Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1)

by Natalie Barelli

  George came in, Lord love him, with two hefty glasses of something. She nodded to him to put them on the bedside table and he left us, with a kind look toward me.

  She leaned over, took a glass, and passed it to me. It was strong and warm, and it was helping.

  “I got your package, obviously,” I hiccupped.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “It hasn’t been my lucky day, has it?”

  “You better get used to it, darling. It’s a cutthroat business out there.”

  “But still, you could have gone easy on me.”

  “You think I was tough? You should see some of the line edits I get back.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then remind me to show you sometime.”

  “Seriously though, why so dismissive? Was it that bad?”

  “It was pretty bad.”

  “Shit.”

  I rested my head back on her shoulder.

  “So you won’t help me then? It’s irretrievable—is that what you’re saying?”

  She moved away slightly so she could look at me straight in the face. Put a finger under my chin and lifted my head up. “Of course not. You just don’t know what you’re doing, that’s all.”

  I nestled my head against her again. “You could have been kinder.”

  “You wouldn’t help me,” she said.

  I looked up. “What are you talking about?”

  She looked at me sideways, like I should know.

  “Really? You’re angry with me because I wouldn’t go along with your crazy idea?”

  “Please stop saying that.”

  “You’re right. It’s not a crazy idea. It’s a great idea,” I said, because it occurred to me at that moment that pretending to be someone else would be fantastic. Just imagine what Jim would think if I were to publish a novel—and a great one, at that. Because I didn’t need to read it to know it would be great.

  “Don’t be sarcastic.”

  “I’m not. It’s a great idea. I’ve just realized that.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “If I say yes, will you help me with mine? So that I have something, shall we say, presentable to publish? Once everyone discovers I’m a fraud?”

  She laughed. “No one will believe you’re a fraud, and yes, of course, that’s the deal. I’ll help you write your novel, and trust me, it will be a lot more than presentable.”

  I nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s do it.”

  She took me in her arms and hugged me, really tight.

  George kindly spent the night in the spare bedroom so that I could stay with Beatrice. God knows what he thought about my state of mind, but he was so sweet. Jim could have learned a thing or two from this man.

  Beatrice and I stayed up until the wee hours getting drunk on her whiskey, moving on from the glasses to the pretty flask, and then to the bottle, and since Beatrice kept a small refrigerator in her office next door, we even had ice.

  She told me vaguely about the story she’d written, and I must have asked her a hundred times why she wouldn’t publish it under her own name. I did understand the fear of being judged, only too well, but not why Beatrice—or someone like her, someone so talented, beautiful, admired—could feel that way too.

  Eventually we fell asleep, both our heads on the same pillow. I watched her dream, and reached out a hand and caressed her cheek, her breathing slowing down a little.

  12

  She was up before me, and when I woke up, alone in her bed, it took me a minute to recognize where I was. Then it all came flooding back just as she entered the room in a floor-length white bathrobe, carrying a tray, which she placed beside me on the bed. She sat herself upright against the pillow next to me and brought her knees up.

  “Good morning! How does the world look today—better?”

  “So far, so good,” I said. “This is a treat!” I admired the single red rose, the scrambled eggs and croissants. I was ravenous.

  “You deserve it. Eat it while it’s hot.”

  I spread strawberry jam on a croissant. “Aren’t you having any?”

  “I’m not hungry. Coffee’s fine for me right now. But you, on the other hand, need your strength, so eat while I get dressed.”

  She left me to it and went into her walk-in closet, which really was another room altogether. Breakfast was delicious, but I still felt a little broken and very, very tired. I thought back to our hours of talk about our plans. I did a quick check for regrets: Did I feel any? No, this had not been idle chatter, or rambling ideas spewing out from my overemotional, drunken self. I was feeling the excitement of a new voyage about to begin. My life was going to change completely, and that was a very good thing.

  I demolished that breakfast, enjoying every mouthful.

  “Feeling better?” She was standing at the foot of the bed, looking fabulous as usual.

  “Feeling pretty great, actually, thank you for asking.”

  “That’s wonderful, darling, I’m so pleased.” She sat beside me on the bed. “We’re still on with our little project?”

  “We certainly are.”

  “Fantastic. So the next step here is that I’m going to give you the manuscript—the hard copy.”

  “I can’t wait to read it.”

  “It’s the only copy.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course! It’s still on my computer. But you need to retype it, on your computer. Then I’ll delete mine.”

  “This is a little cloak-and-dagger, isn’t it? Or will I discover state secrets when I read this manuscript?”

  “Trust me—it’s best we don’t take any chances. Any at all.”

  “If you say so.” I pushed the breakfast tray aside. “I should probably go home, sort out my life.” I got out of bed.

  “But you’re all right now?”

  “Oh, Beatrice, I can’t thank you enough. Yes, I’m all right. And our long talk last night really made me see my options. I just need to go home and deal with it.”

  “Good for you, darling. You’re very brave—remember that, always.” She fished something from her pocket and handed it to me. It was a key.

  “What’s this?”

  “Whatever happens, you can always come back here.”

  “Oh, thank you, but I don’t need this.”

  “I know, but take it anyway.” She put the key in my hand.

  I started to cry. “Sorry,” I said, as she handed me a Kleenex. “I’m a bit fragile.”

  “I know you are, but you’ll be fine—you’ll see.”

  I took a shower, got dressed, and joined her in her office.

  “I have the manuscript here”—she tapped a fat envelope on the desk—“but let’s get the nitty-gritty stuff done, all right?”

  I knew what was going to happen. We’d spoken at length last night about how this was going to work. I would do all the interviews, show up for the events, and promote the novel to the best of my ability. Beatrice told me over and over that there might not be a lot of publicity, so I should lower my expectations and not be disappointed.

  As if.

  She kept telling me the book might bomb, and I kept telling her I hoped it would. In return for doing my bit, I was to receive 50 percent of the proceeds. We had no idea how much that might be—it could be a few hundred dollars, or even less—but if the book did well, it could go into thousands of dollars.

  During the time frame of our project, Beatrice would help me finish my own work; she thought it might take a year or so. That was the part I was most excited about. The other business, being the front woman for her novel, didn’t seem real.

  Beatrice was to handle the actual publishing deal under the guise of “doing a favor for a friend.” She would use her clout to open doors, and get top agents and publishers to consider the manuscript, as a favor to her protégée.

  “Don’t let that weasel of a husband upset you. You deserve
better, all right?” she said as I got into the elevator.

  “Thank you for everything, Beatrice, really. And don’t worry, I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

  She hugged me tight again and I took in her lovely scent, bottled it up so it would last me all day. She released her grip, and held me by my shoulders at arm’s length.

  “If you and Jim are going to break up, you need a safe place, Emma. Come and stay here any time. Any time at all.”

  Break up? No, no—nobody is breaking up here. “I’ll be fine, there’s no need to do that.”

  “You never know. It can’t hurt.”

  I didn’t call Jim, I didn’t text him; I didn’t leave wailing messages telling him that I loved him so much it had driven me to say such stupid things. I did none of that, but I did spend my day productively. I tracked down that woman.

  It wasn’t that I’d never thought Jim would find someone better than me, it’s just that I’d never thought it would be someone like her.

  He’d said she was an ex-student, so I looked up the website of the university where he used to work, where they’d met. I’d gotten a good enough look at her the other day: I knew she had copper-colored hair and she was in her early to mid-twenties, give or take; that she was thin, pretty.

  I went to the directory section of the website and typed Allison in the search bar. I had to start somewhere.

  There were over sixty results, but, helpfully, there was a headshot next to each entry, so I scanned through the pages quickly; mostly they were easy to dismiss. Wrong age group, wrong look. A couple of them had a generic avatar instead of a photo, the blue-outline type, so I made a note of those—and then, on page three, bingo! Allison Vickars, still a PhD student.

  The sight of her smug face smiling at me from the screen made my stomach churn. For a second I wanted to slap her. There were no personal details, but I figured that Vickars was not such a common name, so I searched for an address or a number for Allison Vickars; no luck. Next, I called the university, pretending to be Jim’s assistant, and they were very helpful. Being a successful product of the university had its perks. They were especially proud of him, and by the time I hung up, I had a phone number and an address.

  It took three attempts for me to punch in the number. It was hard to focus—those few glasses of wine for the sake of courage didn’t help after all—and when I finally got it right, it went straight to voice mail. I pressed the phone hard against my ear, listening to her cheery, singsong voice: “Hi! Sorry, but I can’t get the phone. You know what to do!”

  I figured she was too busy fucking my husband to take the call, and I didn’t leave a message.

  By the time Jim called me, I was very pleased that I had managed such self-restraint.

  “I miss you,” he said. He’d been gone for two days and already I’d been climbing the walls, frightened beyond belief that I might never see him again.

  “Do you? I don’t miss you at all.”

  He gave a small chuckle. “I’m coming home tomorrow,” he said.

  “So soon? Weren’t you supposed to be back on Monday?” This little exercise in self-control was making me feel like I had the upper hand. Welcome back to high school.

  “I can’t wait any more. Screw them—I want to come home and be with my wife.”

  His words made me dizzy with happiness. I was smiling so much my cheeks hurt. “I can’t wait either, my darling. I’ve missed you more than I can say,” I replied, throwing caution to the wind.

  We had a romantic dinner the night he came home. I made him his favorite, boeuf en croûte, a welcome-home surprise.

  It was only later, when we were sitting together on the couch, drinking wine, my head resting on his shoulder, that he brought it up.

  “I’m not having an affair, Emma. Certainly not with Allison—not with anyone.”

  “I know,” I replied, even though I didn’t, not really.

  “And I should have explained sooner that the plan had changed. I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me.” I was listening to him with my eyes closed. “What did you get up to while I was gone?” he asked.

  I hesitated for a second, not wanting to ruin the moment, but I said it anyway, my eyes still shut. “I’ve started work on my book.”

  “Good for you,” he said, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. “How’s it coming along?”

  “Very well, actually.”

  “I’m glad.”

  So was I.

  Jim had already left for work when I woke up. There was a note on the kitchen counter: I love you, see you tonight. I took the note and put it in my wallet.

  I love you too.

  I called Jackie, making up some excuse. “I’m not feeling very well,” I said. “Can you take over for the day?”

  I hadn’t had the heart to read the manuscript while Jim was gone—I didn’t have the head for it either—but on this sunny, happy day, I retrieved it from its bag, still resting by the front door, chiding myself for being so casual with it. I settled myself comfortably on the couch, and began to read what was about to become my novel.

  The day turned to dusk, and when my eyes could no longer make out the words on the page, I turned on the lamp next to me. I didn’t want to stop reading. I had become enthralled, a hostage to this story and its characters, and I believed with all my heart that this must be the best work she’d ever done. Eventually I took a break to pour myself a glass of wine and think about what I’d just read. This strange tale could have been ordinary in the hands of most people. There was no murder here, no big romantic entanglement, but there was no shortage of tension to leave you breathless at every turn. It wasn’t so much the plot that drew you in, it was that the narrative was so compelling, the layers so detailed that you could touch this world just by reaching out to it.

  I didn’t hear Jim come in, and I jumped with a start when I saw him right there, standing in front of me.

  “You scared me!”

  “Sorry. How are you feeling?”

  “Very good, thank you.” I gathered the pages together—this was not the time for me to finish reading—and I put them back in the envelope.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “The novel I’m working on: I told you last night.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I didn’t realize you’d done so much, that’s all. Can I read it?”

  “Soon, but not yet.”

  “Okay.”

  I wanted to call Beatrice right there and then, to tell her that this was something incredible; that I was sorry I’d taken three days to start it, because they were three days that I’d wasted; that she had transported me from my surroundings into a world I’d never known, but that she’d made so familiar I was there, with these characters.

  I was in love with the book.

  13

  We sealed the deal in a bar, as I stared into her face and told her what reading her book had done to me, and I could tell she was pleased, really pleased, that I loved it so much. We wrote our contract on a cocktail napkin, because so many important deals were made that way, she said, and it was in keeping with our crazy project anyway. It was very short, just the title of the book, that she had written it but I would be posing as the author, and that any proceeds were to be split fifty-fifty. We signed, awkwardly, messily, and that was it. We did it twice, one copy for her and one for me.

  “Guard it with your life, okay?”

  “You bet.”

  In the days after that, Beatrice and I were consumed with plotting and scheming. I was obsessed with my novel—because that’s how I thought of it by then. Mine.

  I knew it almost by heart. We had spent countless hours discussing its intricacies. I had retyped the manuscript on my own computer as agreed, and by the time Christmas arrived, we were ready. We burned the original in her fireplace. We made it an occasion, dumping stacks of paper into the flames. I’d spent even more countless hours late at night recreating this w
ork word for word, Jim in the background, being wonderfully supportive of my newfound passion for writing, if a little puzzled. I really thought he was impressed. He kept saying he couldn’t wait to read it, and I couldn’t wait for him to do so. I even changed a few things, tiny things, undetectable things, a comma here, a word there, so that little by little it became mine. I was a little bit the author.

  “I’m sorry,” Beatrice was saying, “it’s going to take longer than I thought.”

  We were sipping coffee at Altitude, almost three weeks after our cocktail napkin evening. I should have been excited when she called to meet up, but she made it sound urgent, and I knew it was not going to be good news.

  “I don’t understand. This manuscript is wonderful. It’s”—I had difficulty finding the right word—“it’s remarkable. How can anyone want to pass this up?”

  Beatrice had not been able to get an agent interested in the novel. It made no sense to me. What would happen now?

  “They all say the same thing: the story is complex, doesn’t follow the usual narrative styles.” Then she said in a singsong voice, making air quotes, “ ‘The market is not right for this book at the moment.’ ”

  “How many people have you contacted?”

  “Four, so far. But they’re the best in the business. They’re the ones I would trust with this, so if they’re not biting, then we just have to wait, Emma.”

  “I still don’t understand why we don’t ask Hannah,” I said petulantly.

  “You know why. Hannah is my agent, and she doesn’t normally work with unknown authors. If she represents the book, someone might suspect I wrote it. We need to do this fresh. Please trust me, Emma.”

  She reached a hand over the table to cover mine.

  “It will happen, you’ll see.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on me: this was her project, her idea; she’d worked so hard to convince me to do it, and now she was the one taking it in her stride and I was so disappointed I wanted to weep. “Did any of them read it?”