The Ghost Writer -Part 2
The Island
Refresher: Joseph Monteith, having been charged with finding the author of a manuscript that arrived on the Editors desk of Random House, and which is believed to be the next best thing to Harry Potter, has been unable to locate the writer, who is unrepresented. When called to the Chief Editor’s office, Joseph wonders if he is going to be canned. He isn’t. But the Chief Editor has made it clear, find him!
Back in his office, Joseph stands peering out of his fifteenth-floor window at a panorama of lean office blocks that make up Manhattan. He stands for almost a minute, one hand thrust deep into a trouser pocket.
When Joseph woke this morning, his first thoughts were not of work or about breakfast; they were about the woman he’d met, somewhat accidentally, at Chelsey’s bar and how awkward he felt when suddenly she asked if the barstool next to him was free. Yes, he said, no one is sitting here and moved his soft leather briefcase occupying that space. He hadn’t thought anything of it, just that no other seats were available.
At his desk, he pushes on the intercom button, then opens his meetings diary, slender fingers slipping past pages, perusing the calendar. At 8:00 p.m., he is to attend a lecture on book editing. Joseph slaps the diary closed.
“Good morning, Mr. Monteith,” says a cheery female voice.
“Good morning, Sylvia, can you come through, please….”
“Of course.”
“… and bring your notepad, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Monteith.”
Sylvia Tomkins, his administrative assistant, gives a sharp knuckle knock on the door and enters, greeting him with a smile. She is a spare, tall woman, around 5' 11", Joseph guesses, apt to carry her head forward in an attitude of attention, as if looking at something or listening to something far away. She’s quick-footed, energetic, and has unnaturally tanned skin that glows with richness, while her brown hair is curly and wild-looking.
“Have a seat, Sylvia,” Joseph says, right arm directing.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Monteith? You look a little pale, if I may say,” she asks, genuinely caring.
“I’m fine,” he says, alerting Sylvia that he is not fine at all. “I’m making changes to my calendar for this entire week. In fact, I’m going to scrub it clean. I need you to book two airline tickets to London, preferably leaving this afternoon. How soon can you be ready?”
Sylvia looks up from writing notes, “Sorry?”
“We need to go to Scotland, Sylvia. I need you with me,” he says.
“Mr. Monteith, I’m sorry, that’s impossible. I have a hair appointment tomorrow, and I have my grandmother’s cat at home.”
“Sylvia, first book the tickets and then take the afternoon off. I’m sure you can arrange your life in order to do this. In fact, if you need further inspiration, I can tell you my job is on the line, so let’s make this happen,” he tells her.
Sylvia feels she can inquire. “Is this about the author you are trying to contact? Gwyneth spoke to me earlier.”
“Yes, I’ve been across to the west coast twice in two weeks. The only reliable information I have is that he is in Scotland, at a home which he owns on the Hebridean island of Mull. Wherever in the world that may be. The boss thinks his manuscript is the greatest thing since Harry Potter, which was then reinforced by acquisitions, getting a full vote of approval. But look, we are wasting time, Sylvia, let’s get going,” he tells her, oblivious to any and all objections.
“Forgive me if I’m not understanding, Mr. Monteith, but I don’t….”
Joseph, curtly, cuts her off. “Look, Sylvia, for many years, Random House and Harper Collins have engaged in smear tactics against Rowling’s novels, trying to drive away the appetite for the stories, and if lightning should strike twice and rumors abound about an unpublished author chased by a massive publishing company, well, competition is a frightening prospect,” he tells her. “Lawrence Bernstein is convinced that this writer, Tim Bryant, though I doubt this is his real name, might be playing the field with this manuscript.”
All his working career, starting with a local newspaper, Bernstein has never given up on the idea that there would come a time when he would read a book for the interest and pleasure specific authors bring to their work. Well, that time is here. But here’s the problem that all publishers will face; we are in a time when the publishing world may never know who any author is if all the monster publishers can’t have their way, therefore threatening every bestselling novelist with counterclaims of originality.
If Rowling were bringing Potter to us today, it is possible that the public would never know who the originator of Harry Potter is, but one thing is for sure, there will be an invented one from every publishing house.
We, you and me, must find him. He is clearly not represented. So, let’s get organized. Text me the flight details; I have other work outside the office.”
Sylvia leaves Joseph’s office. Her head is spinning, wrestling with agreeing to go and what is she going to do with her grandmother’s cat. Back in his office, Joseph is scouring every note and piece of information he has on Tim Bryant.
Six weeks earlier. Mendocino.
Tim Bryant watches as the Kia Telluride creates a dust plume coming up the unmade drive toward the house. It’s Peg King, Tim’s accountant. Following her phone call earlier in the day, and her urgent need to see him, Tim is not expecting good news.
As the car pulls up, Tim’s dogs run around the driver’s side and begin barking and bouncing excitedly. “Hey, you two, get out of here, go on,” he yells, his arm pointing toward the barn at the back of the house. The two dogs slope off. “Sorry, Peg, anytime a car pulls up they get over-excited,” he says.
“Don’t worry about it, my two are just the same.”
Peg King is the kind of woman around whom it always smells like gingerbread men. She wears silver-rimmed spectacles and walks as if reading Psalms to the church fellowship.
Tim can feel the heat coming from the hood of the Kia. It is almost a four-hour drive from San Francisco.
“Come on in, Peg. What can I get you, a drink, sandwich? You must be pretty worn out after that drive. Did you come the coastal route?”
“I did, it’s the only way I know. I always get myself lost when coming up the highway and cutting over. But I’m here now, and yes, I’d love a cup of tea.”
“Sure, go into the living room, get comfy. I’ll make some tea and bring it through and we’ll go up to my office.”
San Francisco had not been without its charms, but a year ago, Tim had succumbed to the pressures and moved to Mendocino.
A stout but gentle Englishman, Tim smiles easily. Wearing just his shorts and a t-shirt, he pulls the kettle under the tap and places it on the stove.
“It’s a beautiful house, Tim. The view is amazing,” Peg calls out.
“Thank you, yes, I was fortunate to find it, I think…” he calls back.
The home sits on twenty acres, six bordering the Pacific shoreline, on top of a bluff among the Redwood trees.
Pouring the boiling water into a teapot, Tim places two mugs on the tray. “I can’t recall if you take milk and sugar in your tea, Peg,” he calls.
“Just milk.”
Tim takes the milk jug from the fridge, puts it on the tray and walks through to the living room. “Okay, let’s go up to my study.”
Tim leads the way up the stairs to his office, which has a view people would want in their dreams. “Good heavens, Tim. It is magnificent.”
“Thanks, I think so.”
Tim’s office is a disaster waiting to happen. “Please, try and make yourself comfortable,” he says, looking for somewhere to put the tray. Peg sees the difficulty and grabs a pile of books off a corner table. “Oh great, thanks,” he says. “There’s not much room in here, I’m afraid,” Tim says, sitting, only to see a pile of papers drifting to the floor. Tim mutters a profanity, turns, and smiles, hoping Peg hadn’t heard and pours the tea, adding a little milk to Peg’s mug.
“Well, I guess we should get this over with,” he says.
Peg takes the mug from him and sees a coaster barely on the edge of desk. She pushes it back gently and rests the mug down.
“Give it to me straight, Peg.”
“From the hip, Tim. The banks are going to foreclose on you.”
“Shit!”
“They’ve given you one month to put forward a proposal for repayment. But that proposal has to include a lump sum of $300,000.”
Peg opens the briefcase and lays the papers on his desk. Tim doesn’t look at them.
“Is there any way out of this?”
“You’re six payments in arrears, Tim. I’ve listed your options at the bottom.”
“Just tell me,” he says.
“Well, my advice is to sell up. That’s your best option. If you get top dollar for the ranch, you’ll owe less than two million to the mortgage company.”
“Great. That’s just great. I’m on the edge here, Peg. My life is falling apart, but I know this is right; this can work. There has to be another way. I want this, Peg.”
“Tim, listen to me, let it go. You have nothing left. Nothing.”
Tim sits quietly in his chair, thinking.
Peg asks, “Do you have anything for your publisher? Maybe they would offer you an advance.
“Christ, No. My British publishers have all but given up on me. I cannot even think of a story let alone request an advance.”
“When were you last home, Tim?” Peg asks quietly.
“Not for almost a year.”
“And she still doesn’t know?”
“Know what, Peg? That I’ve all but ruined us? amy darling sister doesn’t know anything.”
“It’s wrong, Tim. I’ve said this before.”
“No, Peg. All the wrongs are already done.”
“Have it your way. Still, you could use some support. Look, for now, I’ll get the details of the ranch, and have it on the market by the morning. It will mean having an open house? Only for qualified buyers.”
“Oh, Christ, not that. That’s where everyone gets to pour through the house on a single day, right?”
“That’s it. I have to be here, too. I’ve brought my things, anticipating the depth of the crisis, Tim. Maybe you could let me stay?”
“Yes, of course.”
“By the way, I meant to ask. Are you on well water?”
“Yes…yes.… magical powers, don’t forget to write that in, Peg.”
“Look, Tom… seriously, you know this is just a stop gap. If you come up with a plan and the money within the month, we can halt the sale. But for now, we have to keep them off your back. I’ll put the home on the market. Test it out. There’s no way the mortgage company will give you more than a month without sound evidence that you can make this work. If you cannot they will close on you. You understand the risk, right?”
Tim looks out the window over the ocean. “What you’re telling me, at the end of the day I’ll be broke, no home, nothing, and still owing the banks a fortune, right?”
“I guess that’s the rosier outlook, yes.” Peg agrees.
“Then let’s just get on with it. I’ll head back to the island, tomorrow. Hopefully, I can get a flight.
Peg King goes around the desk and gives Tim a hug. It’s been a trusting working relationship.
“Peg, when I leave tomorrow, if there are any inquiries, all you know is I’ve gone home.”
“Of course.” Peg senses Tim’s need to be left alone. “I’ll go get a second mug of tea.”
Tom turns back to his desk, tears welling, and rests his head on a pile of papers and quietly sobs in desperation.
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