She’s going to be executed, and she acts like I’m from Harper’s, interviewing her in her living room. Celia wondered how much was practiced and how much of it came from resignation to her fate.
“I’m sure. I smoked for 10 years. Quitting was a bitch.” Celia opened her notepad and pressed record on her device. “So in your letter, you said you wanted an authentic telling of your story. I’d like to start wherever you are most comfortable; however, we do not have to go in chronological order. I can fix the timeline later. I’ll type up notes after each meeting, and then I’ll write a draft. You will have some input, but I’ll make the ultimate decisions for the final draft.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow and then smiled. “Yes, that sounds fine. You are very straightforward, aren’t you? Not too much for small talk.”
“I am. I think it tends to prevent any misunderstanding.”
“I agree. I despise reporters who try to trick their way into your secrets. I assume I can request that some things be off the record, should discussions meander?”
“Of course.”
“Before we begin, there are some things I want from you.”
Taken a little by surprise, Celia sat back and studied the actress. “I’ll see what I can do. What do you want?”
“First, I want this to be a conversation. There is no one truly intelligent to have a conversation with here. Yes, I will answer your questions, but I want to know you as well.”
“I don’t usually get personal with interviewees.”
“I’m going to be executed. Who would I gossip to?”
“It’s just a professional boundary.’
Natasha sighed. “It won’t be much of an interview with neither of us talking.”
“Perhaps I’m not the best choice to write your story,” Celia challenged.
“You are aware that you are the only reporter whom I have allowed access?’
“I am aware that you reached out to me and invited me to the prison to interview you, and that your letter didn’t mention any requirement that I bare my soul.”
“So dramatic,” Natasha shook her head. “That seems unlike you. Perhaps I misjudged you, and this was a mistake.”
“Perhaps it was. I don’t commiserate and share feelings. I write stories based in fact.” Celia gathered her recorder and stood to leave.
Natasha started, and Celia couldn’t tell if she was angry or impressed. “Wait. Sit down,” Natasha finally said. “I won’t ask for any secrets. You may have your boundaries. But if I am going to tell you mine, I can at least ask about your career, or maybe you can tell me about your latest roll in the hay, as they say.”
“I’m not the most exciting hay roller, but sure. We can talk generalities.”
“Good. Now for the more important request. Bring me cigarettes. Good ones.”
“Are death row inmates allowed to smoke?”
“Don’t worry about that. Just bring them.”
“No problem.” Celia clicked her pen and wrote the date at the top of the page. “So, tell me about your life, your career, wherever you would like to start.”
Natasha sighed and sat back in her chair. “I am sure you know from your research that my family came here when I was small. My father moved from Russia to England, and then my mother, father, and I moved here. I believe I was around 6 years old.”
“Do you remember much of your life before moving to the US?”
“Not too much,” Natasha replied, picking at a string on her shirt. “It was my father who most wanted to come here. He grew up in Russia, and I think Britain was not quite far enough away for him.”
“And your father had a business?”
“He did, but first he worked for a university. That job provided the visas. He worked long hours, and my mother stayed home. I went to a neighborhood school.”
“I see. So you went to public school.”
“I did. I went to primary school and elementary school. Then I began attending a private school after I started modeling.” Celia folded her arms. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Tell me about your parents.”
Pressing pause on the recorder, Celia began. “Dad was a dentist. Mom was a teacher. Both were from apple pie families.”
“And was your family apple pie?”
“Well, Mom did love to cook.” Celia chuckled. “Dad liked to drink. It was what you’d expect of middle America.”
“Interesting. So are they still married?”
“Not since I was twelve.”
Natasha pushed her chair forward. “This doesn’t feel like a conversation.”
“Dad left for one of his hygienists. Very predictable.” Celia sighed. “Mom stayed single. Our lifestyle changed dramatically. I chose a college across the country. Built a career. Never really looked back.”
“Only part of the story,” Natasha scolded. “But fair enough. Where were we?”
“Ah.” Celia adjusted the recorder. “So the modeling. I have read some vague stories about how it began. Was it something you sought out? I know an agency approached you but was it a goal that you or your family had?”
“Honestly, no. My father told me often I was very beautiful, but it wasn’t until someone asked him if I had tried modeling that the idea came to him. Once I realized that a modeling career could mean travel, money, and getting away from the boredom of school from time to time, it interested me. So we signed a contract with my first agency.”
“This all happened quickly?”
Natasha nodded. “It did. My father had photos taken of me, and we went to several events. I don’t know how he managed the invitations. Someone who knew someone saw me at these events. My father was thrilled when they offered me a contract.”
“Yes, I read about that. They signed you and one other girl, correct? The two of you became close friends.”
Natasha folded her arms. “Margaret, yes.” Celia noticed a cooler tone. “We frequently worked together. Photographers liked the way we looked together, with my fair hair and skin and her dark hair and olive complexion.”
“I’ve seen some of the photos. You two did make a striking combination. So working so
