Shamari met me outside the door to the studio before guiding me through to the room in which Audrey was waiting, sitting at a desk reading through a script. Poised, elegant, immaculate, Audrey Abbot is as mesmerizing and commanding in person as I’d imagined. She has a short, stylish pixie haircut, hazel-greeneyes, delicate features, and thin lips—she was always best at playing misunderstood, prickly characters that the audience would slowly warm to as she carefully exposed their vulnerabilities and humanity.
“Audrey, this is Harper Jenkins,” Shamari introduces. “Harper, this is Audrey Abbot.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Abbot,” I say, holding out my hand.
Closing her script, she takes my hand in hers and shakes it firmly, but remains silent, studying me as I pull up a chair opposite her and begin pulling my things from my bag.
I accept Shamari’s offer of a coffee and Audrey requests a green tea. I notice Shamari hesitate before she leaves the room, as though she’s suddenly unsure whether she should be leaving us alone for any amount of time.
“We won’t start until you get back,” I assure her.
She gives me a grateful smile before hurrying out, the door swinging shut behind her.
“Are you happy for me to use this?” I ask, showing my digital voice recorder.
“Yes, that’s fine,” she replies, her voice clear and controlled.
“Great, thank you. I won’t press Record until Shamari is back and you feel absolutely ready and comfortable,” I inform her.
“All right,” she says.
We fall into silence and, under her scrutinizing gaze, I cross my legs, then uncross them, then cross them again.
“I have to thank you for agreeing to speak to me today,” I say eventually. “I’m honored that I get to be the person to celebrate your return to the stage.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You think that should be celebrated?”
“Are you kidding? People are going to lose their heads with excitement!”
It’s perhaps a little too casual an expression to use in aprofessional setting, but she seems to find it mildly amusing, so perhaps casual is the way to go here.
“Shamari tells me you’re a ‘kindhearted’ journalist.” She leans back and folds her arms. “Seems like a paradox to me.”
I smile. I was ready for this.
“You think journalists who write about public figures are evil?” I ask.
“I think journalists who write about public figures have a flair for sadism,” she explains. “That’s what sells.”
“Something the movie industry knows all about,” I reason.
The corners of her lips twitch, but she suppresses the smile. She inhales deeply, juts out her chin, and then speaks.
“Are you going to ask me about what happened?” she says coldly, as though daring me to do it. “Where it all went wrong? That’s what your readers want to know, don’t they? My downfall makes them feel better about themselves.”
“Sounds like your problem lies with readers rather than journalists?”
She purses her lips at my quick reply. I shrug and continue.
“It’s up to you. We all know what happened sixteen years ago—if you want to talk about why it happened, what led you there, how you felt, then you’re welcome to. Shamari told me that you wanted to focus on your acting career, so that’s what I’m here for.”
“You won’t be disappointed if you leave here today without theinside scoop?” she spits out the words. “You’ll be perfectly happy to write the article without a mention of it?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I know she’s trying to get a rise out of me, but I refuse to crack. “You can believe what you want.”
