Ghostwritten

‘And in fact I could start next week.’ My pen had run out. I yanked open the drawer and rummaged in it for another one. ‘If you give me your address, I’ll send you my standard letter of engagement. Where do you live?’

‘In Gerrards Cross, near Beaconsfield.’

‘I know it. It’ll be easy to get there. It can’t take more than, what, half an hour by train, or I could borrow my boyfriend’s car – that’s Rick, he was there yesterday; he doesn’t use it much and so—’

‘Jenni, I must stop you,’ Vincent interjected. ‘My mother doesn’t live with me.’

‘Oh.’ Why had I assumed that she did?

‘She lives with my brother, Henry: he runs the farm.’

‘I see. And where is it?’

‘In Cornwall.’ My heart sank as I wrote it down. ‘At a place called Polvarth.’ My pen stopped. ‘It’s just a coastal hamlet,’ I heard him say. ‘It’s beautiful, with small fields going down to the sea, and there’s a wonderful beach. Jenni? Are you still there?’

I closed my eyes. ‘Vincent, have you contacted anyone else about this?’

‘No. As I say, I was going to try and find a journalist, perhaps someone from the Cornish Guardian, but then yesterday I heard you talking about your work and was very taken with what you said. I particularly liked the way you said that you love immersing yourself in other people’s memories.’

‘I do,’ I said quietly. Because it distracts me from my own.

‘And on your website you say that being a “ghost” isn’t just about being a writer; it’s like being a midwife – you’re helping to deliver the story of someone’s life.’

‘But I also say that it’s a very intense, emotional process, and that it’s therefore important to choose the right person.’

‘I can’t help feeling that you are. I also think that my mother would like you. I must say, I’m rather confused,’ Vincent added. ‘Didn’t you just say that you wanted to do it?’

‘I did say that … but I always advise prospective clients to, well, shop around. So that they have a choice,’ I went on, trying to keep the tension out of my voice. ‘I can recommend some other ghostwriters.’

There was a pause. ‘Are you unsure about it because of the distance?’

‘Yes,’ I said, gratefully. ‘That’s the reason. It’s such a long way.’

‘We’d pay your travel expenses. And my mother would put you up.’

‘That’s kind,’ I interrupted, ‘but I never stay with the client – it’s one of my rules.’

‘Fair enough, but she has a holiday cottage just down the lane. It’s not that big, but it’s comfortable.’

‘I’m sure it’s lovely but—’

‘You’d be completely independent. You could come up to the farm during the day. My mother’s a very pleasant person.’

‘I’m sure she is, Vincent, but that’s not why …’

‘You just want to think about it.’

‘I do. And I’d need to talk to Rick.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry, Jenni. I didn’t mean to push you. But if you could let me know, either way.’

‘I will.’

I hung up, then sat staring at the computer screen again, seeing nothing. I raised my eyes to the shelf above my desk. Battling the Enemy Within – Regain the Confidence to be Yourself. I’d bought that book a year before, but still hadn’t summoned the courage to read more than a few pages. Nor had I even opened the one beside it, Transcending Fear – How to Face Your Demons.

I’d never faced my demons. I’d buried them, in the sand.

I heard Rick’s footsteps; then there he was in the doorway. ‘Are you okay, Jen?’ He smiled, trying to reassure me that things were fine, when we both knew they weren’t. ‘I heard you talking,’ he went on. ‘You sounded agitated.’ I told him about Vincent’s call. ‘But that sounds interesting. And it’s work.’ He lifted a pile of magazines off the armchair, put them on the floor then sat down. I could smell the scent of his cigarette. ‘Do you have much to do at the moment?’

‘No. I have to get the baby guide to the publisher by Thursday, then there’s nothing.’

Rick stretched out his long, lean legs. ‘So why aren’t you sure about this job?’

I couldn’t tell him the truth. I’d wanted to, many times, but the dread of seeing shock and disappointment in his eyes had stopped me. ‘It’s so … far.’

He looked puzzled. ‘But you went up to Scotland to do that memoir last year. We e-mailed and Skyped, didn’t we? It was fine.’ I nodded. ‘If you did this one, how long would you have to go for?’

‘The usual.’ I put the top on my pen. ‘A week to ten days.’

‘Well …’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it’s come up now for a reason. It might be good for us to have some time apart.’

‘So that we can get used to it. Is that what you mean?’ I dreaded hearing his answer, but I had to ask.

‘No, so that we have some breathing space, to think about everything. It could … help.’ He didn’t look as though he believed that it would. ‘So where exactly is Polvarth?’

‘It’s in south Cornwall, close to a fishing village called Trennick. It’s very small – just one long lane that leads down to a beach. At the other end of it there’s a farm.’ The Tregears’ farm, I now realised.

‘You’ve been there before?’

I nodded. ‘There are a few holiday homes, built in the Sixties.’ I pictured the one that we’d stayed in, ‘Penlee’. ‘There’s also a hotel.’ It had a big garden with a play area at the end of it with swings and a seesaw. ‘Just below the hotel is the beach. And on the cliff path behind the beach is a tea hut; or there was. Perhaps it’s gone now.’

‘When were you last there? You’ve never mentioned the place to me.’

‘I … forgot about it. I was nine.’ ‘So you went there with your mother?’ I nodded. ‘And was it a happy holiday?’ I didn’t answer. Rick exhaled loudly, clearly frustrated by the conversation. ‘Obviously not. Then perhaps you shouldn’t go – if it’s going to upset you it won’t be worth it. But you’re thirty-four, Jen. You’re not a child.’ He stood up, abruptly. ‘I think I’ll walk up to school: I’ve got to plan tomorrow’s lessons and I might as well do it there.’ His smile was tight. ‘Whether you go to Cornwall or not is your decision. See you later, darling.’

I wanted to throw my arms round him and implore him to stay. Instead, I sat perfectly still.

‘Yes,’ I said coolly. ‘See you later.’

After Rick had left, I sat at my desk, frozen with misery, as the daylight began to fade. The nights were drawing in. I dreaded the thought of another winter in the city.

I took the phone out of the cradle. ‘It’s my decision,’ I murmured. ‘I don’t have to do it.’ I tapped in Vincent’s number. ‘I don’t want to do it.’ My finger hovered over the button. ‘And I’m not going to do it.’ I pressed ‘call’.

The phone was picked up after three rings. ‘Hello?’

‘Vincent? It’s Jenni Clark again.’

‘Hello, Jenni. Thanks for phoning me back.’