The Ghostwriter(12)
“Yes. I’m worried I won’t have time to finish it. A ghostwriter might work more quickly.” Helena’s eyes are on the table, on a long crack in the wood, one that runs down its center, then branches off to the left.
“The book that you want me to sell to Tricia Pridgen?”
“Yes.”
Well, Helena could forget that possibility. As difficult as it would have been to sell that manuscript before—at least a Helena Ross novel had some value. A ghostwritten novel, under the Helena Ross name… that was poison, especially to someone like Pridgen. Kate pushes the value of a posthumous book out of her head, the concept still too raw to actually consider.
A dozen questions compete on the top of her tongue. Why is this book so important? Why write a book at all? Why not spend her last four months doing something fun and exciting, crossing bucket items off with a wave of her filthy-rich finger? Why not just make this book a short story? What compensation structure is she thinking about for the ghostwriter?
She chooses the most urgent one. “Do you have someone in mind?”
HELENA
For the first time since retaining Kate Rodant, I draw a blank. Bringing up the concept of a ghostwriter had seemed like such a huge step in itself. Thinking of who that ghostwriter might be… my mind seizes.
It reminds me of when I researched surrogacy. Not for myself, but for one of my characters. I spent twenty minutes on the phone with a Boston woman who had carried three babies for other women, and spoke about the experience with the detached air of a psychopath. Back then, I couldn’t decide if I’d prefer a woman like that over one that would truly care about the fetus, and might develop an emotional attachment to something that was, in fact, mine and not hers.
I abandoned the storyline for the same reason I now want to abandon this conversation: it was exhausting to think about, the stakes just as high, the choices just as terrible.
I need someone with skill, someone who knows my writing style, someone with talent. Someone who doesn’t need to tell their own story but can adopt mine. Someone who won’t get emotionally attached to the story, someone without feelings at all.
It takes me longer than necessary to see the answer, one which pecks at the edge of my brain before pushing in.
I know who I need.
And I’d rather die than ask her.
KATE
“Marka Vantly.”
Kate studies Helena’s face, which holds no trace of humor, though the words must, surely, be a joke. Kate may not have known about her illness, or her strange empty house, but she knows one thing about her client: Helena hates Marka Vantly. Another agent in Kate’s firm once represented Marka on a minor sub-rights deal and Helena had threatened to fire Kate for it, vehement that there be no association between their brands. It’s why Helena has stuck with Hachette, though Random House has offered her far higher advances. Marka is with Random House, and any house who would sign a self-published author… Helena had shredded their seven-figure contract and mailed it back to Kate with an eloquent card that all but told them to go to hell, exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point.
Kate picks up her pen. “Why Marka Vantly?” She glances down at the page, carefully writing the woman’s name down, and fighting to keep her features bland. Marka won’t do it. The woman is a publisher’s dream, her release calendar booked past next year. Plus, there is no secret of their rivalry. You might as well ask Darth Vader to water Luke Skywalker’s plants.
Helena looks up, her eyes considering Kate as if deciding whether she is fit to receive the answer. “I don’t know,” she finally says, her words slow and methodical.
Even Kate, limited in her Helena knowledge, can hear the lie, the casual indifference seeped in a hundred secrets. “Are you sure?”
She watches Helena’s hands clench, her head turning away, her gaze toward the window. There is nothing there to see, the blinds drawn despite Kate’s repeated offers to open them.
“Yes.” Helena’s lips tighten around the word. “Call her agent and set it up.”
HELENA
Kate doesn’t understand. I can see it in the way she holds her cell phone, her shoulders stiff, eyes continually darting my way as if wanting me to stop her. She’s asked three times if I’m sure, and I’ve made it clear she doesn’t need to ask again.
Simon loved to question me. He was never satisfied with hearing something once, he felt the continual need to reassure himself of a response. When we bought the house, he asked me seven times if I was sure. Was it the right neighborhood? The right price? Did we need a bigger one? Or was this too big? I told him I liked it, reassured him it would be fine, but still, he worried. Fretted. Pestered me.
I remember walking into our kitchen on closing day, and thinking it was done. I remember inhaling the scent of fresh lilies, convinced that in this new town, away from his friends, from the noises and sounds of the city, that he would finally calm down, that we would get settled and be happy and that all of the questions would finally stop.
A woman should be able to celebrate her first home, but I only remember wanting some silence.
“I’m going to call her agent.” Kate speaks from her place at the kitchen counter, her phone out, thumb poised, and I swear to God, if she stalls any longer I will chop off her finger and use it to push the buttons myself.