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

by Natalie Barelli

  “I don’t think so. These people are busy. They may have flicked through it, but even so, who knows?”

  She was also annoyed, obviously. This was her experiment, after all, and it seemed to be fizzling out before it had even begun.

  Her eyes had left mine; she was studying the tablecloth. I wanted to reach out and shake her. The answer isn’t there, I wanted to yell at her. Why aren’t you trying harder? How can you give up so easily? You’re supposed to be the expert, for Christ’s sake!

  I took a deep breath. “It makes no sense to me,” I said, finally. “This is a work of art, and if they don’t know that, then either they haven’t bothered to read it, or they’re terrible at their jobs.”

  She raised her eyes back to me. “It’s a matter of time, Emma, I promise.”

  “But you were supposed to find us an agent. You’re supposed to be someone these people listen to, right? Aren’t you?”

  She made a sharp movement with her head and raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. That was uncalled for.” I sat back in my chair, deflated. “This is such bad news.”

  “You need to be patient, Emma! Seriously. These things take time. I’ll keep prodding. That’s how it works, believe me—I do know what I’m talking about.”

  “How long?”

  She studied my face, surprised at how hard I was taking the news. “I don’t know. Maybe a few months?”

  I slapped my palms on the table. “A few months?”

  “Just be patient! Emma! What’s the matter with you?”

  She was right, of course—I was overreacting. But doubt had gripped me, and I was panicking. I was terrified that she’d give up and the idea would die its own unremarkable death. I steadied myself and took a deep breath, squared my shoulders. “Sorry, again. I just love this book, that’s all.”

  She smiled at me. “I know you do. Leave it to me, okay? We’ll get there, you’ll see.” She took my hand again. “I’ll try again in a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks? But why? Why that long?”

  “Because I want to think about how I’m approaching this. Once the best in the business have turned it down, you need to be very careful where you go from there. I don’t want to kill this project, you understand? It could be the wrong time.”

  “Okay.” I sighed, giving in. “You know best, I know you do.”

  “That’s right, I do know best. Don’t worry, Emma, it’ll happen before you know it.”

  Hardly, not if it’s weeks or months or God knows how long from now. But I pretended to go along with her confidence and let go of my bad mood.

  I dreamed of boats and a wild river. I was alone on a barge, and Beatrice was on a large ship, like a cruise ship, some way off. I desperately wanted to join her. I was waving my arms and shouting, doing everything I could to get her attention, but she didn’t notice me. She was drinking pink champagne and laughing her head off at the heart of a little gathering. They were not that far away from me and I couldn’t figure out why she couldn’t see me.

  There were oars in my barge. I picked them up and slapped at the water in a frenzied attempt to go to her, but the barge didn’t move an inch. I was doing it all wrong. By the time I looked up, Beatrice’s boat had receded to a small triangle in the distance and the terror of being left behind, hopeless and utterly alone, was so real it woke me up, my heart beating fast in my chest and my hair damp with sweat.

  It was barely dawn and I didn’t want to go back to sleep in case I slipped back into that awful dream.

  I got up quietly and went downstairs to make myself a pot of strong black coffee. I was craving it. While it was brewing, I cast my mind back to the previous day’s disappointment. I’d had a heavy heart since I heard that the book hadn’t been accepted by an agent—not just because it was going to take longer to get it published, but because I was afraid Beatrice would change her mind.

  What if she decided to get someone else to be the author? Someone who already had one or two books under their belt? That would be easier, right? And what if she changed her mind completely and decided to use her own name? After all, it was the “unknown” author that was the problem. It was me that was the problem.

  I’d decided last night, before the snatches of sleep turned into nightmares, that I needed to take control of this. I was the author, after all. I couldn’t sit on the sidelines and wait for things to happen. I did that too often, and where did it ever get me?

  I started a list in my head of my favorite contemporary writers: That was where I was going to start. I then spent the next hour pulling from the list the ones in a similar genre to Beatrice’s new novel. Eventually Jim came into the kitchen, bent down, and kissed me softly on the lips.

  “Hard at work already.”

  “Mmm . . .”

  He poured himself a cup of coffee. I could see by his demeanor that he was in a rush this morning, itching to get on with his day. He looked nice, wearing new jeans I’d bought for him. He drained his cup and bent down to kiss the top of my head.

  “I’ll see you tonight, Em. Have a great day. Watch out for that carpal tunnel syndrome.”

  “Ha ha!” That was Jim’s new joke: he said I was attached to my laptop, and he was going to buy some advertising space on Google to get my attention. Sweet.

  It turned out to be a lot easier than I thought, tracking down publishers; most of them had contact names, email addresses, phone numbers on their websites. By lunchtime I had my short list, along with my letter of introduction and a brief bio, in my own words, which I was pretty happy with. I emailed them and the manuscript to seven people from my list.

  I was ravenous, even more so than usual. It was a day for beef bourguignon, I decided. I should have been exhausted, but instead I was tingling with excitement, and I whiled away the rest of the day shopping for ingredients and cooking.

  I was at the hair salon when Jim called me with the big news; he blurted it out quickly. The Department of the Treasury was commissioning the Forum to do some economic modeling about a specific policy area.

  “It’s only the beginning,” he said. “They just want to try out our theories against some of their real data. What happens after that will depend on the results—but we’ve done it!”

  I laughed with him into the phone and told him to stop shouting. He was so excited, he could barely breathe.

  “We’re going to celebrate,” he said. “Come to the Tavern, meet me there. We’re having champagne. Lots of it.”

  I was happy for him, hugely happy, and I quieted the small disappointment I felt in the pit of my stomach each time the phone rang and it wasn’t one of the publishers I’d emailed. It had only been two weeks, which I was sure in that world was no time at all, but to me it was a century and a half, and every time I answered the phone I was a little crushed.

  My hairdresser shot me a stern look in the mirror; I needed to hang up the phone. Sorry, I mouthed, but he was not impressed. He made that clear as he teased and snipped and poked at my hair. They didn’t like to be called hairdressers here: this was a work of art, not a haircut. At least I hoped it was a work of art, because it was by far the most expensive haircut I’d ever had.

  “I want you to look your best, Emma. When the time comes, you’ll thank me for it,” Beatrice had said. I’d thanked her already since she was paying for this haircut. My income had taken a bit of a dive lately. I was losing interest in the store, barely going in these days and relying more and more on Jackie, who had been okay with it so far, though I knew it was not what she’d expected when she took the job. As a result, our stock was all over the place, orders weren’t being filled because I’d ordered the wrong items from the supplier, and some of my customers were getting a little upset at the slowness of their deliveries.

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?” Jackie had asked me the other day, after I made yet another excuse about not feeling well enough to go in.

  “Why on earth would you say that? I’m just
tired, that’s all.”

  “Seriously, you’re exhibiting all the symptoms.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re tired all the time and you’re forgetful, you’re mixing up orders, that sort of thing. Go pee on a stick. Seriously.”

  As if. But I was starting to wonder: What would I do if this book didn’t take off ? I couldn’t even consider that possibility. It was just too scary. And anyway, Beatrice was confident—she’d sent me here, after all. I wasn’t concerned about the money. I was still making enough; Jim was earning more than he ever had, and he wasn’t resentful about things like that, I’ll say that for him. He never minded how much I spent, or what I spent it on.

  When I got to the Tavern shortly before 6:00 p.m., it was packed. People were spilling onto the sidewalk. I wove my way through them and just as I reached the front door, I caught something in my line of vision that made my head turn. Allison was leaning against the wall on the other side of the street. I turned around, fully, and she walked away. Maybe I had been mistaken, and it wasn’t Allison at all.

  Once inside, I didn’t need to look for Jim. I could hear his voice booming deep down in the throng.

  “Hear hear! To the future! To prosperity!” he cried.

  “To efficiency dividends!” someone shouted, to roars of laugher. Clearly an inside joke.

  There were only about six of them around the table. I put my hand on Jim’s back and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Emma! There you are!” He took a moment to take in my new look, and I was trying not to beam because I knew I looked wonderful, and was extremely happy with myself. It felt good.

  “You look fantastic!” he said, just as Carol leaned across the table to kiss me hello.

  “That’s a great look for you, Emma. You look beautiful,” she said.

  “Thanks, Carol.” Jim put his arm around my shoulders. He’d gone back to raving away, his glass held high as he demonstrated some point or another. They were all a little drunk, but he was more so than anyone.

  “Here.” Terry handed me a glass and filled it with champagne.

  They were all so happy, and I wanted to join in the festivities, so I polished off the drink in record time. I wanted to match the mood, to be a part of their success. I was the only spouse there, I noticed. I figured I should be flattered that Jim wanted me there.

  Terry obligingly replenished my glass. “Thirsty, I see,” he said.

  “Parched.”

  Maybe I should flirt with Terry, I thought. But I didn’t think he’d like it, not in front of Jim anyway.

  It was too warm in there. As I folded my coat up on a stool, I felt more than heard my phone ring in the pocket. I reached for it and smiled my apologies at Terry, who was telling me something I couldn’t quite hear. I turned around to take the call, cupping my other ear with my hand, but it was no use, so I pushed my way back through the crowd to get outside, hoping the caller could hear me when I asked them to wait a moment.

  14

  “You did what?”

  I could smell a whiff of yesterday’s alcohol on Beatrice’s breath. If only she could have smelled it herself, she’d have stopped drinking immediately and completely. I struggled not to recoil.

  “You’re not pleased?” I didn’t know why I’d asked. She didn’t look pleased—it wasn’t like I could be mistaken about that. I shifted my gaze sideways, the wayward student before the principal. “Frankie Badosa! It’s a major coup, Beatrice,” I assured her.

  We were having an early lunch. I’d picked the place because it was one of her favorites. I have news, I’d told her. I’ll take you out—wait till you hear. I’m bursting to tell you.

  I’d wanted to tell her sooner, last night, immediately after I hung up from the call, of the admiration I’d heard in the voice of Frankie Badosa. I’d wanted to tell her what he’d said: that he wanted to meet me immediately, so we didn’t waste any time; that he’d checked whether I was speaking with anyone else, because he would up whatever sum they were offering me. I’d laughed into the phone, told him that he was the first person to contact me, and I’d heard the unmistakable relief in his voice. He’d made me promise not to take any calls until this morning, and when I’d arrived, his assistant had plied me with coffee and croissants and raisin toast and anything to keep me there while he explained everything to me. He wouldn’t normally do this, he said. He generally worked only with agents, but he’d take me on, and I thought he had tears in his eyes when he silently gave me a pen and the contract, and we signed, and he called for champagne, and all this had only just happened and I was drunk with joy.

  I had wanted it to be a surprise for Beatrice. Look what I can do: I’m a part of this now. I’m pulling my weight. I found us a publisher. I’m a team player. I did that by myself so I could show you how committed I am to your—our—project.

  “You signed, without speaking to me first?” She was staring at me as if I had two heads.

  You couldn’t get us a publisher, I wanted to say, it’s been weeks, what have you been doing? But I didn’t. Instead I told her, smugly, that he was the first to publish Solomon Sully, that we were in excellent company.

  “Fifteen years ago, Emma, Frankie Badosa published Sully’s first two books, yes. They sank. Then Sully was picked up by Random House and his career took off.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know Random House was banging on the door.” I couldn’t help myself—her attitude was grating on me.

  “Anyway, that’s irrelevant,” she went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You never go directly to a publisher. You don’t know anything, Emma. You sign with an agent first. They get you a publisher. Do you have any idea what could go wrong?”

  I could see from the corner of my eye the waiter hovering a respectful distance away. We hadn’t ordered yet and he wasn’t sure whether to approach us. I mentally shooed him away.

  “You should never have done this without discussing it with me first.” She said this slowly, as if I were a child and she was deeply disappointed in me.

  “Well, it’s done now, so . . .” I replied, my eyes again flicking to the side, still the sullen teenager being reprimanded. I crossed my arms for good measure.

  “We’ll tear up the contract. I’ll think of a way out of this,” she said.

  Oh no, you won’t, I thought. “Why? He loves the book, Beatrice! He says it’s the most excited he’s been in years! He’s going to give it everything he’s got! His whole firm is going to get behind this book. Why on earth wouldn’t I go with Frankie Badosa?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why wouldn’t we go with him? I don’t—”

  “Wait, you said ‘Why wouldn’t I . . .’ ”

  “No I didn’t. Anyway, what does it matter, I still don’t understand what the problem is.” I sat back, deflated. This conversation was very different from what I’d imagined. In my head, all night long, it was like a track on repeat, something more like: That’s fantastic, Emma, well done! Taking the initiative, and look what you’ve achieved! We have a publishing contract! Champagne all around! So to say I was a little disappointed would be an understatement.

  “Of course you don’t know what the problem is!” The couple at the next table glanced over at us. She noticed this too and smiled at them briefly. “Because you don’t know the publishing world,” she said, more softly but with the same steely anger. “Frankie Badosa’s going under, he’s broke—he hasn’t had a good author in years. Of course he’d pick this up. He has nothing to lose. We’ll be stuck with him, and the book will get a small print run and languish on the shelves for a little while until it ends up on the remainder tables.”

  “Or in your storage unit?”

  She shook her head, and then, to my horror, she stood up, grabbed her purse, and pushed her chair back in toward the table.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve made a mistake,” she said. She picked up her coat from the back of the chair.

  “What?”


  “I should never have asked you to be involved.”

  “Beatrice, please, wait, sit back down—come on.” I was pleading with her. The couple at the next table weren’t even pretending not to listen. No doubt they thought they were witnessing a lovers’ tiff. I didn’t care.

  “Please? I’m sorry, please sit down.” But I knew it was hopeless. She’d already walked away. I stood up as well, grabbed my own coat, mumbled my apologies to the dumbfounded waiter, and ran outside, but she was gone.

  I went straight to bed and slept all afternoon, a restless, fitful sleep, but I was so very tired, and so very, very sad. How could I possibly have gotten this so wrong? Would she really find a way to cancel the contract? I was trying desperately not to think about how angry she was with me. I tried to do my little trick to make myself feel better. It’s something I used to do when I was a child and my mother was crying at the kitchen table when there was no money for food, no money for bills, no money for hope. I used to pretend it was a movie, but one that I’d seen before, and it had a happy ending, so I could watch the despair of this woman and her child, knowing something they didn’t—that it would turn out fine in the end.

  I tried this trick again, over and over—It’s going to turn out fine. You’ve seen the movie already: this is just the part where the author’s very angry with the protagonist, but you don’t have to feel the despair because in the next scene everything changes for the better, and you know that already—until Jim opened the door.

  “Sweetheart?” he called out quietly, and I pretended to be asleep, but he came closer. “Darling, it’s Beatrice on the phone.” I opened my eyes and he had my phone in one hand, the other cupped over it. “I told her you’re not feeling well but she says it’s urgent. Do you want to speak to her?”

  Before I had time to think, my arm had shot out and I’d snatched the phone from him, but I waited a moment before saying anything and smiled at him.