There is one aspect of ghostwriting you can’t fake, and you can’t learn. You either have it or you don’t. This is the capacity to listen like your life depends on it. Such next-level ability to focus on others can’t be taught because it’s usually honed while surviving trauma. You see, there’s something about fame that changes most people. Even while surrounded by love and adoration, they can sniff out those who might betray them by caring more about something else. A ghost never will. There you have it, the ingredients for a fruitful collaboration: The codependent, type A ghost idolizes the star, no matter how she behaves, for as long as it takes. Offer a client this level of self-abnegation, and you’ve got the job. Only problem is most people can’t. It’s unnatural, uncomfortable, probably unhealthy. But not for a true ghost. For a true ghost, it’s fuel.
First, there was blackness and shattering pain—a sharp hammering within her head, like someone had taken an axe to the inside of her skull. There was the taste of plastic and bile. The burn at the back of her throat like she had swallowed a lit cigarette. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. She groaned, pushed out, hit something soft on something hard: an arm.
“Relax, Mari,” a male voice said. “There is a tube down your throat. We had to get everything out of you. When I pull, it will feel weird, maybe hurt. But it will be over fast.”
Before he had finished warning her, he was removing the tube. Mari tried to roll onto her side, curl into a ball, away from the prying light, the feeling of being watched, of being ashamed.
“Don’t move, pet,” Dante said.
Even with her eyes closed, his voice was his.
“Your blood pressure is very low,” the EMT said. “We’ve started an IV with fluids. You’re going to have the headache to end all headaches tomorrow. But you’ll live.”
The full horror of her last moments with Sigrid flashed back to Mari, and her eyes popped open. She remembered: Vivienne. She had let V in, and it had been her undoing. Or it had saved her. As scuzzed as her brain was, Mari tried to anticipate Sigrid’s next move.
“We couldn’t get an ambulance out here,” the EMT said. “So, we came in my truck. We recommend you get admitted, just for the night, to be monitored.”
“I don’t have health insurance,” Mari said.
“Fucking America,” Dante said. “Bloody hell. They sail across the Atlantic and turn into a bunch of savages. Mari, if it would feel safer, I’ll take care of it. Just say the word, luv.”
Mari pictured the sterile room, the smell of bleach, the sound of a canned laugh track from a TV down the hall, the loneliness of lying there without anyone knowing, or caring, or being on their way to visit. She caught Dante’s smoke-shop scent, felt his Zen calm, even under these radical circumstances. Mari didn’t want to leave his side. She had managed to hold on to this fucking job. She had managed to hold on to her life. She was going to stay until the end, whatever it would bring. Without opening her eyes, she shook her head: No.
Mari was trying to sit up amid the soft cushions of the kitchen’s window seat. Dante had deposited her there with a mug of strong tea—her hand was shaking, but she forced down a few sips. She was already embarrassed, and she was trying to conjure her wits. Two housekeepers rushed to and fro, peeling potatoes, icing mineral water, pulling everything together with well-practiced synchronicity. Mari latched onto more bits of the scene as her focus began to return.
Fiona was basting an enormous rack of lamb, in a gorgeous copper roasting pan. Fiona’s persimmon silk blouse was unsplattered and sliding off her shoulder in an alluring way. She was barefoot and expertly dodging three dogs and her nine-year-old son—Basel—who was debuting his new penny whistle tune for his dad’s departure. The room smelled of hot fat and peppery rosemary, and Joni Mitchell was singing about a free man in Paris. Mari felt the nettle sting of tears. Some of it was the trauma of what she’d been through, and her shame at having Dante see her that wrecked, even if had been Sigrid’s doing, not her own; he didn’t know that, and she couldn’t explain it to him. Mostly, though, it was the ache of wanting.
She had coveted many things as a ghost, usually the surprising luxury items—the LV flip-flops, the Hermès sweatpants, the Montblanc pen on the desk of a client who wrote in emojis. This was different. This was a whole life she’d never had a chance for, first because of her dad’s inability to hold it together and keep his concert-promotions gig, which had been his entrée to this world. And then because of what had been required of her to survive, lashing herself to her computer. Then she thought of Anke, sixty miles away. She had lived more than most, and still, she had ended up alone. But that wasn’t true, was it? She had her own fortress, a devoted son, an ex who sent flowers to acknowledge a book that could embarrass him. No one was immune to the diminishment of age—except for maybe the band—but it meant something, daring to create in your lifetime, not just a mountain of books but a home, a clan, a life.
Mari forced herself to smile, even if she couldn’t quite muster engaged, amused, or included. Dante’s two daughters from his second marriage were telling Fiona the story of their photo shoot in the desert that day for Vogue. One had a kaftan line; the other made hand-poured, chakra-clearing candles. They were so gorgeous, and intimidating, but the truth was, they seemed nice. All of Dante’s kids did. Mari felt even more left out, like she had some defect in her DNA, her dad’s hungry blood in her veins, that had made all of this impossible for her. At least Sigrid was leaving her alone, under the guise of taking care of some last-minute tour details, Mari figured. But it was weird that she hadn’t shown her face once since Mari had been revived.
Dante radiated goodwill down the table, adorned with eucalyptus branches, pomegranates, and off-white beeswax candles. Mari was unsure what to do when Dante lifted his hands. With a twinkle in his eye, Dante turned to Mari, who had been seated on his left.
“You probably weren’t expecting this from an old hippie Neanderthal like me, but I always say grace when we’re together as a family,” he said.
As everyone joined hands, Mari nodded, very aware of holding Dante Ashcombe’s hand.
“Thank you, first and foremost, to my lovely, blushing bride, Fiona,” he began, “for preparing this beautiful feast, and for putting up with me. Thank you to my children for being here tonight to break bread with me before I embark on the road. It is a solace to these old bones. Thank you to my right hand, Sigrid, who keeps the spaceships running on time. And to my left hand, Mari, who has been trusted with the greatest asset of all—my story, my legacy. Thank you, always, to the powers that be for the grace in our lives, and the food before us. May we all go forward from this table in good health, especially those of us who have had a blustery evening.”
Dante squeezed Mari’s hand. His last words managed to seem like a kind gesture, not a joke or judgment. Mari was mortified to feel a single tear trickle down and streak her makeup. With both hands clasped by those on either side of her, she couldn’t do anything about it. So, she let it be. When she turned to Dante to acknowledge his mention, he seemed touched. She figured it was far from the worst he had seen of her. She was desperate to ask about Sigrid, who was absent from the dinner table, but she decided to follow his lead and lean into the festivities.
Then, before he could make her think he was a different person than she had come to know, instead of saying “Amen,” Dante called out a robust “Salut!”
It was quite the finale for Dante’s memoir—dogs running in and out, chewing lamb bones under the table, Dante and Fiona laughing as they finished each other’s sentences, young Basel performing his triumphant concert as the sticky toffee pudding was served.
Mari felt like a corpse. All she wanted to do was lie down, even though she should force herself to scratch out a few notes before she forgot the details, which would make the book all the more vivid. But the group seemed determined to sit and talk over sherries. Mari’s teapot had been refilled, and she was coming back to the world.
“The bonfire!” Dante called out.
Everyone stood and began to search for their wraps. Mari shook her head to clear it. She stumbled, caught herself. The others were across the room, helping Basel into his suede jacket, with fringe, of course. Only Dante noticed. Not that he seemed to mind. Her “accidental” overdose had been attributed to Dionysian abandon, and it had seemed to make him like her more. But she didn’t think she could force herself to stay awake by a bonfire, and she still had an intense meeting with Anke in the morning. She had been worrying over her options, and her best plan seemed to be asking Anke if she could stay over, to be available first thing. The thought of writing seemed impossible, but nothing that had happened tonight had extended her deadlines.
“Dante,” she said, her voice croaky. He waved the others ahead and bent to hear her. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I’ve had quite a night. Anke expects me to meet with her tomorrow. Could your driver please take me to Palm Springs?”
He gave her a long look, reading between the lines, although she wasn’t sure how much.
“This is a good plan, Little Marie,” he said. “I’ll ride with you.”
“No, no, I couldn’t take you away—”
“I insist,” he said. “Let’s go and explain to Fiona.”
Gathering all her reserves of strength, Mari made her most gallant possible exit, thanking Fiona for dinner, saying good night to the children. Finally, she surveyed the whole circle, afraid, but looking for Sigrid. Mari hoped she would never have to see her again, but she felt more unsettled by her absence, unsure if she should tell Dante what had happened. Meanwhile, Dante was kissing his wife’s mouth and explaining he would accompany Mari back to the Palm Springs airport so they could have a final hour together for his book.
“Don’t work too hard, my darling,” Fiona said.
“Don’t fall asleep before I get back,” he replied, growling in her direction.
Mari had to yank herself away from the happy family and the fire, back into the silent house. But she was the ghost who always had more work to do. Dante stopped off in the kitchen. He trickled four Advil into Mari’s palm, handed her a bottle of water, then held the door for her.
Mari felt so woozy, she had to close her eyes against the fast-food neon as they got stuck at traffic lights in Yucca Valley, on their way to Palm Springs. The inside of the Escalade was like a rocking cradle. She was swaddled in a butter-soft cashmere blanket and didn’t want the ride to end. She had survived, but for what? The thought of going back to her thirteen-year-old Honda sedan with the sun-rotted seats and the grimy windows, driving to Trader Joe’s for deadline treats, chaining herself to her computer in a cheap Airbnb, made her want to cry. And she did.
Next to her, Dante shifted. His presence had a comforting weight, like he’d keep the coyotes at bay. He was a good dad. It must be nice for his kids. She could feel him turning toward her in the darkness. Now that they were traveling down Highway 62, back onto the flat plains where Palm Springs nestled against the mountains, few headlights illuminated his face.
“Don’t cry, Little Marie,” he said. “You just overindulged is all. I’ve been there—you know I have. Nothing to be ashamed of, is it?”
She chewed on his words for a long time. She was bone-tired but mostly sober. She had been so confident in Vegas, even back at his house. She had been wrong. Sigrid had let her be, maybe because of Dante’s belief in her, maybe because she wasn’t as much of a real threat as the first writer, Axel, had been, but she was in over her head. The right thing was to admit it.
“It was foolish of me to think I could write your memoir when I have so little experience. Your book will be read for generations. You need a writer who is stronger than I am.”
In the darkness, Mari heard Dante flip open his lighter. Leaning forward into its glow, he looked his age—older, even—but also beatific. He cracked his window and exhaled through it.
“Why am I writing this book?”
“Well, celebrities write books for three reasons: money, acclaim, or for a comeback or branding pivot—it’s one of the surefire ways to get on morning TV.”
“Do you think I give a rat’s tit about drinking coffee with some poor old gal they’ve got Botoxed to the high heavens? Why am I writing this book? Not celebrities. Me.”
Mari studied what she could of his profile, rising to meet his question, which demanded the use of her skills and put her back on solid ground. She considered what she had learned of Dante—not the facts and figures, but the essence of who he was, which she was now more fluent in than Fiona, Sigrid, or Anke. She had always presented that being a ghostwriter was only a job, and she did it for money, access, and praise. She had pretended her unconditional love was an act, a trick she used to gain deeper intimacy. But the truth was, in rare cases like this, she underwent the alchemy of understanding and did become them. It was a gift she treasured. She knew Dante better than he knew himself, and like a mother, she felt deep tenderness toward him.
“No one knows you. Jack can’t be bothered. Your fans want the pirate Dante of their workaday fantasy. Maybe your wife and kids even see the caricature. Sigrid knows you, but you pay her. The one person who ever came close was Anke. You gave her to Jack, afraid if you didn’t, you would lose the band, lose everything. You sold out your love. You’ve spent decades looking for that feeling again. But it’s not something you can buy. Or will. Or conjure. You would like to be known again by one person before you die. In the process of writing this book, you’ve been surprised to find that I do know you. But really, you’re talking to Anke. To try to apologize, maybe explain. If millions of other people get to know you, too, well, all right.”
Dante was silent, and Mari wondered if, after everything, this would be the moment when she had gone too far. But she was too weary to act anymore.
“Do you have your little doodad?” he asked, not sounding the least offended.
Soon her recorder’s red light was visible, glowing, an echo to his cigarette ember.
“Was it your dad or your mom?” he asked.
“My dad.” She didn’t have to know what he was asking to know the answer.
“Me, too. I know my memory is shit, but the stuff from when I was little, it seems to get more vivid. My dad, he was fickle, like the weather in April. To get even the tiniest drop of goodwill out of him, you had to listen like the dickens. It was the one way to avoid getting hit. It was the way, maybe, just maybe, once or twice a year, when you least expected, to connect—to be allowed to light his smoke or bring him a fresh can of lager, to be the recipient of a song or a joke. It’s brutal to live like that as a kid—kids are supposed to just be, not always try to be. But when you grow up, and you know how to listen like that, it’s a superpower. A sixth sense.”
“My dad drank anything that was on the house,” she said. “His thing was casinos. Cards. Horses. Gambling. I saw him every few years, and when I did, it was clear he didn’t understand why he was there—what was the spread on spending time with a kid? There was none. No profit. No gain. So, what’s the point? I tried to listen for just the right thing to say, to be perfect. I developed my perception into my superpower. And now my dad is the only person who remains immune to my skills.”
“You’re writing my book, Mari. Don’t sell Anke out. Or me. But I want you to use your superpower to write what you see, speak from my heart. Tell the truth, like you just had the courage to do. I don’t do no. As you are aware. And these really are the Last Days of the Midnight Ramblers. I suppose we carried the day over poor old Syd, but we’re not immortal, none of us.”
“I respect that, but it wouldn’t be fair.”
“What’s fair to you? Where are you in all this? My book could make you. Don’t you think it’s time for you to be made, for your life to get a dollop easier?”
No, the little voice inside Mari said. That was the problem and the solution. It was never her time. Which was why she was so good at her job. Which was why she was trying to make the leap to a new life now. But it didn’t come easy to her. These were the moments in a person’s destiny when they either took the risk and thrived—or wilted and failed. She was on the cusp.
“I was lucky, the way it happened to me,” he said. “I mean, international rock star at nineteen, pretty much the definition of blessed, innit? But also, I wasn’t old enough to be scared, or to understand what was happening, or how it could all go away anytime. It’s harder when we get older. We’ve seen more bad shit. We know more.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“You know the best thing about living your life behind a mask?”
“Behind it, you’re free.”
“Righto. People envy me because I’m rich. It’s all they know to dream. They think I’m smoking joints for breakfast, swimming in my infinity pool, snogging my brains out.”
“Aren’t you?”
They laughed.
“I jest,” she said. “I’ve seen the twelve-hour workdays. The band practices that go past midnight. The press calls snuck in between the meetings, recording sessions, and songwriting.”
“I’m not complaining. I could do less. But it keeps the blood pumping. And while I’m doing all this, and dancing for the nice people, I’m free. Everyone stopped thinking to look behind the mask, years ago. Back here, I can observe. Feel. Think. Read. Love. Give someone a chance because I know she deserves it.”
Mari had been so consumed with the illusion that she was controlling everything, she had forgotten the others around her might actually get to know her behind her own mask, maybe even be moved to do something on her behalf. For once, the surprise was the good kind.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Turn off your doodad,” he said. “This is not for the book. We never speak of it again.”
She thought about pretending to hit stop, hiding the red light with her thumb, but she was in too deep to consider only herself anymore. She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.
“We must do what we can to help Anke,” he said.
“That’s why I came to Vegas, but I don’t even know if she’ll let me be her writer.”
“Let me tell you something, luv,” he said, giving her hand an affectionate tap. “No one let me and Jack and Mal be rock stars. No one will let you do nothing, neither. You are Anke’s writer, just as you are my writer. I know it’s unconventional. But who’s going to say no to me?”
“Anke?”
He snorted with laughter, and she joined in, relieved.
“Under normal circumstances,” he said. “But there is too much at stake. In many ways her book is even more important than mine—and it takes a lot for me to play second fiddle, you know. Truth is, I used to suspect her. I’d lie awake at night and wonder if I’d been caught in the web of a black widow. But that was when she was just a fantasy I’d had for a long time. Then I got to know her. She never did anything for a farthing in her life. Anke acted, only, out of love. Even those Mandrax, that was love. If you could have seen Mal, it was horrible, like something out of Dante’s Inferno, his brilliant mind an instrument of torture. I think, in a way, he was begging her to end it all. But that is poetry, not something most people would understand, unless it is written just so, and Anke can make peace with it. She can be very stubborn. We must help her.”
“I agree. But will she let—”
“Tsk-tsk, try again.”
“She will let me.”
“Yes, and you must trust that when she does, you will find the right words. I do.”
“And Sigrid?” she asked.
“Called the EMT for you and waited for them to arrive, even though it almost caused her to miss her flight from Palm Springs to LA, in order to fly back to Germany.”
“But your tour—”
“Her mother is dying. She must be there.”
“Dante, I know what she did,” Mari said.
“Do you, Little Marie? When we have spoken of the fixer, we have talked of what they do for those of us on top, to keep us at that level. We haven’t talked about how they also work on behalf of those who can’t handle it at the top, who need an exit fashioned for them.”
“Sure, those who can’t handle it because she poisoned their minds, maybe worse.”
“Mal’s mind was poisoned. Axel’s mind was poisoned. Sigrid’s mind was poisoned, after a fashion. Yours was not,” Dante said. “Not everyone belongs at the top. They may end up there briefly, but for some, it doesn’t last.”
“That’s pretty cynical. And you’re flattering me.”
“I’m respecting you enough to tell you the truth, which I think you already know.”
“Are you sure you know the whole truth about Sigrid?”
“After how she behaved with Axel, we had decided it was time for her to retire,” Dante said. “Don’t you dare quote me: but we’re all too old for this. The plan had been put into place by management, but she was going to stay in the States long enough to help us launch the tour. I never thought you were in danger, or I wouldn’t have let her get so close to you. Tonight, it became clear she wasn’t going to go quietly, and so, she needed to go—immediately.”
“And what of the truth Anke writes in her book?”
“That is Anke’s book. Anke’s truth.”
“Really?”
“I trust you, Little Marie. We will talk more of this as you are writing, when Axel has come home from rehab and seen his daughter. He will get a tribute in my book. Would you really see Sigrid in prison? For doing her job well? Let her be. It’s not even an early retirement. She’s seventy. But she has been made to leave the road, and so, she is paying in her way.”
“Retirement is worse than death for her,” Mari said.
“Yes, you and Sigrid understand each other.” Dante grinned. “She always liked you. And I have always understood why.”
Mari flushed with emotion. It was almost too much. But she found she could bear it, just.