Page 22 of You Can't Hurt Me

I think about my old friend, Karl Bauer, a retired ghostwriter I chatted to on the phone yesterday, hoping to glean some insights before my interview. He told me a ghostwriter needs to know the real reason someone wants to expose their story to the world, in the same way a barrister needs to know exactly how guilty their client is to defend their corner. They have to tell you everything, said Bauer, no subject can be off-limits. “There will always be something you can’t name. The elephant in the room. Work out what that is as soon as possible and confront it. Otherwise, it taints everything else.”

I look up at Priya then.

“I just wondered, if I did end up on the project, I’d want to know nothing would be off-limits. How would Nate feel about that?”

“Legally,ifyou did get the job,” Priya says, “Nate and I would want you to sign a nondisclosure agreement, so whatever he does tell you about Eva is completely confidential. You couldn’t go spilling to any of your newspaper contacts.”

“Eva isn’t a taboo subject,” chips in Nate. “It can still be difficult talking about her, but I’m sure with the right person, the right approach, that could change. All I really want this book to be is my way of immortalizing her, so I know I won’t forget her. Anyway, are we nearly done here?” He starts shuffling his notes together, suddenly self-conscious.

Priya swerves in. “Just one more question, Anna, before we wrap up.”

“Sure.”

“You’ve built up a distinctive style, a regular interview slot with your name on it. Why would you want to give that up to be...invisible? There’ll be no glory, no mention of you at all. Experienced ghostwriters don’t do it to seek the limelight. All your work would be in Nate’s name.”

Her chin tilts up. It’s clear that she doesn’t want me anywhere near Nate or the book.

“Actually, no, that’s not the case. It’s frankly a relief to lose my name for a few months,” I say with conviction. “I feel strongly that Eva was an amazing woman and her life fascinates me. It helps that I enjoy the cut and thrust of the creative process, and I get the impression Nate does too.”

They nod, talk to me a bit more about timings and deadlines, while my mind drifts. I think of that house, the boundless possibility. How stunning it all was, Eva’s history right there. The voice I could craft for her, the storyline she deserves, so different to the lies that were written.

I agreed with Kath’s concerns in that respect, how unfair it is that a woman in the public eye who dares to live a full and complex life, messy, honest and unfiltered, will be punished for it. Naively, perhaps, I’d like to challenge that.

“Well, that went well,” I say, dryly, as Nate walks me back to the lift. I know I probably shouldn’t let on how I feel about the interview, but I can’t help it.

“Don’t read too much into Priya.” He holds back a rare smile.

“Well, I can understand if she wants someone with more experience in ghostwriting. When do you think she’ll decide?”

“She?” He frowns. “Why would you think it’s all down to her?”

“Er, she’s the publisher?”

He shrugs. “Don’t assume anything,” he says. As I step into the lift, it crosses my mind that this is the second time in a fortnight I’ve left Nate feeling more perplexed by his behavior than when I started.

Crossing the foyer on my way out, I spot another man, almost indistinguishable from the earlier one, in a pink button-down shirt and olive chinos. He reclines, his legs straight but crossed at the ankles, flicking throughThe Pain Matrix. He looks up, assessing me, trying to work out if I’m the competition.

Unexpectedly I am high, reeling, this high-voltage surge of...what exactly? Confidence, arrogance even. Nate’s world is familiar to me after all, a twisted world of smoke and mirrors where nothing is ever as it seems. No one else could navigate it but me.

10

I spot him as soon as I walk in, sitting up at the bar reading a book with his back to me. From the deflated slope of his shoulders, I can tell this place bores him. Tony’s never been a fan of gastropubs like this, selling ten different types of craft IPA but no draught Guinness. This particular one is shaped to the comforts of the well-heeled residents from across the park, the earthy smell of coal dust and wet dogs is more Chipping Norton than West London.

I walk up behind him, touch his shoulder.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, as he swivels round.

“Hey, stranger,” Tony says, placing a large glass of red in my hand. I take him in, this skewed mirror image grinning back at me. A small republic of two, Tony likes to call us. More totalitarian state than democracy, as I frequently joke to him, but he is all I have. Our biological mother, my father, his stepfather, his own father; all gone, one way or another. It’s for the anniversary of our mother’s death that we’re meeting up tonight to spend the evening together.

I pull up a stool next to him and pick up his book with its pristine, uncreased spine, give a small snort of disbelief.

“So you’re pretending to read David Foster Wallace.”

“I’m enjoying it, actually.”

“Good luck finishing it. Even the endnotes have endnotes.”

“Have you read it?”

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