Ghostwritten

‘Well, it’s a journey of self-discovery, so the process can be therapeutic, yes – cathartic, even.’

‘I’ve been thinking hard about the past.’ Klara laid her hand on one of the albums. ‘I’ve been looking at the much-loved faces in these pages, and remembering what they meant to me – still mean to me.’

‘When you talk about them, try to recall not just what they looked like, but how they talked or walked, or laughed, or dressed. Any little details that will bring them alive.’

Klara nodded and sipped her coffee again. She flashed me an anxious smile. ‘How strange to think that I barely know you, Jenni, yet I’m about to tell you so much about myself – more than I have ever told anyone in my own family – my own husband, even.’

‘It must feel very strange,’ I agreed. ‘But try to think of it as a conversation with an old friend.’

‘We aren’t friends though, are we?’

I was taken aback by her directness. ‘No … But we’ll get to know each other over these next few days.’

‘Well, you’ll get to know me.’ She put her cup on the table. ‘But will I get to know you?’

‘Of … course.’

‘Because, this has all come up so quickly; and now that we’re sitting here I realise that I simply can’t talk to you about myself, unless I know at least a little about you.’

‘You already … do.’ I wondered whether we were ever going to start the interview. Klara was expertly deflecting my questions, beating me at my own game.

‘I don’t,’ she countered. ‘All I know is that you live in London and grew up near Reading, an only child, then moved to Southampton. I know that you’re a friend of Vincent’s goddaughter, and that you came here on holiday, many years ago. So please, Jenni, tell me a bit more about yourself.’

This was the last thing I wanted to do. I forced a smile. ‘What would you like to know?’

‘Well … are you married? I don’t get the impression that you are.’

‘I’m not. But I live with someone – Rick. He’s a primary school teacher.’ Klara was looking at me expectantly. ‘He’s … easy-going,’ I went on, feeling myself flounder under her gaze. ‘He’s decent and attractive – at least I think so. He’s the same height as me, which I like, because we can look straight into each other’s eyes. His are the colour of the sea.’ Was that really all I could find to say about the man I loved?

Klara nodded approvingly. ‘He sounds lovely.’

‘He is. We’ve been together for a year and a half.’

‘So, you must feel that you know each other pretty well by now.’

‘I do feel that I know Rick, yes.’ Whether he really knew me was a different matter.

‘And do you hope to get married?’ Klara was certainly very direct.

‘I do,’ I answered. ‘We both do. If it’s right,’ I added, then wished that I hadn’t.

Klara nodded thoughtfully. ‘And why did you become a ghostwriter, rather than, say …’

‘A “proper” writer?’ I suggested, smiling.

Klara flinched. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude.’

I laughed. ‘I do get asked that question.’

‘How annoying.’

‘Not really; people don’t mean to be insulting; they genuinely want to know why I don’t write my own—’

‘Story?’

‘Yes.’

Klara stared at me. ‘So why don’t you?’

‘I guess I … prefer other people’s.’

‘I see. But how did you get to be a ghostwriter? Is that what you always wanted to do?’

‘Not at all – I was a researcher for a breakfast television show. It was my job to invite the studio guests onto the show and brief the presenters about them. One day I had to book a well-known actor; he was in his seventies …’

‘Can you say who he was?’

‘I can’t – I signed a confidentiality agreement – but he’s a household name. We got on well, and while I was chatting to him before he went on, he told me that he’d been approached by a publisher to write his memoirs. He said his agent was keen for him to do it, but that he didn’t want to, because he hated writing. He added that he wished he could find someone to write it for him. Without even thinking, I said that I could.’

‘And you did.’

‘Yes – and the book was a success and got good reviews. More importantly, I’d loved doing it – taking someone into their past, like a personal historian, helping them see the fabric and shape of their life – helping them tell their story; it fascinated me. I’d never done anything I loved as much. So I quit my job and set myself up as a ghostwriter. That was twelve years ago.’

‘Who else have you worked with?’

‘A few athletes, several actresses, a famous milliner, a couple of TV personalities, a well-known explorer … a fashion designer.’

‘Celebrities, then.’

‘Yes, but after a while that sort of work palled. I found myself more intrigued by the lives of “ordinary” people – not that they ever are ordinary. Far from it.’ I put my cup down. ‘But that’s how I got into ghostwriting – quite by chance.’

‘I don’t think it was just chance,’ Klara remarked. Her eyes were thoughtful.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that you must already have wanted to do it. Otherwise you’d simply have said to that actor, “How interesting, I hope you find someone,” then carried on with your job. I suspect that he simply showed you a path that you were already looking for.’

‘Perhaps. Anyway …’ I opened my bag. ‘I hope you feel a bit better acquainted with me now, Klara.’

‘I do, Jenni. Thank you.’ She cocked her head. ‘The odd thing is, I feel I’ve met you before.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Perhaps when you came here on holiday that time? Maybe I chatted to you when you collected the milk. You’d have been a little girl, and I’d have been in my fifties … Something about you is familiar.’

I had no recollection of her. ‘I’m sure we’ve never met.’

‘I think we have,’ she insisted. ‘It’ll suddenly come back to me.’