by Cat Clarke
The ghostwriter is late; I was twenty minutes early. I chose a couple of sofas next to the window in the corner, putting my coat and bag next to me so she would have to sit opposite me. Mom arranged to meet a friend for lunch in town so she could give me a lift. She invited Laurel, too, but Laurel said she wanted to stay home.
“I hope you’re going to do something other than watch TV?” Mom said, and it was the first truly Mom-like thing I’ve heard her say to Laurel. It was nagging, pure and simple, and I was very, very happy to hear it. Laurel didn’t seem to mind, either. She promised she’d only watch one episode, then she would start on dinner. She’s going to have a go at making pasta from scratch, which she’s been excited to try ever since she saw some TV chef making it in his pretend apartment.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay on your own?” Mom asked. “Don’t answer the door to anyone you don’t know, remember.”
“I’ll be fine. Stop worrying and go and have some fun!” She hugged Mom, then turned to me. “Thank you for doing this.”
“For doing what?” But I knew what she was talking about. Of course I did.
“The book. It means a lot to me. You know that, don’t you?” I nodded. “I hope it won’t be too painful for you to talk with the writer. All those memories…”
“I’ll be fine…as long as I have a decent dinner to come home to! By the way, there’s regular pasta in the cupboard if it all goes horribly wrong.”
Mom waited till she heard Laurel locking the door behind us before getting in the car.
—
I feel pretty good about things. The last couple of days have been okay. I’ve spent most of my time hanging out with Laurel and Mom, and everything has been normal, even though it’s a new kind of normal. Thomas and I went for a walk yesterday, and it was nice even though the weather was awful. We huddled under his umbrella and talked—really, actually talked—for the first time in ages. We talked about things that had nothing to do with my sister.
I thought I would be more nervous about meeting with the ghostwriter. I am nervous—of course I am; it’s a weird thing to have to do—but I’m glad I’m doing it. Laurel is so grateful; I like her being grateful. And the money will come in handy, even though Mom says I can’t get my hands on my share until I’m eighteen. She’s put my money in a special savings account, but at least she’s increased my allowance. Laurel’s getting a much (MUCH) bigger share of the money from the publisher, and she has access to hers now. It makes sense—it is her story. Martha asked me if it bothered me—Laurel getting so much more cash than me—and I said it didn’t. She called me a liar. I knew she could never understand. Laurel needs this money; I don’t.
A woman walks into the bar and cranes her neck to look around. I don’t wave just in case she’s not who I’m waiting for. In my head, the ghostwriter is short and thin and mousy, rounded shoulders and rounded glasses. She’s the kind of woman who fades into the background. I realize my mistake as soon as this woman starts striding in my direction. She covers the distance in remarkably few steps.
“You must be Faith. Kay Docherty. Lovely to meet you.” She holds out a hand, and I shake it. She must be at least six foot tall—even taller than Martha. White-blond hair in a severe bob with equally severe bangs. She’s dressed in lots of complicated layers in varying shades of gray, finishing off the look with a pair of black leather Converse.
“Nice to meet you,” I say as she starts unwinding a very long scarf.
She takes one look at my bag and coat before picking them up and putting them on the other sofa along with her coat and scarf, not even bothering to ask if I mind. I watch as she takes out a notepad, a pen, and a tiny recording device and lays them out on the table, then sits down and grabs the cocktail menu. She flicks through it, then puts it down again.
She calls the waitress over and says, “Bombay Sapphire, tonic, three ice cubes, and a wedge of lime, please.” The waitress doesn’t seem to think this request is anything out of the ordinary. I’m half tempted to order a cocktail, just to see what happens, but I go for a Coke instead. Some alcohol might help loosen me up a bit, but I can just imagine it ending up in the book—Laurel’s ordeal drove me to drink!
I have to turn in my seat to face Kay, and she does the same. She places the tape recorder between us, switches it on, and tells me to ignore it. Easier said than done. She explains a little bit about how it’s going to work, that I can just tell the story in my own words or she can ask questions to prompt me. We’ll probably need a couple of sessions like this, depending on how much I have to say. Then she’ll go away and write it up and send it to me for approval.
“So you’ll write it like you’re pretending to be me?” It feels dishonest somehow. That people will read this book and think they’re reading our words.
“Sort of. I like to think of it as something like channeling your spirit.”
She laughs at the skeptical look on my face. “Okay, okay, that sounds like bullshit. But it’s actually not far off. Last year I worked with a very famous athlete—not mentioning any names! It was a fascinating project, trying to work out how he would write the story, trying to nail his voice….It’s about capturing the essence of a person—the essence of their story. Anyway, you don’t need to worry about all that now.”
“Wouldn’t you rather write your own story?”
The waitress arrives with our drinks and sets them down on little black napkins. My Coke has three ice cubes and a wedge of lime, just like Kay’s drink. The waitress glances at the recording device on the sofa, then looks from me to Kay and back again, trying to work out what might be going on here. Maybe she thinks that Kay is famous and I’ve won a competition to interview her for my school newspaper. The waitress asks if we would like anything else and goes on to list the available bar snacks. She’s clearly just dragging things out, waiting to see if we’ll give anything away, but we both say, “No, thanks,” so she has to go away.
“My own story? You know, in all the years I’ve been doing this, no one has ever asked me that question. No one whose book I’ve worked on, anyway.” She can’t have been doing this job for that long; she looks quite young. “I’m afraid my story wouldn’t sell many copies….There’s nothing much to tell.”
For some reason I’m interested in Kay Docherty. I ask her if she’s ever written any novels, and she claims not to have the imagination for it. “No, it’s real lives that interest me.”
“But isn’t it annoying to do all that work on a book and have someone else take the credit for it?” I would hate it.
She shrugs and shakes her head. “Not at all. It’s…rewarding, helping people to tell their stories. Plus, the money is insane!” She leans back and laughs, then shakes her head and frowns. “Nice try, Faith.” She smiles as if she’s got the measure of me.
“What do you mean?” I take a sip of my Coke.
“Asking me all these questions, trying to distract me. We’re here to talk about you, not me. So…why don’t we start at the beginning. What—if anything—do you remember about life before Laurel was taken?” She leans closer to me and cocks her head to one side.
I look at the recording device, then back at Kay. She nods encouragingly. I start to talk.
—
I’m hesitant at first, stumbling over my words, forgetting things or not saying them the right way, then having to go back and correct them. Kay is patient and tells me not to worry, that there’s no need to apologize if there’s something I can’t remember. She asks about Mom and Dad and their relationship, which I try to gloss over as quickly as possible. I’ll leave that to them to explain. Kay asks me about the day Laurel went missing, about any memories I have of the man who took her. She asks a lot of questions about how I felt at various times, asking me to describe my emotions in as much detail as I can.
I start to relax. Kay orders me another Coke. She asks for some wasabi peas, too. I’ve never tried them before. They’re vile, but for some reason I keep popping anothe
r one into my mouth every couple of minutes.
After an hour or so, I realize I’m actually enjoying myself, even though most of the stuff I’m talking about isn’t exactly cheery. But Kay is really nice. She doesn’t mind when I go off topic and start talking about something that has little or nothing to do with Laurel. It almost feels like a normal conversation—like we’re friends just catching up on each other’s lives.
Kay is very sympathetic about everything I’ve been through. She asks if I ever felt neglected or ignored by my parents, in the aftermath of Laurel’s disappearance. I tell her the truth: yes. All the time.
She asks whether it was hard for me to make friends, and I tell her the truth: it was.
I’m honest about everything, which surprises me. I’m used to editing my thoughts and feelings when I talk to people—particularly when talking to strangers. It feels good, to talk about this stuff with someone I’ve never met before. Therapeutic, almost. I try not to think about the fact that there might be some things that Mom and Dad will wish I’d been slightly less honest about. But I can always ask Kay to take those bits out when she sends me the rough draft to read through. Besides, it’s not as if I’ve said anything particularly earth-shattering. Laurel’s the one with the real story. People will probably skip my chapters to get straight to hers; I know I would.
I surreptitiously check the time while reaching for another wasabi pea. Mom will be waiting outside.
Maybe I wasn’t so surreptitious with the watch-checking after all, because Kay says, “Well, I think that’s about it for today. I know how tiring it can be, dredging up all these memories.” She downs the rest of her gin. “You’ve done really well. There’s some good stuff here,” she says, tapping the recording device. “I think one more session should do it. Whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.”
She gives me her card and tells me to call her to set up our next meeting. She goes up to the bar to settle the bill—the publisher is paying, apparently.
We put on our coats, and Kay air-kisses me and thanks me again. I have this strange urge to tell her that we should stay here and carry on with the interview. I could call Mom and tell her I’ll meet her at home. Instead, I tell her that I was actually a bit reluctant to go ahead with the book, and that I’d been a bit nervous, not knowing what to expect.
“You’re a natural storyteller, you know,” Kay says as we walk toward the door.
I laugh and feel a blush creeping up my checks. “No, I’m not. You’re just good at asking questions.”
Kay shakes her head and holds the door open for me. “Well, that may be true, but you’ve got a gift, young lady. Trust me.”
—
A natural storyteller? The words keep popping into my head while Mom is quizzing me about how it went. What did Kay mean by that? Was it a compliment? Or was it a roundabout way of calling me a liar? I can’t decide. I’m going to have to ask her the next time I see her.
I should be relieved that there’s only one more session. But I can’t help feeling offended, if that’s even the right word. Kay thinks that after sitting down with her for another couple of hours I’ll have nothing more to say. After five hours of talking to me, she will have me all figured out. She’ll know the sum total of all that is interesting in the life of Faith Logan, aged seventeen and a half.
Of course Kay will spend days and days talking to Laurel, finding out every minute detail about her time in captivity and how she feels now that she’s home. This is The Laurel Show and my role is nothing more than a bit part.
“You seem quiet, love.” Mom glances over at me. We’re stuck in a traffic jam. I always start to feel claustrophobic after being in the car with Mom for more than a few minutes. There’s no escape if she decides to start an argument.
“I’m just tired. I don’t think I’ve ever talked so much in my life.” This is the truth. I’m much more likely to be sitting in a corner, watching and listening. I thought I preferred things that way, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe that isn’t the real me. Perhaps the real me—the me I would have been if my life hadn’t been completely overshadowed by Laurel’s abduction—likes being the center of attention. Perhaps she likes having people hang on her every word.
“I wonder how your sister’s getting on with the pasta,” says Mom.
I’d forgotten all about that. I’d forgotten all about Laurel, in fact. Even though I’ve been talking about her all afternoon.
We hear the laughter coming from the kitchen as soon as Mom opens the front door. The kitchen door is closed. Mom and I exchange a look. Laurel’s laugh is loud; the other laugh is quieter, and deeper. I recognize it immediately.
Mom takes off her coat and hangs it on one of the pegs next to the front door. I head straight through to the kitchen, opening the door with such force that it bangs against the wall. Mom hates it when I do that.
The scene in front of me can only be described as chaos. There is flour everywhere. Broken eggshells litter the counter. Laurel is kneading a big lump of dough; Thomas is standing next to her, holding a glass bowl. He has flour on his nose. Thomas freezes when the door slams open, but Laurel doesn’t even blink.
“You’re back! How did it go?” She carries on kneading as if this is a perfectly normal situation.
“It went okay, thanks,” I say coolly.
Laurel smiles and says, “I’m so glad! Hey, can you pass me some more flour?”
I get the open bag from the table, she lifts the lump of dough, and I scatter some flour on the counter. I don’t tell her that I think adding more flour is a mistake, that the TV chef she’s so fond of always warns you not to use too much.
Thomas looks very uncomfortable with the situation. He seems to not want to let go of the bowl, which is probably a good thing, because I have a sudden urge to smash it over his head. “Hi,” he says, “we were just…”
“Hello, Thomas. I didn’t realize you were coming over this afternoon.” Mom comes into the room and stands next to me. “Oh my…” She’s a bit of a neat freak, especially when it comes to the kitchen.
Laurel preempts Mom’s dismay. “It’s okay, it’s okay! I’ll clean it up in a minute! I just need to leave the dough to prove…or rest or whatever it’s called.”
“I didn’t say a word,” Mom says with a smile.
“But you were going to!” Laurel laughs.
Laurel is babbling away about making pasta not being as easy as it looks and something about egg yolks. Mom gets a cloth out of the cabinet under the sink and gets started on the cleanup operation, even though Laurel tells her she has it under control. Thomas finally puts down the bowl. I think he’s deciding whether to come over and kiss me, or hug me at least. Instead he asks if anyone would like something to drink. Mom and Laurel say yes please; I say no.
Mom keeps glancing over at me. She can tell I’m not exactly thrilled with the situation, but she would never say anything in front of Laurel. Thomas is watching me like you might watch a poisonous snake that’s escaped from its cage and is slithering its way toward a group of unsuspecting children. It’s amazing that Laurel doesn’t sense the atmosphere in the room. So amazing, in fact, that it makes me wonder if she does sense it, but is choosing to ignore it.
Laurel places the dough in the bowl and wraps plastic wrap over the top. “Thomas was just saying he thought we were awesome on The Cynthia Day Show. Isn’t that nice of him to say?” This just gets better and better. Either Thomas lied to me about not watching it, or he lied to Laurel just now. The answer is clear from the look on his face and the fact that he’s concentrating so hard on the tea bag he’s dunking. Why didn’t he just admit that he’d watched it? That’s just plain weird.
“I’m just going to the bathroom,” I say, and walk out of the room before anyone can say anything else to piss me off.
I go up to my bedroom. I sit on the bed. Thomas joins me a couple of minutes later, bringing two mugs. “I thought you might have changed your mind about the tea.”
“I haven’t.”
He puts both mugs down on the bedside table. He’s given me the one with Laurel’s name on it. “Is everything okay? You seem annoyed. Are you annoyed?” He sits down next to me and takes my hand in his. I don’t snatch my hand away. That’s something, at least.
“Why would I be annoyed?”
“Is it the Cynthia Day thing? I’m sorry I lied. I didn’t want to make you more nervous about it.” I don’t want to look at him. I’m doing such a good job of not looking at him. But I can’t work out if he’s telling the truth. I risk a glance, and he maintains eye contact, nodding ever so slightly as if that’s going to convince me.
Silence seems like the best policy. I count to twenty-seven in my head before Thomas speaks again. “She texted me, asked me to come over to help with the pasta.”
“Because you’re so renowned for your cooking skills?”
“Well, um…I suppose no one mentioned to her that I’m useless in the kitchen. I told her as much, but she sounded stressed. She really wanted to cook you something nice for tonight. I think she feels bad about you being pressured to do this book.”
He thinks he’s saying the right things, but with every word he utters, I feel myself getting more and more wound up. “I wasn’t pressured into doing anything. I can make my own decisions, you know. But it’s nice to know that you two talk about me when I’m not there.”
“We don’t! It’s not like that.” He lets go of my hand. “God, I should have known you’d be like this. I can’t seem to do anything right these days.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he mumbles. “Forget I said anything.”
“No. Tell me what you’re talking about.”
He sighs and stands. “I think I should go. I don’t want to fight with you.”