THE INTERVIEW
By Meredith Greene. A short story inspired by close friends.
Copyright 2010 Meredith Greene – All Rights Reserved.
Entering the sprawling park, a young woman walked briskly down a well-groomed path. Checking her watch she quickened her pace. In one hand she clutched a water bottle and a blank notebook. A park bench with a single occupant came into view; book in hand, a woman reposed on the polished, wooden bench, her face shaded well by the wide brim of a chic sun hat. Spying the figure on the bench, the pedestrian seemed to relax, a little; she smoothed her suit-coat and tucked a stray piece of her long, blond hair behind her ear.
The woman on the bench looked up at the sound of approaching steps. The approaching young woman smiled, nervously; to her, the lady on the bench possessed a face of aging beauty. Her serene expression did not appear staged but as natural as one would wear clothes.
“ You must be Miss Varen, from the Tribune…” the woman on the bench said, at last. The reporter nodded and habitually stuck out her hand, then retracted it; her boss had often warned her that many celebrities did not like to shake hands.
“ Er… yes, Candace is fine,” she stammered, gripping her notebook. “I, uh… thank you so much, again for granting me this interview. My employer is, uh, well, everyone is kind of desperate to know all about you.”
The woman on the bench smiled down at her book.
“ It is a popular opinion that merely reading someone’s writing enables one to find out all they wish to know about said writer …”
“ Er, right,” the young reporter said, her face pink, “Write what you know, and all that…”
“ And then, there are the blogs I write, my website, my poems… a veritable montage of deliciously available information.” The lady writer paused a moment before continuing. “Yet, you called me... wanting to know something else, information that no one else has, thus selling more papers or getting more hits than your competitors.” The woman in the hat closed her book, letting it rest on her gray skirt. “I am aware of how this works. You asked me honestly for what you wanted, and I respect that. Please, sit down.”
Candace complied, letting out a small breath of relief; in her experience famous figures were often capricious, demanding and vain. The woman seated on the bench before her seemed oddly out of place in such a sphere, something which just incited her curiosity further. The wrtier's clear, gray eyes gazed out steadily from under the hat’s brim, appearing completely un-intimidated by the presence of a reporter; her demeanor seemed as gentle as the cool breeze stirring in the surrounding trees. Trained to size up people by their appearances, the author’s outfit struck Candace as elegant and simple: a white summer blouse, light gray skirt and silver-colored sandals, all topped with the Audrey-Hepburn-style sun hat in a flattering shade of rusty red. The reporter made a mental note to ask where the hat had been bought and get one like it. The writer’s face also appeared to be aging well; her eyes held a spark of amusement in them despite her straight posture.
“ Well, erm… right.”
Candace ‘s mind raced to form a pithy string of words; she’d practiced this interview a hundred times during the last week--and in the car ride over--until the questions were down pat. The presence of a sought-after celebrity was nothing new, either, but the writer's rather mysterious serenity had thrown her.
“ Take a moment to collect your thoughts, dear,” came the authoress’ voice. “I won’t bite your head off… nor will I ‘put you in a book’.” The young reporter grinned sheepishly.
“ Heh, thanks… well, I wouldn’t mind being in one of your books. Not as the villain, though.” The woman seated nearby smiled a little.
“ That would be a bit cruel I think.
By Meredith Greene. A short story inspired by close friends.
Copyright 2010 Meredith Greene – All Rights Reserved.
Entering the sprawling park, a young woman walked briskly down a well-groomed path. Checking her watch she quickened her pace. In one hand she clutched a water bottle and a blank notebook. A park bench with a single occupant came into view; book in hand, a woman reposed on the polished, wooden bench, her face shaded well by the wide brim of a chic sun hat. Spying the figure on the bench, the pedestrian seemed to relax, a little; she smoothed her suit-coat and tucked a stray piece of her long, blond hair behind her ear.
The woman on the bench looked up at the sound of approaching steps. The approaching young woman smiled, nervously; to her, the lady on the bench possessed a face of aging beauty. Her serene expression did not appear staged but as natural as one would wear clothes.
“ You must be Miss Varen, from the Tribune…” the woman on the bench said, at last. The reporter nodded and habitually stuck out her hand, then retracted it; her boss had often warned her that many celebrities did not like to shake hands.
“ Er… yes, Candace is fine,” she stammered, gripping her notebook. “I, uh… thank you so much, again for granting me this interview. My employer is, uh, well, everyone is kind of desperate to know all about you.”
The woman on the bench smiled down at her book.
“ It is a popular opinion that merely reading someone’s writing enables one to find out all they wish to know about said writer …”
“ Er, right,” the young reporter said, her face pink, “Write what you know, and all that…”
“ And then, there are the blogs I write, my website, my poems… a veritable montage of deliciously available information.” The lady writer paused a moment before continuing. “Yet, you called me... wanting to know something else, information that no one else has, thus selling more papers or getting more hits than your competitors.” The woman in the hat closed her book, letting it rest on her gray skirt. “I am aware of how this works. You asked me honestly for what you wanted, and I respect that. Please, sit down.”
Candace complied, letting out a small breath of relief; in her experience famous figures were often capricious, demanding and vain. The woman seated on the bench before her seemed oddly out of place in such a sphere, something which just incited her curiosity further. The wrtier's clear, gray eyes gazed out steadily from under the hat’s brim, appearing completely un-intimidated by the presence of a reporter; her demeanor seemed as gentle as the cool breeze stirring in the surrounding trees. Trained to size up people by their appearances, the author’s outfit struck Candace as elegant and simple: a white summer blouse, light gray skirt and silver-colored sandals, all topped with the Audrey-Hepburn-style sun hat in a flattering shade of rusty red. The reporter made a mental note to ask where the hat had been bought and get one like it. The writer’s face also appeared to be aging well; her eyes held a spark of amusement in them despite her straight posture.
“ Well, erm… right.”
Candace ‘s mind raced to form a pithy string of words; she’d practiced this interview a hundred times during the last week--and in the car ride over--until the questions were down pat. The presence of a sought-after celebrity was nothing new, either, but the writer's rather mysterious serenity had thrown her.
“ Take a moment to collect your thoughts, dear,” came the authoress’ voice. “I won’t bite your head off… nor will I ‘put you in a book’.” The young reporter grinned sheepishly.
“ Heh, thanks… well, I wouldn’t mind being in one of your books. Not as the villain, though.” The woman seated nearby smiled a little.
“ That would be a bit cruel I think.
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