“I’ll pay you.” I name a sum, one that catches his attention, his brows rising. I don’t know what kind of advances Random House is paying him, but I know what Kate gets me, and I’ve matched that figure.
“And you want me to ghostwrite? Not co-author?” It is an important distinction. As a ghostwriter, readers will never know about his involvement, only my name listed on the cover.
“Correct.” When I prepped for this discussion, it was with Marka Vantly in mind, a woman I was convinced loved the spotlight. I had been concerned over this part of the negotiation, certain that she would want her name in gold print along the spine. I have no idea how this man will respond. He’s published for all this time in secret, hiding behind some blonde Barbie, his real name and identity a secret. Is ghostwriting any different?
He runs a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp, the resulting effect wild, a man with little thought for appearances. I want to slice through that hair and open up his skull. Feast on his thoughts and taste his motivations. Why does a man like this write smut? Why has he agreed to this meeting? Why did he ever email me to begin with? And what, right now, is he thinking?
His hand falls from his hair and he turns his head, fixing me with a stare. “Tell me about this story you have to tell.”
“You’ll do it?” The words rush out too eager, and I try to collect myself, to calm my features.
“Maybe. I need to know the story.”
I’m not ready to tell him that. I can’t even manage a decent outline, my pen still stalling over the white page, my mind unable to yield despite the urgency of my timeline. How can I pitch him on a story I can’t even work through in my mind?
“It’s about a family.” I pause, and I need a shot, a plug off the bottle above the fridge, the one that I hide from myself, the one that makes me think of her and him and ending it all. I don’t move to my feet, I don’t grab the shot glass, the one that sits in the bottom drawer, all by itself. I should. I shouldn’t. He is watching me, and I am past due for a sentence. I clasp my hands tightly together, knotting them in my lap. “Well, it starts earlier than that. A love story. Guy meets girl, they fall in love.”
“And then?”
I twist my hands, my knuckles bending, and maybe I could break them. That would distract from this painful conversation, could buy me hours of time and possibly a few more sympathy points. “They marry and have a child.” I take a breath and the next words rush out in one long line of vowels. “It’s a tragedy. In the end, the wife loses them both.”
He blinks. “Loses? Define that.”
No, thank you. “I haven’t pinned down every detail yet.”
His pupils don’t move, their fix on me almost disturbing in its focus. “What—”
“Those are the bones of the story. I’ll fill in the holes for you later. I’m still working them out.” The response snaps out of me, and I clutch to the sharp tones of the words. Yes. This I can do. Abrupt. Snarky. This will keep my fingers from breaking and my eyes clear from tears.
“It sounds…” His eyes finally move, a slow sweep away as if in search for a word. The one that finally comes out would disappoint thesauruses everywhere. “Sad.”
“Duh.” I straighten in my seat, and can feel the end of this conversation approaching, the drone of its finality growing louder. “I know it’s sad.”
“Something’s missing.” He leans back, his arms crossing over his chest. “What else?” I watch his eyes narrow, as if suspecting me of something.
“That’s it.” I haven’t lied so much since that night.
“It’s not going to be successful.”
“I don’t care.” There is a freedom in that. This will be the first book that I won’t fret over. The first book where I don’t wait by the phone, nauseous over where my latest release comes in on bestseller lists. I’ll never know if this book sells five copies, or five million. I’ll never know if readers, or even the editor, loves or hates it.
He is struggling with something. I can see it when he leans forward, one hand closing over the other, his eyes down on the table before he lifts them to mine. When he speaks, his question is the last thing I expect to hear. “You really want to spend your last months writing?”
“Yes.” He’s asking a druggie if she wants another hit, an overweight child if they’d like more cake. There is nothing in my final days I want more than to create worlds. There is also nothing I dread more than to dive further into this particular book.
But it has to be done. I can’t die with this book unwritten, with these truths buried among my bones. It needs to come out. Someone has to know the truth.
“You can’t be serious.” His hands part, flex, then find each other again, his fingers closing over a wedding ring, which he rolls around his finger. Simon never wore his ring. I should have asked him about it, during one of the hundred times that I noticed it. I should have taken it out of his bedside table and waited to see how long it took him to notice. After he died, I gave mine to a homeless woman, her eyes unmoving as I dropped it into her cup. Sometimes I wonder what she thought when she dumped out her change and saw the diamond. I wonder, when she pawned it, if questions were asked, if the police were called. Mark’s hands move. “You should travel. Do everything you always dreamed of. Sit on a beach and sip umbrella drinks. Get massages every day and read. Hire some Italian to rub lotion on your feet and screw you into next Sunday.”
I have to smile at that. “You have an unnatural fascination with Italian men, you know that right?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m serious. The Italian Stallion… then that slutty little novella set in Venice, the one where both guys—”
“The only thing you’re proving is how much you obsess over my books,” he interrupts.
I snort, and the change of topic feels good, the corners of his mouth turning up, a bit of levity in the air. “Do we have a deal, Mr. Fortune?”
“A million dollars?” He raises his eyebrows and glances away. “I need to think on it overnight.”
“What is there to think about?” I can’t lose him. Not now. Not when I’ve wasted an hour on this meeting, and several more setting it up. Plus, a part of me likes him, his rough edges and quiet manner. Even if he did ignore my rules and seems uninterested in my novel. It is surprising, given that I don’t like many people. In fact, I don’t really like anyone. I push forward the contract, the one Kate prepared, nineteen pages long, with nine of the pages devoted to my “requests.” That’s what Kate is calling my rules, though requests is a terrible substitute, one that poses the items as negotiable, even though they are absolutely not. “Here’s the contract. You’ll get a million dollars for something you can knock out in a couple of months. Write quickly, and you could be out of my hair even earlier than that.” I smile, and he doesn’t return the gesture, pulling the contract closer, our levity of earlier already gone.
“I’ll think on it.” He pushes to his feet, and I watch the contract follow him, the paper folded in half and tucked into a back pocket, a terrible vehicle for such an important item. He isn’t going to think on it. He probably won’t even read the contract. I’ve lost him, and I don’t know why.
“One million five.” I’m pathetic, and desperate, and I never realized that until now. I follow him, my hand tucking a bit of hair behind my ear, and he turns, his eyes meeting mine. His shoulders sag a little, and, if I thought my weak negotiation would empower him, I was wrong. He reaches out and lays a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it heavy, the squeeze of it doing nothing to reassure me, a dump of fuel on my fire of internal panic.
“It’s not about the money, Helena.” He releases my shoulder and smiles, a grin that doesn’t meet his eyes, his steps toward the front door slow.
“Then what is it about?” I call after him, clutching the chair rail.
He stops, but doesn’t turn. “I haven’t said no yet.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”