Ghosting the Narrative

Matilda barely noticed the desert rolling past the car window. She propped her sandaled feet on the glovebox, balancing a sheaf of papers on her lap. Air conditioning riffled the corners.

“You’re taking me off a project days away from press and you're not going to give me any hints on my new assignment?” she asked her agent.

Penny stomped the accelerator down the I-10 Eastbound. “I can’t give you any hints until you’ve signed the NDA.”

“That’s a hint in itself,” Matilda sang, scrawling her signature at every document flag. “This project is big enough to need an NDA for a ghostwriter. The last client who had one was—”

“— the bird guy. And he still robbed us of royalties by using the University press. Finish signing and seal the envelope when you’re done.” Penny took the exit for downtown Palm Springs.

Matilda capped her pen. They pulled into the loading zone of the Ace Hotel: her workplace for the next three days. She slung her duffel over her shoulder.

Penny accepted the envelope. “Alright, your client is an early-career author. He’s been around in a small way for a couple of years, but this is his first big deal. I want you to be careful with this one, though.”

“Why?” Matilda said. “I’ve helped gross old men hide blatant sexual harassment in their memoirs more than any modern woman should.”

“That’s why we pay you the medium bucks,” Penny conceded. They approached the registration desk. “No, he’s a big deal for the firm. Unconventional, maybe, but one of the good ones.” Penny handed Matilda her room key.

“It’s a bungalow?”

“Yes, with Just. One. Bed.” Penny laughed at Matilda’s scrunched nose. “I’m kidding. It’s a two bedroom with a kitchenette. You’ll share working quarters and have a safe space to retreat.”

“Retreat isn’t in my vocabulary.” Matilda waved goodbye and skipped toward suite 3E. Her sandals clicked across the mosaic tile flooring.

The room was littered with paper, notebooks, and pens. A laptop rested on the coffee table; the screen locked.

“Housekeeping?” Matilda called. She heard footfalls from the kitchenette. Pasting on her most professional smile, she extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Matilda. You must be—”

She saw the one person who could make her retreat. “Oh, no. No, no. Nope.” Her proffered handshake swerved into her back pocket for her phone, thumbing through her contacts for Penny’s number.

“The publisher told me they were sending a ghostwriter, but they didn’t tell me she was a talentless hack,” her client grumbled.

Matilda held the phone to her ear. The call went straight to voicemail. “I might not have your chops, but at least I have an education to back up my skills.”

He exited the kitchenette, the bungalow’s glass sliding doors bathing him in warm desert sunlight. He looked nothing like his author photo, intellectual and level-headed. He looked even less like the last time she’d seen him, laughing in a lecture hall, chewing the cap of a BIC.

Now, he was pale and unshaven, his jaw set. Caffeine and anxiety fueled his focus. “I have an education.”

“I lost track of you somewhere around English 101. Except for that time when you used me as a character and essentially painted my face on a billboard.” Matilda cursed inwardly as a blush crept over her nose.

“I didn’t paint your face anywhere.” Josh stepped closer. “Besides, you wrote an epic flame-out story about me in an online writing contest.”

“You painted a picture with your words. And that story wasn’t about you! It was about me; both characters were different parts of my personality and—” Matilda grit her teeth. “I don’t owe you an explanation. You made me quit writing.”

“Thought that was your dead-last finish.” He shrugged. “Read it again. You didn’t think you were writing about me, but your subconscious sure was.” He fished his phone out of his pocket, scrolled, and presented her with the evidence.

“This was years ago. You can pull it up like that?”

“I keep it as a good example of what not to do. Too formulaic.”

“Yeah well, I’m a ghostwriter. Formula is what we do.” Matilda shook her head. “You’re the one with the problem. You can’t finish your book.”

“It’s finished! It only needs piecing together." Josh crossed his arms and jerked his chin to the disaster in the common area.

Matilda scoffed. “Why should I help you?”

“It’s not like I asked you to; this is your job. It’s a small world. We were bound to run into each other eventually. Actually, it might be better this way.”

“Better? You hate me. Why would you trust me?”

“I don’t—” His throat bobbed. “You’re the devil I know, anyway. Even if you can’t turn a phrase, you can organize a story.”

“Thank you,” Matilda said stiffly. “I think.”

“Well, that’s settled. Want a drink?” Josh retreated to the kitchenette and returned with a beer.

“Put that away and come back with two waters. This is the desert. I need you hydrated,” Matilda said.

Josh cracked the pop top on the beer can but produced two glasses of water. “Let’s get started.”

***

Two empties framed Josh’s still-idle laptop. Matilda really needed to use the restroom.

“This is only Act One,” she said, scribbling notes over a spiral-bound notebook.

Josh frowned. “I don’t arrange my work into Acts, per se. It sort of comes to me, like a movie.” He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead.

Matilda fidgeted. “Film is arranged into Acts, too, you know. Or else you would know if you paid attention in English.”

Josh muttered some retort, but she didn’t hear it.

“I’m going to the bathroom. When I get back, see if you can pull together all the different parts of Act Two. That’s the middle part of the story.”

Josh rolled his eyes at her retreating back.

Crouched on side of the bathtub, Matilda cranked the faucet and checked her phone.

Penny: Sorry I missed your call. What’s up?

Matilda: Did you KNOW that it was Joshua Bernhardt?

Penny: I negotiated the contract, so… yes. Is there a problem?

Matilda leaned against the cool tile. How to describe the problem. Was there a problem?

Matilda: No problem. We’re previously acquainted, is all.

There, that covered it. No need to mention her ill-fated attempts at turning author herself, or why this man continued to plague her anytime she opened a blank document.

Penny: “Previously acquainted.” What is this, an Austen novel? Should I call the hotel and switch it to a one-bedded bungalow?

Damn it. Matilda knocked over the pink mini soaps in her haste to reply.

Matilda: NO. It’s a small world. We were bound to run into each other eventually.

Double damn it, now she was quoting him. Matilda put her phone on Do Not Disturb and returned to the common area.

Josh stood in the center of the room holding a notebook, three pieces of paper, and his phone open to a notes app. “I think that’s all of it,” he said.

“Okay, perfect.” Matilda clapped. “Let’s get it in a single document. Can you type it up? I'll print it from the business center.”

Josh groaned. “I’m here to do actual writing.”

“Trust me, when we get through the boring stuff, the good stuff will go faster.”

He sat down at the computer and started typing. “Hey, while you’re out, can you pick up some dinner?”

Matilda opened her mouth, then closed it. He was working and they weren’t insulting each other that much. She could keep the peace. “Sure. Any requests?”

“Whatever you think looks good,” he said.

That’s right, she thought as the bungalow door shut behind her. Whatever I think.

***

The room was dark when Matilda returned with the Act 2 pages and Thai takeout. She walked toward the sole source of light: the full moon high above Mt. San Jacinto. She closed the blinds.

“Hey!” Josh barked from the couch. “That was atmospheric.”

“Sorry,” Matilda apologized automatically. She reached for a light switch, then paused. “Would it ruin the mood if I turned on a light?”

“The Pad Thai ruined the mood,” Josh inhaled deeply. “It smells unbelievable. Give it here.”

She passed him a carton. He waited for her to take her first bite.

“So, what were you working on when I so rudely interrupted?”

“Love scene,” he said, noodles dangling from his mouth.

“There’s romance in this thing? There’s nothing foreshadowed in Act One.” Matilda leaned across the table to make a note, but Josh stopped her.

“Matilda. You cannot plan a love scene.”

“Joshua. You absolutely must plan a love scene. Like with everything, there’s cadence and choreography.”

He rolled his eyes. “I bet you’re terrible at dirty talk.”

She shrugged. “I’m terrible at anything without a draft. Show me what you’ve got.”

He offered his laptop and paced while Matilda scrolled, dropping bean sprouts around the room. “Tell me it’s sexiest thing you’ve ever read.”

“It does the job,” she attested. “But Joshua, the choreography. His hands are everywhere!”

“Isn’t it supposed to feel like that? Like his hands are everywhere?” he brandished his plastic fork.

“I’m not sure how to answer that.” She set the laptop down. “Come here, let me show you.”

Matilda sat up, tucking her knees beneath her in an imitation of his female protagonist.

Josh went straight for the laptop.

She cursed herself for the umpteenth time that day, ran a hand through her hair, then leaned in beside him. “Your visuals are strong, but they’re too close together. Space some dialogue in there, maybe.”

Josh smirked. “And say what?”

“You’re the dirty talk expert, not me,” Matilda parried. “Try something.” She finished her Pad Thai while he typed.

“You know,” he murmured. “This was a good idea.”

“You’re welcome,” she said quietly, unwilling to disturb his flow. She refilled his water glass twice before he finally slammed the laptop shut.

“Can I have a look?”

“Nope, gotta sleep on it. Writer’s rule,” he declared.

“Ah, so he does have some vestiges of a process.” She grinned.

“Process is not about creativity, it’s repetition. And that’s the opposite of creativity.” Josh crossed the room and opened the blinds. “Anybody who would close off that streaming moonlight has no soul.”

“Why do you hate me?” Matilda asked.

He stilled at the window. “I don’t hate you.”

“You wrote that story and described me as ‘dense.’ I have an impressive vocabulary and can suggest several other adjectives.”

“Matilda, you are dense.”

“About what? About writing? About process?”

“That’s something you’ll have to answer for yourself.” Josh retreated to his bedroom. “And now, time to make good on the one part of my process. Good night!”

Matilda waited for the click of his door lock before she rose to close the blinds. Tucked safely into her own bed, she accessed her last draft of the story she’d written absolutely not about Josh.

“Damn it,” she groaned into her pillow after the second read-through. The main character’s wry wit was familiar. “It might be about him.”

***

The following morning, Matilda made a coffee run and completed her notes on Act Two before Josh appeared in the common area.

“An ending,” she demanded.

“All stories have them,” he agreed.

“Yours does not.”

“It will when it’s ready to,” Josh said. “Coffee?”

“I’ll allow it,” she passed him a to-go cup. “And then, the ending.”

He took a long sip, watching her over the lid. Matilda opened his laptop and patted his seat on the couch. He sat down, fingers poised over the keyboard.

They watched the blinking cursor.

“I need a little space,” Josh said.

“We both need you to finish this book. Typically, my clients and I talk through it. What do you want to happen? Do you want my suggestions, based on our work so far?”

“I’m not your average client,” he said. “Why don’t you give me an hour or two?”

Matilda looked at the clock. It was mid-morning, and they had to check out tomorrow. They didn’t have a full manuscript draft, and a developmental edit required half a day. But Josh was a writer; surely he could be trusted for a few hours on his own.

“The pool looks nice. I’ll be outside, and I can read what you have over lunch.”

Josh waved her away. “I won’t let you down.”

Reclining in a patio chaise, Matilda forced herself to stare at the too-blue pool water for the first hour of her banishment. She felt an intense pull toward the bungalow, to turn, to make sure Josh stayed on task. It felt pointless to annotate his manuscript without a clear direction. What if he introduced new characters? Changed the setting entirely?

Relax, she reminded herself. This, like every other story, is not yours. It was his prerogative to take the narrative wherever he wanted, and it was her job to make that vision a reality. She closed her eyes and let the desert sun warm her skin.

At high noon, Matilda sprang from her chair and returned to the bungalow. Josh lay on the couch, gripping a throw pillow against his stomach.

“Finished already?” she asked. “Let’s see what you have.”

“Not yet,” he sat up and stretched, flipping the laptop lid closed. “My muses must be poolside, with you.”

“You spent two hours doing what, exactly?” Matilda hated how panic made her voice climb a register. “Josh, this is your big break on the line. This is my job on the line. This is about fifteen other people at the publisher and our agencies, riding on the next eight hours. You cannot leave this to chance.”

“Help with what? Ideas?” he stood, hands balled by his sides. “Why would I allow someone else to write the ending to my book?”

“I’m not going to write the ending, I’m going to make suggestions. A substitute for your muses, if you want to think of it that way. If you hate everything I say, fine. Do the complete opposite, but at least it will get done.”

“I can’t do that. It won’t be mine anymore.”

“I’m here as a stand in.” Matilda’s heart raced. “That’s largely the point of me, after all. To fill in for others, to pick up the pieces, to clean up the messes, while someone else signs the books, answers the fan mail, and most of all, comes up with the next big idea.”

“Ah,” Josh said. His jaw was taught. “You’re getting it now.”

“Getting what, Josh? I’m confused. Tell me exactly what you think of me, and why you won’t let me help you finish this goddamned book.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have time for this right now. I need you gone so I can do exactly as you suggest; to finish the goddamned book.” He took his laptop back to the bedroom and shut the door.

“We don’t have time for this, Joshua!” Matilda shouted after him.

***

Josh showed no signs of re-emerging, and Matilda was hungry. Hangry, even. She ordered room service; a cobb salad for herself and a burger for Josh. Only hard-boiled egg crumbles remained in her bowl. Josh’s burger went untouched.

Hours later, she opened the slider to let in the cool night air. She left the blinds open, just in case. Finally, Josh emerged, a hangdog expression on his face.

“Alright. I’ll take those suggestions now,” he said.

It was sunrise before they had a finished draft; the open blinds giving an observatory-quality view of the constellations dancing across the sky.

“Now, it’s just the author’s note, and that’s on you,” Matilda said with a sigh of relief. “Is it too soon to ask what you think of it?”

She’d been limited to one side of Josh’s face all night; his profile or the back of his head, bent over the laptop. It gave her a jolt to see his face square-on.

“I don’t hate it. Or you. I guess process gets things done,” he smiled crookedly.

“Nah, I just provided the road signs. You did all the driving. That’s what good ghostwriters are supposed to do.” She reached for the trackpad and clicked save, just in case.

“Don’t be tempted, now,” Josh’s voice rumbled in her ear. She yanked her hands back as if scalded.

“I would never.”

“You sure about that? You didn’t feel a little tingle in your fingers to put your own spin on it?” His tone was teasing. “You could try writing again. Your work won’t ever be as good as mine, of course, but there’s probably a market for it.”

Matilda lifted a shoulder but said nothing. This was the version of Josh she remembered but could never capture on the page: his ability to sense and skewer her feelings when she tried to hide them most.

The worst part of a ghostwritten project was the end. It should be the best; the feeling of completion, the small glow of pride every time she saw the work out in the world. Instead, Matilda felt the childish urge to scream “look at me! I did that!”

He was here, looking at her.

“It was a pleasure working with you,” she said.

“But never again,” he said.

“Never again,” she agreed, for different reasons.

***

After check-out, Matilda waited in the lobby. Penny leapt from the driver’s seat, startling the valet.

“Have you seen this?” she said, brandishing her tablet.

Matilda took a cursory glance. “Yes, you paid me the medium bucks to see it.”

“No, the author’s note.” Penny shoved the device under Matilda’s nose.

A story is told by many voices. While this one is mine, it wouldn’t have been possible without my sometimes-colleague, one-time friend, Matilda.