Confessions of a Ghostwriter Read online

  Confessions of a Ghostwriter

  BY ANDREW CROFTS

  The Friday Project

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  This ebook first published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2014

  Copyright © Andrew Crofts 2014

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

  Andrew Crofts asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  FIRST EDITION

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780007575404

  Ebook Edition © SEP 2014 ISBN: 9780007575411

  Version: 2014-07-23

  To my wife, Susan, who I love with all my heart.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  An eight-foot transsexual hooker in the living room

  A million books in an African warehouse

  Discovering ghostwriting

  The story of Stumpy

  The glamour model versus the ‘arbiters of taste’

  Secrets and confidentiality agreements

  Glimpses of hell

  That splinter of ice

  Suddenly you’re history

  Abused children find a voice

  Sacked by a glove puppet

  A debt to Dale Carnegie

  The first questions a ghostwriter should ask

  ‘You need to come to Haiti …’

  Tyrants and other interesting monsters

  Lunching with Imelda Marcos

  Afternoon tea with Mrs Mubarak

  Filthy lucre

  Big Brother is watching and listening

  A real-life Shades of Grey

  A gift for a billionaire

  Rich men’s toys

  The soporific brothel

  An opportunist hack

  A book goes global

  Revenge can be bitter

  The Princess speaks

  Confessions of my infidelity

  How can anyone write four books a year?

  Waking up in the orphanage

  Under armed guard in Lahore

  The tentative handling of firearms

  The faulty memories of rock gods

  Soldiers’ tales

  Win a ghost of your own

  Selling your story to a magazine

  Calls from out of the blue

  I am an addict

  Evangelists of technology

  ‘Mr Harris would like to quote you …’

  A confession of conceit

  Guilt and self-doubt

  The awesome power of a tear on daytime television

  Christina Foyle, queen of all she surveyed

  A new breed of stars

  The reality of reality television stars

  A genuine talent

  A real media circus

  Culture clashes and other bad marriages

  Clubs for gentlemen and players

  A Year in Provence unleashes an avalanche

  Jim Martin’s island

  A Russian in hiding

  Education at Madame Jojo’s

  From the lips of an Iraqi child

  I love supermarket bookshelves

  Confessions from the British Library

  ‘You may just have to get a job …’

  The forgotten rules of grammar

  A forgotten weekend in academia

  A little lone wolf

  The greatest living playwright

  The selling power of celebrities

  The soap star who came to stay

  Not everyone can be Hamlet

  Discovering Jay Gatsby

  ‘The Principessa is throwing a party …’

  A black BMW behind King’s Cross

  Tales of courtesans and mistresses

  Deathbed delivery

  The mid-book blues

  Addiction to charts

  Tales from below stairs

  A confession of cowardice

  Writing in two voices at once

  Just a single copy

  Family secrets

  One for the bank vaults

  On behalf of my client

  A movie star and her entourage

  A hit-man comes to lunch

  Writers as parasites

  Ordinary people who do extraordinary things

  Leaving London

  Soft times

  A pain in Baguio

  Whoring myself again

  The suppression of the ego

  The Pope’s secret mistress

  A writer’s pit

  Who moved my nuts?

  ‘Everyone says it would make a great movie’

  The strange delusions of world leaders

  Authors regain a little self-control

  Standing on the past

  The creation of Steffi McBride

  A gathering of ghosts

  Meeting the daughter of God

  My father’s departure by tractor

  And still I know nothing

  Acknowledgements

  Confessions Series

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  ‘Ghostwriter for Hire’

  I placed the small ad in The Bookseller, a publishing trade magazine, simply adding my phone number, and over the following years those three words took me all over the globe.

  They allowed me to meet people I would otherwise never have known existed and who would reveal to me the secrets of their worlds. I travelled from palaces to brothels, lush jungles to mean city streets and got behind the closed doors of both corporate boardrooms and the homes of dysfunctional families.

  Hiding behind the title of ghostwriter I could converse with kings and billionaires as easily as whores and the homeless; go backstage with rock stars and actors and descend into the bowels of the earth with miners and engineers. I could stick my nose into everyone else’s business and ask all the impertinent questions I wanted to. At the same time I could also live the pleasant life of a writer, my days unencumbered by hours of crowded commuting or unnecessary meetings in bleakly lit offices with people who were of no interest.

  I had accidentally stumbled upon a path that was paved with a constant stream of adventures and the following are some of my confessions from along that path.

  An eight-foot transsexual hooker in the living room

  I was having a well-earned afternoon powernap at the end of a hard working week when my wife came into the bedroom with disturbing news.

  ‘There’s an eight-foot transsexual hooker in the living room,’ she said without even bothering to check if I was still sleeping. ‘I think you should come down.’

  ‘In the living room?’ I wasn’t entirely sure if I was awake or still dreaming. ‘How did she get there?’

  ‘She arrived in a taxi. Didn’t you hear it?’

  ‘I think I was asleep.’ I hauled myself up into a sitting position as my wife attempted to flatten my bed-hair. ‘Is it Geraldine?’

 
; ‘Obviously.’

  ‘What’s she doing down here?’

  ‘At the moment she’s playing Barbies with the girls, but I think it’s you she’s come to see.’

  ‘Did you talk to her?’

  ‘Of course I talked to her. You weren’t there and the girls had an attack of shyness. She’s very big and she’s wearing a full-length fur coat. They thought she was Cruella de Vil.’

  ‘She’s fun, isn’t she?’ I stood up, my head clearing. ‘I told you.’

  My wife was exaggerating. Geraldine wasn’t anything close to eight feet tall. Without her heels I doubt that she was much more than six feet two or three. But then she did always tend to wear boots with stacked heels and liked to pile her wigs high. By the time I got downstairs the girls had spread their entire collection of Barbies out for inspection across the carpet in front of her shiny white boots and she had shrugged the fur coat down off her shoulders like she was Ava Gardner at a press conference in Cannes. I noticed there was an overnight bag beside her chair.

  ‘Did you get my message?’ she asked.

  ‘Message?’

  ‘I left a telephone message to say I had to see you. We need to do some serious rewrites.’

  ‘Rewrites?’ This was the first I’d heard of this. ‘But the publisher has signed off on the manuscript. They’re happy with everything.’

  ‘But it’s not right. I need to change things. It’s not printed is it?’

  ‘I have no idea, but I doubt they will want to make any more changes now.’

  That was the moment when Geraldine started to cry and my wife managed to tear the wide-eyed, open-mouthed girls away from the show and into the kitchen to make tea. I felt a bit like crying myself. One of the best moments in the book-writing business is the one when the editor accepts the final version of the typescript and agrees to send it off to the printers. The weight of months of work and uncertainty lifts from your shoulders and there is a brief period of elation (not to mention a cheque in the post) before you have to start worrying about whether the shops are going to display the book, the papers are going to review it and the public are going to buy it. Geraldine’s panic was crushing my moment.

  I had got to know her well enough over the months to be aware that if she had decided on a course of action she would not be easily diverted; going on the game and changing your gender are both decisions that require uncommon degrees of grit and character. It seemed best to go with the flow for the moment, at least until she had calmed down a bit.

  ‘Are you wanting to work on it over the weekend?’ I asked, casting a quizzical look at the overnight bag.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we have to. I’ll need to find a bed-and-breakfast or something so we can work during the day.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ my wife interrupted from the door, the girls peering round her skirts, ‘you can stay here. We’ve got a spare room.’

  Maybe it’s something to do with female instincts, but as usual she was ahead of me in reading the situation. Geraldine did not want to rewrite the book any more than I did. There had to be some other reason for her arrival out of the blue at the other end of the country from the streets and kerbs where she plied her trade, and we just had to wait for it to emerge. As she relaxed into the evening, with the help of a bottle of wine, she opened up with a new story about a murderous pimp who she had thought was the love of her life but who was actually making her life a misery. He had arranged for her to be evicted from her flat and was now pursuing her with a gun.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a sequel to your book,’ my wife suggested as we washed up after sending an exhausted Geraldine up to bed, which was a relief since we’d signed a two-book deal with the publisher and finding enough material for follow-ups was nearly always an uphill struggle. It may be true that ‘everyone has a book in them’, but most people definitely do not have two, however much the publisher’s accounting and sales departments may hope to the contrary.

  A million books in an African warehouse

  ‘You must fly down for the launch of the book,’ the Minister boomed, ‘I insist. The President will be there. It will be a great day. There will be food and speeches. I will make all the arrangements for you.’

  I didn’t really want to go, but there was no arguing with him. Most clients don’t even admit that they’ve used a ghostwriter; they certainly don’t want to invite him or her half way across the world to the launch party. In most cases they don’t even let the ghost know that there is going to be a party. Once the book is written and delivered the ghost normally slinks back into the shadows and moves on to the next project, allowing the client to bask in the glory of being a published author. The Minister, however, was a man who enjoyed the limelight so much he wanted to share it with the whole world, which was one of the reasons he was such an endearing man.

  His extremely efficient assistant made the arrangements through the embassy in London and a business class ticket was delivered to the house by a driver. I didn’t even bother to ask about accommodation arrangements because my previous trips had shown that the Minister was the most hospitable of men. He would have thought of everything. Often when you arrive at the borders of a country other than your own you need to provide evidence of where you will be staying. When your ticket has been arranged by someone like the Minister everything is different. Someone would have had a word in the ear of the airport officials, money or other favours would have been exchanged, minders would be waiting to take me to an SUV with darkened windows. It had happened like that every time I had been to see him during the writing process.

  The launch of the book was held in a government office that I hadn’t been to before. The building must have been designed in colonial times and had a suitable air of faded grandeur, befitting a distinguished literary event. A feast had been laid out for guests on trestle tables and groups of sofas and armchairs had been clustered around the room so that politicians and business people could huddle and whisper, their conspiratorial conversations occasionally interrupted with roars of laughter and outbreaks of back-slapping. There were surprisingly large piles of books which the guests were helping themselves to, flicking through the pages in search of their own names or those of their rivals.

  The arrival of the President momentarily overshadowed the Minister’s flamboyant act as host and newly published author. The pecking order took a few moments to readjust before everyone was comfortable once more.

  The Minister made a speech and graciously acknowledged his ghostwriter in a remarkable display of modesty, honesty and openness. The President also made a speech praising the Minister. Conversations then resumed as one politician after another stood to tell the room how much they admired the author of the book and how exciting it was that his ideas on how to lead Africa to future prosperity were now set down in print.

  The Minister smiled and nodded his appreciation to each of the speakers in turn, but he was also working the room as they talked, shaking hands and hugging everyone who came near him.

  As he moved closer to where I was standing I overheard him accepting praise from a woman swathed in colourful traditional dress, a Rolex glinting on her wrist.

  ‘Your book will be a bestseller,’ she assured him.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he grinned his acknowledgement, ‘we have a million copies printed up and ready to distribute. We want every child in Africa to have a copy.’

  I caught his eye over the lady’s shoulder and smiled. I knew that it was his knack for positive thinking and dreaming big dreams that had got him where he was and might yet get him into the presidential palace. The book, I knew, was just one more step in the process of establishing himself as a future leader. Eventually he reached me and clapped a mighty arm around my shoulder.

  ‘Are you having a good time, my friend?’ he asked. ‘Are you glad that you came?’

  ‘Yes, very good,’ I said. ‘How many copies have you actually had printed?’

  ‘A million,’ he said as if it were the most o
bvious thing in the world.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed to start with a couple of thousand,’ I said, still not sure whether to believe the bombast.

  ‘You know me,’ he winked, ‘I like to think big. I believe in the message of the book. I want copies in every school in Africa.’

  ‘You’ve actually had a million copies printed?’

  I was trying to imagine what a million copies of a book must look like. Even if he was exaggerating and he had only printed a tenth of that figure it would still mean crates and crates of books.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘My brother has a warehouse near to the town where my mother lives. You remember going there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I had spent a pleasant weekend with his mother, a sunny, smiling woman who spoke no English and passed her days happily sitting in the shade inside the walls of the family compound, preparing food to be cooked by her daughters and shouting abuse at the goats whenever they strayed amongst her vegetables. I could imagine the delivery lorries arriving in the tiny town, coating the watching locals with dust from the unmade roads. In his home area the Minister was like a king and the warehouse full of books would be one more jewel in the crown of his glorious career.

  As far as I know the crates are still in the warehouse.

  Discovering ghostwriting

  My first invitation to ghostwrite came from a management guru I was interviewing for Director magazine, the house journal for the Institute of Directors, which is a sort of gentlemen’s club for business people housed in one of those grand buildings in Pall Mall.

  The guru and I were driving back to his gleaming white Surrey mansion in his powder blue Rolls Royce, having had a very long lunch and feeling exceedingly mellow.

  ‘You’re a writer,’ he said, apropos of nothing.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, liking the sound of that phrase.

  ‘I’ve been commissioned by a publisher to produce a series of business books,’ he went on. ‘I’d like to do them because it’s good for business, but I don’t have the time. Why don’t you write them for me? I’ll get the glory and you can have the money.’