I burst out laughing. I was surprised they’d never really had a conversation about children, but I let it go. She helped herself to another glass of pink champagne. The sommelier materialized by our side, horrified.
“Oh, Monsieur Raymond,” she scolded him gently, “we’ve known each other long enough, and it’s just us women here—we can look after ourselves.” She shooed him off as he muttered his very wells and as you wishes. I smiled at him apologetically. I wouldn’t want to disappoint the sommelier.
“Come on, catch up,” she chided. I had barely touched my glass, and she was onto her second. I did as I was told and finished my drink obligingly so she could replenish it.
“Can we talk about your books?” I asked. She smiled a little and I took that as encouragement. “I just wanted to tell you, you really are my favorite author. I just love everything you write.”
And I was off. I couldn’t stop babbling about my admiration for her. That’s what one glass of pink champagne will do to me. “They’re so unusual and gripping! Where do you get your ideas? Your characters? They’re so—I don’t know—I want to say real but it’s more than that.”
She looked genuinely pleased. “Oh, you know, it’s hard to say exactly. A lot of my characters are based on myself, especially the weak and nasty ones!” She laughed, and I did too, but I was struck by the fact that I’d heard her say those exact words recently on the radio. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re asked the same thing over and over. And why wouldn’t she give the same answer every time? It only showed it to be the truth, after all.
The food was divine, in the nouvelle tradition, and every bit as delicious as I was expecting, but Beatrice barely touched her plate. Just as I was thinking I’d had enough to drink, she motioned to the sommelier for another bottle.
“But tell me about you, Emma.”
“Oh, there’s not much to tell.”
“Of course there is. Tell me everything. Tell me about the store, to begin with, and we’ll go from there. How did it come about?”
So I told her about the life insurance payout when my mother died in my early twenties, and how shocked I was to receive the money: I’d had no idea she even had insurance. I told Beatrice how much I missed my mother, and that she’d loved beautiful things, but I didn’t tell her that we hadn’t been able to afford any of them. Or that we used to spend hours together, poring over glossy home-decorating magazines I’d stolen from the doctor’s waiting room, constructing our ideal home, room by room, piece by piece, knowing full well that we would never get out of that hellhole of an apartment in a crummy area of Queens.
No, I didn’t tell her any of that, and anyway, it was a tale of another time and another place. But I did tell her that, almost on a whim, I had taken the money and bought the store, so that I could stock all the things my mother would have loved, and in my own way I could live among them, just as she’d wanted me to.
We talked about my favorite designers, about how I sourced new stock. Then I told her more about Jim, what a wonderful man he was, and how lucky I felt that he had chosen me. She shook her head at that.
“Please, Emma, you’re a beautiful, accomplished businesswoman. Jim must have been beating men off with a stick.”
I laughed, not just at the rush of pleasure that her words brought me, but at the imagery. That afternoon I pretty much told her everything I was willing to share about myself, short of my social security number. I was tempted to tell her that as well.
I didn’t pay attention to how many times she refilled our glasses, but I was definitely light-headed. The entire time I told her my stories, she looked at me intently with her large brown eyes, frowning in concentration, like she didn’t want to miss a single morsel; asking questions, prompting me to go on about certain topics. I felt, literally, fascinating.
And then I blurted out the one thing I’d been dying to tell her but hadn’t had the nerve to.
“I wrote a novel once.”
She jerked her head up, eyebrows raised high. “Did you? Really? Tell me more, tell me everything!”
“Oh, it was a silly thing. I just did it for myself. It was years ago.”
“A novel is never a silly thing, my dear. Was it published? Can I get a copy?”
“God, no.” I laughed, embarrassed now. “I tried. I sent the manuscript to a few people but nothing happened.”
Why did I lie? My “novel” had been no more than twenty pages at best.
“What was it about, tell me. Was it a crime novel? A romance, maybe? I love a good romance.”
So I told her, reluctantly, making it up as I went along, and wished I hadn’t said anything at all, but she wouldn’t let me change the subject.
“You know, Emma, my novel The Man in Winter? I wrote that ten years—wait, more, thirteen years I think—before it was published.”
“My Lord, that’s one of my favorites! Or maybe it is my favorite. So, what happened?”
“Well, my agent didn’t think it was ready. She wanted me to make changes that I wasn’t comfortable with. To cut a long story short, I refused to change anything, put it in a drawer, and moved on to other books. Then one day, I pulled it out again and reread it for the first time in more than a decade, and I realized right away that she was right!” She laughed. “And I knew in a flash that if I made those changes, it would be perfect! So I did, and here we are. What I’m trying to say, Emma, is why don’t you dust off your manuscript and take another look at it, with fresh eyes?”
“Oh no, I don’t even have it anymore anyway. I threw it out years ago.”
“Threw it out? No, Emma! No! Never throw out a manuscript! Never!”
“Oh, that’s history now. But you know”—I paused, and took the plunge—“I have an idea for another one,” I said. “I think this one might be worth the effort.” I shook my head. “Lord, I’m drunk.”
“Emma! How coy you are!”
“It’s hard to find the time, really, or maybe the motivation. I don’t know. But I’d like to give this one a good try. Meeting you, and talking about this, it’s inspiring me.” I smiled at her and raised my glass.
“I have an idea: why don’t you show it to me? I’ll tell you what I think.”
“Oh Lord, no! I’d never! I—”
She stopped me with one hand raised. “No, hear me out.”
I sat back and listened.
“I’ll tell you what I think, and I’ll be honest, but I can also show you some tricks of the trade. I can even help you finish it, if you like. I’ll be your mentor! It would be so much fun. We’d have a project to do together. What do you say?”
I didn’t know what to say. I was dumbstruck, but I knew I’d be a fool to pass this up, and I was drunk enough to do something about it.
“Thank you, I’d be honored. I really would. I accept your offer.”
With her other hand, she lifted her glass and we toasted for the umpteenth time that afternoon, this time to literary successes all around.
7
I rode home in a taxi, having gotten Beatrice into one first. She was far drunker than me, and that was saying something. I was supposed to do inventory that afternoon, but it was out of the question now. And anyway, I wanted to work on my outline. That was my first piece of homework from Beatrice. She wanted me to bring her an outline of the novel, along with any snippets of writing I had. I had none at that point, but I was excited at the prospect.
“Outlining your story is a great starting point. Make it as long or as short as you like, I don’t care. In some parts it’ll be vague probably, but it will help you see the arc of the story. And me too.”
I was happy to find Jim home when I got there. I couldn’t wait to tell him my news. He worked from home often: one of the perks of an academic research position. I could hear him on the phone in his office. I opened the door and knocked lightly at the same time to let him know I was there. He looked up at me and smiled.
I was in no state to do anything productive, so I went up
stairs to the bedroom to have a nap.
I was lying on top of the covers with my eyes closed, replaying the hours Beatrice and I had spent together, step by step, word by word, savoring every morsel like a lovestruck teenager after a first date, when I heard Jim opening the door quietly, checking in on me. I kept my eyes closed; I was enjoying my reverie too much. Eventually, of course, these thoughts led to a delicious fantasy where my novel was a resounding success. I was going to be profiled in a glossy magazine, my journey to published author written up for all to read, telling the world what it’s like to have a friend and mentor like Beatrice. I imagined different lunches where we discussed our latest manuscripts, used each other as a sounding board, asked for each other’s feedback on particularly tricky plots.
I couldn’t stand it anymore—I was too excited. I got up and went to the kitchen to make a pot of strong coffee.
“Are you okay?” I turned. Jim was leaning against the doorjamb with a mildly concerned look on his face, his arms crossed against his chest.
“I am! Lord, Beatrice and I had a rather boozy lunch at L’Ambroisie, if you can believe it! I needed a bit of recovery time.” I smiled. I felt like I was sparkling. Scintillating at the thought of my new reality. Boozy lunches with Beatrice Johnson Greene at L’Ambroisie, discussing my latest novel. Words failed me.
“Beatrice?”
“You know, I told you about her the other day. She bought something from the shop and I—”
“Ah yes, I remember. I didn’t know you were seeing her today.”
“Neither did I, but she wanted to thank me, you know, for the—”
“Yes. Lady Gan-Greene’s delivery girl. I remember.”
Except he wasn’t making it sound as funny as last time.
“You’re okay?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. Working on my paper for the conference. Some of us can’t take time out whenever we like to go and get sauced in the middle of the day.”
“Hey, come on! I—”
“Only joking! I’m just jealous, that’s all. I’m drowning in work over here.”
I had completely forgotten about the conference. “How’s it coming along?”
“Hard work. You know how it is—no wait, you don’t.”
“What’s wrong, Jim?”
“Nothing. I’m joking.”
Okay, here we were again. I recognized the signs. This was Jim at his most stressed. No wonder, really: he was working very hard, and good for him, because he was making a name for himself. That was one of the things I loved about him—his ambition.
I sat down at the kitchen table and tapped the chair next to me, inviting him to sit. “Please stay and have coffee with me. I want to tell you my news.”
“Tell me quickly, because I still need to pack,” he said, sitting down.
“Oh, honey! I can barely say the words! It feels so unreal. I don’t want to break it by saying it out loud!”
“What is it?” He poured a cup for himself.
I blurted it out. “Beatrice is going to mentor me, help me finish my novel! I’m so excited! I’m beside myself! I can’t stop thinking about it!”
“Sorry, what? What novel?”
“You know, the one I started in college. The story about—”
“That’s the first I ever heard of it. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, anyway, I started writing a novel back then, and it wasn’t bad, actually—”
He shook his head. “In college? Really? Oh, Em, sweetheart, that was a lifetime ago! And it wasn’t exactly college, was it? It was secretarial school or something, right?”
“I did take creative writing for a semester. Who knows what I could do with Beatrice’s help?”
“Oh, come on! I know how much you love reading, and that’s great, but that doesn’t make you a writer!” He was actually laughing at me.
“Well, obviously I know that, thanks very much. She offered to look at my chapters and an outline of the story. She’s going to help me. She says there are techniques I should know about. What’s so funny about that?”
“Oh, sweetheart, honestly, she probably wants something delivered.” He laughed heartily at his own sense of humor.
“Okay. Go away. Go back to your work, and leave me be. You’re annoying me now.”
“Don’t be mad, Em. But honestly, listen to yourself. You’re great at so many things, Em. You have a great eye.” He made a sweeping gesture to show that this room, our beautiful kitchen, was a testament to my good taste. Which it was. “You’re a visual person, Em. And you’re very good at it. But you’re not a writer. You can’t be great at everything. Writing is an intellectual pursuit, a cerebral exercise more than anything else. You’re visual.”
“I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere.” I crossed my arms defensively. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me, Jim, but it sounds an awful lot like you think I’m stupid.”
“Of course not, sweetheart! I don’t think that at all! There are many different forms of intelligence and as I keep telling you, yours is visual, which is wonderful! You’re lucky! I wish I could be like you!”
“Right. Because you’re the cerebral one, obviously.”
Of course he was. It was silly of me to even try to argue. Jim had gotten his PhD a few years back, and his research was so impressive, his conclusions so groundbreaking, they had been published in some journal or other that apparently was almost impossible to get published in. That was why he’d gotten his new job. Out of Lord knew how many international applicants, they had begged him to accept it.
“Uh, yes?” he said.
“Well, go and do something cerebral somewhere else then. Go away. Leave me and my stupidity alone, we have a book to write.”
“Don’t be like that,” he said, but he got up anyway, taking his coffee with him. “I don’t know what this Beatrice woman is trying to do, but I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all.” He kissed me on the top of my head and gave me a smile before walking back to his office, shaking his head with a chuckle.
I wasn’t feeling fantastic anymore. He had thrown me completely. There I was, raring to go, imagining the words flying from my fingers onto the page, convinced I’d complete my outline in no time at all and have it ready to show Beatrice. And then Jim had ruined it.
I kept telling myself to ignore him, that he was being insensitive because he was stressed. But a part of me knew he was right. I wouldn’t have put it quite as sharply as he did, but I wasn’t particularly scholarly, shall we say. To be honest, I didn’t even know what that meant. I had gone to college, but not for long, and I’d always thought people discovered literature and philosophy and science and music or whatever through their own interests. Being given a reading list and ticking off all the items to receive some degree seemed like cheating to me.
I stood up and put aside all thoughts of starting anything, and instead decided to prepare dinner. As I went about my tasks, I tried not to cry.
Beatrice emailed me. She wanted to talk about the project. She’d been thinking a lot about it, she said, and was eager for us to get started. When should we meet? But now I had a problem. I didn’t want to do this project anymore.
“What do you mean, Emma? Of course we’re doing this!” she said when I told her.
I felt guilty. She’d been so kind to suggest it and there I was, wasting her time, not up to the task. It would have been easier to be vague—Let me think about it some more; I’m not sure I’ll have the time but I’ll see; maybe we could start after the holidays, depending; we’ll see—but no, I needed to be clear about this.
“Beatrice, I really mean it, it was a silly idea over far too many glasses of pink sparkling.”
“Don’t ever let Monsieur Raymond hear you call a bottle of NV Barth rosé pink sparkling. He’ll have you thrown out of L’Ambroisie and neither of us will ever be able to go there again.”
I laughed with a rush of pleasure that she’d described th
at scene as a shared predicament. It was like we were friends. Real friends.
“But seriously, Emma. Don’t give up before you’ve even started. The whole point of the exercise is for me to show you how it’s done, and it’s normal to feel doubt, by the way. There, let that be your first lesson, my dear. Don’t give in to doubt. You need to push through it to see what’s around the corner, otherwise how will you know?”
She had a point, of course, and I found myself telling her about Jim’s reaction, and how thrown I was by it. I said probably more than I should have, but the resentment that had been bubbling up in me had found a way out. I told her how, since he’d gotten his new position, he’d made me feel somewhat—I don’t know—dismissed. It wasn’t the right word of course, but the feeling belonged in that family.
I don’t know why I said all these things, since that wasn’t really the state of our relationship. We were great together, I felt loved and I loved in return, but something had been niggling at me. Maybe I wanted to try it out, talk to someone, see how it felt, how it fit.
“I’m sorry, Emma, but he’s jealous of you,” she said, and I burst out laughing.
“Hardly. He’s got nothing to be jealous about, trust me.”
“You’d be surprised. Men like Jim are very competitive. Take my word for it: I know.”
Men like Jim. I knew she meant well but her words sent a rush of guilt through me.
“Hey, Beatrice, look, I shouldn’t have said all that. I’m giving you a really bad picture of Jim here. He’s not like that at all.”
“Trust me, darling. You’re a beautiful, accomplished, intelligent businesswoman making her own way in life. You are remarkable. You’re someone to look up to. He’s the one trying to keep up with you.”
I should have been delighted to hear those words, to have someone like her stand up for someone like me, but she didn’t know Jim from a bar of soap, so instead I found it presumptuous of her to say those things about the man I’d spent so many years with, as if she could read him better than I could. I had done him a disservice and I knew it. He’d be livid if he found out. Anyway, I wasn’t beautiful—not then—and I didn’t care. I wasn’t particularly accomplished either, and it was a stretch to call me a businesswoman. I didn’t need to hear this.
Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1) Page 4