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ocal dining rights in London—but he loved it all the same。 At lunchtime only men were admitted。 Each wore a dark blue suit and was over sixty； I hadn’t felt so young since I left university。 Outside； the winter sky pressed down on London like a great gray tombstone。 Inside； yellow electric light from three immense candelabra glinted on dark polished tables； plated silverware； and rubied decanters of claret。 A small card placed between us announced that the club’s annual backgammon tournament would be taking place that evening。 It was like the changing of the guard or the houses of parliament—a foreigner’s image of England。
“I’m amazed this hasn’t been in the papers；” I said。
“Oh； but it has。 Nobody’s made a secret of it。 There’ve been obituaries。”
And； now I came to think of it； Idid vaguely remember seeing something。 But I had been working fifteen hours a day for a month to finish my new book； the autobiography of a footballer； and the world beyond my study had become a blur。
“What on earth was an ex–prime minister doing identifying the body of a man from Balham who fell off the Martha’s Vineyard ferry？”
“Michael McAra；” announced Rick； with the emphatic delivery of a man who has flown three thousand miles to deliver this punch line； “was helping him write his memoirs。”
And this is where； in that parallel life； I express polite sympathy for the elderly Mrs。 McAra （“such a shock to lose a child at that age”）； fold my heavy linen napkin； finish my drink； say good…bye； and step out into the chilly London street with the whole of my undistinguished career stretching safely ahead of me。 Instead I excused myself； went to the club’s lavatory； and studied an unfunnyPunch cartoon while urinating thoughtfully。
“You realize I don’t know anything about politics？” I said when I got back。
“You voted for him； didn’t you？”
“Adam Lang？ Of course I did。 Everybody voted for him。 He wasn’t a politician； he was a craze。”
“Well； that’s the point。 Who’s interested in politics？ In any case； it’s a professional ghostwriter he needs； my friend； not another goddamned politico。” He glanced around。 It was an iron rule of the club that no business could be discussed on the premises—a problem for Rick； seeing as he never discussed anything else。 “Marty Rhinehart paid ten million dollars for these memoirs on two conditions。 First； it’d be in the stores within two years。 Second； Lang wouldn’t pull any punches about the war on terror。 From what I hear； he’s nowhere near meeting either requirement。 Things got so bad around Christmas； Rhinehart gave him the use of his vacation house on the Vineyard so that Lang and McAra could work without any distractions。 I guess the pressure must have gotten to McAra。 The state medical examiner found enough booze in his blood to put him four times over the driving limit。”
“So it was an accident？”
“Accident？ Suicide？” He casually flicked his hand。 “Who’ll ever know？ What does it matter？ It was the book that killed him。”
“That’s encouraging；” I said。
While Rick went on with his pitch； I stared at my plate and imagined the former prime minister looking down at his assistant’s cold white face in the mortuary—staring down at his ghost； I suppose one could say。 How did it feel？ I am aly clients。 I must ask it a hundred times a day during the interview phase： How did it feel？How did it feel？ And mostly they can’t answer； which is why they have to hire me to supply their memories； by the end of a successful collaboration I am more them than they are。 I rather enjoy this process； to be honest： the brief freedom of being someone else。 Does that sound creepy？ If so； let me add that real craftsmanship is required。 I not only extract from people their life stories； I impart a shape to those lives that was often invisible； sometimes I give them lives they never even realized they had。 If that isn’t art； what is？
I said； “Should I have heard of McAra？”
“Yes； so let’s not admit you haven’t。 He was some kind of aide when Lang was prime minister。 Speechwriting； policy research； political strategy。 When Lang resigned； McAra stayed with him； to run his office。”
I grimaced。 “I don’t know； Rick。”
Throughout lunch I’d been half watching an elderly television actor at the next table。 He’d been famous when I was a child for playing the single parent of teenage girls in a sitcom。 Now； as he rose unsteadily and started to shuffle toward the exit； he looked as though he’d been made up to act the role of his own corpse。 That was the type of person whose memoirs I ghosted： people who had fallen a few rungs down the celebrity ladder； or who had a few rungs left to climb； or who were just about clinging to the top and were desperate to cash in while there was still time。 I was abruptly overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the whole idea that I might collaborate on the memoirs of a prime minister。
“I don’t know—” I began again； but Rick interrupted me。
“Rhinehart Inc。 are getting frantic。 They’re holding a beauty parade at their London office tomorrow morning。 Maddox himself is flying over from New York to represent the company。 Lang’s sending the lawyer who negotiated the original deal for him—the hottest fixer in Washington； a very smart guy by the name of Sidney Kroll。 I’ve other clients I could put in for this； so if you’re not up for it； just tell me now。 But from the way they’ve been talking； I think you’re the best fit。”
“Me？ You’re kidding。”
“No。 I promise you。 They need to do something radical—take a risk。 It’s a great opportunity for you。 And the money will be good。 The kids won’t starve。”
“I don’t have any kids。”
“No；” said Rick with a wink； “but I do。”
WE PARTED ON THEsteps of the club。 Rick had a car waiting outside with its engine running。 He didn’t offer to drop me anywhere； which made me suspect he was off to see another client； to whom he would make exactly the same pitch he had just made to me。 What is the collective noun for a group of ghosts？ A train？ A town？ A haunt？ At any rate； Rick had plenty of us on his books。 Take a look at the bestseller lists： you would be amazed how much of it is the work of ghosts； novels as well as nonfiction。 We are the phantom operatives who keep publishing going； like the unseen workers beneath Walt Disney World。 We scuttle along the subterranean tunnels of celebrity； popping up here and there； dressed as this character or that； preserving the seamless illusion of the Magic Kingdom。
“See you tomorrow；” he said； and dramatically； in a puff of exhaust fumes； he was gone： Mephistopheles on a fifteen percent commission。 I stood for a minute； undecided； and if I had been in another part of London it is still just possible things might have gone differently。 But I was in that narrow zone where Soho washes up against Covent Garden： a trash…strewn strip of empty theaters； dark alleys； red lights； snack bars； and bookshops—so many bookshops you can start to feel ill just looking at them； from the tiny little rip…off specialist dealers in Ce