Unraveled by Him (2 page)

With his winnings, he started a ten-page local tabloid newspaper, writing and editing it himself, fell wholeheartedly in love with the newspaper business, then purchased a bigger newspaper, then twenty-five more, then thirteen TV stations, then five sports arenas, then an international airline, then a major publishing conglomerate, and more and more, until . . .

“Robert Hartwell owned the world,” the narrator ended.

“I so, so wish there was more about Lady Georgiana,” Lindy said longingly.

The narrator went on: “In the years before he met Lady Georgiana, Robert Hartwell’s overriding obsession—apart from beautiful women and philanthropy (which would ultimately culminate in his billion-dollar donation to the Lady Georgiana Hartwell Foundation for Mentally Disabled Children)—was gambling.”

Robert Hartwell’s exploits as a high roller were so riveting that even though I’m usually useless with numbers, I can easily recall the details of his gambling sprees in all their unparalleled excess. According to the documentary, he blithely lost $10 million in Vegas over fifteen years, won $28 million in a single London casino over the space of just one week, routinely wagered $300,000 a hand at poker, won $9 million after twenty-four hours solid at the tables in Monte Carlo, and, during one dizzying night in Buenos Aires, actually risked $180,000 on the single toss of a coin, and won.

Flamboyant and reckless as Robert Hartwell undoubtedly was, according to the documentary, he was also famously generous. Whenever he won big, he made sure that all the casino staff working that night won big as well. A $150,000 tip to the cabaret singer, $100,000 tips to each of the dealers, $200,000 to the casino host, and one time he even paid off an impoverished busboy’s mortgage, because the boy was disabled in a car crash and he felt sorry for him.

An irony, really, given the tragic destiny that lay ahead for him and for Lady Georgiana. But despite all the trials and tribulations he suffered, the photographs and the brief TV interviews he reluctantly gave over the years (solely to raise the media profile of Lady Georgiana’s foundation) attested that with every year that passed he became more powerful, wealthier, more imposing, and, most important of all, more handsome.

When the documentary ended, I turned to Lindy with a sigh. “Handsome, brilliant, powerful, and dangerous, with a life story straight out of a Hollywood movie. If only he were looking for a ghostwriter . . .”

Remembering it now, I feel like throwing up.

As if Robert Hartwell would ever hire an erotic novelist to ghost his life story! He’d always been at the top of my secret hit list for dream subjects whose life stories I’d love to ghost. Followed by Rihanna, then Jack Nicholson, then Prince Harry. But Robert Hartwell has always been my number one target, and I always hoped that if I ghosted enough bestselling memoirs, he might consider me. But thanks to Lindy, now that he knows I write erotica, he never will.

Just as I’m feeling utterly demoralized by the damage Lindy has done to my ghosting career, she bursts back into the apartment hugging a gift-wrapped one-pound box of Godiva chocolates, her face blotchy with tears.

“I’m sorry, Miranda, I really am. But when I read
Unraveled
, I was so knocked out by it that I wanted to do everything I could to get it published for you!” she says.

“But Robert Hartwell!!”

“Is the number one publisher in the world, that documentary we saw together said. Plus you kept telling me that he is the most handsome man in the universe. So I thought he would be perfect to publish your sexy book,” she says triumphantly.

“But I’ve already got a publisher for it, Lindy!”

“Yes, but I didn’t know that!”

“You weren’t supposed to!” I practically scream at her.

“Well, then, perhaps Robert Hartwell will read
Unraveled
and get so turned on by it that he’ll fall passionately in love with you,” she says.

I bite my tongue and stop myself from yelling,
Why would Robert Hartwell be remotely interested in an erotica writer from Hoboken after being married to an icon three times as beautiful as I’ll ever be?

But there’s no point.

“Just tell me how you sent the manuscript to Robert Hartwell, Lindy, then perhaps I can work out a way to intercept it,” I say.

She shoves the Godiva box into my hands.

“I’m sorry, Miranda,” she says.

“And?”

Silence.

A chill shoots down my spine.

“Lindy, I know that look . . . you haven’t told me the whole story yet, have you?”

She shifts her weight from one leg to the other and avoids meeting my eyes.

“I meant well, Miranda, I really did. It’s just that I remembered the bunny girl we read about in the tabloids . . .”

“You mean the blonde Playboy bunny Robert Hartwell lost his virginity to when he was sixteen?” I say, confused.

Lindy nods miserably.

“I thought that would be the only way of getting your book through all that heavy security at Hartwell Castle,” she says.

They say that in the seconds before she dies, a drowning woman sees her whole life flash before her eyes. And at that moment, I could see part of mine in the shape of our great-aunt Ella, Grandpa’s younger sister, a former Chicago Playboy Bunny who often used to take care of Lindy when she was a kid.

“Great-Aunt Ella and I are the same size. So I asked her to FedEx me her bunny costume, and . . .” Lindy said.

I didn’t need her to end her sentence. I could see it all, writ large in harrowing living color. In her quest to help me get
Unraveled
published, Lindy had donned Great-Aunt Ella’s bunny costume and delivered it to Robert Hartwell, in person, herself.

“But surely the security guards must have stopped you at the gate, Lindy?” I say, hoping against hope.

She shakes her head.

“At the castle gatehouse, Jerry, the head security guard, snapped my picture on his phone and texted it to Mary Ellen Mead, Robert Hartwell’s personal assistant. Funny thing, he told me he had to do it real fast as Robert Hartwell bans his staff from using their phones while on duty! Hates cell phones and texting . . . Anyway, Mary Ellen Mead called Jerry straight back, laughing, and said that Mr. Hartwell would be tickled pink about a bunny girl turning up at the castle with a package. . . .”

“So did you hand it to Robert Hartwell personally?” I say, my heart in my mouth.

“I’m sorry, Miranda, I really am. Jerry did.”

Aside from how terrified I am that Robert Hartwell will expose me as an erotic novelist—after all, he has a gossip column syndicated in all his global newspapers—I feel extremely uncomfortable at the thought that he might even be reading
Unraveled
right now, when my editor hasn’t yet had the chance to put her stamp on it.

“Why don’t I call Grandpa and beg him to consult the stars so he can find a way for us to get it back, Miranda?” Lindy says.

“And tell him that I’ve become an erotic novelist? That’s a brilliant idea if you want him to suffer a stroke, Lindy.”

“But why would he, Miranda?” she says. Then sees the look in my eyes and and backtracks with, “I won’t say a word about
Unraveled
to Grandpa when I call him, sacred promise. I’ll just explain that you sent the latest celeb autobiography you are ghosting to Robert Hartwell by mistake and if your publisher finds out, the book will probably be canceled. Then I’ll beg him to check the stars and find out what you should do to get it back.”

Crazy as Lindy’s idea might sound to an outsider, Grandpa is a well-respected astrologer, and whenever we’ve asked him to read the stars for us, he’s always come up with spookily accurate insights, like when he took a look at the astrological chart of Warren Courtney, the first man I fell for when I was in my late teens and warned me against getting involved with him. I didn’t want to hear it at the time, but ultimately Grandpa was 100 percent right.

“Call Grandpa, then, Lindy,” I say with a sigh.

“Fascinating, Miranda,” Grandpa says after he’s drawn up Robert Hartwell’s astrological chart and we finally talk. “Like all Sagittarius males, Robert Hartwell is an extremely tricky customer, indeed: Sags, you see, are traditionally half man, half horse, and are utterly fixated on freedom at any cost. But after studying the astrological links between the two of you, I would say the good news is that provided you utilize the correct approach, chances are that you will succeed in getting your manuscript back from Mr. Hartwell.”

“What do you mean ‘the correct approach,’ Grandpa?”

A silence, during which I hear him scribbling something at great speed.

“Just rechecked Mr. Hartwell’s chart, Miranda, and it seems to me that you would do best to appeal to the more chivalrous elements in his nature. The stars indicate that chivalry is one of Mr. Hartwell’s strongest characteristics.”

Then he gives me his strategy for dealing with Robert Hartwell, complete with a word-for-word script in case I manage to get to talk to him, and which, if I follow it, he says could help me convince Robert Hartwell to return my manuscript.

Heartened by Grandpa’s words, I thank him and start to hang up, but he isn’t done yet. I spend the next half hour listening while he rambles on regarding the intricate technicalities of Robert Hartwell’s chart, until I’m so bored I want to scream.

I don’t, of course. Grandpa has always been so kind and generous to me. In fact, as a child I always called him my fairy grandfather. My first Barbie doll, my first prom dress, my first Chevy, and year after year of wonderful birthdays filled with surprise after surprise were all courtesy of Grandpa. So no matter how long-winded he can sometimes be, no matter much time I have to spend listening to his astrological interpretations, I always do.

Today, though, after forty minutes, I can sense my patience starting to crack and am just weighing up how to get off the phone without hurting Grandpa’s feelings when he suddenly says something that stops me dead in my tracks: “I happen to have known Georgiana,” he says.

Before I can quiz him on his sensational announcement, he clears his throat and stops me. “Much as I love and respect you, Miranda, I can’t discuss Lady Georgiana with you in any intimate detail. You see, since her graduation from Swiss finishing school, Lady Georgiana was my client. As her astrologer, I must keep every aspect of our relationship strictly confidential.”

Although I’ve always prided myself on being able to persuade even the most reticent of subjects to confide their deepest secrets to me—one of my strengths as a ghostwriter, a profession in which the ability to get people to open up to you is essential—I wouldn’t dream of pushing Grandpa to act in contradiction to his conscience.

So instead of trying to pump him for details, I say good-bye, then brace myself and call Hartwell Global Media.

Robert Hartwell’s personal assistant answers in a soft and lilting voice: “HGM. Mary Ellen Mead speaking.” She seems friendly, not stern or officious, as I’d pictured a billionaire’s personal assistant to be, and I like the sound of her immediately

Remembering Grandpa’s advice, I introduce myself to her as a published ghostwriter, throw out a few of my credits, and explain that my little sister has played a dumb prank on me and sent Robert Hartwell a manuscript that was intended for my publisher’s eyes only.

“The bunny girl?” she says, before I can explain further.

“Did you—?”

“Normally, Jerry would have turned her away automatically, but I knew that Mr. Hartwell would be amused by the thought of a bunny girl trying to deliver a mysterious package to him, so I’m afraid I told Jerry to go ahead,” she says.

“So has Robert Hartwell . . . ?”

“I’m really sorry, Miss Stone. I’m afraid he’s had it for the past week,” she says, sounding genuinely upset for me.

So I throw myself on her mercy and beg her to ask Robert Hartwell to shred my manuscript unread.

“He’s in meetings, but luckily, he’s in a good mood this afternoon, otherwise I would have hell to pay for bothering him with something like this,” Mary Ellen says.

Hell to pay? Robert Hartwell is clearly a tyrant of the first order.