questions I’ve asked, you’ve thrown back in my lap. I already know what I think—I’d like your thoughts or this article is going to end up being an autobiography.”