Like an actor who cares about her craft, a ghost approaches each new role afresh, while building on the experience of her past books. Each assignment comes with its own gift bag of unique skills, and a deeper understanding of how to excel, not just at writing but at life. There are many entry points for getting to know someone well enough to become them. The first art is seduction; the trick isn’t for you to be wanted by the celebrity, but to make her feel wanted, in just the right way, by discerning her deepest value system and assuring her that you see treasures not everyone can, and you will unearth them and make them shine on the page.
First, this ghostwriter must land the job. Mari Hawthorn was waiting in the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel on a Friday in mid-January. Beneath the distinctive green-and-white-striped ceiling, in a room with the posh intimacy of a cruise ship, silverware tinkled, and laughter rose up in waves. Perched on a deep banquette crowned by leafy plants, Mari (rhymes with “sorry,” a joke her sister, Vivienne, loved to make) was starting to sweat. She tugged the wrists of her clearance rack J.Crew blazer, but couldn’t remove it. Her nicest blouse had a tear in the armpit. Even business casual in LA required polish, and she’d splurged on a manicure and blowout. Her long brown hair was styled in loose curls, heavy on her neck. She ruffled her bangs, hoping for a little rock ’n’ roll attitude, given whose table she was seated at.
She was about to meet Anke (rhymes with “Bianca”), infamous ’60s rock consort and style setter who’d reinvented herself as a glam earth mama and luxe jewelry designer, adored by Vogue. Anke’s staying power added to her mystique, as did her post–World War II evolution from Berlin shopgirl to international “it” girl. The first model to pose topless on the cover of a magazine, she had been a desirable companion for artists and rockers alike.
Anke’s real claim to fame, though, was the love square she had formed with three founding members of the Midnight Ramblers, what many felt was the defining rock act of the twentieth century, as good as, or better than, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. The Ramblers, too, were among the world’s biggest rock stars, having provided a soundtrack of bohemian flair for three generations. They had the hit singles, going back to 1964, including “Bought on the Never Never,” a youth anthem for the ages; the walls of platinum records; the handful of Grammys, even an Oscar. And they gilded their legend, still—somehow forever creating trends, launching the best new bands by giving them opening slots on their world tours, propelling the most interesting young designers out of obscurity by wearing their clothes. They seemed, always, to be one step ahead of where everyone else would want to be. With them coming up on fifty-five years since their debut, and still on top, they made it so: Rock ’n’ roll was not just a young man’s game. They were about to launch another worldwide tour, spanning all of 2019.
Mari’s father enjoyed bragging about having booked one of their first US shows, without mentioning that he had flamed out as a rock promoter after he had gambled away the payouts of too many bands. She wasn’t above telling this story at parties, without mentioning the fallout. Like many, she loved the Ramblers and had found an album for every stage of her life. Stop anyone on the street, and they could sing you the chorus of a Ramblers song. Each August, hundreds of fans offered up flowers, photos, and handmade tributes to mark the passing of the band’s original leader, and most far-out genius, Mal Walker. He’d drowned at the band’s LA rental house in 1969. When he was found to have been on Quaaludes, alcohol, marijuana, and acid, he had earned a place amid those iconic rockers who had lived too hard and died too young. The fact that the girl, Nancy, he’d taken up with not long before he died had been pregnant with his love child had added to the mood of romantic tragedy surrounding him.
A few months after Mal’s death, the Ramblers’ charismatic American chauffeur, Syd, had lobbed a grenade at the band. In a Daily Mail interview, he alleged that Mal could handle his drugs and had met with foul play. A torn-from-the-headlines book followed: The Last Days of the Midnight Ramblers. The hefty payout Syd had received threw his accusations into question, and his bombastic title seemed silly as the band thrived. But ask anyone in the entertainment world: Allegations live on and retractions go unnoticed. Before the band could take Syd to court for slander, he overdosed on heroin. The events of that summer had remained shrouded in mournful glamour, inspiring dozens of books and a biopic starring Jude Law as Mal. But until now, no one from the inner circle had been willing to step forward with their own memoir.
Anke would have plenty to reveal in hers. She had left Berlin with Mal and was married to him at the time of his death, even though he was also seeing Nancy. Her grief had led her to have a heartfelt love affair, and a son, with the Ramblers’ lead guitarist, Dante Ashcombe, one of rock’s uncontested talents and renegades. Although they got together immediately after Mal’s death, the golden couple had been adored by the public. The fact that they had become a family so soon after Anke was widowed raised a few eyebrows, but there wasn’t the same obsession with baby bumps as now, and the fans were almost all rooting for them. Everyone loved Dante. Not even heroin addiction, multiple tabloid-fodder divorces, or his 1980s reggae phase knocked him from his perch. He was the icon of cool and would be as long as rock lasted. And then, for five years in the early ’70s, Anke had been with Jack, the Ramblers’ sexy singer with the sultry moves, flash fashion, and head for business. He was the Swiss watch of the band, who had stepped in as leader after Mal died, overseeing the group’s schedule, lineup, merch, and movements across the globe. Yet he appeared as free and fun as any iconoclast could be.
A longtime fan of the Ramblers, Mari felt a special connection to them thanks to her dad’s dubious role in their early career, even though she knew better. She always did her research before an initial interview, and she had read all the articles, and skimmed all the nonfiction books about the band and Mal’s death that she could order on her Kindle. Syd’s book was long out of print, and the few copies online were selling for hundreds of dollars. So, she would only be able to justify, and afford, that expense if she landed the job.
Mari had, of course, read all the coverage of Anke in decades of fashion magazines and watched her interview in a recent documentary about Mal. Appearing regal and gorgeous, Anke spoke with dry wit about his talent and excess. But when the interviewer had tried to lead her toward revelations about his death, she had demurred. Then refused. Then left the set. She didn’t give a fuck about setting the record straight. Or cultivating a likeable image. Noted.
This was where Anke would dodge her ghostwriter. It would require delicacy, but Mari would apply just the right finesse to unearth gems. Obviously Mal’s death must be written with respect. And Jack and Dante were far more famous than Anke, so she must not appear to be trading on their names—any intimate stories, especially if they made the men look bad, must add up to a greater whole. For they had been Anke’s love affairs, as much as theirs, and if she could own her recollections and be insightful in her observations, all could land perfectly on the page.
Mari had arrived early, a good offense. They would not begin on time—it would be off-putting for a celebrity to be punctual, like a serial killer who knits. Having attended meetings at many fashionable LA restaurants and hotels, Mari knew how to look—and even feel—like she belonged. But she never ordered before a prospective client arrived, so she waved off the server.
It had been nine months since Mari had been up for a job. She’d had a good run for a few years—learning the writing skills required to craft a memoir, and the diplomacy and stamina needed to finish a book. She had even carved out a niche for herself—“the divorcée whisperer,” as her editors joked, because she had a way with the exes of famous men. They were a vulnerable but fiery bunch, and all seemed to know each other—word got around that she was like a therapist you could drink with who would hit the deadline no matter what.
But then her last client had gotten away from her, a fact her editor had deduced over a single lunch with the actress, although Mari had failed to put it together during many, many hours of conversation and writing. The diva, who had once been married to a famous boxer, had amended years of public tantrums and DUIs through sobriety and hard-won domestic stability with her third husband—the memoir’s selling point. As the deadline had approached, Mari began noticing her client’s suddenly erratic behavior, of course. But she had loyally accepted, and written, the actress’s manicured version of events. After galleys had gone out to the press, TMZ exclusively reported the star was in a swanky rehab to avoid losing her kids in her latest marital breakup. They gleefully excerpted from her memoir, making her seem like a hypocrite and a fake. The editor blamed Mari for not having seen this nightmare unfolding in real time, and for allowing the old version of the story to be publicized via the galleys.
A more experienced ghost was brought in for a down-to-the wire revision, receiving the bestseller credit. But Mari’s draft had circulated, and the discrepancy had blown up on social media, stimulating sales but further damaging the actress’s reputation. Mari had technically written her first bestseller, but neither the acknowledgment—even a covert one—nor the full final payment had been hers. She was broke. And although she knew what a good ghost she could be, she still needed to prove it. This time, she had to write well and be infallible.
She had placed her cell phone beside her. The moment Anke arrived, she would surreptitiously turn it off. Until then, it must be kept on, in case Anke’s assistant messaged with a change of plans. It buzzed. Mari looked down. Her agent, Ezra, was calling. She looked up. Half the people dining in the room were on their phones. Ducking her head, she answered.
“Hey, dude, when’s your lunch with Anke?” he asked.
“Now.”
“Oh, man, sorry, you didn’t—?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll put you on speaker—”
He laughed, but it sounded forced. He was checking up on her. She needed to convince him a bit—that she could finesse this interview, and that she could handle a project this exclusive. They had worked together for three years, and he had never had to save her from disaster—no one blamed her for the actress’s vodka-and-Xanax-fueled meltdown, although Mari should’ve known it was imminent; sometimes it took a new writer to save a project—but Mari had never given him bestseller bragging rights, either. Mari had written one book for Anke’s publisher—a tell-all for a reality TV divorcée turned high-class escort. It had almost written itself. It had landed her, barely, in the publisher’s stable of vetted ghostwriters. Normally, with a star as big as Anke, Mari would have had an initial interview with management, but Anke no longer had a team.
“David says she’s really funny, if she lets her guard down,” Ezra said.
Anke’s editor, David, and Ezra were old friends, which was how Mari had been sent to meet Anke, even after her last snafu and wasteland of workfree months. Not only was she lucky to have this interview, but she needed to earn it in the room; this book’s subject was of a higher caliber, and if Mari landed this ghosting job, she would prove herself to be higher caliber, too.
“Any other tips, coach?” she asked.
“You’re a natural. But sometimes you try too hard. Don’t let on how much you want it.”
“Doesn’t she want me to want it?”
“Sure, but you can’t seem like you need it. Publishing is changing. It’s no longer a sure thing that you’ll ghost a book or two a year. You’re the divorcée whisperer, but those memoirs don’t sell like they used to. Not to mention the actress who shall not be named. It took a small miracle to bring this lunch about. And yet you’ve gotta act like none of that ever happened.”
“And I was just worried about getting a piece of lettuce stuck in my front teeth.”
They laughed. She liked that Ezra always told her the truth. It was rare in most businesses, and especially in Hollywood.
Twenty minutes past one, Anke took over the room. She received air-kisses from an aging film star, barely recognizable behind his face-lift and reading glasses, then posed for the selfie requested by a daytime TV host. Anke was seventy-one, but she was so slender and lithe, she appeared decades younger. She radiated the detachment of a young Nico, without heroin’s aura-marring darkness—Anke had hung up that bad habit with her bell-bottoms.
At their booth, Anke glided to a stop. The air burst into bloom, warmed by the carnal aroma of tuberose and jasmine. As anyone who cared about such things knew, Anke’s signature scent was Robert Piguet’s Fracas. She was dressed in white—silk Balmain blazer, foamy scarf, skintight jeans—and enormous black sunglasses. Sliding her shades up onto her long blond hair, she revealed smoky cat-eye makeup. Mari beamed warmth toward her.
“Hallo,” Anke said, her voice musky, slightly Old World. “You have found our table. I hope you don’t mind my directness, but you are quite corporeal for a ghost.”
“You should see my X-rays.” Mari smiled.
She extended a sure hand, as polite and nonchalant as if Anke were her server at a four-star restaurant, and then shook with Anke’s assistant. He stood close enough to Anke to be her shadow. Tall and yoga-lean, the man was of indeterminate age, but clearly much older than was suggested by his outfit—expensive head-to-toe black, including a vintage Neil Young T-shirt, accented with a few turquoise-beaded suede bracelets. His well-cut shaggy hair framed a handsome face—pale skin, switchblade cheekbones, a gap-toothed pout.
Anke rested her hand on the table. From afar, she stood erect, perfect model posture, easy yoga grace. Up close, Mari saw her fingers wrinkle the tablecloth, seeking support. Knowing better than to acknowledge any vulnerability so early in their relationship, Mari got up fast. She ceded the center seat to Anke. In a casual, choreographed motion, Anke’s companion slid into the booth after her, blocking any errant admirers.
“This is Ody,” Anke said. “My assistant.”
Mari and Ody nodded to each other. He exuded ageless nonchalance, but up close, Mari clocked the fine lines around his eyes, the artificial darkness of his hair, dyed to cover the gray. LA was full of such gorgeous, stylish insiders who seemed too old to do such work. But by acting as devoted ladies-in-waiting to their celebrities, they enjoyed money, access, glamour.
The waiter fluttered back, asked about drinks. Anke smiled flirtatiously at him.
“I will take a dry martini,” she said. “Gin. Francisco knows how I like. Light, light, light with the vermouth. An olive and a twist.”
The waiter bowed to Anke, as if he were a knight dedicated to serving her, then looked to Mari.
“Earl Grey tea, please,” Mari said. “Almond milk, steamed, on the side. And lemon for my water. Thank you.”
Normally, Mari drank whatever her clients did. But no booze at an initial meeting before two p.m. Anke was Anke and could, and would, do as she pleased. Mari had to express distinct needs—they helped to establish her place at the table—but they couldn’t take up too much space.
“How’s your day been?” Mari asked.
Anke studied her. Ody watched, chaperoning.
“It could not be better,” Anke said. “This is a most auspicious time.”
Mari considered the contrasting realities of Anke’s grand stroll through the dining room and her hidden grip on the table. She was acting. But her unique European-flavored English and extreme comfort in her surroundings made her appear utterly authentic.
Seemingly satisfied, Ody turned to his smartphone, began typing. Mari hesitated, weighing the task at hand. She needed to appear more accomplished and successful than she was. And to do that, Ezra was right—she had to seem like she didn’t care about the job, or at least wasn’t desperate to land it. As the waiter delivered their drinks, Anke sniffed her martini.
“This has vermouth,” she said.
“Yes, but only—”
Anke held up her hand in the air.
The waiter was back with a fresh drink so soon it seemed physically impossible. Most celebrities wanted it known at restaurants around town that they had been nice and tipped well. Anke wanted what she wanted, no matter how it looked. As with the documentary. Noted.
Mari considered her opening move.
“Congratulations on your memoir. It’s a great honor, the opportunity to tell your story.”
“The memoir is good,” Anke said. “Really it is one thing of many. A collaboration of my jewelry designs with the noble Cartier. European interview requests. The fiftieth anniversary approaches. There is much interest in Anke once again.”
“Fifty years since Mal drowned, so young. That must bring up a great deal of emotion.”
Anke appraised Mari, as if she had read about feelings once in a book.
“Such landmark events become a sort of touchstone, it seems.” Mari threw herself into her pitch. Sensing Anke auditioning her, she doubled down. “When telling one’s story, these are the alchemic moments—of transformation. In my experience, grief is the fiercest forge there is—it remakes us in its fire. That summer must have been hell. And like no other time in your life.”
Mari could have felt foolish, speaking in such epigrams, but she never let herself get anywhere near her emotions at meetings, even when she alluded to the darker aspects of her own experience. It was her special technique, to create an air of supreme authority—she had lived many lives, and told many life stories, and she knew how it should be done. And yet it must be as if this celebrity were the only luminary with a story worth preserving in print.
“You are too young to know about grief,” Anke said.
“You were even younger that summer,” Mari said. “Grief follows its own clock.”
Anke dipped her lovely face, communicating assent.
“Yes, that is how it feels,” Anke said. “Like alchemy. Like there were many conversions in my life—grief sometimes. Others were gold. Perhaps we approach yet another moment now.”
Looking up from his business, Ody studied Anke’s face. She met his gaze but didn’t acknowledge his apparent concern. She took a hummingbird sip of her martini. Her sheaf of bracelets wind-chimed down her arm—Cartier bands, Chanel, some with diamonds, some not, all gold, interspersed with the ruby-fanged serpentine bangles of her own design. Her other wrist was wreathed by an asymmetrical Bulgari watch from the ’70s, also gold.
Ody remained silent.
“Can you sense such moments as they happen, or only after?” Mari asked.
There was an almost imperceptible shift, a deepening intimacy, like when the second round of drinks arrives.
“I am reminded of when I was with the boys in the Hollywood Hills,” Anke said.
Mari smiled over the rim of her cup, encouraging Anke toward candor.
“We landed in Los Angeles from London,” Anke said. She paused for another precise sip, then let her words go in a torrent. “This was in April. Mal was my old man. We were staying in a house built for Charlie Chaplin. No one was ready to relinquish the illusion that the band was still close, even though it was unraveling around us. Our first night, we had a small party. Rock stars. Naked wood nymphs with garlands of holly in their hair. Jim put LSD in the punch, always throwing open the doors of perception, and he was climbing on the roof in his black leather pants, ready to fly. Pamela cried below him, exhausted like a new mother. Dante found me by the pool. I rolled the best joints. He was all thumbs, except with guitars, and women, of course. I spread out a shawl on my lounge chair. I was throwing the I Ching—tossing the three coins that give you the lines to form the hexagram for your reading. As Dante lit the paper and inhaled the herb, I jangled them in my hands. ‘That mad fucker Mal set his kaftan on fire,’ Dante said. ‘He’s going to burn us all up in our sleep.’ As he spoke, I released the coins.”
Anke was introducing herself as prescient, in control, even amid the luminous frenzy of the greatest rock stars, including Jim Morrison, and Mal, who was crazy, drug-addled, out of control. With Dante as a bridge in between. Listening for what Anke was saying beneath her words, as well as what she was maybe avoiding, Mari wanted to question her without seeming to doubt her. Murder, even manslaughter, was a serious allegation, and yet everyone at the table knew it was on the periphery of their conversation. Ody stared into his phone, but he had stopped typing. Finally, Mari realized Anke was done speaking—that was all she cared to reveal.
“I read you predicted these events,” Mari said. “I thought maybe that was hyperbole.”
“Let me tell you something, Schatzi,” Anke said, pulling her drink close. “There is a molecule of truth in everything you read.”
“Yes, and there are many ways to write what’s true and hide it at the same time.”
Anke turned her jeweler’s gaze on Mari, said nothing. The silence stretched and dragged. Mari sipped her tea, buying time as she formulated her response, which couldn’t let on how incredible she had found Anke’s tale, and how much higher-profile this gig was than any book she had written. Mari needed a job. This was way more than that. It was a ladder. And, somehow, Mari sensed that working with Anke would teach her the skills she needed to climb.
Mari had coaxed Anke to talk, but had she divulged anything? Why had Anke led with Dante, not Mal, and then not revealed her forecast? Why had Anke said she thought such a moment might approach again when she seemed triumphant, or was at least projecting triumph?
“So, the tiles foretold Mal’s death,” Mari said.
Anke didn’t answer. She was no fool—she knew the men in her life were the draw for most readers—but they could not be the draw for her writer.
“What did you do?” Mari asked, keeping the focus on Anke.
“I saved myself,” Anke said. “As I have always done.”
“As you always will do,” Ody said.
Mari was surprised by this assertion, which was rare for an assistant. She watched with curiosity as Anke bowed slightly in his direction, before turning back to Mari.
“For Bono’s last birthday, he took his family and closest friends on an eco-safari to Africa,” Anke said. “I had horrible jet lag. I went out to the fire in the main lodge at three in the morning. I found him awake. I asked him, ‘How is it you have achieved massive success, telling truth? But you have not alienated yourself from your country, an ancient, conservative one?’ He said, ‘We may have told the truth, but we never left ourselves out of the reckoning. Let she who has no hypocrisy cast the first stone.’ And then he quoted his own lyric: ‘I must be an acrobat to talk like this and act like that.’ It has stayed with me. Just because someone has done wrong, there’s no need to rub her face in it. To punish her without mercy. To expose her. We are all flawed.”
The anecdote was high-profile, but might not make the book, if Mari couldn’t finesse more significance out of it than Bono’s perspective. Mari wondered why Anke was telling this story now, which “flawed women” she was alluding to, if not herself. Mari respected Anke for not airing old grievances. She hoped this meant Anke would be too classy to want to do so in print. Even when it came to the truth about Mal’s death, which Mari needed to coax out of her, there was a way to name names while earning your right to use them. Anke seemed to infer this.
“What do you think?” Anke asked.
“You have many incredible stories to tell. The question is, what do you wish to say?”
“Please, my dear. What does anyone want me to say besides what happened to Mal?”
“Of course. But there are ways to make what they want and what you want the same.”
“Ja, it is the only way to survive life with a certain kind of man.” Anke almost smiled.
Mari’s mind flashed to her father, the epitome of a certain kind of man. She, personally, hadn’t had a man in her life for several years. But she knew this kind of girl talk went over well.
Mari laughed. “On behalf of women everywhere, I have questions for you about that.”
“Perhaps the question is this. You were on the list of approved writers. But you have never written a bestseller. The other writers all have. What that is special do you offer us, then?”
Mari poured herself more tea, added almond milk. She leaned toward Anke, telegraphing earnest mastery. She hadn’t only been listening to Anke; she had been reading her, a skill she had obtained in childhood, as many children of addicts learn to read those with power over them. It was obvious to Mari, from the seriousness with which Anke considered Mari’s questions and the lyrical precision with which she remembered: Anke might not care about gossip, but she cared about how her words were received. Her Achilles’ heel was her desire to be taken seriously, rather than being admired for—and trapped by—her beauty. And the men it attracted, who had created the shape of her life, with their presence and absence—even her child was a boy. With all this in mind, plus her genuine interest in Anke’s subterranean stories of wooing and keeping the Ramblers, Mari conjured Anke’s wisdom, seeking the entrée that would give her deeper access.
“Your book will be a bestseller, no matter who you hire,” Mari said. “I respect you too much not to state the obvious. You were married to Mal when he died, which is one of pop culture’s greatest mysteries. There you have it: Thousands of books sold. But that marriage was only ten months of your life. Your book will be read because you know how to show others the greatness they, too, possess, how to move through a dark time with grace. You have told me provocative stories about Mal, Dante, and Bono, the happenings of Hollywood and the plains of Africa. This will be a memoir that illuminates, and improves the reader—what we all seek from the books we read. The memoir not of a groupie, but a teacher, an agent of insight and alchemy.”
Anke winced at the word “groupie,” even though Mari had enunciated the qualifying “not.” She had kept her face placid at the mention of Mal’s name—the mastery of decades of practice. There was power in acknowledging another’s worst fears, but it could backfire. Anke tossed down her napkin. As Ody folded it, Anke leaned toward Mari, who exhaled.
It had worked. She had accomplished the central goal of an initial meeting; she had finessed her way inside—in this case, by admiring Anke’s street smarts. Equating them with a kind of acuity others, even those far more educated and cultured, could only hope to achieve.
Anke laughed. “My mother, she thought I was good for nothing but a teacher or a secretary. I wonder how she would like it, to see me now, teaching in my own book.”
Mommy issues, Mari noted to herself, maintaining her poker face.
Anke took a big swallow, finally enjoying her drink. Then she looked at Mari. Really looked at her. Mari felt happy, and flattered, but made herself shake it off. She was irked to find she wanted Anke to like her. What she needed was for Anke to trust her.
“I sat with my medium,” Anke said. “She is the one everyone goes to, the one they based that TV program on. You know, the show with the Arquette girl.”
Mari had no clue but nodded as if she did.
“She tells me, ‘Anke, my dear Anke, rejoice, finally, your time has come to pass. My guides show me that your book will be an international bestseller. It will secure your legacy. And it will be associated, somehow, with the name Haw or Horn.’ This is her insight for me.”
“I’m Mari Haw-thorn,” Mari said, lighting up. “Do you think she meant me?”
Embarrassed she had let herself go, Mari came back to the room, noticed the next table: Goldie Hawn, with her impish smile and pixie chin. The gods were never subtle, it seemed.
Anke followed Mari’s glance, smiled as Goldie blew her a kiss; such was Anke’s particular power, she had grown accustomed to it long ago. She finished her drink. “This is the way true connections occur in life,” she said. There was a new warmth in her voice.
Mari flushed from excitement and her too-tight blazer. Euphoria filled her if a meeting went this well. She was superstitious about assuming anything, but she almost dared to hope.
As Mari drove home, she analyzed her situation. Editors and agents worked with the same ghosts again and again. Just when Mari was about to reach this insider status, she’d had her minor disaster. Yes, writers got replaced and still had careers. But they had to recover quickly, especially in a shrinking market for these types of memoirs, and at a time when celebrities had begun turning to non-ghostwriters with their own social media platforms. If Mari didn’t get this job, and it was nine months before her next meeting, there would be no next job. Mari was supposed to phone Ezra. Suddenly, she didn’t want to—the problem with someone who told the truth was that it was sometimes unbearable to hear. But Mari always did what was needed.
“Hey, dude, how’d it go?” Ezra asked.
When he had started using this term of endearment, she had been glad to have made her way into his inner stable of writers. Auditioning for each and every client, she clocked any stability as a prize. Hearing him use it now made her feel like she still had him, still had a career.
“It went well,” Mari said.
“Yeah? Then why do you sound like that?”
“I could only pretend I didn’t care if I got the job ghosting a bestseller for Anke Berben for ninety-two minutes. And then my brain exploded. You’re hearing the aftermath.”
He laughed. “So, it did go well. What’s she like?”
“Interesting. Articulate. Sure, she’s the most famous groupie in the world. And Mal’s death is the ultimate rock riddle. But she’s more like—not to sound pretentious—a lady.”
“Or a very gifted actress. I mean, somebody probably killed him, right?”
“Maybe—I don’t know. She seems genuine. And smart. Or she fakes it well. I like her.”
“Don’t be a fangirl. Anke’s one of the last white whales of ’60s rock memoirs—this book could spring you from D-list purgatory. Make you a contender for bigger, higher-profile books.”
He’d mentioned how Anke’s editor helmed well-reviewed, culturally relevant memoirs.
“Yeah? My first jobs gave me chops—with a story like this, I can do some real writing.”
“And real reporting. I told you David’s verdict, when he won it at auction. With the fiftieth anniversary of Mal’s death, everyone’s going to be talking about this book. It’s got to reveal something new. David had another writer in mind, but I told him you can do it. Can you?”
“Thank you, yeah, it’s an amazing opportunity. I’m ready, coach.”
“You are ready, dude. I wouldn’t have fought so hard for you if I didn’t think so.”
Her call-waiting beeped. The screen read “Unknown ID.”
“It’s them!” she said.
“Okay, remove that exclamation point from your voice. And go. You got this.”
She took a deep breath as she switched over.
“Hello, Mari. It’s Ody. We called David, to hire you, and he said we couldn’t.”
Okay, this was unexpected. It took a beat to digest. “But I was on their list of writers.”
“When pressed, he said you aren’t experienced enough. You won’t be able to pull it off.”
Mari dismissed the snub. Even skilled ghosts labored under a barrage of criticism, about their writing, personality, or status on the team. Maybe David owed another agent a favor.
“Not to overstep, but the wisest move Anke can make is to hire her writer, not David’s.”
He didn’t respond. If she tried to explain about her “bestseller,” it would sound desperate.
“I can do it. I know I can. Anke knows I can. Even the psychic knows!”
“You don’t understand how important this book is for Anke,” Ody said. “It must be more than a bestseller. It must be her legacy. I’m sorry, but we can’t risk it. Anke says ‘Ciao.’”