by Emma Rowley
* * *
Yes, that’s her secret, I think: Olivia retains her mystery, even as she shares and shares.
If you do sense anything of the person behind it all, it’s the sheer effort that goes into maintaining this aesthetic, through the thousands of photos that she has offered up to strangers, through the months and years, not one veering an inch from her brand.
Tasteful. Classic. Luxurious. And of course, underpinning the whole edifice, rich.
I wonder if that isn’t where her appeal lies: as an escape from her followers’ daily grind. Because who could imagine anything going wrong for a woman like this?
Still, it’s no surprise that sometimes the tone of their comments fails to quite disguise the envy. “You should see the chaos inside my fridge, who even has a pantry these days,” “If I tried to take a picture of my toddler it’d just be a blur as she bolted for the door!” “God, did you ever take a bad photo in your life?”
It’s silly, really, to let this stuff affect you. I certainly don’t. Not normally.
But as I toss my phone onto the bed and survey the wreckage of my room—the shabby old suitcase, the tired-looking clothes, the damp patch in the corner that I don’t know how to fix—I feel a wave of something that is almost despair.
She’s just so together, so immaculate. And I’m . . . not. My hair needs a cut, I haven’t bought anything new for ages, and my apartment is a mess. And that’s just the surface stuff. But surfaces matter to her: what will she think of me?
My stomach is starting to roil with nerves. I can feel the sweat prickling on my palms . . .
Then I catch myself. What am I doing? I am getting this all wrong.
Remember, I tell myself sternly, I’m a ghostwriter. I’m not trying to prove anything, not trying to compete. I don’t need to take all this with me. In fact . . .
More confident now, I tip out my suitcase so it’s empty again. Then I throw in T-shirts, soft with washing, a few ancient woollen sweaters—the countryside will be chillier than the city—some comfy pairs of jeans, running shoes.
I stand there a moment with my hair straighteners in my hands, deciding, before I stick them back in the basket by my bed.
Within minutes, I’m packed and ready. No need to panic. It will all be fine.
Right?
Chapter 6
It is dark when I arrive, replaying my excuses in my mind—The traffic was terrible out of London, I got stuck in construction, I am so sorry—and I am tense, the slam of my car door sounding too loud in the quiet evening as I get out to press the buzzer at the gate.
No one answers, but someone must have heard, because slowly the iron gates open inward, gravel crunching under the wheels as I roll forward. Gnats dance in the glare of my headlights, tree trunks looming tall and bare in the twin beams, as I navigate the winding driveway, the house just visible over the treetops.
And yet it still surprises me when I round the last turn and there it is, gleaming huge and white out of the darkness like an iceberg. I pause for a second; taking in its tall clean lines, its bold handsome shapes, the dark trees pressing in close all around.
I park my little yellow Fiat on the far side of the circular driveway, to the left of the house, so I don’t block in the cars already parked there, a big silver 4x4 and a shiny black sports car that no one has bothered to put inside the garage—a converted outbuilding that looks grander than the home I grew up in.
As I walk up to the main house, my suitcase dragging noisily over the gravel, I can see past one long, low wing, down to the tennis court on one side of the flat lawn. Out of sight, to the right of the house, I know lies the small walled kitchen garden Olivia often uses as a backdrop for her outfit of the day.
Everything is familiar—and yet not. Seen in the flesh, the house is so pristine, a vast wedding cake of a building, there is something almost false about it, like a set mocked up for a period drama.
I feel suddenly disoriented, almost dizzy. I pause a moment to take it all in, push down my nerves. It has just been a bit sudden, that’s all, from getting the call to pulling up at her house. Deep breaths.
Then I bump my bag up the shallow stone steps, past the slim columns holding up the porch—portico? the word comes to me—and press the bell.
* * *
I don’t hear anyone approaching. I find myself imagining that nothing but plywood and glue lies behind the house’s eggshell-smooth façade, the dark crawling ivy that drapes over it; behind it is nothing at all—
The door swings open.
“Oh!” I say. It’s not Olivia, but an older woman.
We stare at each other.
“Sorry,” I say. “I thought you were going to speak first.” I laugh, putting out my hand. “I’m Nicky? The writer?” I let my hand drop slowly. “Olivia will be expecting me . . .”
The woman steps aside so I can enter. With her short curly hair, sensible cardigan, and pleated skirt, she could be anywhere between fifty-five and seventy-five.
“You can leave that here,” she says, nodding to my suitcase.
“OK,” I say brightly, bumping it into the cool, shadowy entranceway, as she pushes the front door closed behind me, then I follow her through glass-paneled doors—and stop.
To my right, a wide oak staircase curves up and around to the open landing, so the space I am in stands two stories high. I look up. The skylight will be spectacular when the sun is out, I know.
I feel a pulse of excitement, despite my nerves. Even Olivia’s photos can’t quite do it all justice. I want to look more closely, at the paintings, the fabrics, the beautiful lamps, even the roses scenting the air—
“If you’d just wait here a moment.”
“Of course,” I say, focusing. “And I don’t think I caught your name . . .”
She’s not the assistant Julia, surely.
“Annie.”
At the back, the main hall opens off into corridors on either side, leading to the rest of the house. As Annie heads off slowly, her footsteps sounding down the corridor to the right, I check myself in the hallway mirror.
My eyes are wide; my dark hair hanging limp around my pale face after the long journey. I fiddle with my necklace—spelling “Nicky” in looping gold letters—so it’s not askew. I feel off balance, too.
On the hall table under the mirror is a photo in a heavy silver frame. I pick it up to distract myself. I always try look at the photos in a subject’s home. They tell you so much about a person’s taste, values . . . little white lies. I heard of one ghostwriter who realized only when he saw the eighties perm in his subject’s wedding photos that she must have knocked at least a decade off her age.
But there is nothing to alarm here. It’s the three of them, Olivia, her husband Josh, and their little girl, in matching chunky sweaters, propped up laughing on the lawn. I haven’t seen her daughter’s face before, and I scrutinize it for a moment. She is fair like her mother, but I can’t decide who she takes after—
“Nicky, is it?”
I twist around, putting down the frame with a clunk. Olivia is standing behind me, her head tilted, watching me. Is she annoyed? But she is already darting forward.
“Hello! How are you!”
I register those familiar fine-boned features, ash-blond hair, blue eyes. As we clash cheekbones, I catch her perfume—vaguely familiar, as if I’ve tried it in an expensive department store—and we are both smiling as we draw back from each other: I must have mistaken her expression, before.
“Hi! Yes! I’m so sorry,” I say, my words tumbling out. “The traffic was insane coming up, even on a Sunday. And then I missed the turn the directions said to look out for after Annersley village—”
“Don’t worry at all,” she says firmly. Like every famous or semi-famous person I have met, she is smaller than I expected, even a little fragile-looking in her soft, sleeveless top and jeans. “Well, why don’t we go into the kitchen . . .”
But she doesn’t move, and I see her glance
flicker down to the vast velvety rug almost filling the hall, covering the wide wooden boards. It looks old.
I inch back, so I am no longer touching the tassels. “Shall I take off my shoes?”
She smiles again. “Would you mind? Our housekeeper, Annie, will look after them.”
So it was the housekeeper who let me in. Of course Olivia has staff.
I feel my face heating up as I step back into the shadows to kick off my Converse, and then I am annoyed at my own reaction. I don’t get starstruck, I’ve met people far more famous than Olivia Hayes, but I’ve let myself get rattled.
“Thanks so much,” Olivia says. “I wouldn’t normally ask, but it’s been so dry, the driveway gets dusty . . .” She takes a few steps in, then spins round: clasping her hands in front of her. “But forgive me—we are starting tomorrow, aren’t we?”
I pause a second. “Yes. That’s right. Monday.”
She frowns slightly. “So we must be on the way, before your hotel? Where are you staying, the Rose and Crown in Mansford? That’s the best round here, definitely.”
My expression says it all. Oh shit.
Chapter 7
For the second time in minutes, I am falling over myself with apologies.
“I really am sorry. I just thought from Julia’s e-mails that I would be staying here. Isn’t that what she meant?”
Olivia is shaking her head slowly. “Didn’t you see an attachment, about B&Bs?”
I grimace. “No, sorry, I was in such a hurry when I was reading the e-mail. Look, don’t worry.” I fish my phone out of the pocket of my denim jacket. “I’m not normally this disorganized! But I can fix this—”
“It’s OK,” she says, rather flatly.
There’s an awkward silence—broken as someone walks in from behind her, jangling his keys in his pocket. “Hello, hello,” he says, his voice carrying. “Now who’s this?”
“This is my husband, Josh,” Olivia says politely to me, half-turning to him. “This is Nicky, Josh, the ghostwriter—you remember.”
He is tall and tan, in jeans and a blue jacket, somehow filling the big space with his presence. His handshake pulls me ever so slightly forward, but at least I am braced for another double kiss. I had to learn what to anticipate when I moved to London after college. Kiss? Hug? Two kisses? How about a handshake, please?
“Great to have you here,” he says. He looks between us, picking up on the atmosphere. “Everything OK?”
“It’s totally my fault,” I say, before she can reply. “Please, don’t let me disturb your evening. Only . . .” I look at them both a little helplessly. “Is there anywhere you can recommend I try at the last minute? I’d better get going before it gets dark. Or any darker.”
The hall window, curtains hanging open, already shows a glossy black sky. I can’t imagine waltzing into a country B&B at this hour. I am sure they know this, too.
They are silent for a second, as some unspoken communication passes between them. In the glow of the hall’s lamps, the pair of them look like one of those black-and-white ads for Swiss watches you see with some twaddle about timeless heritage values . . .
Then Olivia gives herself a tiny little shake. “Of course, you must stay.”
“Really, it’s no problem—I’m sure I can find somewhere. . .” I look vaguely in the direction of the front door.
But she has decided now. “No. You won’t find anywhere at this hour, anyway, you’ll just be driving around.”
“Well, if you’re definitely sure . . .”
Josh is smiling: that’s sorted. “Right,” he says, clapping his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “Got to get to the shop before it closes. Liv, do you want anything?”
She shakes her head and he moves past us both. It seems very quiet again when the front door shuts behind him.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again. “There was a list attached to the e-mail . . . ? I didn’t see—I just assumed—the phone call was so rushed.”
“Never mind,” she says briskly, starting toward the hallway off to our right. “Let’s have a cup of tea,” she turns round, as I follow her, “and talk about the schedule.”
“I’d love a cuppa,” I say, trying not to let the relief sound in my voice.
* * *
In the kitchen, she fills the kettle. “Mint? Builder’s? Earl Grey?”
“Builder’s, please.” I lean against the central block, taking in the stone-flagged floor, the vast wooden table, the deep old-fashioned sink, the French windows, now covered by curtains. It all looks just as pretty as it does online, and so does she—but different: her hair is pulled back in a ponytail for one thing, no trailing blond locks, and her movements are quick and deft. She is more . . . businesslike.
I feel the need to fill the silence. “So it’s called Annersley House after the village?” No shit, Sherlock. “I didn’t see much of the village in the dark . . .”
“There’s not much to see of Annersley in the daylight, either,” she says, handing me a mug. “We have to go to Mansford for a lot of things.”
“Yes, it’s not obvious you’re quite so remote. From your feed.”
“I don’t advertise the name of the house or my address online, of course.”
“No, of course not,” I say, feeling a little stupid.
“So,” she says. “Do you want to talk me through how your week would normally go? I’ve kept my schedule pretty open.”
“Sure. Well, in a week of interviews we should be able to cover everything I’ll need for the whole book. I’ll go away afterward and finish writing the sample chapters. Then after you’ve had a look at them, of course, my agent can send them out as a proposal to the publishers, and see who bites—she’s already got a few excited.” I make myself take a breath. “And we do think it’s great that you’re doing it this way, going to them with your proposal, rather than the other way round.”
“Yes. I thought this way I might retain a little more control.” She takes a sip of her tea, watching me over the rim. “I’d be keen to see a chapter or two by the end of the week, though, so I can get a clear sense of the direction it’s all going in . . .”
“Of course, I can show you something as soon as we’ve had a few interview sessions, and you can provide feedback on what you do and don’t like, make any changes.”
“Thanks.” She sets down her cup, her mind seeming to be already onto the next thing. “Now, we’ve already eaten, but I’ll show you to your room, and Annie will bring you a tray, if that’s OK. If you smoke, can I ask you to go outside on the terrace? Otherwise we’re pretty relaxed. And shall we get started tomorrow at, what, nine o’clock? Annie will leave breakfast out for you.”
“Sure,” I say, feeling like I am checking in to a hotel.
“Great,” she says brightly, and stands a little straighter, ready to go. Her gray cashmere shell top is the exact same shade as the velvet cushions on the bench behind her.
“Great,” I echo. I’ve barely touched my tea. I try to regain the upper hand. “And I just want to say how pleased I am that I’ll be working with you on this book. I think it’s such an exciting project.”
“You do?” she says, neutrally.
“Well, yes.” I think of what was thrashed out over e-mail, and start reeling it off. “Part lifestyle guide, part memoir. Something that goes that bit deeper, not just covering your home and style and habits, but also offering the reader insight and advice based on your own experiences. A book to let people get to know the real you.”
“The real me,” she echoes. She raises her eyebrows a little, smiling again. Her teeth are perfect, like everything else in this house: even, pearly, not too bleached. “I’m not sure how I feel about that,” she says. “If people could see the state of my to-do list . . .”
I laugh to be polite, but she’s not so good at the self-deprecating shtick. “Everyone has their share of trials, however wonderful their life may seem.”
She just looks at me, her head tilted again in tha
t pose I recognize: watchful and curious, almost bird-like. “Is that so?” She turns for the door. “Let me show you up.”
Chapter 8
RECORDING 1 from Writeflash: We will turn your transcription round in under 24 hours, guaranteed.
VOICES:
NICKY WILSON
OLIVIA HAYES
MAN 1 (not identified)
WOMAN 2 (not identified)
NICKY: So, would you mind saying your name for me?
OLIVIA: My name?
NICKY: Yeah. Um, I know what it is [laughter]. It’s just what I tend to do, for the tape. And it means they can add our names in when it’s transcribed?
OLIVIA: Of course. Olivia Elspeth Hayes.
NICKY: And I’m Nicky Wilson. So, um, I thought we could start with why you decided to let your followers into your life through a book. Of course, you do through your social media already, and so well, but an Instagram feed can only tell half the story. How you want to share some of the secrets behind Olivia Hayes—
OLIVIA: Yes, that’s fine. Whenever you’re ready.
NICKY: [pause] OK—so, why do you want to do a book?
OLIVIA: Well, as you say, I want to let my fans into my life. I mean, what you said just then sounded fine. I have to say, I’m really better on the practical stuff . . .
NICKY: OK. So, it might make sense to check—
[phone rings]
OLIVIA: Excuse me, would you mind . . .
NICKY: No, not at all.
[silence]
MAN 1: Hello, hello.
NICKY: Morning, how are you?
MAN 1: I’m so sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.
NICKY: Nicky. That’s OK.
MAN 1: Coffee? If I can find where Annie’s put it...
NICKY: Oh yes, please.
[silence]
OLIVIA: Hi. Right. Sorry, I had to take that call, it’s a possible sponsorship deal, and they’re in Korea, the time difference is tricky. So where were we? Josh, could you please try to keep the noise down a bit? Is this OK for the tape?