Ghostwritten - Isabel Wolff

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      We could hear the chatter of the guests, a sudden burst of Honor’s unmistakeable laughter, then the photographer’s voice. Could you look at me, Nina?

      Rick approached another grave, by a yew. He peered at it. ‘This one’s got a bunch of grapes carved on it.’

      ‘Grapes represent the wine at the Last Supper.’

      Rick glanced at me. ‘How do you know all this, Jen? I didn’t think you were religious.’

      ‘I had to research it for one of my books. It was years ago, but I’ve remembered a lot of it.’

       Now look at each other again …

      ‘Here’s a rose,’ Rick said, pointing to another headstone. ‘I assume that means love?’

       Oh, very romantic …

      ‘No. Roses show how old the person was when they died.’ I studied the worn emblem. ‘This is a full rose, which was used for adults.’ I read the inscription. ‘Mary Ann Betts … was …’ I peered at her dates. ‘Twenty-five. The stem’s severed, to show that her life was cut short.’

      ‘I see …’ Our conversation felt stiff and formal, as though we were strangers, not lovers.

       Can we have a kiss?

      ‘A partially opened rose means a teenager.’

       And another one. Lovely.

      ‘And a rosebud is for a child.’

       Hold his hand now.

      Rick nodded thoughtfully. ‘A sad subject.’

      ‘Yes …’ Okay, all stand together, please – nice and close!

      Rick and I rejoined everyone for the group photo, for which the photographer climbed onto a stepladder, wobbling theatrically to make us all laugh. We smiled up at him while he clicked away then, hand in hand, Nina and Jon led us down the path, across the field, to the house.

      The Old Forge was just as I remembered it – long and low, its pale stone walls ablaze with pyracantha and Virginia creeper. A large marquee filled the lawn. In the distance were the hills of Slad, the plunging pastures dotted with sheep, their bleats carrying across the valley on the still air.

      We joined the receiving line, greeting both sets of parents, then the bride and groom.

      Nina’s face lit up and we hugged. ‘Jenni …’

      I had to fight back sudden tears. I didn’t know whether they were tears of happiness for her or of self-pity. ‘You look so beautiful, Nina.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She put her lips to my ear. ‘You next,’ she whispered.

      Jon kissed me on the cheek, then clasped Rick’s hand. ‘Good to see you both! Thanks for coming!’

      ‘Congratulations, Jon,’ Rick said warmly. ‘It was a lovely service. Congratulations, Nina.’

      Now we moved on into the large sunny sitting room where drinks were being served. I put our gift on a table amongst a cluster of other presents and cards. A waiter offered us a glass of champagne. Rick raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the happy couple.’

      ‘They are happy’ – I sipped my fizz. ‘It’s wonderful.’

      ‘How long have they been together?’

      ‘About the same as us. They got engaged on their first anniversary,’ I added neutrally, then laughed at myself for ever having thought that Rick and I might do the same.

      I looked at Rick, so handsome, with his open face, short dark hair and blue gaze. I tried, and failed, to imagine life without him. We’d agreed to talk things over again the next day. Before I could think about that, though, a gong summoned us into the marquee, which was bedecked with white agapanthus and pink nerines, the tables gleaming with silver and china. We found our names, standing behind our chairs while the vicar said Grace.

      Rick and I had been placed with Honor, and with Amy and Sean, whom I’d known at college but hadn’t seen for years, and an old schoolfriend of Jon’s, Al. I was glad that Nina had put him next to Honor; she’d been single for a while now, and he was very attractive. Also on our table was Nina’s godfather, Vincent Tregear. I vaguely remembered him from her twenty-first birthday. A near neighbour named Carolyn Browne introduced herself. I steeled myself for the effort of making small talk with people I don’t know; unlike Honor, I’m not good at it, and in my present frame of mind it would be harder than usual.

      I heard Carolyn explain to Rick that she was a solicitor, recently retired. ‘I’m so busy though,’ she confessed, laughing. ‘I’m a governor of a local school, I play golf and bridge; I travel. I was dreading retirement, but it’s really fine.’ She smiled at Rick. ‘Not that you’re anywhere near that stage. So, what do you do?’

      He unfurled his napkin. ‘I’m a teacher – at a primary school in Islington.’

      ‘He’s the deputy head,’ I volunteered, proudly.

      Carolyn smiled at me. ‘And what about you, erm …?’

      ‘Jenni.’ I turned my place card towards her.

      ‘Jenni,’ she echoed. ‘And you’re …’ She nodded at Rick.

      ‘Yes, I’m Rick’s …’ The word ‘girlfriend’ made us seem like teenagers; ‘partner’ made us sound as though we were in business, not in love. ‘Other half,’ I concluded, though I disliked this too: it seemed to suggest, ominously, that we’d been sliced apart.

      ‘And what do you do?’ Carolyn asked me.

      My heart sank – I hate talking about myself. ‘I’m a writer.’

      ‘A writer?’ Her face had lit up. ‘Do you write novels?’

      ‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s all non-fiction. But you won’t have heard of me.’

      ‘I read a lot, so maybe I will. What’s your name? Jenni …’ Carolyn peered at my place card. ‘Clark.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Jenni Clark …’

      ‘I don’t write under that name.’

      ‘So is it Jennifer Clark?’

      ‘No – what I mean is, I don’t write under any name.’ I was about to explain why, when Honor said, ‘Jenni’s a ghost.’

      ‘A ghost?’ Carolyn looked puzzled.

      ‘She ghosts things.’ Honor unfurled her napkin. ‘Strange to think that it can be a verb, isn’t it? I ghost, you ghost, he ghosts,’ she added gaily.

      I rolled my eyes at Honor, then turned to Carolyn. ‘I’m a ghostwriter.’

      ‘Oh, I see. So you write books for people who can’t write.’

      ‘Or they can,’ I said, ‘but don’t have the time, or lack the confidence, or they don’t know how to shape the material.’

      ‘So it’s actors and pop stars, I suppose? Footballers? TV presenters?’

      I shook my head. ‘I don’t do the celebrity stuff – I used to, but not any more.’

      ‘Which is a shame,’ Honor interjected, ‘as you’d make far more money.’

      ‘True.’ I rested my fork. ‘But I didn’t enjoy it.’

      ‘Why not?’ asked Al, who was on my left.

      ‘It was too frustrating,’ I answered, ‘having to battle with my subjects’ egos, or finding that they didn’t turn up for the interviews; or that they’d give me some brilliant material then the next day tell me that I wasn’t to use it. So these days I only do the projects that interest

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