The Ghostwriter(13)
“Then do it already.” I think a new set of rules may be in order. Kate seems to be stubbornly stuck to my side, and as bitchy as my rules may be, this is a shining example of their worth. Rule #1 could be something along the lines of When You Say You Are Going to Do Something, Shut the Hell Up and Do It.
Kate clears her throat and I glare at her fingers, the tension in my chest releasing as she begins to dial.
KATE
No one answers. Kate pulls her cell away from her mouth, her fingers tapping on the granite countertop, and turns to Helena. “Voicemail.”
“Leave a message.” Helena hunches forward over a ceramic mug of tea, the directive muttered in Kate’s direction. Her moods seem to change with no clear stimulus, set off by triggers that Kate has yet to figure out. It reminds her of her own aunt, a schizophrenic woman who baked cookies in one moment, then snatched them from your hand and shoved them into the trash, muttering about poison and government conspiracies. Helena is a far milder case, her shifts more minute in nature, her highs and lows ranging from mildly entertained to irritable and depressed. This complete focus on a new book, on Marka Vantly—seems to come from nowhere. For her to walk from Broken, just weeks from the delivery, and spend her final months on a brand new book, one ghostwritten by Marka Vantly? It makes no sense. Helena Ross might need a shrink, or a stronger prescription, or a vacation in Tahiti, but she doesn’t need a ghostwriter.
The voicemail ends, a tone sounding, her cue to speak. She leaves a message, a rambling speech introducing herself—and asking the agent to call her back. Ron Pilar has represented Marka for over a decade, her star one of a dozen in his stable. He is the agent she always dreamed of becoming, a dream that died years ago, around the time that gray hairs started appearing in her red curls. Ron won’t know who she is; he probably won’t even call her back. She ends the call and looks up to find Helena’s eyes fixed on hers.
“Terrible message,” the woman says mildly. “First time leaving one?”
Kate lets out a controlled breath. “To him, yes.”
“Does he intimidate you?”
She smiles despite herself, the curiosity in Helena’s voice so… fact-finding. At another time, Kate could have been a future character, an insecure woman in a yet-to-be-written novel. “Yes,” she admits. “He’s a very big name in our industry.”
“And you aren’t?” Again, such genuine innocence in her question. As if she doesn’t realize how pathetic it is for an agent to have only one successful client.
Her lips tighten, the only crack she fails to contain. “No.”
The answer doesn’t faze Helena, her focus returning to herself, as it always has. “How long will it take for him to call you back?”
“I have no idea.”
Helena checks her watch, a Beauty & The Beast timepiece with a chunky pink strap, fastened on the farthest hole. “I took a sleeping pill just before you came. If you don’t mind, I’m going to lay down for a couple of hours.”
“I have work to do,” Kate offers. “If you don’t mind, I’ll bring in my laptop and work in here.”
Helena’s eyes move to the kitchen table, and then back to her face, as if she is considering the alternative scenario—sending Kate away, out to her car or worse, back to the city. “That’s fine,” she says slowly. “I’ll be on the couch.”
When she rises from the table, it is with sluggish effort, and Kate fights the urge to offer assistance, staying in place as Helena slowly trudges through the kitchen and into the great room, all but falling onto the couch and pulling a blanket over her body. “Wake me up in two hours,” she mumbles. “Please.”
Please? Had Helena ever used that word before? It’s so strange to see this version of her, one so different than the woman she’s experienced through emails and weekly phone calls. Seven years ago, the last time they’d met—a half-hour in Kate’s office—her body had been comfortably fleshed out, her dry humor sharp, her directions given with an edge of superiority. She’s always been private, never sharing details of her life, Kate’s imagination left to its own devices, painting a life of color and wealth, family and dogs, evenings spent reading by a crackling fire, a chubby baby crawling before her on a plush rug. She’d always attributed Helena’s irritability and strict communications to Kate’s own ineptitude. Surely she wasn’t like that with everyone, surely she…
Now, Helena silent on the couch, her gaunt figure swallowed by the blanket, the house eerily quiet, she realized the bitter truth of the matter. Maybe she doesn’t have anyone else to be irritable with. Maybe, she doesn’t have anyone at all.
A hunt for a phone charger brings Kate to the second floor of Helena Ross’s home. She hits a switch, light flooding an empty bedroom and revealing stark white walls, pine floors and a slow moving ceiling fan. She flips off the light and steps farther down the hall, the sound of her steps ominous in the deserted house, the perfect prologue to any horror film.
The next room, another bedroom, also white, also empty. She moves on, the next door locked. It is eerie, all of the empty bedrooms. Why would Helena buy this huge house if she doesn’t use the space? It doesn’t make sense to waste all of these rooms, not when she has the money to fill each one with beautiful art and furniture, thick rugs and crystal chandeliers. Kate puts her ear against the locked door, wondering if it’s bedroom or closet.