by Emma Rowley
There was less about Elsa, who lacked the same society pedigree: it was said she had dropped out of art school to model before Alex had swept her off her feet. But several papers had got hold of a photo of the two of them at a gallery opening, caught in the flash against the press of bodies.
He is smiling at the camera, tie pulled loose; her expression more hesitant, her dark good looks the perfect counterpoint to his golden fairness.
* * *
Worse was to come in Friday’s papers.
A body was recovered yesterday in the main part of the three-story mansion destroyed by the blaze.
Though it had yet to be identified formally, the papers made much of the discovery of Mr. Vane’s abandoned car, inviting readers to draw the link.
But where was Alex’s family? Were they still inside the house? No one seemed to know.
The shell of the building has been left so unstable that it could take forensics investigators weeks to pinpoint precisely how the fire began . . .
Mrs. Vane, Alex’s widowed mother, was said to be too upset to comment, while Elsa’s parents were being comforted by friends.
* * *
The Saturday papers offered better news. Police had located the rest of the family: not in the rubble, thankfully, but living and breathing.
Officers broke the news of the tragedy to Elsa Vane in the early hours of Friday, after she was located at a vacation cottage in Cornwall.
Apparently, after spending the weekend together at home, Alex had waved his family off on the Bank Holiday Monday. He planned to shut up the house and go to London, where he often went for business.
He was supposed to join his wife and two children at the end of the week, to spend a final weekend together before the school term started. But he never made it.
The death of a man found dead in a country house fire is not being treated as suspicious . . .
reads one of those final articles, as the family—what was left of it—put out a short statement via the police, asking to be allowed to grieve in peace.
On Sunday, some of the earlier editions carried breaking news from Paris: Princess Diana had been involved in a car crash.
And then there was no more coverage of the mansion fire.
* * *
Only a regional paper sent someone to report on Alexander Vane’s inquest a few months later:
MANSION BLAZE CAUSED BY CIGARETTE
The hearing seems to have been quite brief.
The fire investigation officer told the coroner that the blaze broke out near or inside the sitting room, not far from where the body was found. A silver cigarette case belonging to Mr. Vane was discovered nearby.
Although the extent of the damage was severe, the fire investigation team are confident in their conclusion: the source of the blaze was a smoldering cigarette.
The inquest also heard how the mansion’s heating-oil tank, used in the old-fashioned central heating system, had been inadequately insulated in an outhouse. When the flames reached it, it exploded, accelerating the fire.
The body, badly burned, had to be identified by dental records (the firefighting efforts—code for firefighters’ boots, I remembered from my reporting days—causing additional damage that meant a postmortem could not identify further injuries). However, on “balance of probabilities,” the hearing was told, Mr. Vane had fallen asleep in his chair, and succumbed to smoke inhalation. For a moment I can almost see it, the nodding head, his cigarette dropped or forgotten . . .
Whether he had been woken by the flames and stayed in the house too long to search for his dog, as some newspaper reports had speculated, was impossible to say. The animal, a gun dog, was later discovered whining for food at a neighbor’s, unhurt.
The whole thing wrapped up quickly: the coroner’s verdict was accidental death.
I click on the link at the end of the article. It leads to the investigation report from the fire service, which says much the same in a wordier way. It finishes:
In conclusion, the approximate time of the fire starting was 24:00 hours.
The probable cause was a discarded cigarette catching fire which was not contained through adequate fire compartmen-tation, spreading quickly throughout the entire building.
So that was the official word on the incident: a tragic accident.
* * *
And that’s it. Almost. There is just one more mention, easy to miss, had I not, out of habit, set the dates as wide as possible for my search, from before the fire to the present day. You never want to overlook any detail.
And that’s how I found it, the final link chaining the dead past to this house’s living present. It is not a news story but a marriage announcement, dated eight years ago.
Mr. J. C. Hayes and Miss O. E. Vane
The engagement is announced between Joshua, eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Hayes of Richmond, London, and Olivia, daughter of the late Mr. Alexander Vane and Mrs. Vane, of Annersley, Cheshire.
And that’s why I am sitting here, flicking through the cuttings before the session ahead, my stomach twisting in anticipation of what I must address.
She is Olivia Hayes. But once she was Olivia Vane.
This is her house. Her family. Her story.
Chapter 11
When I head downstairs for our next session, I can hear the sound of a child laughing down the corridor; Bea has been picked up from her playdate.
My mood is not so lighthearted: it’s always awkward when you have to bring up sensitive topics with the subject of a book. Now, could we just address how it felt when you went bankrupt/got arrested/turned up drunk on breakfast TV?
But by the time my phone tells me it’s closer to four, I am not so much anxious as annoyed, as I wait in the family room by the kitchen.
Annie has been in to see me: “Olivia will be down in just a minute.” She gave me a slightly apologetic smile; at least she seems to be warming to me. The Julia who e-mailed me must be away, or perhaps she doesn’t work from the house.
I try not to bristle at Olivia’s lateness. Her time is more important than mine: she is the talent, I am her ghost, who will help her to more success. I can’t argue with that. But I only have this week. It is a reminder that time is limited—and steels my resolve.
* * *
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, when she finally appears. “Bea was acting up a bit, and it wasn’t fair to hand her over to Annie.”
“No problem.” I’d have thought she’d have a nanny. “I’m glad the coffee stain is gone,” I add, to appease her. “Annie has worked wonders.”
“Oh, that . . .” She waves away my concern, then squares the design magazines on the coffee table. “Are you set—would you like a glass of water?”
“Nope, all good,” I say; my recorder already out in front of me. “Ready if you are.”
“Of course.” She sits, tucking her hands between her knees. For a second, I can see the girl she once was: posture born of ballet lessons, hair neatly tied back. She smiles.
I smile back. “So, I thought this afternoon we could address your life from a more—personal aspect. What has shaped you, what has led you to this point.”
She tilts her head, listening.
“Obviously, you’re known for your perfect life”—she nods, not attempting modesty—“but of course, social media shows only half of the story.” Her smile is still fixed in place. “So that’s why,” I plow on, “it’s so helpful when someone like you does agree to draw back the curtain on your experiences. Your hardships.”
She frowns. “Well, I could talk about how I manage stress. Fail-safe tips for everyone.”
“Uh, definitely. We should definitely cover that.” I let my eyes drift to the bay window: the September sky a glorious blue above the line of trees. “But actually I was thinking of the particular adversity that you’ve been through, Olivia.”
She’s not smiling now.
“I want to address what happened when you lost your father in that terribl
e fire.”
She looks at me blankly.
“And by sharing your story, I know you will be able to help so many of your followers. Of course,” I say, a little uncertainly, as she stays still and silent in front of me, “you’ll see the final version to make totally sure you’re hap—”
She stands up.
“How dare you,” she says, flatly, and for a stupid second I wonder if she’s joking. “How dare you?” Her soft voice has grown even quieter, and yet when she steps closer, I flinch. She almost seems to expect an answer—but I just stare, openmouthed. Then something in her face shutters: she turns and walks out of the room.
Chapter 12
I am curled up on my bed, talking on the phone, when the knock comes at my door.
“So what do you think,” I say, “do you think publishers will still go for it, if she doesn’t seem to want to talk about anything personal?”
Whoever it is knocks again, though the door is ajar.
“OK, I won’t do anything for the mo—hold on one sec.”
I go to the door and open it fully, my phone still in my hand.
“Hi.” It’s Olivia, her face neutral.
“Uh, hi,” I say warily. “Let me call you back, Barbara,” I say into my handset, and click the off button.
“Shall I come back?”
“No, no, come in. I was just on the phone to my agent.” I stand back to let her past. “Listen, Olivia, I—”
She puts up a hand, her wedding ring flashing in the sunlight through the window.
“Please.” She takes a deep breath. “First, I want to apologize. I was surprised. You see”—she starts to smooth down the rumpled white duvet—“not a lot of people know about . . . that time in my life. I reacted badly.” I am struck suddenly by the note of formality: she has prepared this. “But I’m ready to move on, if you are.”
“Oh.” I let her words sink in. “Well, apology accepted. I was too blunt, I should have . . .” What? Not mentioned it? This is a book about her, her life. But I don’t say that.
She starts fluffing a pillow. “And I’m sure any publisher will understand that I would rather keep some things private. I’m someone who lives in the present, not the past.”
“Of course,” I say carefully. She is still not looking at me. “After all, it’s your book.”
She puts down the pillow. “And however you found out this information about my family—I would very much prefer if you kept it quiet.” Finally, she turns to face me properly. “My personal life, I keep very separate from my public . . . existence.”
“I understand totally.” I nod for emphasis. “And it’s really important that you feel you can trust me. And vice versa.”
I follow her eyes and realize I’m twisting my hair round one finger, my tell that I’m uncomfortable. I stop.
“Look,” I say, “no one would talk to me if they couldn’t trust me to tell their story in a way that they’re happy with. That goes without saying.”
“And you signed an NDA weeks ago,” Olivia adds baldly. “You e-mailed a copy over.”
I try not to react, feeling slapped down. “That’s true.”
Nondisclosure agreements can help to set a subject’s mind at rest: I can’t divulge what is told to me without their consent.
“But you know,” I try again, tentatively, “it really could make it a better book: powerful, emotionally true, if readers were to know how you have faced your past—”
“No. My mind’s made up.”
“Olivia—”
She talks over me: “And if it is really essential to getting a publishing deal, then I’m prepared to walk away from the book entirely.”
Checkmate.
“OK then,” I say. “We move on.”
* * *
She leaves after that, saying we can pick up our sessions the next morning. I’m free for the rest of the afternoon.
Out of nowhere, one of the first ghostwriting jobs I ever did comes to mind.
It should have been easy, whipping up a daytime-TV darling’s reminiscences into something for the Christmas market, taking her from her start in Saturday morning TV all the way to her primetime hosting gig. In her private life, she had finally come through a painful battle with infertility to secure one doted-upon baby.
Only, that wasn’t true, she told me.
“So, the baby thing, we thought that was a good way to get the press off my back once I got married. I had just signed up for the show, Frank was mad busy, too, we weren’t even sure if we wanted kids then. What, Pippa,” she directed that toward her manager, busy telegraphing STOP signals with her eyebrows. “Nicky signed an NDA, she can’t tell anyone. And we’re not going to put this in the book, obviously. But what do you think we should do?”
And I almost saw the logic of what she’d done: as she put it, “I just couldn’t face five years of Is-she-isn’t-she pap shots every time I breathed out.”
Still, wasn’t it my job to get the full story out there? It could be really interesting, revealing the pressures that we place on women in the public eye . . .
But the editor, an old hand, had laughed off my earnest concerns.
“Darling, you’re not the truth police. Write the story she wants to tell, so long as you make it a good read. It’s her name on the book.”
So I did the job. And in the end, we sidestepped the whole mess by glossing over the topic in a few vague paragraphs, citing respect for the privacy of her young family.
I’ve remembered that lesson, for every book I’ve worked on since.
Normally it’s not that dramatic. Maybe it’s just skating over that failed first marriage in a few brief sentences, or omitting that embarrassing West End flop, if they insist.
But the principle is the same. As much as I excel in digging for details, prodding and probing, my job at heart is to tell their story—albeit with some negotiation round the edges to make sure it has some life to it. Not to expose what they want kept hidden.
* * *
So I know what that old editor would say: It’s Olivia’s story.
It is what anyone would say, really. That I have already trespassed in Olivia’s life, her history, as much as anyone should.
And, really, there is no need for me to keep pushing. I could keep it straightforward, get this week wrapped up, and get back to my life.
For a second I am overwhelmed with longing for the sirens and bustle of my South London neighborhood. I’ve barely been away long enough to be homesick.
And yet . . .
I can feel the story here, just under the surface, like an itch I need to scratch.
You never know, Olivia might change her mind and agree to address her past in the book. And if I know all the background, I will be prepared.
So if that’s the case, what’s the harm in looking into it, outside of our sessions?
That’s all, I tell myself. She doesn’t even need to find out.
And I know just who to talk to first . . .
Chapter 13
There is no one else in the pub garden when a lanky figure arrives on a bicycle, wheeling it through the gate. At first I assume it’s a teenager arriving for his shift. But when he heads straight toward my table, I see he is older than I realized, perhaps twenty-four, twenty-five, tall and thin in a heavy navy parka and too-short jeans, exposing pale ankles.
“Nicky?” he says, as I stand.
“Joey, how are you?”
“All right.” He gives me a nod, propping his bike beside the wooden table.
* * *
He had suggested we meet at the Bleeding Wolf, a long low building. Inside, it’s all heavy wooden beams and shining horse brasses, but quiet this Monday evening, like he promised.
It took me just a few minutes to get here from Olivia’s house, turning left out of the driveway to head back into the village. She was right, there isn’t much to Annersley. After the church and village hall, I passed a convenience store and a few other shops strung in between h
ouses to reach the pub. It sits by a tiny railway station, barely more than a platform and a bench. Beyond that, the road races out to join up with a bigger road, then eventually the highway.
“I think that was the one you asked for,” I say back outside, as I set Joey’s pint down.
“Oh, it’s all pretty dire. I have to go to Mansford for a proper drink, I’m a craft beer man myself. But thanks,” he adds, manners kicking in.
“Right,” I say, taking a sip of my watery cola. “So did you have to come far?”
“Nah, I’m based just on the edge of the village,” he adds. “My parents live in Spain now, and after college finished I needed somewhere to crash. Got to build up the portfolio . . . And this way I can keep an eye on Gran, too.”
So he has no job and is living with his grandmother, I translate.
“I see,” I say, wondering where to start.
* * *
The idea came to me when I was sifting through the articles I found about the fire.
“Chilling pictures reveal scorched remains of tragic mansion,” read the headline on the piece, published on a newspaper website a decade ago—a full thirteen years after the fire, I calculated. The brief text mostly recapped what had happened there, while the photos themselves had not been archived. I continued on.
But a little later I realized I might have missed something interesting. I read the last few paragraphs again:
The photographs were taken earlier this year by urban explorer Joey Crompton, shortly before the house underwent redevelopment. He said he was struck by “the scale of the devastation” and that it gave it a different perspective to the headlines. See more photos at his website nobarrierz.co.uk.