ONE
Of all the advantages that ghosting offers, one of the
greatest must be the opportunity that you get to meet
people of interest.
Andrew Crofts,
Ghostwriting
THE MOMENT I HEARD how McAra died, I should have walked
away. I can see that now. I should have said, "Rick, I'm
sorry, this isn't for me, I don't like the sound of it,"
finished my drink, and left. But he was such a good
storyteller, Rick -- I often thought he should have been the
writer and I the literary agent -- that once he'd started
talking there was never any question I wouldn't listen, and
by the time he had finished, I was hooked.
The story, as Rick told it to me over lunch that day, went
like this: McAra had caught the last ferry from Woods Hole,
Massachusetts, to Martha's Vineyard two Sundays earlier. I
worked out afterward it must have been January the twelfth.
It was touch-and-go whether the ferry would sail at all. A
gale had been blowing since midafternoon and the last few
crossings had been canceled. But toward nine o'clock the
wind eased slightly, and at nine forty-five the master
decided it was safe to cast off. The boat was crowded; McAra
was lucky to get a space for his car. He parked belowdecks
and then went upstairs to get some air.
No one saw him alive again.
The crossing to the island usually takes forty-five minutes,
but on this particular night the weather slowed the voyage
considerably: docking a two-hundred-foot vessel in a
fifty-knot wind, said Rick, is nobody's idea of fun. It was
nearly eleven when the ferry made land at Vineyard Haven and
the cars started up -- all except one: a brandnew
tan-colored Ford Escape SUV. The purser made a loudspeaker
appeal for the owner to return to his vehicle, as he was
blocking the drivers behind him. When he still didn't show,
the crew tried the doors, which turned out to be unlocked,
and freewheeled the big Ford down to the quayside. Afterward
they searched the ship with care: stairwells, bar, toilets,
even the lifeboats -- nothing. They called the terminal at
Woods Hole to check if anyone had disembarked before the
boat sailed or had perhaps been accidentally left behind --
again: nothing. That was when an official of the
Massachusetts Steamship Authority finally contacted the
Coast Guard station in Falmouth to report a possible man
overboard.
A police check on the Ford's license plate revealed it to be
registered to one Martin S. Rhinehart of New York City,
although Mr. Rhinehart was eventually tracked down to his
ranch in California. By now it was about midnight on the
East Coast, nine p.m. on the West.
"This is the Marty Rhinehart?" I interrupted.
"This is he."
Rhinehart immediately confirmed over the telephone to the
police that the Ford belonged to him. He kept it at his
house on Martha's Vineyard for the use of himself and his
guests in the summer. He also confirmed that, despite the
time of year, a group of people were staying there at the
moment. He said he would get his assistant to call the house
and find out if anyone had borrowed the car. Half an hour
later she rang back to say that someone was indeed missing,
a person by the name of McAra.
Nothing more could be done until first light. Not that it
mattered. Everyone knew that if a passenger had gone
overboard it would be a search for a corpse. Rick is one of
those irritatingly fit Americans in their early forties who
look about nineteen and do terrible things to their body
with bicycles and canoes. He knows that sea: he once spent
two days paddling a kayak the entire sixty miles round the
island. The ferry from Woods Hole plies the strait where
Vineyard Sound meets Nantucket Sound, and that is dangerous
water. At high tide you can see the force of the currents
sucking the huge channel buoys over onto their sides. Rick
shook his head. In January, in a gale, in snow? No one could
survive more than five minutes.
A local woman found the body early the next morning, thrown
up on the beach about four miles down the island's coast at
Lambert's Cove. The driver's license in the wallet confirmed
him to be Michael James McAra, age fifty, from Balham in
south London. I remember feeling a sudden shot of sympathy
at the mention of that dreary, unexotic suburb: he certainly
was a long way from home, poor devil. His passport named his
mother as his next of kin. The police took his corpse to the
little morgue in Vineyard Haven and then drove over to the
Rhinehart residence to break the news and to fetch one of
the other guests to identify him.
It must have been quite a scene, said Rick, when the
volunteer guest finally showed up to view the body: "I bet
the morgue attendant is still talking about it." There was
one patrol car from Edgartown with a flashing blue light, a
second car with four armed guards to secure the building,
and a third vehicle, bombproof, carrying the instantly
recognizable man who, until eighteen months earlier, had
been the prime minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
THE LUNCH HAD BEEN Rick's idea. I hadn't even known he was
in town until he rang me the night before. He insisted we
meet at his club. It was not his club, exactly -- he was
actually a member of a similar mausoleum in Manhattan, whose
members had reciprocal dining rights in London -- but he
loved it all the same. At lunchtime only men were admitted.
Each wore a dark blue suit and was over sixty; I hadn't felt
so young since I left university. Outside, the winter sky
pressed down on London like a great gray tombstone. Inside,
yellow electric light from three immense candelabra glinted
on dark polished tables, plated silverware, and rubied
decanters of claret. A small card placed between us
announced that the club's annual backgammon tournament would
be taking place that evening. It was like the changing of
the guard or the houses of parliament -- a foreigner's image
of England.
"I'm amazed this hasn't been in the papers," I said.
"Oh, but it has. Nobody's made a secret of it. There've
beenobituaries."
And, now I came to think of it, I did vaguely remember
seeing something. But I had been working fifteen hours a day
for a month to finish my new book, the autobiography of a
footballer, and the world beyond my study had become a blur.
"What on earth was an ex-prime minister doing identifying
the body of a man from Balham who fell off the Martha's
Vineyard ferry?"
"Michael McAra," announced Rick, with the emphatic delivery
of a man who has flown three thousand miles to deliver this
punch line, "was helping him write his memoirs."
And this is where, in that parallel life, I express polite
sympathy for the elderly Mrs. McAra ("such a shock to lose a
child at that age"), fold my heavy linen napkin, finish my
drink, say good-bye, and step out into the chilly London
street with the whole of my undistinguished career
stretching safely ahead of me. Instead I excused myself,
went to the club's lavatory, and studied an unfunny Punch
cartoon while urinating thoughtfully.
"You realize I don't know anything about politics?" I said
when I got back.
"You voted for him, didn't you?"
"Adam Lang? Of course I did. Everybody voted for him. He
wasn't a politician; he was a craze."
"Well, that's the point. Who's interested in politics? In
any case, it's a professional ghostwriter he needs, my
friend, not another goddamned politico." He glanced around.
It was an iron rule of the club that no business could be
discussed on the premises -- a problem for Rick, seeing as
he never discussed anything else. "Marty Rhinehart paid ten
million dollars for these memoirs on two conditions. First,
it'd be in the stores within two years. Second, Lang
wouldn't pull any punches about the war on terror. From what
I hear, he's nowhere near meeting either requirement. Things
got so bad around Christmas, Rhinehart gave him the use of
his vacation house on the Vineyard so that Lang and McAra
could work without any distractions. I guess the pressure
must have gotten to McAra. The state medical examiner found
enough booze in his blood to put him four times over the
driving limit."
"So it was an accident?"
"Accident? Suicide?" He casually fl icked his hand. "Who'll
ever know? What does it matter? It was the book that killed
him."
"That's encouraging," I said.
While Rick went on with his pitch, I stared at my plate and
imagined the former prime minister looking down at his
assistant's cold white face in the mortuary -- staring down
at his ghost, I suppose one could say. How did it feel? I am
always putting this question to my clients. I must ask it a
hundred times a day during the interview phase: How did it
feel? How did it feel? And mostly they can't answer, which
is why they have to hire me to supply their memories; by the
end of a successful collaboration I am more them than they
are. I rather enjoy this process, to be honest: the brief
freedom of being someone else. Does that sound creepy? If
so, let me add that real craftsmanship is required. I not
only extract from people their life stories, I impart a
shape to those lives that was often invisible; sometimes I
give them lives they never even realized they had. If that
isn't art, what is?
I said, "Should I have heard of McAra?"
"Yes, so let's not admit you haven't. He was some kind of
aide when Lang was prime minister. Speechwriting, policy
research, political strategy. When Lang resigned, McAra
stayed with him, to run his offi ce."
I grimaced. "I don't know, Rick."
Throughout lunch I'd been half watching an elderly
television actor at the next table. He'd been famous when I
was a child for playing the single parent of teenage girls
in a sitcom. Now, as he rose unsteadily and started to
shuffle toward the exit, he looked as though he'd been made
up to act the role of his own corpse. That was the type of
person whose memoirs I ghosted: people who had fallen a few
rungs down the celebrity ladder, or who had a few rungs left
to climb, or who were just about clinging to the top and
were desperate to cash in while there was still time. I was
abruptly overwhelmed by the ridiculousness o...