It’s 5.50am on a Tuesday and I’m sitting in front of my laptop, ready to talk to Charlize Theron. In terms of Hollywood A-listers, Theron is at the top of her game so I want everything to be perfect for the 6am call.
At exactly 5.59am two things happen. The first: one of Theron’s people informs me that “Charlize needs five minutes” (obviously totally fine). The second: my three-year-old son wakes up and his cries for mummy waft down the hall. It’s one of those moments where you know you must act, while simultaneously realising that whatever you do things are almost certainly about to go pear-shaped. There is no time, so I get my son out of his bed, plonk him on the couch and give him some milk. I sit back down in front of the computer just as Theron is coming on the line. It’s all going to be fine I tell myself, only vaguely believing it.
Theron tells me I don’t need to have the camera on if I don’t want to. It’s so early. But I want it on. I know Charlize Theron’s beautiful face so well, as we all do, so it
