Beatrice stood up. “Please, everyone, this way,” she said, indicating the archway that led into the formal dining room.
She put a hand on Hannah’s shoulder.
“Sorry, dearest, Craig canceled on me tonight, and it was too late for me to make up the numbers.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Beatrice. I don’t need to be matched, especially not with your trendy gay friends, unless you’re allergic to odd numbers.”
“Jim, walk with me, will you?” Beatrice took his arm, and Hannah and I walked together. It was all very old-fashioned, I thought.
“I love your shoes.” Hannah was looking down at my feet.
“Oh, thanks. They’re Kate Spade. I do love what they do to my feet, I must say.” I too was looking down.
“Are they comfortable?”
We’d reached the table then, and I rested a hand on the back of a chair and pulled off one of my shoes with the other to show Hannah. “Very—you’d be surprised.”
“Do you mind?” She took it from me and pulled her own shoe off.
“Not at all. I think we’re probably the same size.”
It made me feel better, this. Checking out each other’s shoes, talking about fashion—not that I was a big follower, but I had started to pay more attention since I’d begun hanging out with Beatrice.
“Sit down, you two, stop dawdling. It’ll get cold,” Beatrice scolded. Hannah was seated between George and Jim, and after a little while the three of them were deep in conversation.
The food was wonderful.
“I wonder how she can bear it, talking to those two. Doesn’t she know that finance and economics are the two dullest subjects on earth?” Beatrice said.
We laughed.
“Did you bring it?” Beatrice asked.
I knew she meant the outline of course. She’d been asking me about it all week, but it had turned out to be harder than I thought, writing up a summary of my story. I told her it was all her fault: if she was going to take me out to parties every night, how could I possibly find the time to write up my outline? I’m not a superwoman, I’d told her. Yes, you are, she had replied. That’s why I love you so.
That’s what had spurred me on, to get on with it and get it done.
“Yes, I did, it’s on the table in the hall.”
“Good,” she said.
“But it’s very rough,” I blurted. “Just a couple of pages, like you said, Beatrice—an outline of some kind.”
“I know,” she said, putting a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m sure it’s perfect.”
“You won’t show it to anyone, will you?”
“Of course not . . . I was thinking we need some new things in here,” Beatrice said, changing the subject. “What do you think? One of those big country dressers—you know the ones, where people put their plates to show them off.”
“Seriously?”
“Why do you say that?”
“It wouldn’t fit in here, Beatrice. The style would be all wrong for the space. But I know a piece that would work in this room. It’s low and wide”—I had my arms outstretched, emphasizing the width aspect—“with tapered legs, which would go really well with this table. In fact, it would be perfect.”
She smiled at me. “You’re so clever, Emma. I’m so glad I asked you.” I felt a tinge of pleasure as she kissed me on the cheek.
After dinner, we had a nightcap in the living room. Jim and George were still engrossed in their conversation. They had barely acknowledged the rest of us all night, but I didn’t mind. I was pleased that Jim was having a good time.
When Hannah made noises about calling it a night, we took the opportunity to say our goodbyes as well, and a few minutes later our little group was standing by the front door, putting coats on and kissing each other good night.
“Wait! Where is it?” Beatrice was spinning around the hall in search of something.
I groaned inwardly. I hadn’t mentioned it to Jim since that day, and I didn’t really want us to have that conversation again. I didn’t want him to make me feel bad about it.
“There.” I pointed to the envelope that was sitting on top of the narrow table.
To my horror, she picked it up, and for a moment I thought she was going to open it right there and then, with Hannah peering over her shoulder.
“Good girl,” Beatrice said.
“What’s this?” Jim asked.
“A fat wad of cash, of course!” Beatrice said. “No, not exactly. Although by the time I’m done with your wife, it’ll be worth much more than that.”
Jim raised an eyebrow at me. There was no escaping now.
“You know what it is, darling. I told you, Beatrice is helping me with my writing.”
“Are you?” George said. “That’s kind of you, Bea.”
“I thought you weren’t going ahead with that,” Jim said. “Obviously you’ve changed your mind.”
“Obviously she has,” Beatrice said, a little sharply.
I rubbed his shoulder gently. “I thought I’d give it a go, that’s all, and Beatrice is so kind to offer.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Jim said. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.” George, Hannah, Jim, and Beatrice were all looking at me, waiting for me to say something, to explain. I felt exposed.
“It’s just a little thing, no big deal.” I made a vague gesture in the air with my fingers. I just wanted to leave. I thanked Beatrice one last time, and she took both my hands in hers.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
I nodded, a little embarrassed, a little disappointed.
9
“What do you think of this?” I was sitting on Beatrice’s bed and she was standing in front of me, looking down at some kind of pantsuit she was holding up against herself. “I bought it from that vintage shop I told you about. Isn’t it divine?”
“Stop! No! It’s too strange, I can’t let you wear that!”
“Why? It’s my throwback to the seventies, which as you know is back in fashion—luckily for me, too. I have miles and miles of this stuff.”
“It’s lime green, Beatrice! Please!”
She looked down at it. “Ah yes, so it is,” she said. We burst out in hoots of laughter. We’d been doing a lot of that lately—laughing, lounging around in her bedroom. Once I’d called it her boudoir and she’d said, “You know bouder means ‘to sulk’ in French? So by extension, the boudoir must be the sulking room.” After that we always called her bedroom the sulking room. The fun we had—how I loved her.
She took a sip from the charming little silver flask she kept on her dresser. It had an inlay of mother-of-pearl on the front. Highly unusual and very feminine. Of another time. She took a swig every now and then as we chatted, and it looked dainty. I was strangely moved by this old-fashioned quirk of hers. It was as if she’d stepped out of a 1920s novel.
“Oh, all right. After all, you’re the queen of good taste, so I suppose I should listen.”
“Just this once, yes, you should.” She passed the flask to me and I took a sip.
She changed, finally, into a surprisingly demure outfit. Black pants and a white shirt. And she looked as gorgeous as ever. I stared at her and sighed.
“You’re so lucky, Beatrice. I don’t understand how you do it. I don’t know why you take so long to choose an outfit since it never matters what you wear—you’re always stunning.”
“Oh, you’re a dear to say that, my love. Truth be told, it takes a bit of money to get there. Ask my hairdresser, manicurist, and the rest of that army. But look at you! What are you talking about? You look absolutely scrumptious! Oh, don’t look so sad. You look far too sad, far too often. It’s that husband of yours. It’s all his fault.”
Did I look sad? Maybe. Things had been a little strange at home. I’d never gotten a full explanation about the attempted withdrawal of money. Brian thought someone must have come across Jim’s login details. “It’s not like it’s u
nusual, Emma,” he’d said. “It must happen hundreds of times every day. Welcome to the Internet.”
There was no reason for me to believe anything else. What would Jim want with all that money? It made no sense. But there was something—some shift that I couldn’t quite understand, couldn’t quite put my finger on. He’d been a bit distant lately, more than usual. When I asked him if he was okay, he blamed it on his work.
“There’s a lot going on, Em. We’re building up to a huge milestone. I need to give it a hundred percent.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Em. A few more weeks, okay?”
But he’d agreed that I could go with him on his next trip, another conference coming up, in Montreal. I was looking forward to it so much, I’d splurged on some mightily expensive—and, I hoped, sexy—underwear: a little surprise for my husband.
“Did you hear what I said?” Beatrice asked.
“Sorry.” I shook my head to brush off the thoughts, get focused again.
“Lipstick?” She pointed to her lips, pulling them away from her teeth.
“Beautiful.” I stood up and followed her out and down the stairs.
“Watch out for that top step!” she said in a singsong voice, for the hundredth time. “The carpet’s gaping and you’ll catch your toe. Oh, I’ve been having a hell of time trying to get that man to come back and fix it. He’s very much in demand, or so he says. I don’t know why. How hard can it be to lay down a carpet? I wish George was more the man about the house!”
That night, when I dropped her off outside her building and kissed her good night, she put a hand on my cheek. “Emma, lunch with me tomorrow, will you? I want to discuss something with you, I’ve been putting it off far too long.”
My heart took a little leap. “About my novel?”
“Sort of, I guess. Will you come?”
“Of course I will. Is it that bad?”
“Don’t be silly,” she laughed, and blew a kiss in my direction.
I’d been asking her almost every day what she thought of my outline, whether she’d read it yet, whether I should redo it, but each time she somehow put me off. I was starting to think it must be really awful if she couldn’t bring herself to discuss it with me.
“I’m putting my thoughts together. There’s so much to say. Give me a little more time,” she said whenever I brought it up.
I got home that night and fell into bed next to my husband, who had long ceased waiting up for me, and dreamed—dreamed of what might be.
We’d arranged to meet at my local café, Altitude. They made great food and the place had a good vibe, and since I needed to be at the store all day, it was nice not to have to travel into Manhattan.
I got my usual espresso and chatted with the owner awhile. Beatrice was always late, but I was used to that by now, and as ever it was a pleasure to see her walk through the door with a warm, wide smile and her arms stretched out above her head.
“Emma, darling! What a day! I’ve been running around like a madwoman! It’s so good to see you!” She grabbed my face and kissed me on both cheeks.
“You just saw me yesterday!” I managed to say through my distorted mouth, holding her wrists to stop her from crushing my cheeks.
“Let’s eat,” she said as she let go and sat down, grabbing the menu. “I’m starving. What do you recommend?”
We ordered, we chatted. I was feeling tense. I hoped she wouldn’t hate it, my outline. It meant more to me than I’d expected, that she would like it at least a little.
“I must say, Emma, I’m feeling a bit nervous about what I’m about to ask you.”
“Ask me? Really? That’s a first!”
“One should never discuss life-and-death topics over lunch, I’ve just realized that. We should have met for cocktails somewhere.”
“Life and death?”
“Well, maybe not quite. But it’s important. Very, very important.”
“Then I’m glad we’re not drinking. You’re starting to worry me, Beatrice, you need to tell me now. Please. Should I be scared?”
She didn’t answer right away.
“I was joking,” I said, bending my head down a little to catch her eyes.
She looked up. “I know.” She smiled, then sat up straighter. “You know I’ve been working on a new book.”
“Sort of. You haven’t said much about it, just that it’s very special. You made it sound quite mysterious in fact.”
“Well, I’m about to tell you all about it.”
“Okay, so tell me.” How long is it going to take? I wondered. It must be dreadful, what I wrote, if she has to prepare me like this. She’s going to tell me how shockingly bad her first draft was and that she had to start over, something like that.
We waited until the waiter finished serving our meals, and then she said, “But you must promise not to repeat any of this. Not to Jim, not to anyone in the world. Nobody. Can you do that?”
I was about to laugh. Surely this was a joke. But her eyes were locked with mine, telegraphing the seriousness of her words. “I can’t promise that, Beatrice. I have no idea what you’re about to tell me.”
“It’s nothing illegal or criminal or anything like that. It’s just something very private, very personal to me, and I don’t want anyone to know about it. Yet. Later maybe, but not now.”
I let her words sink in. “Okay, I accept that. I promise.” I waited, but she didn’t say anything else. “Everything okay?”
“I want you to be the author of my book.” Her words tumbled out so fast I didn’t think I’d heard her right.
“What?”
She put down her fork and sighed, sitting back in her chair.
“I want you to be the author of my next book.” This time she had spoken clearly, deliberately. The shock on my face must have registered, because she put her hand up and said, “Hear me out.”
“Don’t worry. I’m speechless.”
And so began the strangest conversation of my life.
10
“I don’t understand why you don’t want to publish this under your own name. It makes no sense to me.”
“I just want freedom again. You don’t know what it’s like for someone in my position. The critics will pore over this and they’ll go to town. I write crime novels, Emma—thrillers. I may be good at it, but I’m typecast and always have been. I need this one to be fresh.”
“But I’m sure everyone will love it! Why wouldn’t they? You’re a wonderful writer!”
“Thank you, Emma. You’re always so kind to me.” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but nothing came out.
“So?”
“I tried this once before.”
“You did?”
“Yes, a war story. No crime, no perpetrator, just a story about two people.”
“Well, war stories, you know . . .” I shook my head. “Let’s face it, does the world really need another war story?”
She looked away. “It was special to me.”
“Sorry.” I realized I’d hurt her feelings. I put my hand on top of hers. “Tell me, when was that?” I was sure I’d read everything Beatrice had ever published, and this did not ring any bells.
“Years ago.” She pulled her hand away and waved it in dismissal. “I published it under a pseudonym, paid for it all—a vanity-press project. I told myself it didn’t matter if it sold or not, or what the critics said. I was doing this for me.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, is what happened. I had to rent a storage unit, the walls of which are still lined with unopened boxes of beautifully printed first-and-only editions of Life After Us by B. E. Everett.”
I didn’t know what to say. I waited while she played with her food.
“I realized that it did matter after all, what people thought. At the very least, I wanted people to read it—some, not that many, but I wanted the knowledge that some people had read that book. I wouldn’t have spent tens of thousa
nds of dollars printing five thousand copies if I didn’t care.”
“But, Beatrice, no one knows me! Why would this be any different than, what was it? B. E. Everett?”
“I did get one very good review, in a small newspaper. That reviewer loved the book. He really wanted to interview me and get some interest going in the novel, but of course that was out of the question. I could hardly pretend to not be me.”
“So why didn’t you come out as you?”
“For the same reason I explained before: I’d have been shot to pieces by the literati police. No one wants a woman crime novelist to discover literary ambitions, trust me. I’m not the first to attempt this, you know. There are very well-known writers out there doubling as crime or fantasy novelists, or ‘serious’ ”—she made air quotes—“writers who do all that under a pseudonym or two.”
“Like that author of the Harry Potter books.”
She raised her head and looked at me, finally. “Yes. J. K. Rowling, for example, but that’s just because you happened to have heard about that. There are many, many more, Emma. Imagine if she’d had an alter ego to do the interviews, do the radio, do just a little publicity. No one would have been any the wiser. She could have happily published whatever she liked.”
“You want me to do that? The interviews? The radio? Be the face of B. E. Everett?”
“No, of course I don’t expect you to wander around pretending to be B. E. Everett.”
Then it was her turn to reach across the table to take my hand, her eyes focused on mine.
“You will be Emma Fern, of course—Emma Fern, the author of my next book.”
I was completely confused. I still couldn’t see how it would help to put my name on the cover. It wasn’t like I had any credibility in that department.
“Emma Fern has written the book I’ve just written,” she said slowly.
“Emma Fern has written the book you’ve just written,” I repeated.
“Exactly!” She clapped once.
Then I got it.
“Forget it. I can’t do it, you must know that. How on earth would I pull it off ? Me? Are you kidding?”
She squeezed my hand, her eyes still not leaving mine. “How is this any different than you publishing your own novel? You’d do that, wouldn’t you? Publish your own novel?”
Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1) Page 6