Page 35 of Between the Lines

But the smug look on Aiden’s face when he suggested I buy a dress on his dime… No, thank you. I can’t forget even for a moment just what company he’s the CEO of.

So I bought one, a floor-length strapless gown that doesn’t looktoocheap, even if it’s more of an off-the-rack prom dress than haute couture. I can’t imagine needing to go to many more events like this in the future.

It’s funny, thinking of how manycostumesI’ve worn in the past few years. When I lived up in Alaska, interviewing the national female champion in dog mushing, working on her memoir, I was in thermals and braids and not a stitch of makeup.

When I worked together with William Young on his memoir, it was all slacks and white button-downs to fit in with his slick Silicon Valley vibe.

And now I’m in heels and a long dress, waiting on the sidewalk outside my rental unit, with my hair softly curled and smokey eyeshadow highlighting my eyes.

Being a chameleon has been an asset in this job.

The Los Angeles evening air is pleasantly warm. Cicadas sing in the background, and I look down at my shoes on the beige concrete. They’re old block heels I’ve used too often. But they’ll have to do.

A black car pulls to a stop right beside me. Aiden gets out of the back, leaving the door open. He’s in a tux without a bowtie, clean-shaven. No mussed hair. No sweat. He’s back to the neat, dashing celebrity he so often resembles.

“Charlotte,” he says. His eyes look over the deep emerald of my dress. “You look…” His voice trails off.

“I pulled something together,” I say quickly.

His lips curve. “You certainly did.” His eyes travel from me to the nondescript condo building behind me. “This is where you live.”

I square my shoulders. “This is where your company arranged for an apartment for me through the contract with Polar Publishing, yes.”

“These are student accommodations.” His smile is gone now.

“Mm-hmm, but I imagine it was affordable.” I walk past him and slide onto the plush backseat. The last thing I need is for him to be patronizing, too.

Aiden climbs into the car after me, and the driver pulls away from the curb.Game time.I open my clutch and take out the three neatly folded documents I prepared.

Because come hell or high water, Iwillwrite the best memoir about him. The deepest, most emotional, interesting portrait of a man who’s overcoming the difficulties of his father’s indictment and turning his family company around.

I have too much riding on thisnotto hit it out of the park.

“You brought… what is this?” he asks.

I unfold the first page and clear my throat. He won’t throw me off. “This is a list of questions that will greatly help me. I understand that you’re not a big fan of interviews, but for a successful memoir, I need some answers. It might be hard to tell me outright, in person. And that’s fine.” I push the paper into his hands. “I’ll also email a copy of this directly to you. Feel free to answer in an email form or through voice notes. I’m flexible.”

“Homework,” he says, his eyes scanning over the list. “You want to know about my first girlfriend? If I had a childhood pet?”

“Yes.”

He gives a low chuckle. “My reaction to my father’s arrest. Well, you’ve really gone high and low with this list.”

“I’m building the character sketch for you.”

“I’m not a character.”

“Of course not,” I say, and my voice stays calm. Neutral.Professional.I unfold the next piece of paper and hand it to him, too. “This is the rough outline I’ve laid out for your memoir. All of it is changeable, and I’ll probably have to move the chapters around when I gain more information. Please look it over when you have the time and see if it’s acceptable to you.”

It’s a neat little document, with a two-column table. Chapter by chapter headings, with descriptions of what I’ll need for each.

“You’ve decided what narrative you’re going for, then,” he says. There’s a faint frown on his lips, his head bent slightly to look at the documents in his hands. Outside the car windows, the city passes by in a blur.

“A classic hero’s journey,” I say.

His eyes skim the list. “The Start. The Legacy…” he mutters, reading the working chapter titles. “The Crash, the Trial, the Rebuild, the Strategy, the Comeback, the Philosophy… You have it all figured out.”

“It’s a preliminary sketch,” I say. “Something to work with. I’d love your thoughts about this narrative, your input on what you think is important to be covered in each section. We can start with these bulleted points and expand upon them in order.”

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