The Ghost Writer — Part 3
A completed novel in readable parts.
Refresher part 1: After Random House had received three chapters of a manuscript, and after Joseph Monteith, senior reader and signing agent, had passed it to the Chief Editor, believing there is a great potential for success, a fact endorsed by the Acquisition panel, the author of the manuscript has seemingly disappeared. Joseph Monteith has been set with the task of finding the elusive author, but after two weeks has been unable to locate him. The Chief Editor, Lawrence Bernstein, is suspicious that this unknown author is playing games, that he is not unknown at all, but playing the field of interested publishers. Bernstein, convinced that he has three chapters of a book that could rival or go beyond the sales of Harry Potter, gives Joseph further instruction to find the author at all costs and thereby stop the prospect of other Publishing Houses competing for the rights.
Refresher Pt. 2 Tim is making ready to leave California, and head back to the UK. He regrets sending the manuscript to a powerful publishing house because he had lied. He had sent three chapters, offering those chapters as a taster for the full manuscript knowing that those three chapters are all he has and those are not his.
Tim is desperate. His life is falling apart. His dream had been to run a horse therapy farm, which is still with the Planning & Building Services Dept., Mendocino, a project he has already invested twelve million dollars into, including buying the property, and which, over the last six months has run him dry without the prospect of being able to find other investments. Now the property is about to be foreclosed on. Peg King, his American accountant, has advised he put the farm up for sale to stall the foreclosure.
Pt. 3 Daniel Blake
In the Manhattan offices of Random House, Lawrence Bernstein is frustrated, anxious, and mad as hell. Finally, he summons Gwyneth from her office.
“Gwyneth!”
Gwyneth, Bernstein’s personal secretary, hears the tone in his voice. He means, come here, now!
Gwyneth appears, closing the door behind her.
“Damn it, Gwyneth. This guy knows he wants to be published, and clearly, he knows he has a first-rate product. What’s wrong with the damn man,” he says loudly, not asking a question, “he knows the rules, Gwyneth, it’s more than conquering the blank page. In these three chapters we are introduced to dozens of unique quirks into the experience of his creativity. I’m telling you, Gwyneth, he’s no bloody aspiring writer,” he continues.
Gwyneth knows better than to interrupt. She may leave the office without saying a word as long as she listens intently and nods agreement occasionally.
“I tell you; we’ve got something special here. This guy, for whatever reason, does not want to be found, yet he wants to have his book published, not any kind of book, a one in a million kind of book,” he says, “some authors focus on writing books, others raise the bar, inspiring and sometimes intimidating other authors. The more time I’ve spent in this industry, the more possibilities I see. I want you to keep an eye on Joseph, have him report to you every day. Give him everything he needs,” Bernstein stubs out his cigar and rests the tips of his fingers on the manuscript. “This… this…is genius, because I can’t think of a better description of his work. He is playing with us. Smart lad. Now that he’s got us intrigued, he must be wondering what the bait is worth,” Bernstein concludes, “this author wants to build an empire, and we are the House to make sure that happens. That will do, Gwyneth. Keep an eye on Joseph.” Gwyneth stands and returns to her office.
When Sylvia Tompkins left her office on the fifteenth floor of Random House, it was 11:05 a.m. Earlier in the morning, she had booked two seats on a Lufthansa flight to London’s Heathrow International and two on a connecting British Airways flight from London to Glasgow and pre-booked a rental car with Hertz, and is now rushing home to pack a suitcase and take grandmother’s cat to the cat hostel before visiting the nursing home to explain a few things to Grandma.
Tim’s drive to the airport was blurry, even to the point of not recalling crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. There was no recollection of what lane he was in or if there was mist over the Bay. He didn’t know what his next move would be as he pulled up into long-term parking. Inside the terminal, he went directly to the Virgin Atlantic help desk.
“Good afternoon, I am booked Business Class ticket to London on VO19 departing at 16.30, my reference number is VO343490.”
The woman smiles and asks for identification.
Tim hands over a British Passport. “One moment, Mr. Blake.”
It had been a long since he’d heard his name said aloud. He waits one moment while she types his name into the computer.
“Yes, Daniel Blake, a return ticket in Business Class to London. If you wish, I can give you your boarding pass here.” Her smile looks like it has been set in concrete. Women have a tendency to want to be extra helpful. Tim is a good-looking man with the stature of Tom Cruise.
“Great, thank you,” Tim says.
The welcome onboard is as wide as the smile at the Help Desk, practiced. Tim doesn’t love champagne and takes a glass of water from the tray, smiles his appreciation, lays his head back, and tries not to think.
The children are filing out of the class when Ms. Porter calls Tim back.
“Tim, this is a beautiful story you’ve written for me, thank you,” Tim’s teacher tells him, leaving the twelve-year-old feeling warm inside. “It’s a beautiful thing to want to make someone feel nice and you have done that, Tim.”
The grin on young Tim Bryant’s face is as wide as the horizon from any shore. “Tell me, Tim, have you seen a story similar to this anywhere else?” She asks softly.
Tim’s face drains of color, his hands become clammy, and he fidgets on one leg as though he might pee his pants at any moment. Tim looks down and away.
“Tim, it’s okay. Do you understand, it’s okay. It’s a beautiful story and I know you wanted to write your own, but you got confused, didn’t you? You thought this was the one you’d written, didn’t you?” Young Tim Bryant doesn’t look up at her.
“Yes, miss, that’s it. I wrote so many stories and thought this was one of mine. I’m sorry Ms. Porter,” Tim says. The lie fell most unconvincingly from his mouth.
“That’s right, Tim, but you know, young man, you have a way with words and one day, Tim, one day, you won’t need someone else’s words to help you say what you want to say. Do you understand that? Right now you’re learning and to learn by imitation is the best way to learn anything. I’m not angry, Tim, I see you have a fine heart and real potential, so we’ll just keep this between us, okay? You run along home now.”
Tim turns without looking up at Ms. Porter. He tries not to run to the escape door, which he manages halfway before a bolt of lightning sees him scampering across the schoolyard.
When Sylvia arrives at the Nursing Home, she has to pull her own suitcase from the trunk of the Uber Prius, having tipped the guy twenty percent. Grandmother’s eyes are not like those of an elderly woman, bright blue, having a fresh, frosty sparkle with white and regular teeth for one in advanced age.
“Hi, Grandma, you look amazing. How are you?” Sylvia asks with slight trepidation, knowing what information she is carrying.
Grandma sits in her comfy chair by the window, oxygen tank at her side. “Sylvia, what are you doing here, darling? It’s the middle of the day.”
“I know, but I was given the afternoon off,” Sylvia explains.
“That’s nice. But, love, I’m sure you’ve better things to do than come and visit me on such a beautiful day,” Grandma tells her.
“Not really, Grandma. In fact, the reason I have come is to tell you that something has come up, that is I have to go away for a while. It has to do with work.”
“Well, darling, that sounds intriguing. Tell me more,” the old lady asks gracefully.
“My immediate boss has to go to the UK, and needs me to travel with him, Grandma. I protested, but it seems the reason was essential. I wasn’t given a choice.
“Is this with that Joseph you keep telling me about, the one you have a sweet spot for?” Grandma asks.
“Grandma, stop teasing,” Sylvia responds. “He’s my boss.”
“Does that discount him from being attractive, my dear? I remember meeting your grandfather. I thought what a fine specimen of a man, and as you know, he was an Austrian who came to this country as a young boy and then led an adventurous life. I was a young girl who had never been outside of New York. I had delicate skin, hardly ever venturing outside. His skin was roughened by sun and wind; his hair and beard were near red; his eyebrows coppery. I remember he sat on a horse working on your great-grandparent’s ranch. Why would such a man look at me, frail me, and him a wild man, a bear called Otto Fuchs? I kept stealing covert glances in his direction whenever he came into the House to eat. Then, one day he asked me to go into town with him. I didn’t know what to expect, Sylvia. We lived amid mining camps and cow outfits….
“Grandma, you have no idea how much I love to listen to your stories about Otto. But truly, I have to run. Sacha is in a cat hostel and is in the lap of luxury. I hope you understand.”
“Understand, my dear, you go for it. Tell me all about it when you return, promise?”
“Of course, Grandma, I love you,” Sylvia hugs her.
It was the gentlest touch on Tim’s shoulder that woke him.
“Sir, please raise your seat to upright and secure your safety belt.” He must have been exhausted to fall asleep before the plane had left the ground. He brought his seat to upright and tightened his belt that last gasp. Gazing out of the window, he watches as a tractor mows the grass on the perimeter of the airport. For a moment he believes he can smell the newly cut grass but of course it is just his imagination. The passenger cabin is airtight, and ready for the flight to London.
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