This is the second #SaturdayScenes installment for my in-work Ghost Writer, book 6 of the Our Cyber World series. You may access the story summary and other sample excerpts through the table of contents.
Let me know what you think!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vivian’s agent is on the phone, asking her to write the memoirs for up-and-coming politician, Cynthia Spencer.
“You want me to do what?”
“It would really mean a lot to us.”
“Oh, and how much is that, exactly?” I ask.
“You’re a perfect fit,” Mark replies. “Given your own past experience as a victim of violence, you should connect with her quite effectively.”
I speed right past the violence part. “I’ve never ghost-written anything in my life, Mark. I’m a fiction writer, and not a terribly good one, first and next royalty checks notwithstanding.”
“We can all learn different things, grow in varying ways—”
“I have no business getting anywhere near this job. That’s before we start considering whether I have the slightest interest in doing it. What happened to you wanting me to keep my eye on the ball, keep the plow on the field, show progress on my novel and all that other great cheerleading I get from you on a weekly basis?”
“Now, now. You promised to keep an open mind.”
“I don’t recall making any such promise.”
He pauses for a second before he pulls his next card. “The bosses see this as an opportunity for you to show good will against the rather generous advance which, in their estimation, has yet to provide sufficient return on investment.”
“Ah, enough carrots, here’s the stick. I do this, or you pull the advance.”
“Keep an open mind, Vivian. That’s all I ask. It is a great opportunity.”
“Why me, Mark? Don’t you have a full stable of starving ghost writers ready to pounce on something this juicy?”
He pauses. This time I sense hesitation in his voice as he says, “After much deliberation, you came up as the top choice.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course it is.”
“On what basis?”
He clears his throat. “She asked for you.”
“She?”
“Cynthia Spencer,” he says. “We showed her a list of ghost writers. She flat out rejected them all. She said, ‘doesn’t Vivian Matisse work for you?’ When we replied, why yes, of course you are one of our writers, she said, ‘I want her.’ Wanted us to let you know how much she’s admired all your work through the years, acting and writing, the whole lot of it.”
“She doesn’t know me from Adam. Why would she possibly want me?”
“Well, if she’s gone to the movies or rented a DVD, she knows you in a way. Then there’s all the news stories about your career change.” He pauses to let me fill in the blanks, the ones that speak to the violent events leading to my abandonment of all things Hollywood. “This is a terrific opportunity for you, Vivian. This is one well-connected woman. Husband serving in the President’s cabinet, and she owns all the cachet that can take her all the way to the White House if she deems it worth the drive. Lots of upside for you.”
I don’t know how to respond. I suppose I have nothing to lose, except time and maybe a little bit of my dignity. But why am I feeling this way? Writing non-fiction is an honorable profession, is it not? Maybe I can learn a thing or two, become a better writer in the process. God knows I need to up my game to avoid the gooey mess I made of my debut novel.
“We’re convinced you are well-qualified to write in her voice,” Mark adds. “Remember how you wrote that whole scene in my voice as a trial exercise after we first met?”
“Yeah.”
“You nailed it, didn’t you?”
“I guess.”
“You’ll do the same thing with her. I know you will.”
I crouch down to look at the seaweed. Its oval shape remains intact in spite of a couple of waves that nearly drag it away. The line no longer points at the pier, though. It now aims southward, toward the head of the pier, to that wall behind which he and I met on that day when I thought I’d saved his life, only to plunge him into the death spiral that culminated inside burning chaparral.
“How much time do I have to sleep on it?”
“It’ll be more like a mid-morning nap, I’m afraid.” Mark’s voice affects that playful, singsongy tone he takes on when he wants to gain my concurrence on something I’d rather reject. “We have a meeting set for late tomorrow morning at her house in Pleasanton. Have you all booked on a flight from LAX to San Jose, complete with rental car reservation on the other end. I requested a convertible. Because you have impressed upon me how much you adore convertibles, haven’t you?”
I reach down and feel the seaweed. It feels slimy and cold, I’m thinking at the moment a wave sweeps in to engulf my feet and drag the reed out to sea.
“So are you on board?” Mark asks. “Just go up, meet with her, get a feel. That’s all I ask.”
“OK.”
“OK?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Splendid! You will grow from the experience, Vivian. I assure you. Do you know she lives on a vineyard? Quite scenic, I’m told. You’ll love it.”
“On one condition,” I say.
“Of course.”
“My name goes in the credits. As in, I’m not an absolute ghost.”
“That should prove no problem at all,” he says. “I’m sure we can work that out. Mrs. Spencer seemed like a very amicable person. And with her admiration for you, well, one would think she would love to have your name beneath hers, in a smaller type, of course.”
I nod to myself, suspecting he was holding my name going on the cover or the inner flap as a bargaining chip. It was going on either way. Fine, whatever, I tell myself. Just flow with it. Who knows? I might get a free case of Spencer Vineyards grape juice out of it.
We hang up. I stay there, still crouched, my feet deep in the wet sand. My eyes trace the outline of the long gone seaweed. Its shape, the way it rested there a few minutes ago, persists only as a mirage in my imagination. No, a ghost image, I tell myself. Just like me, a ghost image of the person I used to be.
I don’t want to feel this defeated. I can’t let myself fall into this sort of mood again. So, let’s be a bit rebellious, I tell myself.
Through my phone I access my Twitter feed. I type quickly and without letting myself doubt my judgment. I’m just feeling my way along, like he, my dead love would do in my situation.
“Wish me luck. Collaborating on a memoir with Cynthia Spencer, thanks to @markhowardseditor #amwriting.”
My finger hovers over the “Tweet” button. I smile to myself and add “@artintErin.” The message goes out.
The cellphone buzzes with a Twitter notification. Mark, my publisher’s editor responds with some clever retort and a smiley face. Not long thereafter, @artinErin favorites my tweet and re-tweets it for good measure.
A second later she follows me, and I reciprocate. I review her profile and note that though thousands follow her, she only follows 21 other Twitter handles.
I tell myself I should feel special, but something inside me, a trembling in my abdomen suggests I need to think otherwise. Scrolling through her short list of followers, I find the sorts of high powered personalities I would expect: philosophers, university professors. One name sticks out with a tingling chill along the back of my neck: Andre Esperanza, fine art photographer, and as his profile doesn’t mention but I know nonetheless, my deceased love’s former colleague.
I close my eyes and grit my teeth. No matter what, I can’t let this sink me again. I must hold on.
A cool breeze envelops my face and whips my hair. I welcome it. I tell myself the creator himself is reaching out to me, caressing me with his hand of mercy, comforting me with his touch of grace.
After a few minutes, I come upon what I must do.
I walk back up the sand dune. It feels steeper from the surf side, and I struggle to reach the top. Once there I sit facing the ocean and the pier. I drink the last of my coffee, cold by now, but still warmer than a heart that shrinks a little as I force myself to stare at the pier and remember his strong noble face.
Back in the house a few minutes later, I turn on my laptop. I access my email and see a message from Mark Howards. He booked me on a 4:30 PM flight to San Jose. For some reason I thought the flight would be the following morning, but replaying my conversation with Mark in my mind, I see I assumed that based on the meeting time. His email also lists details about my car rental and hotel reservation.
It also contains one last bit of information.
“BTW,” Mark writes, “we’re also flying out an L.A. photographer. We contracted him to take some publicity and cover photos for the book. He tells us he knows you. Andre Esperanza is his name. Enjoy your flight.”
I stare at the screen, stunned. Then I let out a high pitch scream the likes of which I’ve never heard myself utter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Keep reading…
Comments are disabled for this post