Evelyn nods. “Now you're getting it.” “What exactly are you proposing?” There is no way that I have just walked into a situation in which one of the most intriguing people alive is offering me the story of her life for no reason. I must be missing something. “I will tell you my life story in a way that will be beneficial to both of us. Although, to be honest, mainly you.” “Just how in-depth are we talking about here?” Maybe she wants some airy retrospective? Some lightweight story published somewhere of her choosing? “The whole nine yards. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Whatever cliché you want to use that means T’ll tell you the truth about absolutely everything I’ve ever done.’ ” Whoa. I feel so silly for coming in here expecting her to answer questions about dresses. I put the notebook on the table in front of me and gently put the pen down on top of it. I want to handle this perfectly. It’s as if a gorgeous, delicate bird has just flown to me and sat directly on my shoulder, and if I don’t make the exact right move, it might fly away. “OK, if I understand you correctly, what you’re saying is that you’d like to confess your various sins—” Evelyn’s posture, which until this point has shown her to be very relaxed and fairly detached, changes. She is now leaning toward me. “I never said anything about confessing sins. I said nothing about sins at all.” I back away slightly. I’ve ruined it. “I apologize,” I say. “That was a poor choice of words.” Evelyn doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry, Ms. Hugo. This is all a bit surreal for me.” “You can call me Evelyn,” she says. “OK, Evelyn, what’s the next step here? What, precisely, are we going to do together?” I take the coffee cup and put it up to my lips, sipping just the littlest bit. “We're not doing a Vivant cover story,” she says.