The Ghostwriter(58)
Helena turns to her, the word IDIOT written across her features. “He didn’t want me to steal it and drive myself home. Or for me to get you to drive me home.”
“Oh.” Kate shifts in the seat, Helena uncomfortably close, even though Mark’s seat is now vacant. “Was that your intention?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t want to go to the movie?” It just doesn’t make sense. It’s not like Helena has other plans. And this movie is supposed to be hilarious. She could stand to laugh a little. Kate would be willing to bet that she hasn’t laughed since… her mind instantly sobers. Since that little girl lived upstairs.
“No.” Helena says shortly, turning to face the mall, her eyes on a passing couple. The man puts his arm around the woman and Helena looks away.
“It’ll be funny,” Kate says quietly. “I read that it’s good, when writing, to clear your mind every once in a while.”
“Thanks for the writing advice,” Helena says tartly. “I’ve never done this before.”
She’s in rare form tonight. Kate knew they shouldn’t have gone by her house. She tried to tell Mark that it was a waste of time, that Helena—if she had already turned down the movie invite—wouldn’t change her mind. And now he is in the safety of the warm mall while she freezes her ass off with a possibly-kidnapped client. “How’s it going with Mark? The book, I mean.”
“It’s fine. He’s talented, which is a nice surprise.”
“How much have you guys gotten done?” She quietly moves her hand inside her purse, stealing out another Starburst.
“The rule isn’t against eating in the car, Kate.”
“I know that,” she says defensively. Except of course, that she sort of hadn’t. Not when Helena glared at the slightest bit of wrapper noise, or chewing noise, or each time the ice shifted in her purse and made noise. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought the ice. But no one had Diet Dr Pepper anymore. And she didn’t want to go through an entire movie without a drink. And she’d assumed, while filling up the bag at the hotel’s ice machine, that Helena wasn’t coming, so why would it matter? Mark wouldn’t care. Mark probably wouldn’t even notice.
Now, she feels stupid and fat, unable to stop herself from eating during a chance to have a real conversation with her client. There is no way, in the theater, she’ll be able to pull out the bag of ice and cup, assemble the contraband soda and pour in the first can. Not with Helena right next to her, all appalled and righteous, with her naturally thin body and—she stops herself. Helena is dying. If there is a pity party to be had, Kate is the wrong host.
“We’re almost halfway done with the book.” There isn’t an ounce of cheer in Helena’s voice, the words dull. If they had a smell, it would be of defeat.
“Halfway done with the novel?” She puzzles through the reply, her mind calculating the time frame. “That’s ahead of schedule, isn’t it?” She and Mark had been working… almost twenty-two days? Twenty-three maybe? And at least half of those had been days where—according to Mark—she did little more than sleep. It seems incredible that they would be so far along. They’d be done by Thanksgiving! Her final month could be spent… she put another Starburst in her mouth, unable to imagine Helena relaxing. What does a calm, peaceful Helena look like? What will she spend those final weeks doing? She glances at her. “Isn’t that good?” Any author would be pleased to have forty thousand words completed in twenty-odd days. Any other author would be freakin’ joyous right now.
Helena’s face is anything but. “It is good. I’m glad we are sticking to the schedule.”
“You don’t look very happy about it,” she ventures.
“We’re approaching some difficult scenes. I’m just working through it in my head.”
The urge to ask questions is almost painful, like holding in a secret that’s ripping at you to come out. She knows she shouldn’t, her mind screaming at her to STOP yet still one falls out. “What’s the book about?”
There is an overall stiffening, one that ripples through Helena’s body, as if the cold has finally seeped in and she has crystallized, from knee to forehead. When she turns her head to Kate, she almost expects to hear her shatter. “You don’t know?” The question is slow and almost accusatory, as if surely Kate should know, as if this was part of her job description, and asking this question has proven her incompetence, once and for all.
“No,” she says, almost helplessly. “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry. What a weak thing to say. Ron Pilar has probably never apologized to his authors. Ron Pilar’s authors probably apologize to him.
“Mark hasn’t told you?” Helena isn’t letting this go. She’s insistent on embarrassing her, on dragging this out, the way Kate’s mother used to do. No date to prom? Really? You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. No one asked you? NO one? Explain that to me.
“No.” She tries to find some backbone, to say the single word in a breezy, confident tone, as if she has other clients and books to worry about and this isn’t the only thing on her tiny shaky plate.
Helena’s eyes see through it all. She examines her as if to find a lie, as if Kate would lie about this. “Good.”