by Wendy Leigh
“Great-Aunt Ella and I are the same size. So I asked her to FedEx me her bunny costume, and . . .” Lindy said.
I didn’t need her to end her sentence. I could see it all, writ large in harrowing living color. In her quest to help me get Unraveled published, Lindy had donned Great-Aunt Ella’s bunny costume and delivered it to Robert Hartwell, in person, herself.
“But surely the security guards must have stopped you at the gate, Lindy?” I say, hoping against hope.
She shakes her head.
“At the castle gatehouse, Jerry, the head security guard, snapped my picture on his phone and texted it to Mary Ellen Mead, Robert Hartwell’s personal assistant. Funny thing, he told me he had to do it real fast as Robert Hartwell bans his staff from using their phones while on duty! Hates cell phones and texting . . . Anyway, Mary Ellen Mead called Jerry straight back, laughing, and said that Mr. Hartwell would be tickled pink about a bunny girl turning up at the castle with a package. . . .”
“So did you hand it to Robert Hartwell personally?” I say, my heart in my mouth.
“I’m sorry, Miranda, I really am. Jerry did.”
Aside from how terrified I am that Robert Hartwell will expose me as an erotic novelist—after all, he has a gossip column syndicated in all his global newspapers—I feel extremely uncomfortable at the thought that he might even be reading Unraveled right now, when my editor hasn’t yet had the chance to put her stamp on it.
“Why don’t I call Grandpa and beg him to consult the stars so he can find a way for us to get it back, Miranda?” Lindy says.
“And tell him that I’ve become an erotic novelist? That’s a brilliant idea if you want him to suffer a stroke, Lindy.”
“But why would he, Miranda?” she says. Then sees the look in my eyes and and backtracks with, “I won’t say a word about Unraveled to Grandpa when I call him, sacred promise. I’ll just explain that you sent the latest celeb autobiography you are ghosting to Robert Hartwell by mistake and if your publisher finds out, the book will probably be canceled. Then I’ll beg him to check the stars and find out what you should do to get it back.”
Crazy as Lindy’s idea might sound to an outsider, Grandpa is a well-respected astrologer, and whenever we’ve asked him to read the stars for us, he’s always come up with spookily accurate insights, like when he took a look at the astrological chart of Warren Courtney, the first man I fell for when I was in my late teens and warned me against getting involved with him. I didn’t want to hear it at the time, but ultimately Grandpa was 100 percent right.
“Call Grandpa, then, Lindy,” I say with a sigh.
“Fascinating, Miranda,” Grandpa says after he’s drawn up Robert Hartwell’s astrological chart and we finally talk. “Like all Sagittarius males, Robert Hartwell is an extremely tricky customer, indeed: Sags, you see, are traditionally half man, half horse, and are utterly fixated on freedom at any cost. But after studying the astrological links between the two of you, I would say the good news is that provided you utilize the correct approach, chances are that you will succeed in getting your manuscript back from Mr. Hartwell.”
“What do you mean ‘the correct approach,’ Grandpa?”
A silence, during which I hear him scribbling something at great speed.
“Just rechecked Mr. Hartwell’s chart, Miranda, and it seems to me that you would do best to appeal to the more chivalrous elements in his nature. The stars indicate that chivalry is one of Mr. Hartwell’s strongest characteristics.”
Then he gives me his strategy for dealing with Robert Hartwell, complete with a word-for-word script in case I manage to get to talk to him, and which, if I follow it, he says could help me convince Robert Hartwell to return my manuscript.
Heartened by Grandpa’s words, I thank him and start to hang up, but he isn’t done yet. I spend the next half hour listening while he rambles on regarding the intricate technicalities of Robert Hartwell’s chart, until I’m so bored I want to scream.
I don’t, of course. Grandpa has always been so kind and generous to me. In fact, as a child I always called him my fairy grandfather. My first Barbie doll, my first prom dress, my first Chevy, and year after year of wonderful birthdays filled with surprise after surprise were all courtesy of Grandpa. So no matter how long-winded he can sometimes be, no matter much time I have to spend listening to his astrological interpretations, I always do.
Today, though, after forty minutes, I can sense my patience starting to crack and am just weighing up how to get off the phone without hurting Grandpa’s feelings when he suddenly says something that stops me dead in my tracks: “I happen to have known Georgiana,” he says.
Before I can quiz him on his sensational announcement, he clears his throat and stops me. “Much as I love and respect you, Miranda, I can’t discuss Lady Georgiana with you in any intimate detail. You see, since her graduation from Swiss finishing school, Lady Georgiana was my client. As her astrologer, I must keep every aspect of our relationship strictly confidential.”
Although I’ve always prided myself on being able to persuade even the most reticent of subjects to confide their deepest secrets to me—one of my strengths as a ghostwriter, a profession in which the ability to get people to open up to you is essential—I wouldn’t dream of pushing Grandpa to act in contradiction to his conscience.
So instead of trying to pump him for details, I say good-bye, then brace myself and call Hartwell Global Media.
Robert Hartwell’s personal assistant answers in a soft and lilting voice: “HGM. Mary Ellen Mead speaking.” She seems friendly, not stern or officious, as I’d pictured a billionaire’s personal assistant to be, and I like the sound of her immediately
Remembering Grandpa’s advice, I introduce myself to her as a published ghostwriter, throw out a few of my credits, and explain that my little sister has played a dumb prank on me and sent Robert Hartwell a manuscript that was intended for my publisher’s eyes only.
“The bunny girl?” she says, before I can explain further.
“Did you—?”
“Normally, Jerry would have turned her away automatically, but I knew that Mr. Hartwell would be amused by the thought of a bunny girl trying to deliver a mysterious package to him, so I’m afraid I told Jerry to go ahead,” she says.
“So has Robert Hartwell . . . ?”
“I’m really sorry, Miss Stone. I’m afraid he’s had it for the past week,” she says, sounding genuinely upset for me.
So I throw myself on her mercy and beg her to ask Robert Hartwell to shred my manuscript unread.
“He’s in meetings, but luckily, he’s in a good mood this afternoon, otherwise I would have hell to pay for bothering him with something like this,” Mary Ellen says.
Hell to pay? Robert Hartwell is clearly a tyrant of the first order.
“Stay on the line,” she says after a second or two. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I start to relax, but then she adds as an afterthought, “I must warn you, Miss Stone, that although Mr. Hartwell is a good and decent man, he is also a law unto himself.”
She’s gone from the phone long enough for me to wonder what it is about Mr. Robert Hartwell that intimidates his personal assistant but simultaneously causes her to feel affection for him.
I haven’t come to any conclusion yet when there is a click on the phone, and a voice I instantly recognize from TV—a deep, gravelly voice, resounding with authority—demands, “Miss Miranda Stone, I presume?”
Grandpa’s words echo in my mind: Forget about how powerful he is. Forget that he holds your professional reputation in the balance. Don’t be threatened by him. Just be direct!
“It is, Mr. Hartwell. I believe Miss Mead has explained to you that I’m a ghostwriter and—”
“Who is currently secretly plotting to publish a sensational erotic novel, under a fake name,” he says with a chuckle.
Hell, he must have already looked at Unraveled!
I blush scarlet.
“Just a sideline, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.
“Some sideline! A main event, more like it! Mrs. Mead tells me that the second-biggest publisher in the world—after me—is going to publish your erotic novel,” he says, his voice filled with amusement.
“Yes, Mr. Hartwell. But they haven’t seen the final manuscript yet.”
“Ah, but I have, Miss Stone! In fact, your erotic novel is at this very minute on my desk, right in front of me,” he says.
He’s toying with me and loving it. I won’t give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait.
Assuming my best British accent, recently gleaned from my time in London while ghosting an autobiography for a famous Shakespearean actor, I follow Grandpa’s script word for word: “Mr. Hartwell, I know you are a gentleman. So I hope very much that you won’t make me suffer for my unfortunate mistake. Two weeks ago, I erroneously e-mailed my unpublished manuscript to my little sister, and she, with the best will in the world, jumped to the conclusion that you might want to publish it . . . and—”
“Perhaps I would have, Miss Stone. If you hadn’t already got a publisher, that is . . .” he says, cutting in.
As if Robert Hartwell is in the business of publishing erotic novels! What in the hell is he playing at?
“Definitely a pity that you’ve already got a publisher, Miss Stone. But even more of a pity that you are no longer as dedicated to your ghostwriting as you once were. Otherwise . . .” he says, and then leaves me hanging.
Long silence, until I can’t bear the suspense any longer.
“Otherwise, Mr. Hartwell?”
“Otherwise I might consider hiring you to ghost my autobiography,” he says finally.
Ghost Robert Hartwell’s autobiography, the publishing sensation of the century! I don’t know what to say and cast around for something, anything.
Luckily, one of Grandpa’s favorite phrases pops into my head: “When in doubt, say nothing.”
So that’s exactly what I do.
“Still with me, Miss Stone?” Robert Hartwell says after a few moments.
“Very much so, Mr. Hartwell. But you haven’t told me whether or not you are prepared to trash Unraveled and never reveal to anyone that I wrote it,” I say, deciding not to let myself dream about ghosting his autobiography before dealing with the issue at hand.
“First things first, Miss Stone,” Robert Hartwell says, echoing my thoughts in an uncanny way. “Are you acquainted with any Spanish proverbs?”
My initial instinct is to tell him where he can stuff his Spanish proverbs, but that wouldn’t get me my manuscript back, or the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of ghosting his autobiography, either.
“No, Mr. Hartwell, but I’d love it if you would tell me one,” I say, gritting my teeth.
“Delighted, Miss Stone,” he says, in a voice laced with sarcasm, then goes on: “Here it is: ‘Take what you want in life, and pay.’ An ancient Spanish proverb which, in your current situation, I’m sure you’ll agree carries a great deal of significance.”
Take what you want in life and pay? What in heaven’s name does Robert Hartwell mean by telling me that?
As if he can read my mind, he says, “Let me make this extremely clear to you, Miss Stone. If you expect me to return your manuscript to you, keep the secret that you authored it, and consider you for the extremely lucrative, highly prestigious role of my ghostwriter, you will have to pay my price.”
Questions cartwheel through my mind at a breathtaking pace: His price? Robert Hartwell is a billionaire many times over, so his price definitely can’t be money, can it? So what is it? Sex? No way. Robert Hartwell is hardly going to want to have sex with a ghostwriter from Hoboken with a bust that’s too big for her diminutive frame and a face that some say is quite pretty in a 1950-ish movie-star way, but who certainly isn’t about to rival the iconic Lady Georgiana Hartwell in any shape or form. So what exactly does he want from me?
“Miss Stone, I agree to return your erotic manuscript to you, and to keep your authorship of it a secret. Moreover, I will also give serious consideration to the possibility of you ghosting my autobiography. On one condition, and one condition only: you will meet with me tomorrow afternoon at four thirty, here at Hartwell Castle,” he says.
“Of course, Mr. Hartwell, I’d be delighted,” I say as coolly as possible, given that my heart is hammering so wildly.
“Not so fast, Miss Stone, I’m not done yet,” he snaps, sounding exactly like my high school principal reprimanding me for skipping class, and I cringe a little.
“Now, as to the parameters of our meeting . . .” he goes on, then pauses for so long that if he were in front of me right now, I’d fly at him and force him to say something, anything.
Just don’t make me wait like this, or I’ll explode!
“Being made to wait drives me crazy,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
“I’ll definitely take note of that, Miss Stone,” he says. “And now my price . . .”
I hold my breath.
“I shall fulfill your requests, Miss Stone. But only on the condition that you read the first chapter of Unraveled to me out loud, face-to-face, here at Hartwell Castle, tomorrow afternoon,” he says in a tone that brooks no contradiction.
The first chapter of Unraveled, as Robert Hartwell well knows, obviously having browsed through it, is sexually explicit in the extreme.
Writing that chapter made me blush. And reading it to myself afterward, I was flooded by a combination of shame and sexual excitement so strong that I broke out in a telltale scarlet flush all over my body.
Stand in front of Robert Hartwell and read him the most scorching material I’ve ever written?
“In your dreams, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.
“Very well, Miss Stone. In that case there is nothing else for us to discuss,” he says, and the line goes dead.
Leaving me standing there like a lemon, holding the receiver and shaking from head to foot with anger.
Losing Lady Georgiana must have driven Robert Hartwell out of his mind. And now I’m a victim of his insanity.
After all, why would he make such a bizarre demand of me? A prank? A cruel sense of humor?
But he’s a man who, six years after he lost his wife, still only wears black and is in deep-dish mourning for her, the documentary claimed.
So it’s hardly likely that he’s in the mood to crack jokes or play pranks.
Or is it?
I guess I’ll never know.
And I hate, hate, hate not knowing . . .
Even when I was a small child visiting Disneyland, I ran straight up to Mickey Mouse and tried to pull off his mask, just because I so desperately wanted to discover who or what was hiding behind it. But I never did.
Just as I’ll never discover why Robert Hartwell made such a bizarre demand of me.
And I won’t get Unraveled back from him either. Or stop him from outing me as the author of Unraveled and destroying my career as a ghostwriter. Worse than any of that, there’s no way I’ll get to ghost his blockbuster autobiography now.
So do I forget that I ever heard the name Robert Hartwell and let the chips fall where they may?
Or do I?
Now that I’m feeling calmer, I realize that if I want to remain true to myself and live up to my favorite saying, the motto that has always governed my actions and my life—“It’s better to regret doing something than to regret not doing it”—there is only one solution.
So I swallow my pride and press redial.
To my relief, Mary Ellen, and not her boss, picks up the phone.
“Mr. Hartwell informed me that you would be calling again, Miss Stone, and asked me to reconfirm your meeting with him here at Hartwell Castle tomorrow after
noon at four thirty,” she says.
Robert Hartwell’s arrogance is monumental. I loathe and despise him already.
Chapter Two
Three in the morning and I’ve just finished Googling Robert Hartwell and finding out as much as I can about him. Some of the information is startling, some shocking, all of it fascinating. But the big surprise for me is that after hours of reading about her legendary life, I’m now well and truly captivated by Lady Georgiana, as well.
And as I drift off to sleep, my last thought is, Lindy was right. Lady Georgiana really was an incredible, wonderful, once in a lifetime woman.
Four hours later, and I awake screaming, just as I’ve done many nights as far back as I can remember. It’s always the same; I’m in a deep sleep, then the terror strikes, and afterward the frustration that no matter how hard I try, I can never manage to recall what exactly happened during my nightmare.
I go downstairs and grab a Kit Kat. Then I notice that the red light on my landline is flashing. And as traumatized as I still am by my nightmare, when I listen to the message—“Miranda, darling, this is your grandpa. I was elated by your message regarding your prospective meeting with Mr. Hartwell. Please call me the second you wake up”—I can’t stop myself from smiling. However many times I’ve explained it to him, Grandpa still can’t seem to understand that the moment I hear his distinctive voice on the answering machine, I know it’s him.
I go to bed again but set my alarm for eight, planning to call Grandpa at nine, as he’s always wide awake by then. But he calls again when I’m in the shower and leaves another message: “Miranda, darling, this is your grandpa, again. As you are meeting with Mr. Hartwell this afternoon, I checked his chart again and made a fascinating discovery. It transpires that he and I have an interesting astrological link.”
Great. Robert Hartwell is making insane demands of me, and now Grandpa thinks he’s going to become his best buddy!
Then again, I guess there’s no reason why not. After all, he was Lady Georgiana’s astrologer once upon a time, wasn’t he?
