Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

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      ‘It depends,’ I said. ‘Some ghostwriters ask for that. I don’t.’

      ‘So your name appears nowhere?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      She frowned. ‘Don’t you mind?’

      I shrugged. ‘Anonymity’s part of the deal. And of course the clients like it that way. They’d prefer everyone to think they’d written the book all by themselves.’

      Carolyn laughed. ‘I couldn’t bear not to have any of the glory. If I’d worked that hard on something, I’d want people to know!’

      ‘Me too,’ chimed in Honor. ‘I don’t know why you want to hide your light under a bushel quite so much, Jen.’

      ‘Because it’s enough that I’ve enjoyed the work and been paid for it. I’m happy to be … invisible.’

      ‘You were always like that,’ Honor went on. ‘You were never one to seek the limelight – unlike me,’ she giggled. ‘I enjoy it.’

      ‘So are you still acting?’ Sean asked her.

      ‘Not for five years now,’ she answered. ‘I couldn’t take the insecurity any more, so I went into radio, which I love.’

      ‘I’ve heard your show,’ Amy interjected. ‘It’s really good.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Honor basked in the compliment for a moment. ‘And you two have had a baby, haven’t you?’

      ‘We have,’ Amy answered. ‘So I’m on maternity leave …’

      ‘And what are you working on now, Jenni?’ Carolyn asked.

      I fiddled with my wine glass. ‘A baby-care guide.’

      ‘How lovely,’ she responded. ‘And are you a mum?’

      My heart contracted. ‘No.’ I sipped my wine.

      ‘Doesn’t that make it difficult? Writing a book about something you haven’t been through yourself?’

      ‘Not at all. The client’s talked extensively to me about her experience – she’s a midwife – and I’ve written it up in a clear and, I hope, engaging way.’

      ‘I must buy it,’ Amy said to me. ‘What’s it called?’

      ‘Bringing Up Baby. It’ll be out in the spring. But I always get given a few complimentary copies, so if you give me your address I’ll send you one.’

      ‘Oh, that’s kind. I’ll write it down …’ Amy began looking in her bag for a pen.

      ‘You can contact me through my website,’ I suggested. ‘Jenni Clark Ghostwriting. So … how old’s your baby?’

      At that Sean took out his phone and swiped the screen. ‘She’s called Rosie.’

      I smiled at the photo. ‘She’s gorgeous. Isn’t she lovely, Honor?’

      Honor peered at the image. ‘She’s a little beauty.’

      ‘She’s what, six months?’ I asked.

      Amy’s face glowed with pride. ‘Yes – she’ll be seven months a week on Wednesday.’

      ‘So is she crawling?’ I went on, ‘Or starting to roll over?’ Beside me I could feel Rick stiffen.

      ‘She’s crawling beautifully,’ Amy replied. ‘But she’s not rolling over yet.’

      Sean laughed. ‘It’ll be nerve-wracking when she does.’

      ‘You won’t be able to leave her on the bed or the changing table,’ I said. ‘That’s when lots of parents put the changing mat on the floor – not that I’m a parent myself, but of course we cover this in the book …’ Rick had tuned out of the conversation and was talking to Carolyn again. Al turned to me. ‘So can you write about any subject?’

      ‘Well, not something I could never relate to,’ I answered, ‘like particle physics – not that I’d ever get chosen for a book like that. But I’ll do almost any professional writing job: corporate reports, press releases, business pitches, memoirs …’

      ‘Memoirs?’ echoed Vincent Tregear. ‘You mean, writing someone’s life story?’

      ‘Yes – usually an older person, just for private publication.’

      ‘Do you enjoy that?’ Vincent wanted to know.

      ‘Very much. In fact it’s the best part of the job. I love immersing myself in other people’s memories.’

      Vincent looked as though he was about to say something, but then Carolyn began asking him about golf, Amy was telling Rick about yoga, and Honor was chatting to Al about his work as an orthodontist. She was drawn to him, I could tell. Good old Nina for putting them together. Suddenly Honor looked at me, grinned, then tapped her teeth. ‘Al says I have a perfect bite.’

      I raised my glass. ‘Congratulations!’

      ‘Not just good,’ Honor said. ‘Perfect!’

      ‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ Al said.

      She laughed. ‘Where else is my bite supposed to go?’

      Soon it was time for the speeches and toasts; the cake was cut, then after coffee there was a break before the evening party was to start.

      Amy and Sean had to leave, to get back to their baby. Vincent Tregear also said his goodbyes. As the caterers moved back the tables, Rick and I went out into the garden.

      We sat on a bench, watching the sky turn crimson, then mauve, then an inky blue in which the first stars were starting to shine.

      ‘Well … it’s been a great day,’ Rick pronounced. The awkwardness had returned, squatting between us like an uninvited guest.

      ‘It’s been a lovely day,’ I agreed. ‘We should …’

      ‘What?’ he murmured.

      My nerve failed. ‘We should go inside. It’s getting cold.’

      Rick stood up. ‘And the band’s started.’ He held out his hand.

      So we returned to the marquee where Jon and Nina were dancing their first waltz. Soon everyone took to the floor. But as Rick’s arms went round me and he pulled me close, I felt that he was hugging me goodbye.

       TWO

      ‘So … what are we going to do?’ Rick asked me gently the following day.

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