She doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, great to see you,” I lie, holding out my hand, trying to keep it steady.

Jennifer Jones smiles up at me as though we are old friends. We are not. She’s a journalist I despise, who has been horribly unkind about me in the past, for reasons I’ll never understand. She’s the bitch who called me “plump but pretty” when my first film came out last year. I call her Beak Face in return, but only in the privacy of my own thoughts. Everything about her is too small, especially her mind. She leaps up from the chair, flutters around me like a sparrow on speed, then grips my fingers in her tiny, cold, clawlike hand, giving my own an over enthusiastic shake. Last time we met, I’m not convinced she had seen one frame of the film I was there to talk about. She’s one of those journalists who thinks that because she interviews celebrities, she is one too. She isn’t.

Beak Face is middle-aged and dresses as her daughter would, had she been willing to pause her career long enough to have one. Her neat brown hair is cut into a style that was almost fashionable a decade ago, her cheeks are too pink, and her teeth are unnaturally white. She’s a person whose story has already been written, and she’ll never change her own ending, no matter how hard she tries. From what I’ve read about her online, she wanted to be an actress herself when she was younger. Perhaps that’s why she hates me so much. I watch her tiny mouth twitch and spit as she squawks fake praise in my direction, my mind already racing ahead, trying to anticipate the verbal grenades she plans to throw at me.

“My agent didn’t mention anything about an interview…”

“Oh, right. Well, if you’d rather not? It’s just for the TBN website, no cameras, just little old me. So you don’t need to worry about your hair or how you look at the moment…”

Bitch.

She winks and her face looks as if it has suffered a temporary stroke.

“… I can come back another time if—”

I force another smile in reply and sit down opposite her, my hands knotted together in my lap to stop them from shaking. My agent wouldn’t have agreed to this unless he thought it was a good idea. “Fire away,” I say, feeling as if I really am about to get shot.

She takes an old-fashioned notebook from what looks like a school satchel she probably stole from a child on the street. I’m surprised; most journalists I meet nowadays record their interviews on their phones. I guess her methods, like her hair, are stuck in the past.

“Your acting career started when you got a scholarship to RADA when you were eighteen, is that correct?”

No, I started acting long before that, when I was much, much younger.

“Yes, that’s right.” I remind myself to smile. Sometimes I forget.

“Your parents must have been very proud.”

I don’t answer personal questions about my family, so I just nod.

“Did you always want to act?”

This one is easy, I get asked this all the time, and the answer always seems to go down well. “I think so, but I was extremely shy when I was a child…”

I still am.

“There were auditions for my school’s production of The Wizard of Oz when I was fifteen, but I was too scared to go along. The drama teacher put a list of who got what part on a notice board afterwards, I didn’t even read it. Someone else told me that I got the part of Dorothy and I thought they were joking, but when I checked, my name really was there, right at the top of the list—Dorothy: Aimee Sinclair. I thought it was a mistake, but the drama teacher said it wasn’t. He said he believed in me because he knew I couldn’t. Nobody had ever believed in me before. I learned my lines and I practiced the songs and I did my very best for him, not for me, because I didn’t want to let him down. I was surprised when people thought I was good, and I loved being on that stage. From that moment on, acting was all I ever wanted to do.”

She smiles and stops scribbling. “You’ve played a lot of different roles in the last couple of years.…”

I’m waiting for the question, but realize there isn’t one. “Yes. I have.”

“What’s that been like?”

“Well, as an actor, I really enjoy the challenge of becoming different people and portraying different characters. It’s a lot of fun and I relish the variety.”

Why did I use the word relish? We’re not talking about condiments.

“So, you like pretending to be someone you’re not?”

I hesitate without meaning to, still recoiling from my previous answer. “I guess you could put it that way, yes. But then I think we’re all guilty of that from time to time, aren’t we?”

“I imagine it must be hard sometimes, to remember who you really are when the cameras aren’t on you.”

I sit on my hands to stop myself from fidgeting. “Not really, no, it’s just a job. A job that I love and I’m very grateful for.”

“I’m sure you are. With this latest movie your star really is rising. How did you feel when you got the part in Sometimes I Kill?”

“I was thrilled.” I realize I don’t sound it.

“This role has you playing a married woman who pretends to be nice, but in reality has done some pretty horrific things. Was it a challenge to take on the part of someone so … damaged? Were you worried that the audience wouldn’t like her once they knew what she’d done?”

“I’m not sure we want to give away the twist in any preview pieces.”

“Of course, my apologies. You mentioned your husband earlier…”

I’m pretty sure I didn’t.

“How does he feel about this role? Has he started sleeping in the spare room in case you come home still in character?”

I laugh, hoping it sounds genuine. I start to wonder if Ben and Jennifer Jones might know each other. They both work for TBN, but in very different departments. It’s one of the world’s biggest media companies, so it has never occurred to me that their paths might have crossed. Besides, Ben knows how much I hate this woman, he would have mentioned it if he knew her.

“I don’t tend to answer personal questions, but I don’t think my husband would mind me saying he’s really looking forward to this film.”

“He sounds like the perfect partner.”

I worry about what my face might be doing now and focus all of my attention on reminding it to smile. What if she does know him? What if he told her that I’d asked for a divorce? What if that’s why she’s really here? What if they are working together to hurt me? I’m being paranoid. It will be over soon. Just smile and nod. Smile and nod.

“You’re not like her then, the main character in Sometimes I Kill?” she asks, raising an overplucked eyebrow in my direction and peering at me over her notepad.

“Me? Oh, no. I don’t even kill spiders.”

Her smile looks as if it might break her face. “The character you’re playing tends to run away from reality. Was that something you found easy to relate to?”

Yes. I’ve spent a lifetime running away.

A knock at the door saves me. I’m needed on set.

“I’m so sorry, I think that might be all we have time for, but it’s been lovely to see you,” I lie. My phone vibrates with a text as she packs up her things and leaves my dressing room. I take it out as soon as I’m alone again and read the message.