PROLOGUE:HOW TO BE A GHOST
Before the how is the why.
Ghosts do it for three reasons: money, access, praise.
Not public praise, of course, on a book jacket, for instance. But the more intimate nod promised in most contracts: the heartfelt note of gratitude, hidden in plain sight, on a star’s acknowledgments page. That’s right, ghosts are guaranteed such a mention in collaboration agreements, a sweetener to deals that, when they disintegrate, are settled via a “kill fee.”
Sometimes a client forgets to mention you, the person who wrote their book. But this sting is private, and there’s an easy fix. You are often the one to draft the thank-yous to the editorial team in the voice you have been occupying for months. Your editor, aware of all the reasons you deserve credit, contractual and otherwise, simply has you add your name to this list.
What you are celebrating is more than your mimicry. It’s the infinite number of moments in which you’ve inferred just who and how to be. That’s the secret to making it as a ghost. Most people think you have to be a great writer, but no one’s claiming to be Chekhov. You don’t need to be the person who best captures the celebrity’s tone, either, although that’s important. Really, it’s about not judging your clients, whether they’re reality TV divorcées on their way to rehab or the biggest rock stars with the deepest secrets, no matter how dark the memories they divulge or how badly they behave from the stress of deciding on deadline how candid to be; the bond is invisible, but ghosts must be capable of meeting their subjects, always, with unconditional love.
They do love you back. Sometimes. And always, it feels that way for a while, in the heady days just before and after submitting the book. Best is when they include their own, genuine and warm shout-out, mention a shared moment or joke, for which the most devoted superfan would line up overnight in the rain. Since ghosts must work in the shadows, and the job is hard and can fall apart even when you do your best, it’s validating to see evidence of your accomplishments in print. As with any form of intimacy, you can’t help but want an emotional souvenir, a way to capture what happened and carry it with you into the rest of your life.
There are other tricks to be mastered, as with any trade. Be patient, be attentive, be clever (be amusing, if possible), be comfortable being wrong (when some celebrities are ornery, they like a foil—those in their inner circle are easy targets). And maybe, just maybe, you’ll maintain your place in the VIP lounge of life. For most ghosts, such perks are enough. They had always been plenty for this one. But that was before the project that almost cost everything, and gave just as much, by revealing another way to be: wake up and seize a life that’s truly lived, which has deeper value than a spotlight, or a book credit, could ever come close to.
There’s always a collaboration like no other. The one that teaches you whether you have what it takes or not. If you dare to step up, ghosting is far more than a job; it’s a vocation. You must risk everything, maybe even your life, certainly your pride, your assumptions about yourself and others, and the stories you tell about who you are and why you matter. If you pull it off, you will know you are woven into every word on the page, even the consciousness of those you have occupied as a ghost. And yet you will still want, maybe even need, to be acknowledged—
It’s proof you exist.
FIRST:SEDUCE
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.
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