How to Seduce a Ghost

by Hope McIntyre

  “Not fair on whom?”

  “I meant not fair on Tommy but in fact you’re not being fair to yourself either. You’ve got to take your relationship to the next level.”

  “You make it sound like some kind of management hierarchy. And I don’t see where I take it is any concern of yours, Cath. Butt out and stay out.” I knew I’d taken the first step into the minefield but I felt really provoked. Leave me alone and you’ll never have any trouble with me. Try to interfere, try to make me change my life and you’d better run for cover. Cath had to know she was breaking the rules.

  “I will not! Or rather I would if I thought you’d ever do anything off your own bat but you never do. You’re the least proactive person I’ve ever met. You just sit there like a lump until something happens to bring about a change in your life.”

  I didn’t say a word mostly because I knew she was absolutely right. But where was the Cath who told me how great and reliable I was? who understood that I needed my privacy?

  “Lee.” She sat down next to me and turned the chair round to face me. She took both my hands in her lap and leaned in till her face was very close to mine. “Lee, someone like you who spends so much time on their own, who never goes anywhere where they might run into someone interesting, has about as much chance of meeting a husband as a polar bear in the Arctic. So if you let Tommy go . . .”

  I glanced at Tommy. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  “I like that,” I told her, laughing, hoping to diffuse her earnestness. “You’re absolutely right. I am a polar bear. They’re the ones who live apart, right? The female and the male, they don’t live together, they only come together to mate. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell Tommy. If and when I ever want to have a baby, that’ll be the time to shack up together. Meanwhile, you’re just going to have to accept that I’m a little unconventional, Cath. I’m not like you. I’m not like most people. I know that. As you keep telling me, I’m my own worst enemy. But hasn’t it ever occurred to you how lonely that makes me feel?”

  “There you are,” she pounced. “We don’t want you to be lonely.”

  “I’m not!” I screamed at her. “Inside here, on my own I’m not at all lonely. It’s only when I listen to you describing how you see me that I feel lonely. You’re describing a freak and I’m not a freak, I’m not!”

  “You’re not a very happy bunny, are you?”

  This was the last straw. She was smothering me with understanding. Just once I wished she would scream something back at me so we could have a stand-up row and clear the air. She was always so mature and well behaved and she never lost control like I did. I had faults and I admitted them but Cath somehow always seemed so perfect. And she was so patient with me. However much I ranted and raved she always told me how much she loved me.

  “It’s not going to work, Tommy”—she looked at him—“the more we try to persuade her, the more she’s going to dig her heels in and say she doesn’t want to get married.”

  “Stop talking about me as if I’m not here.” My voice was still far too loud.

  I was beginning to feel cornered, as if they were ganging up on me. I began to panic, just a little. I didn’t want to lose Tommy but at the same time I would not be controlled in this way.

  I think we all knew that this was no longer about whether I married Tommy or not. Somehow it had become an ugly battle of wills between Cath and me. All kinds of resentments were festering inside me. It appeared some kind of sea change was occurring in our friendship whereby our roles were shifting. Up to now Cath had always been the adult whose advice I, the wayward child, had always sought. But now I was feeling rebellious.

  “Oh, now you’re just being silly. You sound like you’re still in kindergarten.” She actually had the nerve to smile and try to pat me on the head.

  “Fuck off!” I leapt up, totally furious now. “Leave me the fuck alone, Cath. I’ve had enough of you always telling me what to do. I need you to give me a bit of space to work things out for myself. It’s not my fault I’m not as perfect as you. Why do you always have to make me feel so inadequate?”

  She gave me one of her knowing looks that said You do that all by yourself. But I wouldn’t let it go.

  “I mean, what is it with you, Cath? Why is it so important to you that I marry Tommy? You keep on telling me to get married but I notice you’re not getting very far in that direction yourself. Why haven’t we seen you walking down the aisle with anyone yet?”

  It was just something I threw out but Cath’s reaction was instantaneous. I seemed to have hit a nerve somewhere inside her. She flushed, opened her mouth but didn’t say anything.

  “Come on!” I taunted her. “What’s the big deal? Why do you have to stick your nose in? You must have a reason and don’t say it’s because Tommy asked for your help because you know as well as I do that you could have told him it wasn’t appropriate for you to be involved.”

  “It wasn’t appropriate,” she repeated, an altogether quieter Cath. In fact she looked shellshocked.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, “you’re right. You’re absolutely right, Lee. I won’t interfere again. I’m leaving now. I’ll let you two sort yourselves out.”

  To my astonishment, she came and placed her palms either side of my face and gave me a quick kiss and I saw there were tears in her eyes.

  “I want you to marry Tommy. Don’t ask me why but I do.”

  “I am asking you.”

  “Forget it,” she said. Now she sounded quite fierce, not at all like calm, rational Cath. I hadn’t realized she was capable of such passion. I backed away but I wasn’t going to give up now.

  “I won’t forget it. You can’t just barge in here and interfere like this and then say forget it. I want an explanation.”

  “Okay!” Suddenly Cath totally lost it. “Okay! Don’t marry him if you don’t want to but I just want you to know I think you’re crazy beyond belief. Utterly crazy and stupid with it. He’s a beautiful man. He’s sweet and funny and sexy and I just don’t understand how you can’t love him like I—”

  She stopped then and ran out the door. It was just as well. Maybe she could pretend we hadn’t heard and retain a little bit of dignity.

  But we had heard and we stood there like dummies until I forced myself to break the silence.

  “Did you know?”

  He nodded. “I had an idea. She made it pretty clear a couple of times. I don’t think she meant to come on to me or anything. She probably didn’t realize how she came across. Nothing ever happened, Lee. I always backed right off.”

  I believed him. What I couldn’t understand was why hadn’t I spotted it too. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Give me a break, Lee. What could I say? Oh, by the way, have you noticed your best friend’s in love with me? Besides, I wasn’t sure if maybe the drink didn’t have something to do with it.”

  “The drink?”

  “She hasn’t talked to you about that? She calls me up sometimes at the Beeb when she’s really loaded and wants to talk.”

  “You mean she has a problem? With alcohol?”

  “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed. You spend a lot more time with her than I do.”

  “She barely drinks at all, just a glass of wine occasionally and if it’s white she’ll always mix it with Perrier and make a spritzer.”

  “I think she tries to hide it from you. She thinks you’d disapprove, she told me.”

  “Me disapprove of her? That’d make a change. How long has she—you know?”

  “I’m not sure. All I know is that recently she’s started to worry that it’s getting out of hand. She keeps waking up with these dreadful hangovers and very little memory of how she acquired them.”

  “Well not with me, that’s for sure.” I thought about the migraines. Were they in fact hangovers? No wonder my suggested treatments hadn’t worked.

  “Is she seeing someone? I
mean, does she go to—?”

  “Is she in a program? I don’t think so but the fact that she’s acknowledged she’s got a problem means she might take the next step and enroll in one.”

  I was silent for quite a while. I didn’t say anything to Tommy but I felt I’d been left out of the equation in some major way. Maybe I was being even more self-absorbed than normal but I just couldn’t understand why Cath hadn’t talked to me about her alcohol problem, if indeed she had one. Coming on top of her revelation about her feelings for Tommy, it was a little too much to handle. I knew I should feel concerned for her but I just wished that I hadn’t learned about it this way.

  Tommy seemed to be reading my mind. “You know, she would have told you about it sooner or later,” he said gently.

  “I didn’t know she called you up at work.”

  “I wished to God she hadn’t. I was pretty freaked out by her calls. I was on the point of asking you to speak to her about them. I don’t suppose you’re going to believe this but it was at the back of my mind when I asked her over here tonight. She assumed I wanted her to back me up about the whole marriage thing but really I hoped I’d get a chance to persuade her to talk to you about the booze.”

  “So what are we going to do now? I suppose I’d better call her tomorrow.”

  “I suppose you better had,” said Tommy sadly, almost as if he anticipated what was going to happen.

  Because that was the last time I saw Cath. I called and called but she screened her calls forever and when I left messages, she never got back to me.

  After about six months I gave up trying to reach her and tried to come to terms with the fact that I no longer had her as a friend. Once I ran into her at the home of a mutual acquaintance and she was civil and smiled and kissed me hello but there was no follow-up. Tommy kept telling me she’d get in touch one day but it hasn’t happened yet.

  So when Noreen said I never talked about my girlfriends, it hurt. I wanted to pick up the phone and call Cath and tell her about Astrid McKenzie and how scared I was, and how my mother’s repairs list was longer than ever, and how Tommy and I hadn’t spoken for a week. But I couldn’t—not least because I knew she’d moved and I had no idea where she was living these days.

  I wondered if Noreen would succeed in persuading Tommy to call me. And I wondered again about the mist pot cit in his medicine cabinet. But what was I thinking? This was the faithful Tommy we were talking about, not some tabloid lothario. How could I even imagine Tommy playing away, as he would undoubtedly put it?

  At least we’d always had that. The knowledge that we were faithful to one another. Despite the fact that I don’t seem to be able to commit to a mutual living arrangement with Tommy, there’s no way I would ever cheat on him.

  CHAPTER 4

  I DON’T USUALLY GO TO THE HOMES. NORMALLY I AM summoned to the agent’s office or a restaurant whenever a meeting is required, otherwise I work via telephonic contact. Going to the home was a real treat, taking me back to my profile-writing days when I had to get as much as I could from the person’s living room to inform me of their personality. Being nosy by nature, I was thrilled to be allowed a peek into Selma Walker’s house and I wondered how Genevieve had wangled it.

  Selma had obviously resisted the temptation to sell up and move from Notting Hill, although at a rough guess her house would command an asking price of four million, minimum. She might live only two minutes’ walk from me but her house and mine were not in the same ballpark. While her house exuded wealth and was obviously the object of constant upgrading and renovation, mine—or rather my parents’—conveyed a message of woeful neglect and there were no prizes for guessing who was to blame for that.

  I counted eighteen stone steps up to the front door. I stood between a couple of silly little bay trees planted in terra-cotta pots and rang the bell.

  The man who answered the door had just bitten a chunk off the piece of toast he was holding in his hand. When he saw me he munched furiously in order to be able to speak.

  “Sorry. Thought you were going to be a messenger delivering something. I’m convinced they lurk outside the door till I’ve just made myself some tea and toast or stepped into the bath before they ring the bell. Happens every time. Lee Bartholomew?”

  “Yes,” I said. “My agent Genevieve LaBache said you’d be expecting me. I’m here to talk about writing a book for Selma Walker.”

  “Ah, Genevieve. The famous Genevieve.” He grinned. “Vision of loveliness in pale pink and lilac. She called this morning to remind me. Come in.” He held the door wide in an exaggerated gesture. “I’m Buzz Kempinski.”

  “You’re Selma Walker’s manager?” I stepped into a beautiful spacious hall with a floor of York stone. I glimpsed my reflection in an antique mirror above a marble-topped console that reached almost to the ceiling. I was surprised to see I was looking good but then I remembered old glass is invariably kind.

  “I suppose you could say that,” he said over his shoulder. What was that supposed to mean? “My office is on the top floor but why don’t you come into the kitchen and join me in a cup of tea. Or would you like a drink?”

  “What I could really do with is a cup of coffee,” I said. “Instant would be fine.”

  “In a kitchen like this?” he waved toward a Gaggia espresso-cappuccino maker, a caffetiere, and an electric coffee machine lined up on a far counter. “Have one of each, otherwise the others will feel left out.”

  I laughed.

  “Is Selma Walker going to join us later?”

  “Selma’s not here. She’s in Manchester all week, didn’t you know? They tape the show in the studio up there. But it doesn’t matter if she’s not around. I’m the one you need to see. So what is there about Selma’s story that you think would make a good book?”

  Damn. Because I had been so unnerved by the fire—not to mention the latest fracas with Tommy—I hadn’t taken the time to prepare for my meeting. I’d broken one of my golden rules and shown up without having first sought out background information on Selma Walker from the Press Association or the Internet so I would know what I was talking about. I believed in doing homework. It was professional. Now I’d have to wing it.

  “Well,” I began, “she’s a woman who’s successful in her own right playing a similar sort of woman. She has control over her own destiny. She’s . . .”

  Mercifully he interrupted me before I could utter any more embarrassing clichés. But the force of his comeback surprised me.

  “That’s all a load of crap. She doesn’t have control of her own destiny. The network does. Tell me something, have you ever actually watched Fraternity?”

  I shook my head. There was no point in lying. It was obvious I wasn’t suitable for the job. I’d finish my coffee and leave. Get on with the renovations to the house and amaze my mother.

  “So you know absolutely nothing about Selma?”

  “Well, I have heard of her . . .”

  “I love it. Don’t say another word. Congratulations, Lee Bartholomew, you’ve got the job. Now relax and tell me all about yourself. You’d better tell me about the ghosting jobs you’ve done recently. That way I can convince Madame you’re the best there is. Shall we have a drink now? To celebrate?”

  I looked at him in astonishment. “You’re hiring me? Just like that? Why?”

  “Because if you know nothing about her, you’ll be objective. You’ll tell the real story. I hope you know what you’re in for.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Wine? Vodka? Lager?”

  “A vodka and tonic would be great, thanks. How long have you been her manager?”

  “Long enough.”

  “So you were with her in America?”

  “Wasn’t everybody?”

  “Why are you being so evasive?”

  “Am I?”

  I was beginning to get annoyed by his attitude. I couldn’t quite place him. His accent was English and he had that languid upper-class grace, long legs,
slim build, fine brown hair flopping over his eyes.

  “Why are you called Buzz?” I asked suddenly.

  “My energy. I buzz about a lot.”

  “Do you sting like a bee?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “I try not to. Actually, I think it’s something to do with my childhood. Isn’t there a rhyme that goes ‘Isn’t it funny how a bear likes honey, Buzz buzz buzz, I wonder why he does?’ I like honey. Or maybe I had my hair chopped off in a buzz cut and somebody came up with the nickname. Who knows? I’ve had the name so long, I honestly can’t remember.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Can’t remember that either. Or my age, so don’t ask.”

  Of course, now he’d brought that up I was dying to know. I guessed we were about the same age. I was about to ask how old Selma was when he butted in.

  “So, you don’t watch much television?”

  “Just because I don’t watch Fraternity doesn’t necessarily mean I don’t watch television. There are other programs, you know.”

  “Bit of a culture vulture, are you?”

  I wasn’t sure about his tone. I couldn’t quite work out if he was sneering at me or not.

  “Sorry. Don’t look like that. I’m not having a go, honest.” He grinned. “I’m just curious as to why anyone would be a ghostwriter. Don’t you want to write your own story, not someone else’s?”

  “Not much to tell. It would bore the pants off the reader. I’d have to jazz it up and make it fiction.”

  “Not up to that?”

  There was no getting away from it. He was taunting me. Throwing down some kind of gauntlet and waiting for me to pick it up. The annoying thing was that I found I wanted to impress him and it had nothing to do with whether he would think I was suitable for the job or not. I wanted him to think I was smart.

  “I don’t know,” I said evenly. “I haven’t tried. Ghostwriting is more difficult than you might think. There is a craft involved, you know.”

  “Well, writing’s a craft, sure,” he said, “but I would have thought it would be more a case of dealing with your subject’s ego without them being aware that you’re the one calling the shots.”