Yasmin has just landed her dream job, the one sheâs yearned for since childhood. But itâs all a sham, just like her resume. Will her âfairy ghost-mothersâ reveal her biggest lie of all?
When Yasmin starts her first day at The Womanâs Standard magazine â after telling some pretty sizeable porkies to get the job - she learns that they have one shot at hitting record circulation, or the whole company will go under.
She draws on the strengths of her beloved ghost-mothers, sprung from past issues of The Standard - her only friends, and her emotional crutch since childhood. Life without her besties seems unthinkable, even now at 24 years old â which is a little long in the tooth to have ephemeral floating entities as best friends. Unless...theyâre not so ephemeral?
But, Yasmin has no experience, is woefully under-skilled at life and her ghost-mothers keep appearing at inopportune moments. Will the domineering editor, who has the ear of the most influential people in the country, discover her secret?
More importantly, can Yasmin pull off the biggest con of her life and save the magazine, the company and the very existence of her ghostly friends?
Yasmin has just landed her dream job, the one sheâs yearned for since childhood. But itâs all a sham, just like her resume. Will her âfairy ghost-mothersâ reveal her biggest lie of all?
When Yasmin starts her first day at The Womanâs Standard magazine â after telling some pretty sizeable porkies to get the job - she learns that they have one shot at hitting record circulation, or the whole company will go under.
She draws on the strengths of her beloved ghost-mothers, sprung from past issues of The Standard - her only friends, and her emotional crutch since childhood. Life without her besties seems unthinkable, even now at 24 years old â which is a little long in the tooth to have ephemeral floating entities as best friends. Unless...theyâre not so ephemeral?
But, Yasmin has no experience, is woefully under-skilled at life and her ghost-mothers keep appearing at inopportune moments. Will the domineering editor, who has the ear of the most influential people in the country, discover her secret?
More importantly, can Yasmin pull off the biggest con of her life and save the magazine, the company and the very existence of her ghostly friends?
Yasmin Taylor-Lee strode down the main street of Sydneyâs CBD the day after she fake-graduated from university. Which meant it was the day she was officially, as her mother so eloquently put it, âout on her derriĂšre.â Which was code for, âmove out and get a job.â
Her mother didnât know about the whole âfakeâ part of the graduation, although she should have guessed. Yasmin was often cavalier with the truth â bending it in ways that suited her imagination, rather than actual reality.
In any case, Yasmin had decided that today was the beginning of the realisation of the dream sheâd had since she was ten years old. Today, she was going to land her dream job at Warner Williams Corporation, working with the Felicia Pine on The Womanâs Standard.
Yasmin believed that she was destined to steer The Womanâs Standard into the next decade and beyond. Who better than a super-fan? And she was the biggest super-fan of all. For as long as she could remember, sheâd scoured the back issues and waited by the mailbox for the latest delivery. She held a particular obsession for the magazine and everyone in it.
Yasmin nursed a hot chocolate in a coffee shop, scoping out the building opposite. Yasmin knew that she only had to flag Felicia down and wheedle her way into her dream job. And she would find Felicia at the offices of the Warner Williams Corporation. Somewhere inside, on one of the floors, Felicia Pine would be sitting in her office.
Yasmin absently fingered the penny on a chain that she always wore around her neck. It was an old penny, and where the Queen should have been, three women appeared instead. Three interlocking circles graced the other side.
The steel and black marble of the WWC building reflected the sun. The windows were tinted, as if to protect the identity of the celebrities inside. Just visible behind the windows were two oversized LED screens, stretching from floor to ceiling. They flicked from one glossy magazine cover to the next: single shots of wasting models and full-sized advertisements for luxury cars. The screen featured all of Warner Williamâs magazines, from those targeted to the high-end motor industry to fashion and teenage magazines, and of course, The Womanâs Standard.
She flattened out her shapely fiftiesâ frock and pulled at her auburn curls, springing them back into place. She checked her makeup in the small antique mirror she kept in her handbag, then she took a deep breath, smiled winningly, and crossed the street, heading towards the imposing glass foyer. She felt her stomach turn, as if she were approaching royalty, or a crying baby, or a small explosive device. Then she remembered her skill at telling porkies. Her heart slowed.
The people entering the building were uniformly stick-thin, head-to-toe in labels. Their made-up faces glistened with bright colours â lip glosses, eyeshadows, deep-tone mascaras. And absolutely everyone wore their designer sunglasses into the foyer.
Yasmin took a deep breath, slipped on her sunglasses and sluiced through the glass revolving doors, her heels clacking on the black marble floor. Beyond the swipe gates, the mirrored lifts glinted as they swished open. Every shiny surface magnified an elongated, distorted reflection. She might as well have entered a new world, and those around her were an exotic, carbon-based species.
The long concierge desk ran along the wall. A snooty receptionist languished behind it, with a severe bun and red lipstick slashed across her mouth like a surgical incision.
Yasmin took a breath. She put on her best smile and strode towards that desk, ready to start the rest of her life.
The receptionist flirted with a bicep-hearty man. He wore a suit with a white shirt and a black tie, which outlined the chiselled chest beneath. Neither one saw her approach.
âExcuse me,â Yasmin said, affecting a slight English accent.
The receptionist kept talking. Yasmin noticed the coiled earpiece in the security manâs ear and the walkie-talkie he lifted from his belt. He leaned over the desk casually, one arm resting beneath him.
Yasmin cleared her throat.
The receptionist peeled her attention away from the man. Yasmin saw his name tag: it read âBuckley.â
âYes?â the receptionist said, clearly flushed.
âIâm so sorry to interrupt, but Iâm running a few minutes late for my 9:30 with Felicia. Would you be so kind as to buzz me through?â Yasmin pushed her sunglasses up her nose and feigned disdain.
The receptionist eyed Yasmin. âHavenât I seen you here before?â she asked.
âYes, of course. I was here last week. And the week before that.â Yasmin leaned in. âWeâre very tight, Felicia and I. We meet regularly, you know, to exchange ideas. In fact, I was the inspiration for last monthâs cover. It was my idea to feature Nicole Kidman.â
âNo, thatâs not it.â The receptionist seemed wary and frowned. âYou come here all the time. And sit over there. In that chair.â
âAre we okay here?â Buckley put a hand on the hip that held the walkie-talkie.
âWe most certainly are not,â Yasmin huffed, her English inflection forgotten. âYouâre delaying my meeting with Felicia. I suggest that if you donât want to raise her wrath, you let me straight in.â
The security man gently grabbed Yasminâs arm. âYou have no business being here, maâam,â he said. âItâs best if you leave.â
Oh, my. Yasmin was being thrown out of the Warner Williams Corporation!
âWell!â Yasmin huffed. She yanked her arm free. âI can see myself out, thank you very much.â
She noticed a worker passing through the security gates â which sprang open and hovered for a frozen instant in time.
She hurled herself at the gate, just as the arms clicked shut again. Her chest smacked into them. She ricocheted back, into the bear-hug of the security guard.
He manhandled her through the revolving doors and pushed her out onto the street.
âPlease donât come back,â he said, straightening his tie and reaching for the walkie-talkie at his hip. He pressed a finger to his ear. âAll clear this end, Roger. Thanks.â
He watched her stalk away, waiting until she had crossed the lights at the next block.
Yasmin stumbled down Park Street towards the bus, frustration and humiliation threatening to spill over. Today was meant to be the day she finally met Felicia. She was destined to work at WWC. It was her dream. How could they turn her away?
She stood waiting at the lights, caught in her head, her surroundings a blur.
She only half-saw the black limo pull up beside her. Only half-watched the window as it slid open, revealing the tan interior. Only briefly saw a sunglass-wearing, bouffant-haired older lady, with a smooth forehead â clearly botoxed. The womanâs sharp eyes seemed to check outside for signs of rain. And then the window rose again and snapped shut.
It couldnât be.
The windows were tinted so black that Yasmin couldnât see through. Was thatâ?
No. Yasmin shook her head. Now she was delusional, on top of being recently shamed in the very office in which she hoped to someday forge her career.
But it was. Wasnât it?
The woman in that limo looked a hell of a lot like Felicia Pine.
The pedestrian light turned green and bleeped, urging Yasmin across the road. But she stood her ground, there on the kerb. The commuters pushed around her, cursing. The lights flashed red again, then green for the limo, which turned the corner and â yes! â headed straight towards the WWC building.
Yasmin wheeled around and kept pace with the limo, which crawled in the early morning traffic. She followed it to the next block, then the next. It cleared the traffic and turned â right on cue â at Elizabeth Street. Yasmin ran as fast as her heels would allow and watched the limo pull into the car-park entrance. The limo driver slid her window open, speaking to the man at the ticket box by the gate. He wore the same security outfit as his colleague inside.
Yasmin didnât think, didnât rationalise, and certainly didnât stop. She bent low and crouched beside the car as the gate rose. She moved with the limo. Both she and Felicia had entered the car park!
The limoâs tyres squealed slightly on the polished concrete as it slipped ahead, along the ramp. Yasmin checked over her shoulder. The security man hadnât seen her. He tapped his walkie-talkie on the ticket box, lost in thought.
Yasmin followed behind the limo, but her heels wobbled on the smooth, sloping concrete. She took off her shoes and carried them in one hand. One of the heels had cracked - but what was a three-hundred-dollar pair of shoes, compared to this opportunity?
She ducked her head to see the floor below. The limo made a sharp turn into a reserved car space. Yasmin sprinted, going into a slide just as the driver opened the door. Felicia stepped out.
Yasmin jerked to a stop directly in front of a shocked Felicia Pine, editor of The Womanâs Standard and revered media personality for the last thirty years.
âOh.â Feliciaâs stiffened brow wrinkled ever so slightly.
Felicia Pine was fifty-two, but she could pass for early forties due to the amount of work sheâd had done. Her straight shoulders and squarely planted feet completely dominated the space; this was a woman used to getting her way. She flicked her earth-toned scarf back over her shoulder, regarding Yasmin with a hard set to her lips.
âIâm sorry,â Yasmin said, hopping on each foot as she put her heels back on.
âAh, maâam?â the driver asked, moving to take Yasminâs arm, and not in a friendly way.
âItâs okay, I just want to talk,â Yasmin said, backing up enough that Felicia could close the car door. The driver watched, on high alert.
âWhat is the meaning of this?â Felicia demanded, straightening herself.
âIâm so sorry, Ms Pine. I realise this is a little forwardâŠâ
âDonât worry, it happens all the time,â she said.
âReally?â
âNo,â Felicia said. âFirst time.â
âWell, I tried to make an appointment, you see, but you must be awfully busy, so I thought we could, you know, walk and talk?â Yasmin asked hopefully.
Felicia pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her lips pursed as if to say âdonât try any funny business.â
âYou have exactly one minute of my time, and we will stay right here,â Felicia said, fussing with a collection of manila folders.
âOh, thank you, thank you so much, Ms Pine,â Yasmin gushed. âYou see, Iâve been waiting for this moment since I was ten years old and I first discovered your magazine.â
âStarting a little young, werenât we?â
âOh no, I love your magazine. I have every issue. Iâve memorised all the editors â none as weighty as your good self.â
âThirty seconds.â Felicia pretended to check her Cartier watch.
âSo, I wanted to present myself in person because I would be the perfect head journalist on The Womanâs Standard.â Yasmin stepped back a little. She didnât want to crowd her idol.
Her breath came in little pants â granted, she wasnât in the best shape, but she was also in awe of the magnificent person standing right in front of her. She reached out her hand, slowly, towards Feliciaâs shoulder, just to feel the silk blouse and prove that she was a real person.
âStop that,â Felicia said. âI can see youâre persistent and sending you away empty-handed will only result in more of these ridiculous encounters.â
âThank you!â Yasmin said.
âThat wasnât a compliment,â Felicia said. âBut Iâll tell you something â we only accept recent graduates with outstanding grades and excellent work experience. We also like to see a healthy swathe of community service.â
Yasmin mentally noted everything.
âAwards donât go astray either. We like to know you can write.â
âAnd?â
Felicia sighed and shifted the weight of the folders. She turned from the limo, heading towards the heavy lifts that would whisk her directly to the magical world of The Standard.
Felicia turned back again, regarding Yasminâs earnestness.
âGargantuan Consulting handles all our recruiting.â The lift arrived, and she entered, her brusqueness returning. âAnd if you ever stalk me again, Iâll call the police.â
Yasmin is a liar. She is in her early 20s, did not actually graduate from university, and has no real friends. She still lives with her mother and sister, both of whom wish she would just move out of the house already.
Â
She seems a little bit cracked, a little bit desperate, and she can see ghosts - specifically, three ghosts that have sprung from the pages of her favorite magazine, The Womanâs Standard â a publication she has wanted to work for since the age of ten.
Initially, I, as the reader, was incredibly put off by Yasmin and, what felt like, her extreme oddness. She comes off strange and hopeless, and you start off the book wondering if the protagonist is a crazy-person where weâll be watching her live out a fantasy world within the world of reality. However, as she stalks and lies her way into the dream job of ten-year-old Yasmin, her enthusiasm starts to grown on you.
What I loved most about the journey our main character traveled is that she worked on finding herself and being true to herself - something she had not been doing in her past. And with the help and guidance of her Fairy Ghost Mothers, Yasmin starts to be the woman she has always wanted to be.
Another piece of the story that I found impressive and important for fellow women readers is that the Fairy Ghost Mothers were strong women in their own times, fighting the fight that we women are still fighting today. They taught Yasmin (and the reader) to go to battle for what you feel to be important, donât stand down when bullies try and squash your ideas and plans, as well as, raising up other women â be allies, not enemies.
These are lessons I have personally picked up in my many years as an âadult.â At almost 40, it took a long time to reach these conclusions on my own, however, âThe Ghost Mothersâ would be an excellent read for those young women just starting out in âThe Real Worldâ of adulting.
I do, however, wish we could have known the origin story of our Fairy Ghost Mothers sooner instead of continuing to wonder if these apparitions were just in Yasminâs head. And while I understand that this book is magical realism fiction, there were times that pieces of the story felt incredibly unrealistic.  For example, I know that Yasmin did not graduate from college, but what young person in this day and age doesnât know, not only, how to use Word & Excel, but also what they are? I felt McCarthy pushed Yasminâs naivetĂ© too far and into an unbelievable situation.
While Ghost Mothers was, initially, a slow start for me, by the middle I was rooting for Yasmin, Audrey, Deborah, and Nicole. 3.5 Stars