The Perfect Ghost (2 page)

I could have moved into scarves or hats or shoes. Shoes would have been best. I could have sat in a cushy chair, removed those awful blister-makers, and wriggled my achy toes. But I felt forced outside into the cold.

I joined the downtown parade, marching behind a man in a leather blazer chatting loudly into his cell. Each cross street thundered with traffic, pedestrian and automotive. Plunging into intersections, I felt like a chipmunk darting under the carriage of an eighteen-wheeler. I wondered if the leather blazer–clad man was talking to his wife or his lover, if the woman was telling him she loved him or hated him, if he’d continue the rest of the day in lockstep or if something he learned during that particular conversation would shatter and spin him around, alter his life and change his path. Irrevocably, the way mine had changed.

I walked right past the Flatiron Building, herded by the press of pedestrians, afraid to stop for fear of getting trampled. Where were all these purposeful souls headed? Were they late, afraid that if they paused and lifted their eyes to the murky sky, they’d stop, paralyzed by fear and uncertainty, dismount their painted carousel horses, collapse on the bare pavement, and howl?

I worked my way to a corner and turned left onto a calmer cross street. I stepped into an alcove and watched the slow drip of water off an awning. My clothes felt too tight. I needed to pee. I should have used the restroom at Saks. It was time to meet Jonathan. I backtracked and opened the door, signed my name on the list. The guard glanced at my wavering signature with an expressionless face. I added the time in the provided space, and he nodded me toward the elevators.

I was one of twenty waiting in the lobby. I couldn’t bring myself to squeeze into the first elevator, and the second took its own sweet time. I pressed my lips together and thought,
Relax, nobody cares if you’re a little late,
but my body didn’t hear me. I looked for the stairs, but I didn’t have time for twelve flights. It would have to be the box.

The elevator stopped at every floor. Pause for the doors to part, wait for strangers to shuffle in and out. Wait, wait, wait for the doors to close again, then hover, hang, while the mechanism debated whether to rise or drop. During the slow-motion endurance test, I ran through the upcoming scene: You’ll see Jonathan, you’ll shake hands. I wiped a damp palm on the thigh of my pants. You’ll see him, you’ll shake hands.

The new receptionist looked like a replica of the old receptionist: young, remote, plastic. I gave my name, and she invited me to take a seat on the agony couch. I stood by the bookshelf instead, pretending to read the titles of upcoming releases.

The latest as-told-to T. E. Blakemore, front and center, was well displayed. The cover credit, long sought, was no more than our hard-won due, and it took an effort to keep my hands from paging to the inside back flap and staring at your photograph. You were such a splendid public face for us. So charming and witty, so quick with a clever remark. I didn’t need to open the book to see you. Remember? Such a bitterly cold day, and I wanted the frozen Charles River in the background? I wanted that glint in your eye, that devil-may-care smile, tousled hair, craggy face. The wind snatched your hat off.

“Em? Are you okay?”

Jonathan, starched white shirt, navy suit pants belted too high, tie slightly off center, stood in front of me and I had no idea how long he’d been there. He looked exactly like the editor he was, the indoor pallor, the wire-rimmed glasses, the narrow, stooped shoulders. His right arm was extended as though he’d stuck it out for a handshake and gotten no response.

“Bring us some water, please,” he ordered the receptionist. “We’ll be in my office.” He placed a hand between my shoulder blades and propelled me down the hallway. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

I told him I was all right.

“You did faint,” he said accusingly. “Once.”

I concentrated on the rush of air entering and leaving my nostrils. It started, anyway, the rapid heartbeat, the sudden feeling of suffocation. The mind knows no end of dread, and if it does, the body takes over.

But, Teddy, I didn’t faint.

I didn’t handle it perfectly. Jonathan asked if I needed a paper bag to breathe into, so I was far from perfect, but I perched on a chair and composed myself and asked Jonathan how he was doing.

He admitted he was fine while gazing at me as though I might detonate my bomb-vest. The door burst open, and the receptionist thrust two bottles of Poland Spring into his outstretched hands.

The water slid down my throat, deliciously icy, while he asked about Marcy, whether she was coming to the meeting. When I told him it would just be me, he said he wasn’t disappointed, au contraire, he was delighted. Trying to be gallant, but I could see how uncomfortable he was. And I thought I could use that to my advantage. You know how good I am at staying quiet. He squirmed, then managed a weak smile and asked what he could do for me.

I didn’t answer.

“I hope you’re not worried about the advance. It’s a heartless business, all right, but nobody’s going to give you any trouble.”

“Jonathan,” I said, “listen to me. You can’t cancel this book.”

The words spoken; the battle joined.

He pushed back his chair, stood, and took three steps to the window, where he fussed with the angle of the blinds. He had a good view; a tiny closet of an office, but a glorious panorama of rooftops.

“I’ll finish the book,” I said. “I know: Teddy’s not here—but I can do it. You can put it out as a Blakemore, or you can use my name alone—whichever works for you.”

He kept his focus on the sky, as though waiting for a fireworks display. “I don’t know that we can go along with that.”

The royal
we
. The evasive, weaseling
we.
As if it weren’t Jonathan himself who had stabbed me through the heart. As if he hadn’t cast his vote of no confidence.

He returned to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. “I’m sure when you think things over, you’ll realize it’s for the best. You must be completely overwhelmed. Distraught.” If I hadn’t frozen him with my eyes, he might have leaned over and patted my hand.

“Teddy and I were colleagues,” I said. “Colleagues. Not lovers.”

“I thought—”

“A lot of people thought.” My throat dried up, and I took a hasty swig of Poland Spring.

“Don’t get yourself in a snit about repaying the advance right away. Take your time. We all know that—”

“Time is what I need. Time to finish the book.”

“Em, we’ve been over this—”

“Jonathan, what do you imagine my role was in the partnership?”

“I’m sure you did all—”

“I wrote the last book. Every word in it is mine.”

“Teddy’s reputation sold this project. You know that. Garrett Malcolm could have had anybody. He asked for Teddy.”

“Teddy? Or T. E?”

He glared at me like I was parsing him too closely, nitpicking.

“Jonathan. I’m the E. I’m the Moore.”

“You don’t handle the interviews.”

“I can manage the rest of the interviews,” I said, and the minute I said it, Teddy, I knew I could do it. “There aren’t that many. I have all Teddy’s tapes. He was almost done when…” I swallowed. “I have entire chapters of a finished manuscript. The early years are complete.”

“But—”

“I have a contract.”

Jonathan took some time unscrewing the cap on his bottled water. “The contract is an agreement with the two of you as the single legal entity T. E. Blakemore.”

“You could make it happen, Jonathan.”

“Malcolm can’t delay. He’s got other commitments.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“When you’re Garrett Malcolm, it doesn’t much matter, does it?”

“It’s basically follow-up now. A few meetings.”

“He liked Teddy.”

“Everyone liked Teddy.”

Jonathan wasn’t expecting me to agree with him. It threw off his timing. He fidgeted, then addressed himself to his desk blotter. “Malcolm won’t like working with a woman.”

“Jonathan, that’s exactly why I didn’t bring Marcy in on this. I didn’t want her to threaten you with a discrimination lawsuit.” The thought had truly never entered my head; it was like my tongue was talking without me.

“It’s that he’s had bad luck with … I didn’t mean—” He sputtered to a halt.

I knew I had him worried, that I’d somehow grabbed his attention, made him reconsider. “There would be a great deal of public sympathy for my position.”

“The project can’t be late.”

“Why not? It’s not like Malcolm’s in the news every day. He’s an icon. He’ll still be an icon.”

“You’re serious about this.”

“Completely.”

He gave me a careful once-over; I tried to look like a woman who’d never fainted in her life.

“What about the other interviews?” he asked. “Not the sessions with Malcolm. The prepublication interviews, the media, the talk shows?”

I gave him my best smile. “What Teddy used to say: ‘We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.’”

He tapped his fingers on his desk, swiveled his chair, sipped his drink. “Malcolm won’t like it.”

“But he’ll agree to it. He’ll agree if you tell him it will be fine, that the book will be everything it would have been if Teddy were still here. He trusts you, Jonathan.”

He stared at his hands. “I don’t know.”

“I need this book, Jonathan. That’s my bottom line. If you go after the advance, I’ll fight you every step of the way.”

“Em, I have to say I’m surprised.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at me as though he were seeing me for the first time.

“I’ll fight. I want you to be clear on that.” My heart was racing, pounding like it was trying to jump out of my chest.

His tongue edged between his teeth. “I’ll have to talk to some people.”

“You do that.”

“And Malcolm will have to agree to give you access.”

“I’m sure you can manage that, Jonathan. He signed the contract, too.”

I watched as Jonathan carefully balanced the pluses and minuses, the possibility of another bestseller, the threat of a lawsuit, the difficulty of dealing with a woman who might faint.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said finally.

“I won’t keep you then.” Terrified my knees would buckle at each rapid step, I made it down the corridor, onto the turtle-slow elevator, all the way outside and around the corner before I collapsed on a concrete planter, drawing deep heaving breaths.

It hadn’t gone that badly; it hadn’t gone terribly wrong. He hadn’t refused me. A passing jogger smiled, and I raised my face to the sun.

CHAPTER

two

Garrett Malcolm

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Garrett Justus Malcolm
, born December 4, 1962, is an American actor, producer, screenwriter, and director. He is a member of the renowned Malcolm family of American actors, son of Ralph Malcolm and the British actress Eve Hester, and grandson of Harrison Malcolm. He first appeared on stage at the age of four as a page boy in
Henry the Fourth
, a production starring his grandfather. He continued to act throughout his childhood at his father’s Cranberry Hill Theater on Cape Cod. His first Broadway role was in his father’s production of
Macbeth
(1968).

Following a turbulent childhood marked by drug and alcohol abuse and three stints in rehab, he successfully made the transition from child prodigy to adult actor, appearing in the romantic comedies
French Kiss, Twisted Silk
, and
Bryony Falls Express,
for which he was nominated for a Golden Globe Award as Best Actor in a Supporting Role. In 1986, he formed Cranberry Hill Productions, named for his father’s Cape Cod estate and theatrical company, and began writing screenplays.

The first Cranberry Hill production, shot on location in and around the Malcolm estate, was the immediately successful action/adventure film
Blue Flame
(1988), which introduced the actor Brooklyn Pierce in the role of Benjamin Justice. Malcolm’s original screenplay was nominated for both a Golden Globe and an Oscar and stunned many critics when it won the Academy Award.
Green Gem
(1990), the sequel to
Blue Flame,
won nominations for Best Director as well as Best Original Screenplay, while Pierce was recognized with a Golden Globe win as Best Actor. Claire Gregory costarred with Pierce in
Red Shot
(1992), which was nominated for seven Golden Globes and three Academy Awards. Gregory won the Oscar for Best Actress. She and Malcolm were wed later the same year.