by Emma Rowley
“Actually, you’ve just made me think.” I smile to signal the weak joke. “I’m going to have to head off, I’m afraid—I’ve got a really early start tomorrow.”
“Go?” He frowns. “Don’t you want another drink? It’s Saturday night.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, feeling my eyelids flicker. I forgot for a moment what day of the week it was. An occupational hazard when you set your own hours. “I mean, I know that, of course, but my trainer’s coming really early.”
“You have a trainer?” he says, a little skeptically.
“Paid up front,” I lie. “So I can’t back out!” I’m already gathering my bag up from the floor. “So nice to meet you, though. Have a great rest of the weekend, OK?”
* * *
I’m indignant as I leave the bar and start the short walk home from the high street. Who does he think he is, casting doubt on my polite fib? Who orders a £12 glass of merlot when you’re splitting the bill, anyway?
Still, by the time I near the turn off the main road to the row of town houses where I live, my righteousness has worn off. I wanted a night out to forget my problems; instead it has put them at the forefront of my mind. Because even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have stayed there ordering round after round.
I rarely indulge in feeling sorry for myself. But as I let myself in through the front door and head up the stairs to my dark, silent apartment, I am feeling small and deflated. And—if I’m honest—lonely. For once, I can’t be bothered to switch on the cozy lights and TV to create the illusion of company as I get ready for bed.
* * *
It was my ex Rob’s idea that we rent this place. He made—still makes, I suppose—a nice living, padding out his theater spots with lucrative voice-over work. I worried that since I’d been having to go home so much, interrupting my writing, we should wait until my finances were healthier. He said that we could afford it together and that I should stop fretting.
Then, after things went south between us, it was too late to back out of the lease. He offered to stay at his brother’s. Graciously, he thought; I didn’t have anywhere to go. But the rent is steep for just me, and it’s a long time until the lease is up.
* * *
Before I slide between the sheets, I check my phone. It doesn’t help my bleak mood. I missed a call this evening, from an unlisted number—the second today, in fact, after the one I ignored earlier.
I know my editor wouldn’t call me over a weekend, however worried she was about a manuscript. So I know who it must be: another brusque call-center operator telling me I owe money on my account, asking how would I like to make repayment?
I always try to explain that I will have money coming in soon, that I am doing my best, trying so hard to get out of this situation. But it doesn’t stop the calls.
I pull the duvet over my head. I’ll deal with it all in the morning.
Chapter 3
The phone wakes me, shrilling on my pillow. I fumble for the silence button, and toss it across the room, anger flashing through me. These people are relentless.
I’m reminded—as if I could forget—of the state of my bank balance. So although it’s Sunday, I make myself get up, make proper coffee, and sit at my laptop, still in my pajamas, waiting for the grogginess to clear.
It doesn’t take me long to get the chef’s rewrite done and e-mailed off to the publisher. I allow myself a celebratory cookie and sit back down.
I have already asked Barbara, my agent, to put me up for another ghostwriting job. Work is my only way out of this mess.
The celebrity in question is too busy to meet prospective writers, so the publisher is asking us all to submit a writing sample to show how we might capture her voice.
It’s tricky to do without meeting her, but not impossible.
This first step is research, as it always is when I’m prepping for a book: pulling up YouTube to watch clips of the subject’s TV show, if they have one; trawling through past appearances on talk shows; combing through old newspaper interviews. I pay for a cuttings service, which lets me access years of past articles.
Along the way, I can check the facts; even discover a few new ones. You’d be surprised what people can get wrong—the names of old colleagues, the years their children were born—and what they might, to put it charitably, forget—early career flops, that band member who didn’t work out . . .
If I do my research thoroughly, when I sit down for my interviews with the person whose book I am writing, I am ready to ask every possible question that might give me an interesting answer. It means I can avoid repeating the same safe stale anecdotes they like to trot out. And I can challenge my subject, in the politest of ways, if they gloss over things, waffle, or bluster. It makes for a much better book.
Because, yes, I can empathize with someone, build a rapport. I can deliver a manuscript to deadline, I am reliable. But this is the other side of my job: turning over stones, seeing what’s underneath. I’m good at it, with my background in newspapers. It’s what gives me my edge—it’s my niche, you could say. Looking closer.
* * *
Of course, I have to be tactful. I always remember it is not really my book, that the person I’m writing for has to be happy with what I write. And no one wants you to show them exactly as they are. They want you to show them as they want to be.
I learned that the hard way. I was writing a rushed-out autobiography for a singer who struck me as a very nice young man. It shone through in the way he talked to me about his family and his girlfriend, the same one he’d had since school.
I knew his fans would lap it up. They liked how smiley and kind he seemed, even in the pressure-cooker environment of the talent show that made him famous. I filed the first few chapters to the publisher, to check I was on track. They loved what I’d got, they just needed to run it by his camp. And then . . . the tone changed.
“We’ll get back to you,” my editor e-mailed me, “just ironing out a few issues.”
I couldn’t figure out what they could object to, until she called the next day.
“You know, Nicky, don’t feel you have to tone him down. You can let him be a bit rock’n’roll.” My confusion was almost audible. “I mean,” she finally cracked, “you don’t need to delete all the swear words. Or mention the girlfriend.”
Aha. So I threw in some not-so-veiled references to a substance-abuse problem, hinted at a string of drunken one-night stands, and deleted all mentions of his long-term girlfriend. She understood, I was told, and everyone was happy.
* * *
So who, I wonder, does this next potential project want to be?
I can see why the publisher signed her up. The Coupon Queen, her TV show, has been a surprise hit, moving from a morning to an evening slot.
The format is simple: she turns up at someone’s home, looking like a cartoon version of a bank manager, in her signature skirt suit, beehive, and cat’s-eye glasses. Like a costume really—almost a disguise. Then she goes through your bills and tells you exactly where you’ve gone wrong. Wonder what she’d tell me . . .
On the screen, she is breezy, upbeat—unshockable. But it’s hard to get a sense of her.
I turn to the notes I’ve made for inspiration.
Sally Cooper was working in a bank when she started her Coupon Queen newsletter to help other moms save money, I read. Snooze. She has a son, now a student. She has talked about co-parenting with her ex. Nice. But snooze again.
There’s nothing juicy, except some rumblings when she jumped ship to her current broadcaster, doubling her pay. Greedy, said some media commentators.
I start to type, trying things out on the screen:
If you can’t control your budget, you can’t control your life.
That’s what she always says—but her catchphrase reads so leaden on the page.
Not everyone understands that my job isn’t just to repeat what people actually say. I have to be more creative than that; I have to tell a good story.
> “You mean you put words into their mouths?” Rob asked me once, when things were turning sour between us.
“Well . . .” I hedged, sensing he wanted to pick another fight. “They check it all over . . . they’re things they’re happy to say.”
Now, staring at the screen, I take a swig of cold coffee and try again.
I want this book to inspire others to achieve their financial potential, to take control.
Yawn. I’d fall asleep reading this. I’ll have to keep digging.
* * *
Of course, you never really know what bit of info you’re looking for until you find it. It’s curiosity that drives me, more than anything else; that prickly feeling I get, when I might have come across something that could take me somewhere interesting . . .
And eventually—bingo. I find my lead in one of the oldest articles about the Coupon Queen, from back when she was plugging her newsletter in her local paper. She was Sally Berrycloth then.
That’s how, after a bit of searching, I track down her son on social media. Then, in his friends list, I spot the profile for someone with the same surname—an older man. It is set to private, but a quick Google search turns up some very interesting results.
And, after I check the online inquiries directory I use, to confirm that a Sally Berrycloth was once listed at the same address this man gave in court, I am sure: this is her ex. And theirs is not quite the cordial relationship she makes out, I’d bet.
I start to write, confident now that my sample will grab her attention.
I haven’t told anyone this before. But when I was just a young mother, my little boy just starting school, his father went to prison. They got him on an assault charge in the end.
Any money from him—patchy at best—dried up. I was broke. Dead broke.
That’s when I told myself: I’ll never be in this situation again.
And that’s how I know. If you can’t control your budget, you can’t control your life.
Now that’s a story worth telling. Whether she will let me tell it is another matter. But at the least, she and her publisher will want to talk to me, to find out what I know.
I sigh, despite knowing I need this job—desperately. It’s exhausting, the prospect of going from one book to another without a break. But I have to do it.
From my bedroom, my phone rings again. I get up, stiff from sitting so long, and go to find it wedged down the side of the dresser.
When I pull it out, it’s covered in dust. My place is always a dump by the end of a book.
It keeps ringing, an unlisted number. Probably time to face the music.
“Hello?”
Chapter 4
“Nicky?”
“Hello, who’s calling?” I wander back into the other room, and sit at the table again.
“Am I speaking to Nicky?” The woman’s voice is clipped and unfamiliar.
“I think you rang me?” I say, pointedly polite. I find it’s best not to lose my temper when a collections agency calls. “And you are?”
“This is Julia.” Clearly I’m supposed to know who Julia is. “Didn’t you get my e-mail?”
“No.” Not a call center, after all. I minimize the document on my screen and open my junk file, scanning quickly. Among the dross is an e-mail that isn’t trying to sell me Viagra, sent yesterday. “Ghostwriting” reads the subject title.
“Thanks so much, but I’m not actually taking on any more work at the moment.” I say automatically, clicking the e-mail open. I prefer people to go through my agent—she’s better than me at dealing with people who find my website and think the story of their life in middle management is a guaranteed best seller.
“Are you sure?” Julia sounds sharp. “Have you definitely read the e-mail?”
“Oh.” I take my feet off the chair next to mine and place them back down on the floor, as I scan down. “I’m so sorry, long day.” I have registered the sender’s name now: Julia Levitt. “You work for Olivia Hayes, of course. How are you?”
“That’s right, I assist Olivia.” She manages to sound both impatient and smug. “So, she’s keen to get started. She’s very impressed by the projects you’ve worked on.”
“Thanks. All confidential,” I add, automatically.
“Naturally. So how’s this week looking? Her schedule’s just opened up.”
“This week? Well, let me check . . .” I say, stalling for time. I don’t like surprises.
“We thought you could just blitz it. Get the bulk of the interviews done. That’s how it works, right? Otherwise it’s difficult for her to commit. She’s so busy.”
“Right, yes. That’s how it works.” It’s been a while since Julia and I exchanged e-mails over this; so I feel unprepared for her call. “I’d just have to rearrange a few things . . .”
“Well, if you don’t have time in your schedule, that’s a shame, but I am sure we could always find another writer.”
I think for a moment, then speak decisively. “It’s fine, let’s do it.”
“Great. She’s in Annersley, on the Cheshire border. If you get there tonight, you can start tomorrow morning, finish up on Friday. If all goes to plan.”
“OK, can I just ask—”
“I’ll pop all the details and directions in an e-mail. Thanks.”
“Sure, but can I check—”
But she has already hung up.
I put the phone down. I don’t like being bounced into decisions. Go tonight, start tomorrow? Then I think of my overdraft, the unpleasant call, and letters in the post . . .
For a moment I sit there, wondering if I’ve done the right thing by saying yes.
But there’s no question, really. I know what I’m going to do. The Coupon Queen pitch will have to wait—my mind’s already on the new task ahead.
I push my chair back and swing myself up. Better get packing.
Chapter 5
An hour later, I am sweating. My bedroom is in chaos, clothes spilling out of my open suitcase and discarded in piles over my bed. Never mind black tie or winter weddings. What do you wear to meet Olivia Hayes?
I need a break. I flop down on my duvet, picking up my phone, and open Instagram.
Straight away I see a new photo is up: a woman, back to the camera, stepping delicately through a sun-dappled meadow. Barefoot in a diaphanous white dress, one hand clasping a straw hat to tumbling blond hair, as she heads deeper into the grass. Olivia.
* * *
She’s not a household name yet. Despite hundreds of thousands of followers—from office girls in Newcastle to Midwestern moms in the United States—she’s not among the biggest influencers around. She’s not quite, well . . . relatable enough for that.
This is not a woman who will share her toddler’s latest meltdown, crack jokes about wine o’clock, or offer earnest thoughts under smiling photos, pale flesh spilling unapologetically from a bikini, about sharing #flawsandall. No, the most Olivia might admit to, in one of her to-the-point captions, is the need for some #metime. Maybe.
And yet the women—and it is women—that do follow her are remarkably involved in terms of liking and commenting and clicking through to buy a little of her taste. Engaged, they call it. So, naturally, over the years, there have been various sponsorship deals (with the higher-end brands), as well as tasteful tie-ins: her recent homewares collection at a department store; that one-off range of bedding that flew off the shelves.
More recently, there have been spreads showcasing her home in interior-design magazines, mentions in Sunday supplements, spots on panels where she and other polished young women tell others how to follow in their footsteps.
A book is the logical next move: how to get a life like Olivia’s, step by step.
* * *
And who wouldn’t want that after seeing her life offered up in these pretty little squares? Yellow glasses of champagne piled high at a party, pastel cupcakes teetering on a frilled café table, a bubble bath nearly overflowing at some new hotel. Endless b
eautiful shots of shops, parties, vacations, her home. And, of course, of Olivia herself.
Olivia, silk dressing gown clutched around her, posed in the arch of a garden wall. Olivia, in long wool coat, wreathed by leaves in an autumn forest. Olivia, in full-on ball gown (ball gown!), framed to perfection by misty water and a weeping willow.
Sometimes there is a suggestion of other people—a hand with a glass caught in frame, blurred figures in the background—but usually it’s just Olivia, lovely and alone.
It is not narcissism, I know that. Or at least, if it is, it’s business, too.
* * *
With some of her rivals, as you look through their feeds, you can see the transformation take place: how the photography becomes more skilled, the poses more practiced, the whole persona hardens and calcifies, as a hobby becomes a job.
But Olivia was slick from the start. Professional.
Still, I keep scrolling back through time, trying to get a better sense of the woman I’m about to meet. Though her captions are brief, I can mark some changes in her life.
She never shows her daughter’s face or names her—once explaining that she wanted to protect her privacy—but there are glimpses over the years: a tiny hand to announce the baby’s arrival three years ago, an arty shot of candies spelling out the number “1” on a cake, the small figure of a toddler clambering over a distant stile.
And of course, a home like that took time and money to create; a process she has charted along the way.
“Painting all weekend,” reads the caption under a smiling Olivia, holding a brush, a smudge of green-gray paint on her cheek. “The job that will never end!”
Her wedding photos date back eight years ago, artful close-ups to showcase details of her dress and ring. Before that, there are discreet references to “Josh, my fiancé.” Her followers love it, still, when he makes the odd appearance. “#Mumcrush,” they write, “Your husband is #goals!”
And now I’ve reached the end, or rather the beginning of her photos, shot nine years ago: the house gleaming white under a clear blue sky. “Home,” is all the caption says.