“It’s all the difference in the world, Beatrice! I’d be able to talk about it. I’d know my novel inside out: it would be mine—surely that’s the difference!”
“That’s beside the point. Obviously, you’d be prepared. I’d talk you through every sentence, every idea, every nuance of the book.”
“And I’d be going on radio? Television?”
“Well, I hope so! I hope it generates enough interest for that, but I can’t promise. Maybe one or two newspaper interviews. But that’s the point, you see? If it’s you in the chair, then you’ll be able to talk about the work. You come with no baggage whatsoever.”
“That’s crazy, Beatrice.” I sat back in my chair, pushed my plate away. “So, for the sake of argument, let’s assume I agree to go ahead with this insane and very unlikely project. Which I’m not, by the way, and I don’t think I will change my mind. But let’s assume. Then what happens?”
“Well, you do your one or two interviews, and you and I go fifty-fifty on all the proceeds. Don’t get too excited, there won’t be much. It takes one hell of a machine to make a book successful, and that’s not what we’re doing here. Think of it this way: It will give you a head start in the business. By the time you’re ready to publish your own novel, you’ll already have a publisher and an agent, and you’ll know how to deal with the publicity machine.”
“It’s not going to happen, Beatrice.”
“Come on, Emma! You’re the person I trust the most in the world, apart from George! Speaking of which, George knows nothing of this, all right? I haven’t shown the manuscript to anyone. I haven’t discussed this book with anyone. You’re the only person in the world who knows about this.”
I had to admit I was more flattered than I could say. “Your secret is definitely safe with me. I’m good at keeping secrets, actually. So you don’t need to worry about anything, I promise you.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Certainly not! I will absolutely not do it! I think it’s crazy, Beatrice, and I think you completely underestimate the reception you’ll get. I think you should do it.”
“You do not understand how the publishing world works, my dear,” she said drily.
“What I don’t understand is why you’re so paranoid about this.”
She sighed. “I know you don’t, but please just think about it. Just let it sit with you for a while, maybe a week. Think it through, ask me any questions.”
“Will I get to read the book?” I asked.
“Only if you agree. If you agree, then of course you’ll read the book!”
“What if I don’t like it?”
She looked at me with one eyebrow raised.
“Right. Got it. I’ll like it. A lot, probably.”
“That’s more like it,” she said. “So? Does that mean you’ll think about it?”
“No. Absolutely not, Beatrice. I’m sorry, but it’s a really terrible idea and I’m not doing it. That’s final.”
She looked away. I’ve made her sad, I thought. I leaned forward.
“I’m sorry, I really, really am. I’d do anything for you, you know that. But this? I couldn’t pull it off.”
She nodded.
One week later, the longest stretch of time since I’d first met Beatrice that we hadn’t spoken, she called.
“So? Have you thought about my proposition?” she asked.
“Well, hello to you too! Where have you been? Did you get my messages?”
“Sorry, darling, yes I did, of course, but I’ve been insanely busy, and to be honest, I thought I’d leave you alone for the week, so you could have a proper think about it, without me breathing down your neck.”
I felt awful. The truth was I hadn’t considered her offer at all since that day. I’d told the truth. It was a stupid idea and I didn’t need a week to know I wouldn’t change my mind about that.
“I’m not doing it, Beatrice, like I said. I really think you should—”
She interrupted me. “All right, I understand. But I’m counting on you, Emma, not to betray my confidence, all right?”
“Of course! God, Beatrice, you can totally trust me! I promise!”
“Good.”
“I’m sorry if you thought I’d go along with it, really I am.”
“It’s fine, Emma, really. I understand.”
“Great!” That was a relief. “So, what time should I pick you up tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“You know, Craig’s lunch? I could come earlier if you like.”
“Oh no, don’t bother. I won’t be going. I just got a set of proofs from my publisher. I need to get them back to her before the end of next week.”
“Oh.”
“Why don’t you take Jim with you? It might be nice to go out with your husband.”
“Maybe,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic, and failing.
“Sorry, darling, I must run, but thank you for letting me know your decision.”
“Of course. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Yes, you will.”
I was so disappointed that I wasn’t going to see her the next day. I was hardly going to go to this lunch with Jim. She must have known that. I wasn’t used to Beatrice being busy, which was silly of me. She had to work sometime.
She’d told me once that she worked in bursts. “I only work half the year,” she’d said. “The other half, I let thoughts bubble through, so by the time I’m ready to go to work, I have a fully formed story in my head.”
I was being unfair. I needed to leave her alone. I just hoped it wouldn’t be six months; I didn’t think I could bear it. But there was a positive side to this: Jim and I could spend a lot more quality time together. We could start with our little trip away to Montreal. We were leaving the following night.
Except that I had expected to hear what Beatrice thought about my story, and she hadn’t said a word. I called her back.
“My outline, did you get a chance? To read it? What did you think?” I blurted.
“Yes, of course. Sorry, darling—I did make some notes for you. Come and pick them up.”
“Oh good! Now? I could come now.” I checked my watch. It would mean closing early, but I didn’t care.
“No, no, right now isn’t good. Come tomorrow, all right?”
Yes! Yes yes yes! Tomorrow! I could get Jackie to cover for me. I was going to see her and we were going to talk about my story, and—how wonderful!—we could both be working on our stories at the same time. I could see it! Both of us sharing her office!
I’d forgotten to ask what time, so I figured it didn’t matter to her. I wasn’t going to call her again and disturb her. If she had a time in mind, she’d have told me. So I decided to leave it until after lunch so we could even have a cocktail or two while we were at it. Beatrice never needed to wait until five o’clock for cocktails.
Since she didn’t know when to expect me, it was understandable that when I arrived the next day, the maid, whose name I had forgotten, was the one to greet me.
“Mrs. Johnson Greene has left a package for you, madam. I’ll fetch it.”
“Oh, that’s fine, she’s expecting me,” I said, walking into the hall.
“She’s working upstairs, madam. She can’t be disturbed.”
“Does she know I’m here?” Even to my ears I sounded haughty. I didn’t mean to. I was more puzzled than offended.
“Mrs. Johnson Greene has instructed me to give you a package. One moment, please, I’ll bring it out.”
“Please!” I stopped her; she turned.
“Yes?”
“We have an appointment, she wants to see me, really, will you please tell her I’m here? It’s Emma. Emma Fern.”
“Yes, I know who you are, Mrs. Fern. Mrs. Johnson Greene doesn’t want to be disturbed. She instructed me to give you a package,” she insisted.
I stood there, confused, rooted to the floor, dealing with the anticlimax of this moment. Surely we were supposed to discuss
my outline? Our heads together, going over every part, dissecting the characters, the narrative arc? Had I misunderstood?
The maid returned with the same envelope I’d given Beatrice and handed it to me. I took it, automatically.
“Is Mr. Greene here?” That would be nice. George and I could spend a little time together while I waited for Beatrice to finish whatever she was doing. She’d like that, I was sure. She’d be pleased I’d waited, and I’d love to spend some time alone with George so I could get to know him a little better. We could have coffee together or something. And Beatrice would be so pleased to see me when she came downstairs.
“Mr. Greene is at work.”
Of course, George had his main office downtown. That’s where he went to work.
“Should I wait for Mrs. Johnson Greene then?” I was clutching at straws, still hoping she might have asked for me to do so.
“Mrs. Johnson Greene is working right now, madam. She said not to wait.”
I really expected her to come down the stairs at this point, before I got a chance to leave, saying, “Emma, darling! There you are! Come up immediately!” But she was nowhere to be seen, so I thanked the maid and left with my thin little envelope.
By the time I got to the subway I’d talked myself better. I hadn’t seen Beatrice in work mode, and that’s what it was like. Good for her—she had real discipline. I should remember that.
I found a seat and settled in, then tore the flap open, my heart beating faster. I couldn’t wait. I pulled the sheets out quickly, but was startled at the sight of them. There were red lines throughout—she’d used a marker—and a few perfunctory comments like unclear, and too cliché, and that was it, almost. There was a brief note at the end: Shorter than I expected. Needs work.
Was that what she meant by mentoring? The corners of my mouth drooping, I felt like a schoolgirl—chastised. I’d disappointed her. It wasn’t meant to go this way; she was supposed to talk me through it. Did she even like any of it? Any of it at all? Was it really so hopeless? Was I? Tears were pricking the back of my eyes. I shoved the pages back in the envelope.
Stupid, stupid, I was being stupid. I could talk to her later about it. If I was going to be this sensitive, then I wasn’t going to get anywhere.
11
I turned the corner into our street and saw a man and a woman standing outside our house in the distance. Did I know these people? Then it dawned on me that the man was Jim. Something made me stop and watch. The woman had her back to me. I couldn’t see her face but there was nothing about her that made her familiar. I saw Jim take her face in his hands and get real close, like he was going to kiss her. I retreated back around the corner, then peered forward. Was it really Jim? What was he doing?
I walked toward them, watching them all the while. Then she turned. She was no one I knew. She looked very young. She looked my way, then Jim turned and looked also. Then she grabbed a bicycle that was leaning on the side of our steps and took off.
“What’s going on?”
Jim looked pale. His lips were tightly pressed together, the thing he did when he was angry. Was he angry with me?
“Jim?”
“It’s nothing, Em.”
“Who was that?”
“No one.” He walked up the steps to our front door, with me following behind.
“Jim! What’s going on?”
“Really, Em, it’s nothing, I promise.”
“Don’t brush me off like that. Please! I just saw you. Who is she?”
“It’s none of your business.” He closed the front door behind us and turned his head my way, then he deflated somewhat. He took my coat from me, and hung it on the rack, and pulled me to him in a hug.
“Sorry, Em, I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that,” he said.
“So tell me! Who is she? What were you doing out there?”
Because the detail I hadn’t been saying out loud was that he’d looked like he was about to kiss her, this attractive young woman.
We walked into the kitchen. He took my hand in his.
“She’s an old student of mine. She’s been harassing me for a job. She’s a royal pain in the ass.”
“A job?”
“Yes, at the Forum. You know what it’s like. We’re getting successful, so young, ambitious people like Allison are knocking on the door.”
“She can’t call you at the office?”
“She did—she has, a lot. I told you, she’s a real pain, that one.”
Jim, my Jim, my love, my life, say it isn’t true. Don’t be that man—the professor who takes up with his ex-student. Make me believe you, I thought. Try harder, please.
“I’m going upstairs to pack,” he said.
I sighed. “I’ve already packed, but I’ll come and help you.” I followed him upstairs. We could talk later, on the plane even.
He sat down on the bed, looking up at me. His suitcase was next to him, already open. He took my hand, and drew me close.
“I’m sorry, Em.”
That was a start. Not nearly enough, but a start.
“I can’t bring you to Montreal.”
“What?”
“I know it was going to be our little trip, but we can’t go together now, because something’s come up. I’m going to have to work a lot more than I expected. There are some key people up there who want to meet with us—it’s a great opportunity.”
He looked into my face.
“You understand, don’t you?”
I must have looked like a blowfish stranded on the beach, because he pulled me even closer.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he continued. “It’s the Canadian government. I couldn’t pass this up. I got Carol to set up some meetings and this trip has turned into a monster work affair now.”
I couldn’t stop the tears. They just rolled down, and I let them.
“I’m so disappointed, Em. I was really looking forward to this little trip with you, but now I’m going to be stuck in meetings the whole time.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I’m not going with you?”
“Not this time, darling. Trust me, you’d be bored to tears, but next time, I promise.”
“I can still join you! I can do the tourist sights during the day and we can be together in the evenings. You’ll hardly know I’m there. You’ll see.” I sounded whiny, even to my ears. Jim hated whining.
“I already canceled your ticket and got one for Carol, darling. I really need her there with me. You understand, don’t you?”
That’s how it worked between us lately, it seemed: with me being understanding. That was one thing I was very good at. I understood Jim’s needs better than anyone—I understood it was my role to support him so that he could be free to do the very important work he did—so the shock on his face was not unexpected when I said abruptly, “Are you going with Allison?”
He pulled back from me. His face rearranged itself from its usual benevolent, kindly, patient expression into one of serious anger and outrage. He stood, and gripped my shoulders with his hands. I could feel his body tense, but I was angry too, and my own face was rigid with it.
All those conversations with Beatrice must have rubbed off on me, because suddenly I heard myself shout, “No! I do not understand!”
I was tired of tiptoeing around, walking on eggshells, hoping each day would be a good day, and being sweet and understanding when it was a bad day.
He looked at his hands on my shoulders and slowly removed them, straightened his back.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Which part?”
“I’m not going with Allison. Please, Emma, that’s the most ridiculous thing—”
“Is it?” I was shaking, standing a little away from him. “Because here’s another thing I don’t understand: what you were doing outside just now. And don’t tell me this bullshit about a job, please. I’m not that stupid.”
He stood up, started to pack his case, sl
owly, deliberately. People get killed for that kind of dismissive behavior, surely. My blood was boiling. I was so angry, I was vibrating.
“Talk to me!” I shouted.
“I don’t have the time for this, Emma. Whatever it is you want to say to me, it’s going to have to wait until I get back.”
“You still haven’t answered me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Of course I’m not bringing Allison! Jesus! Get a grip, Emma!”
Jim was many things, but he wasn’t a very good liar, and I knew he was hiding something behind all the posturing, but I wasn’t completely sure what it was. It would have been a stupid lie, to pretend he was taking Carol with him and then take this Allison woman. Easily found out.
“You don’t understand, Em, but what I’m doing, what I do, it’s actually very important work.”
“Oh, fuck off, Jim!”
I grabbed my coat and bag and ran out the door, sobbing. I hailed a taxi; I wanted to run to the store, to Jackie—She’ll get it, I thought—but then I changed my mind. When I called Beatrice and George picked up, he could barely understand me.
“Emma! What happened, my dear?”
“Can I speak to Beatrice, please, George? Tell her it has nothing to do with her package, it’s about Jim. Would you tell her that?”
“Of course, my dear. I’ll get her for you.”
“Emma?”
Just hearing her voice brought on another rush of sobs in me, and I managed to pour out my sorry tale, in spits and spurts.
“Come over now, right now, and we’ll figure it out, I promise.”
She was waiting for me outside her door when I came out of the elevator, and wrapped me tightly in her arms.
“I’m getting snot all over your shirt,” I mumbled into her neck.
“That’s all right. I never liked this shirt.”
“It’ll come off, I think.”
“Then get some more snot on it. Give me no excuse to keep it.”
I just cried my heart out.
She took me upstairs to her bedroom, and lay on the bed with me, cradling my head against her shoulder, stroking my hair, while I spewed out words of anger, regret, frustration, bewilderment. Finally, I could speak no more, and she soothed me like a child while I took in great big gulps of air.
Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1) Page 7