Deferential but normalizing. It’s a skill. Wear flats, as the client is probably short. It’s a rule. Especially when meeting a man. Always flirt as much or as little as they do. That goes for men and women. Be genial, but slightly less so, to the support staff. Ghosts aren’t celebrities, but they aren’t assistants, either. Remember names and use good manners, but don’t run errands or place the order for lunch. Stand apart, proudly, in the unique space you occupy. You must be confident enough for both you and your celebrity on the days when their darkest stories make them doubt themselves.
Mari lurked in her fortress of solitude—her Honda Civic—the only place she was guaranteed privacy, since she’d had to give up her apartment. She couldn’t bring herself to face whatever came next. Like telling Ezra. Or not. Until he heard from David and called her to see what had gone wrong. She had never not gotten a job before. Would he drop her? Or could she get him to help her save the situation, maybe make one last plea to David? No. He had already done so much. And she had landed it but also lost it. Better to go down with her pride intact.
She scanned the West Hollywood condo building in front of her. It had felt almost fated, in the bad way, when her sister, Vivienne, had blown back into town. Mari had recently accepted she could no longer afford her apartment but had nowhere to stay. Meanwhile, V’s new music producer boyfriend was letting her use his condo during renovations—yet another of V’s glamorous but bizarre setups. Building supplies filled one bedroom while a new contractor was found to replace the one who’d gone AWOL. The other bedroom was where her sister indulged in her ritualistic beauty routines and entertained her boyfriend. So Mari slept on the couch. Worked on the couch. Plotted and dreamed on the couch. Tried to be grateful for the couch.
Mari had been planning to stride in triumphantly, champagne bottle aloft. Now she didn’t want to go in at all. Her sister possessed the same street smarts as Anke, and it made her equally adept at reading people in order to seduce them or turn their weaknesses to her advantage. As if she had been summoned, Vivienne texted: “Zip me up? I have a date.”
Mari sighed, threw down her phone. “Not today, Satan.”
Annoyed, she realized this was one of Vivienne’s pet phrases.
A movement caught her eye from the balcony above. There was Vivienne: dramatic cat-eyes and plump dewdrop lips, waves of dark hair, all creating a visual umami. In what only her sister would think of as a low-key dinner-date outfit—a white Herve Leger bandage minidress.
“Why didn’t you text back?” she called down. “Are you mad?”
“Vivienne, you just texted me,” she yelled up as Vivienne buzzed her in.
When Mari exited the elevator, Vivienne gave her a sloppy kiss and launched into a detailed analysis of her upcoming night. Mari followed her sister, knowing if she tried to decompress on the couch, she’d draw the kind of attention she couldn’t handle. She half listened, to keep up her side of the conversation, for the same reason. Lifting the wine bottle out of the ice bucket, she inferred it was expensive, took V’s half-drunk glass, and topped it off. V always seemed to be fun buzzed but never got too drunk, especially before a date. Mari was usually too busy to get drunk but had nothing but time now. She watched Vivienne dust her yards of exposed skin with iridescent powder. She was gorgeous, but she looked thin, almost sickly. Mari wondered if she should ask her if she was okay. But she didn’t have the energy. She didn’t trust her sister to tell the truth anyway. V couldn’t afford to not be okay. Neither could Mari.
Having basically ghosted even her closest friends in the writing community for the past two years, Mari hadn’t felt like she could ask any of them for a place to stay. So, she had ended up on the couch of infamy. Without consciously making the choice to do so, Mari had put everything into these jobs of hers that remained invisible. Each project was tricky, each deadline punishing. But there was always the promise that the next one would be easier, would pay a little better, would be the smash success that made her career into a sure thing. Her rate had doubled since she’d started, but without a bestseller on her CV, it was still low.
After having to bow out of too many weekend beach trips and friends’ book launches because of deadlines, she’d been dumped by her last boyfriend, a novelist. He had waited to break up with her until she had met her latest deadline, which said a lot, but it was already too late. Her ex was part of the local writing scene, and her grief, and fear of running into him, kept her home. It was a relief, really. She had grown tired of parsing how other writers employed air quotes when they asked: “What are you writing these days?” They were the first to gobble up celebrity anecdotes—even though she never divulged dirt that couldn’t be found on her clients’ Wikipedia pages. The other writers were charmed by her and her strange sparkly stories, but they didn’t respect her. Not when they were all taking the risk of producing original novels, memoirs, and screenplays and launching them into the world under their own names.
Mari loved writing, and writers, and even though ghosting had its own baggage and rules, she was quite clear the four published books she’d toiled over did make her a writer. Still, her lack of stature stung sometimes. Thankfully, after her breakup, she’d had another deadline—the vodka divorcée. When she was sad, the hard, endless work of building a book was a balm and an excuse to cocoon. Let her celebrities go to the fancy book parties; at least when she was home writing, she knew she was actively helping herself to get somewhere better. But now there was nothing new to write, and the promise of somewhere better felt like a fantasy.
V finished powdering her cleavage and began using a curling wand on her hair, which looked perfect. Finally, she examined Mari in the mirror.
“What, does the book have a crazy deadline?” V asked. “So? You’re a deadline ninja.”
Mari smiled but couldn’t fake the laugh.
“Even I know no one says yes at the meeting. They’ll hire you on Monday.”
Mari would sometimes bend her words to connect with a client, but she never lied. And she couldn’t see any benefit in doing so now. She lived on V’s couch. Clearly V would find out.
“I didn’t get it.”
“But you always get it.”
“Always is just a promise the joker hasn’t broken yet.”
“Um, no Ramblers lyrics right now. Fuck those guys. Fuck Anke.”
“I liked Anke. And I think she liked me. But no bestseller. She didn’t have a choice.”
“Celebrities always have a choice. And they always get what they want.”
V was probably right. But of course she didn’t see why this was not a helpful observation. Which was weird, because she knew exactly where Mari’s head had gone: money.
“Maybe you can borrow a little cash from Dad.”
“Can I have some of whatever you’re on?”
“Sometimes he wins, and when he does, he feels gen—”
She was cut off by Mari’s arch expression.
“Sure, he’s not usually winning. And clearly you can’t handle a no, like at all. Maybe if you didn’t expect so much, you guys would have a better relationship. Any relationship.”
The sliver of truth in what V said made Mari hate it more. On the other hand, the level to which V had toughened herself, where their father and her boyfriends were concerned, made Mari want to land every job, get her and her skinny sister a real apartment. They both needed it.
Four hours later, Mari was collapsed across a lounger on the small balcony, listening to West Hollywood sprinkle its sparkle on Friday night—she heard Donna Summer feel love in her crystalline voice over a synthetic centipede beat; a group of young men cheer and shriek; a lone person sob and heave in the alley behind the condo.
Even five years ago, she would have been sucking the marrow out of Friday night. Before becoming a ghostwriter, she had been a rock critic and had enjoyed all the guest lists and open bars. But then her work for mainstream media outlets had dried up, and the online publications didn’t pay enough for her to survive. She had been lucky to fall into ghosting through a friend of a friend. Once she had, she’d never looked back and lost all her PR contacts. She had $40 in cash and $100 on her last credit card. Loneliness was no reason to crack her emergency fund.
Mari nursed her wine and replayed her lunch. She had done everything right. She was sure of it. She’d demonstrated her capacity to hold all of Anke’s fears, while making her feel appreciated for her true self, beneath her beauty and her Fracas. For once, Mari hadn’t been pretending, either. Anke truly had lived a life worthy of a deep, insightful memoir that would be read by many. How much of this was even within her control? If Mari wasn’t ever given the chance to publish her first acknowledged bestseller, how could she ever land a bestseller?
Mari’s phone rang. Unknown ID. It was ten p.m. on Friday night. But what if?
“Hello, this is Mari Hawthorn.”
“Mari, it’s Ody. Anke called David and threatened to take her book to another publisher—”
Mari listened, too shell-shocked to even wish, grateful V had only left her with half a bottle of wine, so she wasn’t more than lightly buzzed.
“Your agent and our lawyer stayed late tonight to get the paperwork done, and they’ve just finished. You must come to Anke’s condo to sign. We have a check for the first half of your fee. And then we will leave for Anke’s house in Palm Springs—”
“Thank you. I can be right over.”
A glimmer of hope crested within Mari like placing the first, right words on a blank page. A low five figures, but five figures, would be in her hand in a few hours, in her bank account on Monday. It did feel weirdly fast, especially when Anke seemed so thoughtful and controlled. But in Mari’s experience, celebrities always had at least five competing obligations, many of which she would never know about. Maybe this was just how it happened. The sacrifices had paid off, and maybe, just maybe, Mari was headed for her first sure thing.
“We fought for you,” Ody said. “We told them you could write a bestseller. Anke has no time to waste. You must be sure you can do it. You must do it—”
“Yes,” Mari said. Anxiety spiking, her throat almost closed around the word. And then a burst of adrenaline filled her with energy.
“This is going to change your life.”
Mari had heard enough grand pronouncements about her fate from her celebrities and their handlers to take Ody’s words in stride. But in this case, she knew he was right. A whisper of fear slithered down the back of Mari’s neck. As they were signing off, Mari moved into the living room, where her life’s essentials were stored in her suitcase by the couch. Riding her rush, she willed herself to exude confidence, to feel confidence—it was a leap forward, but Anke couldn’t know just how much. Anke would have nobody but her. She was a real ghost after all.
Ody maneuvered them through Friday night traffic in Anke’s classic white Mercedes 450SL sedan, thick with Anke’s rose scent. Keeping one hand on her dachshund, Rimbaud, who was curled in her lap, Anke offered Mari a mint.
“Would you like one, sweetheart?” she then asked Ody.
“Thanks, Mutti,” he said.
With curiosity, Mari tried to place the word, which sounded German.
“Mari, I am pleased to introduce you to my handsome son, Odin,” Anke said.
Of course, that’s why he had looked familiar. She had been thrown by his nickname.
“Nice to see you again,” Mari said. “I caught your set at the Troubadour a while back.”
“You were one of the few then,” he said.
Ody had released several critically acclaimed folk-rock albums, but he had never achieved anything like his father’s fame, and in the past decade, his output of new music had all but stopped. Mari might not have recognized him except for her former life as a music critic.
“People pry,” Anke said. “It is easier to call him my assistant.”
There was an obvious logic here that hid a deeper significance Mari couldn’t track.
“You look nice,” Anke said, gracing Mari with a smile. “I like your hair like that.”
Mari grinned, losing her cool. Her hand flew to the messy bun, concealing that she hadn’t had time to wash it. She knew she should be cautious. She had landed herself here, and she wasn’t going to be derailed by the lack of a bestseller on her résumé or a naive devotion to her client. She blushed, tucked away the compliment. “Thank you.”
Anke settled into her seat, Rimbaud snoring lightly. Before Mari could prompt her with a curated question, Anke began describing her new designs for Cartier. Mari knew this would receive only a few lines in the book, but she went with it, hoping to put Anke at ease.
The inside of the Mercedes was tranquil, even with tractor trailers and casino traffic barreling by them on both sides. The leather seat enveloped Mari like a caress. Before she knew it, they had reached the lunar landscape of the desert, alive with the eerie whoosh of two-story windmills. Silently, they did their work of generating power from the heavy gusting winds.
Mari took stock of her situation—not the possibility of the book, but the reality of pulling it off. There was no one except Vivienne to wonder where she was or when she would be back. It was lonely sometimes, but Mari knew her ability to immerse herself would serve her well now.
Her focus needed to be on Anke, who had been widowed young by a pop culture golden boy, avoided being taken down by the suspicion surrounding his death, and rebounded with two of his bandmates, who happened to be among rock’s most legendary lovers. When she had returned to her first love in Germany, they’d had ten perfect years, and then he’d died. At best, the next seventy-two hours would be intense, requiring intellectual and emotional dexterity. At worst, if Anke clung to her secrets, Mari would have to deduce, on the spot, the perfect means of extracting them from her. Always, she would have to be analyzing what was revealed, making sure it was the real truth. Anke had fought for Mari and brought her close to help tell her story, so Mari didn’t think she would be denied access. But still, it felt exhilarating, and high-stakes, to be accompanying this legendary femme fatale to her desert retreat in the middle of the night.
Mari dared to relax a little when they reached the condo complexes and vast hotels that announced Palm Springs. The presence of others at the many vibrant outdoor bars reminded her there was a whole world beyond this car, this book. She craned her neck for a better view.
“I haven’t been here in years,” she said.
“I come out when I need peace, several times a month,” Anke replied. “It has changed a great deal, as you will notice—there are more gauche chain stores. Ody, take us down Palm Canyon Drive so Mari can see.”
Nodding, he glided to a stop at a red light. Mari was fading fast, but she didn’t dare let on. She dug her nails into her palms to stay awake.
“When did you first come to Palm Springs?” Mari asked, glad for a segue into the past.
“Look at that gorgeous armoire,” Anke called out. “Pull over, Ody. Please.”
Anke rolled down her window. A wash of cool dry air infiltrated the womb of the Mercedes. Anke leaned out to get a better look at the upscale vintage furniture store. “Call Dominique tomorrow. I know he covets that Eames chair in the den.”
Ody nodded again. As if remembering Mari and the job at hand, Anke explained: “Every time I buy a new piece, I shed one as well. It is my attempt to maintain simplicity.”
Mari nodded, picturing the “simplicity” of her couch-bed at V’s borrowed condo.
Anke rolled up her window, dramatically, as she did everything. She fell into the major production of settling Rimbaud and straightening her scarf.
Mari considered repeating her dodged question, took a different approach.
“I think it can be helpful to remember our work together isn’t a media interview,” Mari said. “All the material we create is yours—you own it, control it. This is a safe place to say anything, to consider how you feel, figure out if it’s true. My discretion is absolute. Together, we’ll decide what belongs in your book. Yes, readers demand intimacy, but not everything is for public consumption. The truth is important, but so is a certain degree of privacy.”
“You make it sound easy,” Anke said. “We will unearth the secrets of half a century. Pick and choose which truth we wish to share. Whose truth? Mal’s truth, I was another disposable wife? He was young, but he’d had two before me. Dante’s truth, I was the mother who would give him an ideal love, better than drugs? Jack’s truth, I had a perfect face and body, and to possess me would make him top gorilla?” She sounded tired, unguarded, and these were candid assessments of her relationships. Or was this just another facade? Mari couldn’t tell yet. To make this book work, she’d have to learn fast. Ody looked over at Anke. Maybe concerned?
“Your truth, Anke,” Mari said.
“And who can tell me what that is?”
As they turned onto a quiet residential street, Mari felt bolstered by the sudden darkness. Anke wasn’t scary. She was fragile, hiding her age and pain, and maybe the story of a murder.
“I can—I mean, I can help you—find your truth—for yourself, of course.”
She waited a beat.
“What is your truth, Anke?”
Anke began to cry. It was like seeing someone without their dentures, their cheeks cleaving to their empty skull. Mari’s hand flew to Anke’s arm—something a ghost never did, touch a celebrity, as if you were a fan seeking a photo and a hug. Like Anke, Mari had let emotion get the better of her, for once.
It was awkward, reaching around the seat to maintain contact, but Mari had to see it through. She squeezed Anke’s shoulder, then pulled her hand back, letting Anke right herself, if possible. Not speaking even as the quiet in the car grew sticky, Mari waited for what words the tears would spill. But Anke didn’t speak. Mari wasn’t feeling confident enough to keep pushing, especially when she couldn’t read Anke’s face in the dark. Mari exhaled. Let her silence fill the car, hoping it telegraphed respect. For the first time, she wondered why Anke was writing this book now and what secrets—her own and others’—she might finally be ready to reveal.
“Here we are,” Ody said. He had stopped in front of a high stucco wall with an elaborate gold gate bearing a baroque A. They had driven through the city’s downtown to its far edge. The mountains were close on their right, sheltering them from the desert’s vastness.
Anke surprised Mari, once again, by pulling out a giant key ring. Carefully, like she was stepping onto the moon, she placed one foot onto the ground and pulled herself up, using the car’s frame. Rimbaud was quick at her feet, eager to chase the night’s smells. Without a word, Anke had ended their talk. She paused, glamorous in the headlights, as she worked the key into a heavy-duty padlock and swung the gate inward. Ody nosed the car up a circular driveway, edged by palms, banks of desert mallow with bold orange flowers.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Anke?” Mari asked. She worried she’d missed an opportunity.
“Anke always walks the property when we arrive,” Ody said. “Alone.”
Mari would have to do better. She caught a view of the magnificent main house, Moroccan-influenced, and wrapped in vibrant pink bougainvillea. Then Ody parked and retrieved Mari’s Diane von Furstenberg weekender, bought at Marshalls. Glancing in the trunk, she saw everyone else had Louis Vuitton luggage, including the dog. On the walk to the front door, the air smelled like Mexican jasmine, creosote, and, somehow, Anke’s distinctive scent.
“Anke rises early for meditation, sun salutations, and a swim.” Ody led Mari into her room. Dark beams sliced a white stucco ceiling, and the furniture was also antique wood, contrasted by white sheepskin rugs, white linens, and dozens of white throw pillows, flecked with rose and gold thread. “You will meet at eleven, in Anke’s suite, to work. Rosenda will put out breakfast and tea. Anke noticed you prefer Earl Grey?”
“Yes, thank you,” Mari said.
He nodded, placing her bag on the pink velvet bench that formed a footboard. She circled the mattress, set down her purse. By the bed was a pretty still life: a picture of a Hindu deity, a glass bottle of peacock feathers, a stack of books. Goldie Hawn gazed serenely from the top.
“Anke has Goldie’s memoir,” Mari said.
He turned to go, already working his phone. “Yes, they’re old friends. Goldie sent over a copy when she heard about Anke’s project. Anke thought it might be helpful for you.”
Mari sensed the D-list receding—after how hard she had worked, the shift was sweet.
“I just texted my number. Good night. Sleep well. Anke is glad you are here.”
Mari came to, already feeling behind. Her phone sounded nearby, and she pawed for her device. But she couldn’t help but bask. The sheets were organic cotton, high thread count, the room dim and scented by cedar incense. Even a brief visit to the good life was delicious.
Sitting up, phone in hand, she panicked. The root concealer she’d used on her grays had rubbed into a pillow. She dabbed at it, reading Ody’s text: “Anke wishes to start at ten. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Mari texted. Finding her glasses, she saw it was quarter to ten. Fuck. She had slept through two alarms, having vowed to make space for her own morning meditation, yoga in her room, note-taking over tea. She had learned the hard way how easy it was to be consumed by clients and their books, her mind dominated by the thoughts and needs of another. Her body grown pulpy and dull with disuse as the deadline pressed out all other requirements. But today would not be the day she came first.