To master the world of the celebrity, which is not your own, you must always be listening, absorbing, processing, cataloguing an influx of information while putting forth an authentic facade. If you are a true ghost, there was probably a moment when, like a spy, your safety relied upon your skills, too. Often you were the child of an addict or a narcissist who learned to read others as if they came with dossiers. Who learned things even a secret agent hasn’t mastered. While a spy must negotiate an outcome favorable to her side, a ghost must please many masters—the celebrity, first and always, but also your editor, your agent, the client’s agent, the public, maybe yourself—although for you, survival always trumps pleasure.
Mari handed the driver her vintage Celine weekender with a curt nod. Belonging was an act like everything else. As they drove, Mari was struck by the light traffic. Las Vegas was the only city where the morning commute was from the poker table to the breakfast buffet. She had slept the entirety of the short flight and was feeling revived. With a shaky, caffeinated hand, she freshened up her Chanel Rose Naïf lip gloss, spritzed on Fracas. A secondary perk of being one with her laptop: Mari was a fierce eBay aficionado. As soon as Anke’s check cleared, she had given herself a budget makeover. It was a risk to splurge, and that was before she had been fired, and before she would have to give back all—or at least most of—the check from Anke. She’d thought of it as a professional investment, like her ticket to Vegas, Syd’s book, and the bootleg CDs of the band’s Hollywood Bowl rehearsal and performance she’d bought online. Only now, making her initiative (and expenditure) pay out wasn’t dependent on her writing, but on what she could achieve in the next twenty-four hours.
As she tucked away her makeup, her phone buzzed. She had turned it on after landing in case Ody reached out. She froze, not wanting to have to lie. She couldn’t quite accept she had been let go—maybe because her childhood had taught her to persevere, even in the face of rejection. Or because she could in no way afford to lose this job.
Mari read the screen. Of course it was Vivienne, who hadn’t returned to the condo before she left for the airport. V had a second sense for needing things when it was inconvenient. Mari wavered, worried. No, V would have to wait.
Mari limited her focus to what she had pulled off—talking her way into an interview with Dante Ashcombe, one of the world’s biggest rock stars—and used this confidence to fuel what she must accomplish yet. She would feel out what Dante believed about Mal’s drug tolerance, and if he knew what Anke had given Mal on the night of his death. Even better, Dante might tell her something that absolved Anke. Either way, Mari would try to nudge him toward a desire to protect Anke, by reminding him of the power of his book to lift up or bury Anke’s own memoir.
Mari was speed-reading Syd’s book while listening to the bootleg recording of the band’s pre–Hollywood Bowl practice. She pulled out her notebook and listed those who had been present as rehearsal kicked off: Jack, the band’s bassist and drummer, and Anke’s friend Sigrid. She had been Mal’s assistant at the time, but apparently had a keen survival instinct—although Mal had been a no-show, she had turned up at the space to help out the others. A few minutes in, Jack had asked her to call in a delivery to nearby Almor Wine & Spirits: brandy for his voice and a pack of cigarettes—the irony of the combo lost on those present, as they all smoked.
It was noticeable Dante and his guitar tech, Simon, were absent, as was Anke, although she was Mal’s wife, and with his tenuous status in the band, maybe she felt practice was off-limits for her. The driver, Syd, had claimed to be running errands for the band that night. He had never come into the studio, so he could have been anywhere at the time of Mal’s death. If Mal had died because of an accidental overdose, Mari suspected Syd was more to blame than Anke. But if something nefarious had gone down, Simon had a hell of a lot to gain, believing he would step into Mal’s place in one of the greatest rock bands ever. Not bad for a motive.
Mari aimed to be as prepared as possible; so much of what it took to do her job well was instinct and reading the room. But dropping into a fraught moment in the band’s history with more question marks than insight was making her tense. She couldn’t afford to boff this meeting.
Mari considered the one area where she could be sure to connect with Dante: music, and more specifically, his music. She opened her phone and switched to a Spotify mix she had made of songs penned and sung by Dante—only a handful in the Ramblers’ multi-decade career. He was celebrated as a guitar god, and neither Mal nor Jack had wanted to share the spotlight with him any more than necessary. Sliding on her earbuds, she gave herself over to Dante’s sly bluesy sound. Mari had never noticed the distinction between Dante’s songwriting and the rest of the band’s music, but she found she preferred it—his songs were weirder, darker, rawer. He only seemed to sing when he had something to say. Avoiding the bombast of the band’s stadium anthems, his songs drew you in, with the hushed intimacy of pillow talk, or the scuffed candor of two best mates sharing a smoke at dawn.
Against the blue desert sky, the casinos were flat white and gray stucco—their exteriors as dull as old nickels. Filled with a desire for a cup of hot tea in a quiet room she didn’t have to do anything to earn, she sized herself up in the car window. Her face was hidden by enormous ’60s Christian Dior sunnies. When you couldn’t see the exhausted smudges under her eyes, she looked put together and poised. Hopefully she wasn’t the only one who would think so.
Sinking back into the plush leather, she enjoyed the luxury SUV that Dante’s team had sent for her. No generic Uber ride for her today. Her driver glided to a stop at the back entrance of the Wynn—more specifically, the Tower, where celebrities and VIPs checked in anonymously. She knew the driver was only doing what he would have done for his boss, but this little bit of make-believe helped her to glide into the hotel as if she belonged.
At the appointed hour, a curvy middle-aged assistant, with a bleached-blond buzz cut and electric-teal eyeliner, appeared in the hotel lounge where Mari was preparing her notes. Next to the woman’s effortlessly cool ensemble of fitted tuxedo jacket, leather ankle-length trousers, and high-top Vivienne Westwood sneakers, Mari felt dowdy in her trusty old J.Crew blazer. At least her Anke makeover had imbued her with a little more rock ’n’ roll edge, in the form of wooden prayer beads and a sheaf of vintage gold bracelets.
The older woman led them onto the private elevator for the Tower.
“I trust your flight was all right?” she said, her words touched with a British accent.
“Yes, fine, thanks,” Mari said. It had been a budget middle seat.
“Would you like a cup of tea? We can ring for room service.”
“That would be lovely, thanks.”
“English breakfast? Green? Chamomile?”
“Earl Grey, please, almond milk on the side.”
“Tops,” the woman said, using her plastic room key to make the car ascend. “Oh, I’m Izzy. I assist the band’s day-to-day manager, who’ll be sitting in on your meeting with Dante.”
“Mari,” she said, extending her hand. “Thanks for coming down to meet me.”
Izzy nodded with a faint smile but stayed silent. Anke had been right about the band maintaining as many original players as they could. Mari considered mentioning Anke to see how Izzy responded, but there were too many potential land mines, and she didn’t want to detonate any before she’d even met Dante. In her experience, it was better to know more than you said. Mari checked her appearance in the mirrored interior, while acting like she wasn’t.
Stepping off the elevator, into the suite’s lounge where the interview would take place, felt like walking the plank. There—springing from his seat with the propulsive energy of a quarter dropped into a jukebox, setting everything in motion—was Dante. He resembled a pirate king, his black hair rakish, kohl eyeliner shadowing his eyes. An Egyptian blue silk scarf circled his forehead, and leather and gold jewelry jangled at his neck and wrists.
“So, you’re the ghost,” he said.
“Guilty as charged. Now, are you the joker or the thief?”
With a lively, barking laugh, he pulled her close. His heavy paw warm on the small of her back, he kissed her on both cheeks. He enveloped her with his scent of wool, anise, and amber, topped with a rough sweetness that evoked old-fashioned tobacco shops, not the gross staleness of overflowing ashtrays. But her own scent was more captivating, at least for him. He held his face just above the soft curve of her neck, his hot breath tickling her skin.
“Fracas,” he said. “I see you’ve been enchanted by Anke, along with the rest of us.”
“You might say that,” Mari said, willing herself to hold still, maintaining this intimate moment with this magnetic man, trying not to shake with nerves. “Or I’m a magpie.”
“Magpie comes a-calling, drops a marble from the sky,” he sang, honeyed gravel voice.
Mari was embarrassed by her blush and hoped he would find it charming.
“Is that the old Donovan folkie about a magpie?” she asked, overproud of herself.
“Neko Case. I haven’t got both feet in the grave yet. So, you’re a magpie, then, stealing from others to build your pretty nest.”
“One should never steal, but I borrow, yes.”
Dante laughed, at ease, as if he took as much pleasure in meetings as guitar solos, although it was unlikely. Maybe he liked life, and his had been exceptional, so why not?
Having maneuvered through the first fraught moments, Mari felt more confident. But they weren’t alone. Next to where Dante had been seated was a handsome older man with thinning hair and a goatee that were both a rich brown, suggesting they had been dyed. He reclined casually, one arm stretched out on the couch back, clearly comfortable in his spot, and with Dante more generally. Before him on the coffee table was a velvet-lined case containing a vintage Gibson 335 guitar, its sunburst finish polished to a high sheen.
Behind this man was a woman who looked to be about his age, with dark blunt-cut bangs, boxy statement glasses, and remarkably dewy skin. She nodded to Izzy, who seemed to understand the command and left the room. As she glided over to Mari, her broad smile revealed white, straight teeth. Extending her hand, she pulled Mari in to kiss both cheeks.
“Mari, you have been sent by our old friend Anke,” the woman said. “We are very glad to have you. I am Sigrid.”
“Mari, the ghostwriter, meet Sigrid, the right hand,” Dante crowed.
Sigrid laughed girlishly, although, presumably, they had played their parts in this same introduction many times. It was hard to believe, but here was Anke’s former best friend, who had clung to the band’s inner circle for five decades. Even with their tendency toward allegiance, she must be the best employee ever, or have the survival instincts of a fox.
Turning to the man on the couch, Sigrid clapped her hands. He radiated irritation but fell into line. Standing, he lifted the case, as if it were an extension of his body. “As you like, your majesty,” he said. “But I need more time with Dante if I’m to have him ready for this tour.”
“You will have whatever you need, Simon.” Sigrid smiled through his aggression. “Dante will arrive at practice half an hour before the others, in order to give this time to you.”
When Simon grinned at Mari, she smiled back, but only faintly. He had lived up to Anke’s description as a cocky wannabe. Mari couldn’t get drawn into any internal feuds when she had so little time and so much at stake. Maybe there was nothing exceptional about Sigrid, then, if they had retained so many of their original employees for all these decades. Apparently Anke was the exception because she had left. Having been fired after only a week on the job, Mari was beginning to long for this kinder, more loyal way of doing business.
“Izzy is ordering your tea,” Sigrid said. “You had an early flight. You must be tired.”
“Oh, but I’m too intrigued,” Mari said.
Dante’s laughter infected the room. She had expected this reaction, but his hound dog laugh was already familiar enough to relax her. At least she seemed to know how to handle him.
Sigrid gestured for Mari to take the seat Simon had vacated. As Dante was joining her on the couch, a commotion erupted at the door, which Izzy had opened for room service. Simon was standing off against a hotel employee, who was pushing an unwieldy cart. His posture said he was the rock star and fuck anyone who got in his way. The employee ducked her head and backed up so Simon could blaze out into the hallway.
Izzy beckoned in the server, then delivered Mari’s teapot and cup and prepared to serve.
“Thank you, but I’ll pour,” Mari said. “I like it strong.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Dante said.
“It’s a matter of taste,” Mari riffed, matching Dante’s tone, even as her cheeks betrayed her with an encore flush—she knew how to play, but she would never be cool like Anke.
Still, all of Mari’s nerves had evaporated. Dante was far more famous than Anke, his time more precious, and her errand more urgent. But he was easy. Mari had been playing this game with her father since she was a girl—be clever and be allowed to stay.
Dante nodded to Izzy. “Fetch me a drink, sweetheart,” he said.
Mari winced internally but didn’t let on—such retro attitudes could be deadly on the page. It would be wise for him to tone them down when he wrote his own memoir.
Immune after so many years of service, or a gifted actress, Izzy bowed and turned to the bar. Used to dominating enormous arenas, Dante could sure hold court, even sipping a beverage. Even at the age of—could he be?—seventy-four. He wasn’t handsome so much as electric. And so comfortable in his skin, he put others at ease. Mari found she was having fun.
“First of all, thank you,” Mari said. “You were very generous to invite me to your hotel, and to send a driver for me, since I’m on an errand for Anke.”
That was a bit of a stretch, of course, but she trusted Ody had told Anke as much as was prudent. Dante nodded like her gracious benefactor. “I’m happy to help Anke in any way I can.”
Sipping his drink, he let her lead.
“She’s lucky to have such a generous friend,” Mari said, careful to sidestep the word “old.” “As you know, Anke is private. She has been lovely to work with—so evocative, funny, and wise—and yet she’s very hard on herself. To do this book for her, and to do it well, I have the sense we need an outside perspective. So, I’ve prepared a few questions for you. But I would appreciate if we could keep this meeting between us, until I can help Anke see its value.”
This was a tricky move, given how much affection and loyalty Dante still had for Anke—Mari was beginning to wonder that he’d okayed his book proposal, which hadn’t been negative, exactly, but had definitely leaned toward the salacious. Mari was counting on how much people—even famous people—loved to be on the inside, to possess intel others did not.
Dante nodded, as if in agreement, and she exhaled.
“I appreciate it, since you know her better than almost anyone else.”
“Almost anyone—” he said, unable to resist the bait.
Mari paused. She was there under the guise of interviewing him about Anke, but she had to shift the conversation’s direction.
“As research, I’ve been reading Syd’s book.”
“That garbage.”
Dante held his glass out to Sigrid, who fetched him a smaller refill.
“You can’t begin to imagine the muckraking and drivel we attracted at the pinnacle of our careers,” he continued. “It was a blight. That’s why I agreed to speak with you. And Syd, well, he was the worst, because he pretended to be our friend.”
“He does call you a Gibson man. When you’re all Fender, of course, except the ES.”
“He says a lot worse than that, if I remember correctly,” Dante said, waving his glass, sloshing booze on the floor. “You cannot believe most of what you read. Especially about us.”
“I agree—it’s just, I also know he was very close to Mal.”
“Close enough to pick his pocket,” Dante said.
Or maybe even to drown him, Mari thought.
“Touché. But there are some remarkable quotations in the book from Mal himself—”
Mari’s purse gaped open, where she had set it down. Although her phone was on silent, it had begun flashing, amid her makeup, loose barrettes, and pens. After a moment of stillness, it rang again. She had misread Vivienne—she was so erratic it was easy to do—and she was apparently more desperate than Mari had suspected, even though she had just seen her.
“You appear to be receiving a distress signal.” Dante laughed, but with an edge. As benevolent as he was, he was used to being the most important everything in all rooms.
As Mari powered down her phone, she glanced up. Sigrid had chosen a chair a few feet from them, but she was studying Mari. Her face was hard to read. Mari felt a prickle of unease but tried to talk herself down. Sigrid had been perfectly lovely to her, and so what if she was the band’s loyal guard dog? Mari was surprised she’d gained access at all, and with no NDA—of course they were keeping an eye on her, making sure she could be trusted.
“There’s no one in the place ’cept you and me,” Mari said, her voice a singsong.
“Sinatra, nice.”
Like a stage actress, Mari returned to her mark.
“When Syd and Mal are smoking hash and talking girls, Mal says the most remarkable thing: ‘Anke is a golden lovely, as if the character of Lolita had come of age under the pen of Anaïs Nin.’ I mean, I get how awful Mal was to Anke, but that sounds just like her, doesn’t it?”
“Mal never read a book,” Dante said. “Certainly not two, in order to compare them.”
“As I’m sure you recall, Dante, Jack often said something similar about Anke,” Sigrid stepped in, her tone flat.
“So, for once Mal was copying Jack, instead of the other way round.”
“Dante,” Sigrid said.
“How interesting,” Mari said. She was trying to clock the relationship between Dante and Jack and Sigrid, and what had happened there, but her real quarry was anything to do with Anke or Mal. “Was Mal a magpie, then? Was he in the habit of stealing?”
“Just women, drugs, riffs, publishing credit, money, the best seat in the jet by the bar.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Mari said, clocking the implication that Mal had been crooked in business, but not wanting to seem overly curious about his role in the band. “That’s always been his reputation. And he took up with some bad characters—I mean, Syd was a real loser, right? From what I understand, he’s lucky he didn’t get charged in Mal’s death.”
Dante gave her a blank look. Sigrid remained silent, surveying the situation. Mari waited to speak, knowing she could outlast them both.
“I am surprised Anke would mention Syd in her book,” Sigrid said. “She hated him so much. Remember, Dante, she had management fire him? But he kept coming around because he could get money from Mal. Until Mal is dead, and then she has you make him leave forever.”
“Of course, you’re right, he will only have a brief mention in Anke’s book,” Mari said. “But we’re trying to paint a portrait of that time—how drugged out Mal was, how much his mind had disintegrated. How Syd and other hangers-on contributed.”
“Dante is very busy,” Sigrid said.
“Absolutely, and I so appreciate this time. Congratulations on your upcoming book, Dante—it’s a wonderful way to crown your legacy. People in publishing have been wondering for years if you’d grace us with a memoir. Now you can tell your side of the story.”
“Thank you. But just to be crystal clear—my side is the story.”
“That’s why I’m here, for the story.”
“I find it hard to believe Anke feels the same about what constitutes the story.”
“You’re right—she doesn’t.”
“And yet here you are, taking time away from her book, just to speak with me—you know she was the one who left me. Almost fifty years ago, right, luv?”
“‘The trick is to allow Dante to think he has all the cards, like a little boy playing solitaire who lets himself win’—that’s what Anke said when we were discussing your relationship. But I happen to believe you see and know more, perhaps, than you let on.”
“Anke, my love.” He laughed with obvious and genuine affection—no offense taken.
Mari eyed Dante’s drink with great longing as she sipped her tea.
“Now that’s done and dusted, let’s get down to it,” he said.
Their banter was a dance, as if choreographed. But Mari soon understood they could talk and flirt like this for hours—days even—and yet she would never learn anything real. Her attempts to bring up band employees from fifty years ago had been, rightly, called out as a waste of time. If she was going to get what she came for, she was going to have try something drastic.
“Actually, I’m sorry,” Mari said.
Dante looked up, surprised by the shift in her tone.
“You’ve been so welcoming, and your time is so valuable, I have to come clean. After we set our meeting, Anke fired me. I’m sure I can fix it. Even so, it’s not about the job. I want to write her bestseller, of course. But. I’m worried about Anke. She—”
Mari was on the verge of telling them what Anke had implied, but she stopped short. She had already shared more than Anke would have been comfortable with—she was sure of that.
“Anke inspires great loyalty, does she not?” Sigrid said.
“She does,” Dante said. “As do you, Siggi.”
His voice had the tone of a father settling a spat between his children. Mari wondered if she and V would have been closer if they’d had a dad like that, shook off the thought, focused.
“Clearly you care about Anke a great deal, if you have come to Las Vegas to help her, even without her blessing,” Dante said. “Please, go ahead.”
Mari was relieved. For about twenty minutes. Then her worry increased. She was trying to draw them out on Mal’s drug use, and his death, while not implicating Anke. But without any leading questions, all she’d gotten from Dante were tall tales of the band’s glory days, and his well-known dislike for Mal. She figured she had thirty minutes before they whisked Dante off to his next duty. She leaned back into the ergonomic furniture, teacup in hand, wondering if she should ask about band practice that last night in LA or dare another question about Mal.
Dante lit a cigarette. Before he had extinguished the match, Sigrid had the big brass ashtray emptied and at the ready. As she set it down, her eyes held his for a long moment. He nodded a quick gesture of assent. Something was happening beneath their conversation.
“I don’t know why, but I trust you,” he said. He sat up, leaning toward Mari.
“He trusts no one new,” Sigrid piped in.
“Trust seems like an ideal place to start,” Mari said. “But I thought we were talking about Anke, not about her ghost.”
“What we are talking about is you doing the writing of Dante’s book,” Sigrid said.
“But I’m not—I wasn’t even—I’m here for Anke’s book, or at least for Anke.” She turned to Dante. “And you’re Dante Ashcombe. You could have any writer in the world.”
“True,” Sigrid said. “But we considered several writers, and they have left much to be desired. We just lost the last one, Axel. We have only six weeks until deadline, and here you are, and it could not be better. Now that Anke has chosen to fire you, you are free to write the book of Dante.”
“But—I don’t think it works like that. Didn’t your editor give you a list of writers?”
“I’d say you need to spiff up your sales pitch,” Dante said. “We’re offering you a gig—quite a good one.”
Mari was as flustered as she could remember being. At the same time, she wanted to laugh at her own shortsightedness. Of course, if Dante needed a writer, he would try to hire her. Even when celebrities were given a variety of sanctioned options, they loved to ask for the one thing that wasn’t on offer, and more often than not, the powers that be were bent to their will.
“Dante does not take ‘No’ for his answer,” Sigrid talked as she typed into her phone. “We will fix the details later. But you must start immediately. I am sure you can imagine Dante is busy. He will leave in a few days for the band’s world tour—eighteen months circling the globe. It will be enough of a challenge to work around their rehearsal schedule. The bulk of his contribution to the book must be done before he departs Sunday night. We have taken your agent’s contact information from your website, and I am emailing him with our offer. It is only for you to accept. And for you to know, we are grateful to have you on our team.”
Dante reclined, with his long, leather-clad legs crossed at the ankle. He, too, seemed to understand the ebb and flow of selling and being bought. He flashed a sleepy, mischievous grin.
Sigrid stared into her phone. “Your agent has received our offer.”
Mari reached for her bag, opened her phone. Ezra had already emailed her. The subject line read “What the F?!?!” But he would have to forgive her now, right? The money was more than twice her fee for Anke’s book. She would get an “as told to” credit, not just the thank-you on Anke’s acknowledgments page. Clearly this was a big deal.
It was as if the three squares of the cosmic slot machine had clicked into place: the favorable circumstances of this entire day, from the luxury transportation, to the cool perfection of this room; plus, the money, which would not just dig her out of her financial hole but actually allow her to breathe for the first time in years, maybe even help V; plus, the intense charm of the man sitting across from her, and the sure thing of his guaranteed NYT bestseller. Jackpot.
But. Honestly, her heart was still with Anke’s project and the chance to give her a voice for the first time in her life, the chance to redeem herself with Anke and Ody.
Mari took a deep breath. “Can I walk around the block and think about it?”
The room fell completely silent.
And then Dante laughed his wonderful braying laugh.
“You think about it, sweetheart,” he said. “Anke casts quite a spell. I oughta know.”
There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice, which made Mari like him even more.
“Siggi, get Mari a room so she can have some privacy. We can spare an hour, can’t we?”
Mari was so exhausted, she almost told them the truth: She had stashed her bag at the front desk, even though she couldn’t afford the Wynn and planned to find a cheap room online.
“Ja, that will work,” Sigrid said. “Izzy will book your room. Come back up in an hour.”
“Thank you,” Mari said. She felt sheepish as she stood. At the last minute, she recalled the right thing to do, bending to air-kiss Dante, and then Sigrid.
When Mari shut the door of her suite behind her, she lingered with her back against the smooth surface. She hadn’t had a room of her own in nearly eight weeks. It felt so fucking good. Then, remembering herself, she threw her bag onto the bed and unzipped it, too frenzied to be neat. She ran into the bathroom to brush her teeth, then out to charge her devices, then back to the mirror to touch up her makeup, then out to her phone to check for a message from V. Nope.
Mari knew this was the chance of a lifetime, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had let Anke down. She had been all-in since their weekend in Palm Springs. The thought of not getting to complete that book unleashed a melancholy far beyond professional disappointment. Plus, she was already fraying from lack of sleep. This was a new 75,000-word manuscript, due in just six weeks. Still, getting some real time (alone) with Dante, and Simon, would give her access to new truths about Mal’s death, maybe allow her to reveal what had happened to him. She was sure that would help to absolve Anke. And it would be the kind of professional coup for Mari that would mean she would never be at the mercy of a vodka divorcée again. It could even be the career boost she hadn’t allowed herself to dream of before—where her books mattered to others as much as they mattered to her, where all the sacrifices finally led somewhere good. Even if Anke was done with her, Mari would get to prove her worth. She would have her first bestseller. She needed to be brave. It would be easier to do so now that Dante had put his trust in her, which was like a gold crown on her head.
Not that it was without risk. It was a high-profile memoir that would be scrutinized by millions of die-hard fans. Dante had little time for her. But if he downloaded the pertinent intel to her and then got out of her way, that could make her task easier. As much as she needed her celebrities for their stories, their feelings, and their voice, after that, she preferred to work alone.
Plus, she wanted to prove she could do it—Dante’s book, the future bestsellers it would unlock. To show her clients—and her editors, who she would hopefully work with for years to come—what she knew about herself, deep down, even if she had yet to create the external proof.
She had a rule against bothering Ezra unless she was up for a new project or absolutely needed advice. She rarely phoned him first and had only done so a few times, like when the vodka divorcée had fully melted down. On top of that, she would have to admit she had gone to Vegas against his orders. But he probably knew that. She gathered her nerve and called.
His assistant put her through right away. “Mari?” her agent asked.
“You only call me Mari when you’re mad. Can I apologize later? Because I really need your wisdom right now. I’ve been asked to write a book for Dante Fucking Ashcombe!”
“I know, I’m impressed. What did you say to him? You weren’t even up for that gig.”
“I have no idea.”
“I’m also more than a little worried. You went rogue. And this is a lot.”
“I know. I am sorry. I’m worried, too. What if I can’t do it?”
“I can get you out of it. But you’d never work in publishing again.”
It felt good to laugh. To not be on. To just be.
“I jest, but it is a legitimate question. Things did not go well with Anke. I don’t have to tell you how much higher-profile this book is. I talked to the agent who reps Axel—the writer Dante fired. Apparently he was really losing it—drinking too much, missing deadlines—and now no one has heard from him in almost a week. I mean, are you up for that? You do have a choice.”
Mari’s call-waiting beeped. Her heart leapt: Anke had changed her mind. She could write the book she really cared about, and she wouldn’t have to guess how much she could handle. But it was Vivienne. Without even talking to her, Mari knew. They had lost the condo. V was proud, just like Anke, and if she could have dodged telling Mari what was going on, she would have. Mari didn’t actually have a choice about this job. Better to own it, then. As if this were just another workday, Mari began making herself a cup of coffee with the little in-room setup.
“I can do it,” Mari said.
“Are you sure, dude?”
“I’m sorry about Anke. I know you pushed for me, but she never gave me a chance. Who doesn’t let their ghost do even one rewrite? I mean, she has to be able to give her writer notes.”
“True,” he said. “But writing for Dante will be pressure like you’ve never felt. And you should be getting transcripts, manuscript pages, from the last writer. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
“They have to help me get a draft done, right? They only have six weeks. I work fast.”
“You are a workhorse,” Ezra said. “Yeah, okay. It’s really fucking hard to break through to the next level. The fact that Dante felt so strongly about hiring you, that’s a testament to you. I think with an opportunity this big, no matter the risks, you just gotta seize it and do your best.”
“Yeah, I want to. I think I can do it.”
“You can, dude. I want you to call me every day. I’m going to talk to Dante’s editor, see if I can get anymore inside intel about Axel and what happened. You just do your job.”
“I was thinking, maybe Dante will tell me something that will help Anke for her book.”
“I know you liked her. But don’t get duped again. Seriously, Mari, you deserve better than that. Besides, right now, your first and only loyalty is to your new client, Dante Ashcombe.”
She tried to feel his confidence. She had this way of playing chicken with the universe, daring herself into high-wire situations, then forcing herself to pull them off. And yet again.
Mari felt the casino lights buzzing in her highly caffeinated bloodstream. She closed her eyes in the elevator on her way back to Dante’s suite. Put on a layer of lip gloss as armor.
When the doors swung open, she channeled Anke and made her own grand entrance. Dante and Sigrid were sitting together on the couch, staring into an open laptop.
“I’d be honored to collaborate with you, Dante,” Mari said.
“A bottle of Dom for me and all my friends,” Dante said, clapping his hands.
Izzy laughed and turned to the bar. The mini-fridge was, of course, stocked with Dom. The room filled with the particular effervescence of a champagne buzz.
“Now, where do we start?” Dante asked.
“In the middle, of course,” Mari said. “That’s where the story really begins.”