You Can Trust Me

by Emma Rowley

Genres: Female Sleuths; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

You know nothing about her.
But she knows everything about you.

Olivia is the domestic goddess-turned-internet sensation who has won millions of followers by sharing her picture-perfect life online. And now she's releasing her tell-all autobiography.

Nicky is the ghostwriter tasked with coaxing out the full story - including details of the tragic accident that blighted Olivia's golden childhood.

But, as she delves into Olivia's life, Nicky discovers cracks appearing in the glamorous façade. From money worries to Olivia's strained relationship with her handsome husband, the truth belies her perfect image.

As Olivia becomes increasingly hostile to the woman she's let into her life, Nicky becomes ever more relentless in her hunt for the truth.

Has Olivia really escaped the ghosts of her past - or will Nicky find there are more sinister reasons she wants to leave an old tragedy well alone?

(p) Orion Publishing Group Ltd 2019

Release date: August 25, 2020

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 324

Sample

Ghosts are real.

I should know: I am one.

That’s what I sometimes tell people at parties, just to watch them stutter for a second. It livens up the usual and-what-do-you-do conversations, when you tell someone you’re a ghost.

They stand there looking confused, and then I relent and smile, and say, “A ghostwriter, I mean.”

The conversation, from my side, goes as follows:

“Yes, I ghostwrite books.”

“Yes, you’d have heard of them.”

“In bookshops, yes.”

“No, I can’t tell you who. Sorry.”

“No, really.”

Then I do a conspiratorial lean in: “If I did, I’d have to kill you.”

That’s a joke, too.

They say everyone has a book in them. Perhaps they have, perhaps they haven’t. What interests me is whether they can get it out of themselves and onto the page.

The reality is most people can’t—or won’t—or just don’t have the time, what with the job and the commute and the kids and the in-laws coming on the weekend, and have you seen that latest Netflix series, it’s really very good.

Pile success and a public profile on top of that, a calendar packed with TV shows and award ceremonies, add a thirty-date one-man (or woman) tour, and maybe a collapsing marriage and a rebound toy boy, and it becomes even more impossible.

And that’s where I come in.

It’s Saturday and I am working again: up against my latest deadline.

I’ve nearly finished the book I’m currently writing, the memoir of a celebrity chef known for the cheeky twinkle in his eye. Which should, the publisher hopes, help his sales figures to rise as quickly as his Victoria sponge.

This afternoon, I’m finishing off his acknowledgments, that final flurry of thank-yous that I’m never sure if anyone reads (yes, I write them, too, if my subject can’t be bothered). I scan what I’ve got so far:

With a decisive tap, I press the backspace on the keyboard in front of me and watch the words I’ve just written disappear off the screen. There’s no way I can submit that, I am just letting off steam. I had thought I was finished with the book, until the editor called to ask if I had seen the papers. There might be a little bit of rejigging needed . . .

I should have known. Whenever I visited the chef, there was far too much meaningful eye contact between him and the over-officious Ruby, his PA. Meanwhile, poor Tracy would be hovering in the background, fiddling nervously with her cardigan sleeves.

He is still denying it all officially. His team wants to give it a decent amount of time before he announces the sad news of his separation. And of course I won’t really out him as a cheater in his thank-yous. After all, I am nothing if not reliable.

That’s what I am paid for: to make sure pages get filled, deadlines are hit, and books make it on to the shop shelves in time for Christmas, regardless of the author’s last-minute panto rehearsals or discreet trip to Thailand to dry out. I am a professional.

So I think for a second, then start clacking away again.

That’s for poor heartbroken Tracy. Let him explain to the publisher why he wants it taken out.

I keep going:

I stare into the air above my screen, then tweak that:

Might as well give the credentials a little polish—it’s not as though as I can shout about this on a CV. Because that’s me: Nicky Wilson. I tell other people’s stories.

You might even have read one of my books already, though you didn’t know it. Remember that not-so-chatty footballer with the best-selling autobiography? He didn’t actually park himself in front of a computer to bash it out between ball drills. That TV presenter busy with three shows whose lifestyle guide is in every good bookshop? She didn’t, either. And that always-smiling influencer whose perfume, pencil case, and (rather short) memoir your preteen daughter insisted on buying? You guessed it . . .

They all talked to someone like me. Talked for hours, days, weeks—and always with a tape recorder rolling. Then, once we’d covered everything I needed in our interviews—had heard their whole life story, or collected all their thoughts on the subject they’d picked—I went away and wrote their book for them.

Other ghosts might focus on victims of true crime or moving “real-life” tales; I tend to work with celebrities, or people on their way to that—lighter fare. Relatively.

Afterward, the only trace of me will be somewhere in the acknowledgments, if at all. There will be a thank-you “for all your expertise” or for “helping to get my story out there,” or maybe—if the person’s decided to do the acknowledgments themselves—I’ll find my name sandwiched somewhere between their hairdresser and their dog.

I don’t care. I’m good at it, even if I do have to say so myself. The authors get the praise, that’s true, but I take my money and move on to the next job. And I enjoy it, even if I kind of fell into it. I can set my own hours, and mostly it’s interesting work.

Now I prop my elbows on the kitchen table, my makeshift desk, and look out of the window, to the leaves of the trees that shade my little patch of South London. A bumblebee—a lone survivor of the summer—is batting half-heartedly against the glass, and I get up to let it out. I’m glad I’m nearly done with this particular project; this job’s much easier when you like the person.

I have promised Frances at the publisher that she’d have the revised manuscript back imminently. For the last few days, her e-mails have been getting shorter and terser, as mine get ever more filled with upbeat exclamation marks. “All going well!” “Getting it back to you ASAP!!” “I will call you back as soon as I can! Thanks!!!”

For the next hour or so, I work hard, doing a few final checks and tweaks to the text. I am concentrating, going as quick as I can, so when my cell phone rings, shrilly breaking the silence, I jump.

I register the “private number” flashing on the screen—like that’s going to make me pick up—and watch the phone vibrate, slowly sliding closer to the edge of the table. Then I punch the disconnect button and turn back to my screen.

But after a few minutes more, I close my laptop. My concentration has gone now. Anyway, I tell myself, it’s getting late, and I have a date . . .

“So, Nicky. Do you like working in—uh—what Syou do?”

I smile at the man in front of me. “I do, mostly. I’m a writer,” I add, guessing that he’s forgotten. “I ghostwrite books.”

“And how did you get into that line of work?” he asks me, raising his voice over the clamor of the bar we’re in.

“Well, I started off as a reporter in newspapers,” I explain. “Then my grandparents got to the stage where they needed a bit more looking after, so I was going back home a lot to help. Getting into ghostwriting was a bit of a sideways move—I needed to be able to organize my own time—but actually, I found I liked the work.”

We met on an app—no flirting by the photocopier when you work from home. He’s a lawyer, has been telling me all about it. He seems nice enough, if unable to talk about anything but work. Although I can’t really criticize him for that.

I keep thinking about the manuscript I’m working on. The chef hasn’t taken much of an interest in the project, beyond worrying whether the cover photo gives him a double chin. You never know, though, when a subject might choose their moment to become A True Writer, whipping a red pen through half your carefully written words.

“But doesn’t it annoy you, seeing someone else’s name on your book?” Phil—it is Phil, isn’t it?—asks me. “When you’ve done all that work?”

I smile again. “Not really. It’s not my book, you see. It doesn’t feel like mine.”

“But even so,” he says earnestly—his way of making conversation, I notice, is by arguing with everything I say—“don’t you ever want to write your own book?”

And maybe it’s because he’s a stranger, and I am already sure I won’t see him again, that I tell him.

“Actually, yes, I’ve been thinking recently . . . I’d like to do something a bit different.”

Tell a story of my own, you could say. I even have an idea, have taken tentative steps toward making a start—though I haven’t mentioned it to my agent Barbara, or anyone else.

“My father’s writing a book,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, trying to switch gears mentally. “Well, that’s great.”

“Military history.” He pauses. “Do you know much about military history?”

There’s a certain type of person, I’ve learned over the years, who hears you’ve written a book—any book—and feels the urge to test your credentials. “No, I couldn’t say I do.”

“Hm,” he says, with satisfaction.

There’s another silence between us. Don’t fill it, I tell myself, don’t—

“So your profile said you’re into current affairs.” I wince inwardly: current affairs.

“Well, up to a point. There’s really no need to follow domestic politics.”

“There isn’t?”

“No, no.” He pulls his glass of expensive red a little closer. “It’s all about China these days . . .”

He’s off, me nodding like my head is on a string. I can’t help it: I’m a good listener.

It’s not deliberate, not really. I’ve just had a lot of practice, through my job: listening to people tell me all the details of their lives, childhoods, relationships, careers. People really will tell you anything, if you just shut up and listen.

Sometimes, a person will realize they’ve just unburdened themselves of all the details of their fraught relationship with their father, or confessed to some minor lawbreaking their boss mustn’t know about, and feel suddenly exposed.

“What did you say you do?” they’ll ask crossly, like I’ve just tricked them. “Where are you from again?”

But some people are just thrilled to find an audience. My ex, Rob, was an actor. So it worked well for a while, until we both realized even I had tuned out.

This guy’s on a roll now. “It’s important to carve out thinking time, you know? I like to set time aside in my schedule. Just to think.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s such a good idea.”

But these days I’m trying not to repeat my mistakes, trying not to get lost in someone else’s life again. I pick up my glass and down the last sickly dregs of my rosé. I paid for our round, so I’m not going to let it go to waste.

“Actually, you’ve just made me think.” I smile to signal the weak joke. “I’m going to have to head off, I’m afraid—I’ve got a really early start tomorrow.”

“Go?” He frowns. “Don’t you want another drink? It’s Saturday night.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, feeling my eyelids flicker. I forgot for a moment what day of the week it was. An occupational hazard when you set your own hours. “I mean, I know that, of course, but my trainer’s coming really early.”

“You have a trainer?” he says, a little skeptically.

“Paid up front,” I lie. “So I can’t back out!” I’m already gathering my bag up from the floor. “So nice to meet you, though. Have a great rest of the weekend, OK?”

I’m indignant as I leave the bar and start the short walk home from the high street. Who does he think he is, casting doubt on my polite fib? Who orders a £12 glass of merlot when you’re splitting the bill, anyway?

Still, by the time I near the turn off the main road to the row of town houses where I live, my righteousness has worn off. I wanted a night out to forget my problems; instead it has put them at the forefront of my mind. Because even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have stayed there ordering round after round.

I rarely indulge in feeling sorry for myself. But as I let myself in through the front door and head up the stairs to my dark, silent apartment, I am feeling small and deflated. And—if I’m honest—lonely. For once, I can’t be bothered to switch on the cozy lights and TV to create the illusion of company as I get ready for bed.

It was my ex Rob’s idea that we rent this place. He made—still makes, I suppose—a nice living, padding out his theater spots with lucrative voice-over work. I worried that since I’d been having to go home so much, interrupting my writing, we should wait until my finances were healthier. He said that we could afford it together and that I should stop fretting.

Then, after things went south between us, it was too late to back out of the lease. He offered to stay at his brother’s. Graciously, he thought; I didn’t have anywhere to go. But the rent is steep for just me, and it’s a long time until the lease is up.

Before I slide between the sheets, I check my phone. It doesn’t help my bleak mood. I missed a call this evening, from an unlisted number—the second today, in fact, after the one I ignored earlier.

I know my editor wouldn’t call me over a weekend, however worried she was about a manuscript. So I know who it must be: another brusque call-center operator telling me I owe money on my account, asking how would I like to make repayment?

I always try to explain that I will have money coming in soon, that I am doing my best, trying so hard to get out of this situation. But it doesn’t stop the calls.

I pull the duvet over my head. I’ll deal with it all in the morning.

The phone wakes me, shrilling on my pillow. I fumble for the silence button, and toss it across the room, anger flashing through me. These people are relentless.

I’m reminded—as if I could forget—of the state of my bank balance. So although it’s Sunday, I make myself get up, make proper coffee, and sit at my laptop, still in my pajamas, waiting for the grogginess to clear.

It doesn’t take me long to get the chef’s rewrite done and e-mailed off to the publisher. I allow myself a celebratory cookie and sit back down.

I have already asked Barbara, my agent, to put me up for another ghostwriting job. Work is my only way out of this mess.

The celebrity in question is too busy to meet prospective writers, so the publisher is asking us all to submit a writing sample to show how we might capture her voice.

It’s tricky to do without meeting her, but not impossible.

This first step is research, as it always is when I’m prepping for a book: pulling up YouTube to watch clips of the subject’s TV show, if they have one; trawling through past appearances on talk shows; combing through old newspaper interviews. I pay for a cuttings service, which lets me access years of past articles.

Along the way, I can check the facts; even discover a few new ones. You’d be surprised what people can get wrong—the names of old colleagues, the years their children were born—and what they might, to put it charitably, forget—early career flops, that band member who didn’t work out . . .

If I do my research thoroughly, when I sit down for my interviews with the person whose book I am writing, I am ready to ask every possible question that might give me an interesting answer. It means I can avoid repeating the same safe stale anecdotes they like to trot out. And I can challenge my subject, in the politest of ways, if they gloss over things, waffle, or bluster. It makes for a much better book.

Because, yes, I can empathize with someone, build a rapport. I can deliver a manuscript to deadline, I am reliable. But this is the other side of my job: turning over stones, seeing what’s underneath. I’m good at it, with my background in newspapers. It’s what gives me my edge—it’s my niche, you could say. Looking closer.

Of course, I have to be tactful. I always remember it is not really my book, that the person I’m writing for has to be happy with what I write. And no one wants you to show them exactly as they are. They want you to show them as they want to be.

I learned that the hard way. I was writing a rushed-out autobiography for a singer who struck me as a very nice young man. It shone through in the way he talked to me about his family and his girlfriend, the same one he’d had since school.

I knew his fans would lap it up. They liked how smiley and kind he seemed, even in the pressure-cooker environment of the talent show that made him famous. I filed the first few chapters to the publisher, to check I was on track. They loved what I’d got, they just needed to run it by his camp. And then . . . the tone changed.

“We’ll get back to you,” my editor e-mailed me, “just ironing out a few issues.”

I couldn’t figure out what they could object to, until she called the next day.

“You know, Nicky, don’t feel you have to tone him down. You can let him be a bit rock’n’roll.” My confusion was almost audible. “I mean,” she finally cracked, “you don’t need to delete all the swear words. Or mention the girlfriend.”

Aha. So I threw in some not-so-veiled references to a substance-abuse problem, hinted at a string of drunken one-night stands, and deleted all mentions of his long-term girlfriend. She understood, I was told, and everyone was happy.

So who, I wonder, does this next potential project want to be?

I can see why the publisher signed her up. The Coupon Queen, her TV show, has been a surprise hit, moving from a morning to an evening slot.

The format is simple: she turns up at someone’s home, looking like a cartoon version of a bank manager, in her signature skirt suit, beehive, and cat’s-eye glasses. Like a costume really—almost a disguise. Then she goes through your bills and tells you exactly where you’ve gone wrong. Wonder what she’d tell me . . .

On the screen, she is breezy, upbeat—unshockable. But it’s hard to get a sense of her.

I turn to the notes I’ve made for inspiration.

Sally Cooper was working in a bank when she started her Coupon Queen newsletter to help other moms save money, I read. Snooze. She has a son, now a student. She has talked about co-parenting with her ex. Nice. But snooze again.

There’s nothing juicy, except some rumblings when she jumped ship to her current broadcaster, doubling her pay. Greedy, said some media commentators.

I start to type, trying things out on the screen:

That’s what she always says—but her catchphrase reads so leaden on the page.

Not everyone understands that my job isn’t just to repeat what people actually say. I have to be more creative than that; I have to tell a good story.

“You mean you put words into their mouths?” Rob asked me once, when things were turning sour between us.

“Well . . .” I hedged, sensing he wanted to pick another fight. “They check it all over . . . they’re things they’re happy to say.”

Now, staring at the screen, I take a swig of cold coffee and try again.

Yawn. I’d fall asleep reading this. I’ll have to keep digging.

Of course, you never really know what bit of info you’re looking for until you find it. It’s curiosity that drives me, more than anything else; that prickly feeling I get, when I might have come across something that could take me somewhere interesting . . .

And eventually—bingo. I find my lead in one of the oldest articles about the Coupon Queen, from back when she was plugging her newsletter in her local paper. She was Sally Berrycloth then.

That’s how, after a bit of searching, I track down her son on social media. Then, in his friends list, I spot the profile for someone with the same surname—an older man. It is set to private, but a quick Google search turns up some very interesting results.

And, after I check the online inquiries directory I use, to confirm that a Sally Berrycloth was once listed at the same address this man gave in court, I am sure: this is her ex. And theirs is not quite the cordial relationship she makes out, I’d bet.

I start to write, confident now that my sample will grab her attention.

Now that’s a story worth telling. Whether she will let me tell it is another matter. But at the least, she and her publisher will want to talk to me, to find out what I know.

I sigh, despite knowing I need this job—desperately. It’s exhausting, the prospect of going from one book to another without a break. But I have to do it.

From my bedroom, my phone rings again. I get up, stiff from sitting so long, and go to find it wedged down the side of the dresser.

When I pull it out, it’s covered in dust. My place is always a dump by the end of a book.

It keeps ringing, an unlisted number. Probably time to face the music.

“Hello?”

“Nicky?”

“Hello, who’s calling?” I wander back into the other room, and sit at the table again.

“Am I speaking to Nicky?” The woman’s voice is clipped and unfamiliar.

“I think you rang me?” I say, pointedly polite. I find it’s best not to lose my temper when a collections agency calls. “And you are?”

“This is Julia.” Clearly I’m supposed to know who Julia is. “Didn’t you get my e-mail?”

“No.” Not a call center, after all. I minimize the document on my screen and open my junk file, scanning quickly. Among the dross is an e-mail that isn’t trying to sell me Viagra, sent yesterday. “Ghostwriting” reads the subject title.

“Thanks so much, but I’m not actually taking on any more work at the moment.” I say automatically, clicking the e-mail open. I prefer people to go through my agent—she’s better than me at dealing with people who find my website and think the story of their life in middle management is a guaranteed best seller.

“Are you sure?” Julia sounds sharp. “Have you definitely read the e-mail?”

“Oh.” I take my feet off the chair next to mine and place them back down on the floor, as I scan down. “I’m so sorry, long day.” I have registered the sender’s name now: Julia Levitt. “You work for Olivia Hayes, of course. How are you?”

“That’s right, I assist Olivia.” She manages to sound both impatient and smug. “So, she’s keen to get started. She’s very impressed by the projects you’ve worked on.”

“Thanks. All confidential,” I add, automatically.

“Naturally. So how’s this week looking? Her schedule’s just opened up.”

“This week? Well, let me check . . .” I say, stalling for time. I don’t like surprises.

“We thought you could just blitz it. Get the bulk of the interviews done. That’s how it works, right? Otherwise it’s difficult for her to commit. She’s so busy.”

“Right, yes. That’s how it works.” It’s been a while since Julia and I exchanged e-mails over this; so I feel unprepared for her call. “I’d just have to rearrange a few things . . .”

“Well, if you don’t have time in your schedule, that’s a shame, but I am sure we could always find another writer.”

I think for a moment, then speak decisively. “It’s fine, let’s do it.”

“Great. She’s in Annersley, on the Cheshire border. If you get there tonight, you can start tomorrow morning, finish up on Friday. If all goes to plan.”

“OK, can I just ask—”

“I’ll pop all the details and directions in an e-mail. Thanks.”

“Sure, but can I check—”

But she has already hung up.

I put the phone down. I don’t like being bounced into decisions. Go tonight, start tomorrow? Then I think of my overdraft, the unpleasant call, and letters in the post . . .

For a moment I sit there, wondering if I’ve done the right thing by saying yes.

But there’s no question, really. I know what I’m going to do. The Coupon Queen pitch will have to wait—my mind’s already on the new task ahead.

I push my chair back and swing myself up. Better get packing.

An hour later, I am sweating. My bedroom is in chaos, clothes spilling out of my open suitcase and discarded in piles over my bed. Never mind black tie or winter weddings. What do you wear to meet Olivia Hayes?

I need a break. I flop down on my duvet, picking up my phone, and open Instagram.

Straight away I see a new photo is up: a woman, back to the camera, stepping delicately t. . .