“It’s going well,” I say. I’m surprised at how even and flat my voice is. “Evelyn is pretty much everything you’d expect from an icon. Still gorgeous. Charismatic as ever.” “And?” “And... things are progressing.” “Is she committing to talk about any other topics than the gowns?” What can I say now to start covering my own ass? “You know, she’s pretty reticent about anything other than getting some press for the auction. I’m trying to play nice at the moment, get her to trust me a bit more before I start pushing.” “Will she sit for a cover?” “It’s too early to tell. Trust me, Frankie,” I say, and I hate how sincere it sounds coming out of my mouth, “I know how important this is. But right now, the best thing for me to do is make sure Evelyn likes me so that I can try to garner some influence and advocate for what we want.” “OK,” Frankie says. “Obviously, I want more than a few sound bites about dresses, but that’s still more than any other magazine has gotten from her in decades, so. . .” Frankie keeps talking, but I’ve stopped listening. I’m far too focused on the fact that Frankie’s not even going to get sound bites. And I’m going to get far, far more. “I should go,” I say, excusing myself. “She and I are talking again in a few minutes.” I hang up the phone and breathe out. I’ve got this shit. As I make my way through the apartment, I can hear Grace in the kitchen. I open the swinging door and spot her cutting flower stems. “Sorry to bother you. Evelyn said to meet her in her office, but I’m not sure where that is.” “Oh,” Grace says, putting down the scissors and wiping her hands on a towel. “I'll show you.” I follow her up a set of stairs and into Evelyn’s study area. The walls are a striking flat charcoal gray, the area rug a golden beige. The large windows are flanked by dark blue curtains, and on the opposite side of