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

by Natalie Barelli

  I joined a gym—something I’d never even contemplated in my entire existence—and I became obsessed with getting my body into shape. I would do it all, I decided, a regimen of weights, yoga, Pilates, treadmills, trainers, whatever it took. I booked a manicure and made a regular weekly appointment, and had a session with a professional makeup artist to learn what worked best for me.

  I looked so amazing, I even wondered if I should get Frankie to redo my jacket photo, but who knew whether there would be another print run.

  Jim noticed the change in me, thank the Lord, because if he hadn’t, we would have had an even bigger problem than I’d imagined. I noticed how if we happened to be out together, he’d touch me more often, be more attentive.

  The one thing he objected to, however, was the color of my hair. I’d changed it from its original unremarkable hue—what people called light brown or “mousy” and I called “the color of compost”—to its current dark, almost jet-black shade.

  “It makes you look like her,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Your friend, what’s her name.”

  As if he didn’t know.

  “Beatrice?”

  “Yes, you’re starting to look like her, same haircut, same hair color. Same, I don’t know, demeanor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s creepy, Em.”

  18

  As Frankie had predicted, the book was selling reasonably well, all things considered, and thanks to the Gusek interview, at this point the novel was enjoying a little buzz of minor success.

  I had done a handful of radio and online interviews, and a couple of reviews had been published in slightly more notable publications. One morning, as I engaged in my twice-daily routine of checking rankings and reviews on Amazon, I was pleased to find out the novel had broken through the ten-thousand ranking barrier and was sitting at a respectable 8,788 in the literary fiction category.

  Beatrice, too, had been delighted, and a little surprised at this modicum of success. We talked regularly, we compared notes, we brainstormed ideas to push it a little further, but by this point—only a couple of months after the launch of the novel—things had started to level off. Sales were still respectable, but slowing down; Frankie was struggling to generate more interest in the press; and I was beginning to wonder if maybe we had reached the peak, and this was the start of our slow descent into eventual oblivion.

  I was a little disappointed by that prospect, obviously, and while anyone would be forgiven for thinking this was because I was reluctant to give up my place in the sun, the truth was I loved this book. I could recite my favorite passages by heart; I thought of the sisters as if they were real people, I knew every bend and every loop in the intricate path of their lives over the decade that was covered in the novel, and I thought they deserved better than to be forgotten, relegated to the remainders heap.

  Beatrice was just as anxious to keep the momentum going, and why wouldn’t she be? It was her book. The sisters and their lives, as I had to remind myself regularly, were after all the product of Beatrice’s wonderful imagination, so if I was attached to them, it was hardly surprising that she was as well, and I strove to put aside the disagreeable feeling that she was encroaching on my emotional territory.

  But what puzzled me was the fact that in all our discussions when we’d first begun this duplicity, she had insisted that she didn’t expect the novel to do very well, that it was more of an experiment to see whether she could write something other than crime fiction, and that she was happy to release it into my arms and let it have its own life.

  “It will be all yours, Emma. Do with it what you feel is right, but don’t get your hopes up. If we sell a few hundred copies I’ll be over the moon, and you should as well.”

  But then she started to fret all the time, calling me almost daily: Had I talked to Frankie? What was he doing about it? Why wasn’t I doing more book signings? Did I engage with readers on Amazon? I pointed out to her during one of these increasingly annoying phone calls that she was the one with all the contacts, so why didn’t she send a review copy to so-and-so? After all, it was no secret that we were friends, and it would not be unusual for someone like her to help out someone like me if she believed the novel was good enough.

  “No no no, I can’t do that. People might get suspicious if I’m associated with it in that way.”

  I found it hard to believe anyone could reach that conclusion just because she made a phone call or two on my behalf, as a favor to a friend.

  “Anyway,” she countered, “the whole point is to see whether the novel can stand on its own two feet, without my name attached to it, so let’s not go there.”

  “So there it is then. This is the best that it can do on its own two feet. I guess you’ve got the results of your experiment now. I’m not sure what else you want me to do,” I replied. She was getting on my nerves.

  It was a bit malicious on my part to say that—I too believed that Long Grass Running had more life in it and I wasn’t ready to declare defeat—but it made me feel a little satisfied when she’d get agitated in reply, oblivious to my goading, rising to the bait and defending the novel, carrying on about the years that she had toiled at it, etc., etc., etc., until finally I’d release her from her state of panic and say, “All right, I’ll give it another push,” or, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll talk to Frankie, I’m sure he has something else up his sleeve,” and I’d promise to report back the next day, with no intention of doing so.

  Needless to say, I didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do to push the novel further into the world. I didn’t have any experience in self-promotion, mailing lists, social media. I’d left all that to Frankie, who I knew was doing his very best and had more to lose than anyone if the novel didn’t succeed, really succeed. He didn’t have the time or the resources to try again with another book. His creditors, his bank manager, and probably his partner wouldn’t allow it. Long Grass Running was going to be either his salvation or his swan song.

  And then something extraordinary happened.

  Terry was giving a small dinner for a respected economist who was in town for a conference, and of course Jim was invited, as was Carol—and me too, as Jim’s wife, obviously.

  “I’m not sure why I’m invited,” I said to Jim as we were getting ready that evening. “I’ll be the only non-economist at the table—I’ll be bored to tears. Why don’t you go without me?”

  “He brought his wife with him,” Jim said, arranging his tie in front of the mirror.

  “Who, the famous professor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  So I went along, and she was nice—Véronique was her name—and we quickly broke away from the dinner-table conversation about debts and deficits and micro-this and macro-that into our own little party.

  Véronique had relocated from France fifteen years earlier to take up a position as a theater director in a now-defunct ensemble, which was around the time she and Marc, her husband, first met, and we spent the first hour talking about French furniture, the French countryside, and French food of course. She seemed pleased by my knowledge of—and passion for—the country of her birth.

  “Do you miss it?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “At this time of year, yes, I do. Summer in France—you know how it is. We go on vacation: by the sea, to the country . . . Here, it’s business as usual. Americans, you work too hard.”

  We laughed.

  “Speaking of which, what is it you do here? For work, I mean?”

  “I’m a journalist now.”

  Marc, who was sitting next to his wife and must have had one ear to our conversation, put an arm around her shoulders and said proudly, “Véro writes for the Book Review,” squeezing her shoulders in a sweet, proud way.

  “What’s that?” Terry asked. “The Book Review, I mean.” But I already knew, of course, that Marc was talking about the New York Times Book Review, the dedicated
literary supplement the paper published on Sundays, and I had stopped breathing.

  “God, your life sounds so interesting,” Carol said when Véronique had explained what she did and who for, and the conversation turned to, “Have you met such-and-such?” and, “What did you think of so-and-so’s novel?” With a mock sigh, Carol turned to Jim. “Do you ever wonder, Jim, why we chose this dry, dull career path? Do you feel like maybe we’re stuck in a lab like a bunch of rats, while everyone else is having a great time over in the arts? Because I do,” she concluded wistfully.

  “I don’t,” Jim replied. “What we do at the Millennium Forum is at least as important to humanity as the arts, don’t worry about that.” He said this a little pompously, I thought, and I caught Carol winking at him, as if to say, I know, I’m just humoring them, although maybe I was reading too much into it.

  I sat there, waiting for one of them, Jim preferably, to say something like, What a coincidence! Emma here, who happens to be sitting opposite you, has just published a novel.

  “Have you read Emma’s novel?” Terry asked suddenly, and I wanted to kiss him, Lord love him.

  “No?” she replied, looking at me quizzically. It was more of a question than an answer, which she then expanded upon. “You didn’t mention it, Emma. Are you a writer?”

  “It didn’t really come up.” I shrugged, smiling. “But yes, I’ve just published my first novel.” I said this almost trembling from excitement at the discussion we were about to have, and an equal amount of anxiety that if I pushed too hard I might frighten her away.

  Terry got up from the table and returned with the book. “Here,” he said, giving it to her, “take a look. It’s very good—better than that, it’s terrific.” He said this while looking at me, and I smiled gratefully, though I was a little embarrassed.

  Véronique took the book from him and said, “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of this novel yet. I’d love to find out more though.”

  “I’m surprised you have a copy, Terry,” I said. “You should have told me—I’d have gladly given you one.”

  “Why don’t you, so Véronique can keep this one? I think you’ll find it fascinating,” he said to her. And it struck me that he knew how important this was to me, to give Véronique an opportunity to get to know the novel and perhaps review it for the New York Times, and I loved him with all my heart at that moment.

  “Thank you,” Véronique said, “I would love to read it. When was this published, Emma?”

  So I told her, and she wanted to know a bit more about it, but I explained that I’d prefer it if she read it fresh, without knowing anything about the story.

  In days to come I would not be able to recall anything else about that evening beyond that point, no matter how much I tried. We all stayed for a long while more, but in my memory it was a complete blank, because even though I engaged in conversation—attentive, responsive, witty, inquisitive—my mind was stuck on the fact that Véronique was taking my book away with her, and that if she read it and she liked it, she’d maybe review it, and if she did—well, I couldn’t bear to even think about that.

  We all exchanged business cards that night, but I didn’t call her to find out what she thought. That would have been too eager, and I figured that if she didn’t like it she wouldn’t tell me anyway. But after one week I began to think that she’d forgotten about me completely—that she had left the book on a pile with others—and my nervous excitement started to wane.

  It took only another week before I heard from her again, but to me it seemed like an eternity. I was working at the store when she called, and when she did, she introduced herself—“Emma, it’s Véronique Hillyard, we met at dinner”—as if I had to be reminded of the circumstances. My heart leaped in my chest.

  “Véronique, it’s nice to hear from you. How are you?” I made a hand gesture to Jackie that signified I had to go into the office at the back, and she nodded at me and took over at the counter.

  We exchanged the obligatory pleasantries and she came right to the point.

  “I love it, Emma, I really do. Terry wasn’t lying: it’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

  A wave of joy engulfed me then. I opened my mouth to say something, I don’t know what, but nothing came out.

  “I just got off the phone with Frankie Badosa,” she continued. “I thought he should know, since it wasn’t reviewed by us yet, that I took the liberty of doing so, and I think you’ll be pleased. The review will be in this week’s issue.”

  19

  When Sunday came, I woke up feeling very ill. I was terrified. I was about to be exposed, judged, and hanged, because for one thing, no one would believe that an unknown thirty-two-year-old shopkeeper could possibly churn out a book this good. My schoolteachers would come out of the woodwork announcing that I’d never written anything remotely memorable in all my school years and questioning how this could possibly be my work. I should never have agreed to this charade.

  And then there was the possibility that Véronique didn’t really like it. Could that happen? Or was she stringing me along to be polite, only for me to find out there was no review this week, only excuses?

  Of course not. I was being paranoid again. I stared at the ceiling at three o’clock in the morning. I felt as if I were in a nightmare, except I was awake. Why is it always 3:00 a.m., I wondered, when the dark, silent world of naked truth slides in beside us in bed, keeping us from the relief of sleep? I’d read that line somewhere, a long time ago. How appropriate to think of it now. What on earth had I been thinking? I’d never pull this off, and even if I managed to muddle through, I’d be found out. No one in their right mind was going to believe that I, little old me, just woke up one day and spewed this masterpiece out of nowhere.

  My phone buzzed and lit up on the night table. I picked it up. I knew before I read it that it was a text from Beatrice.

  You’re awake? it said.

  What do you think? I replied.

  Go to sleep, she texted back.

  I laughed silently. Right back at you :)

  Tomorrow is the beginning of the rest of our lives.

  That’s what I’m afraid of, I replied.

  She sent back a smiley face, and I lay staring at the ceiling.

  “You’ll be famous after this,” she’d said when I told her. She had more confidence than me about the contents, although Véronique had said she liked it, so what was I so worried about?

  There were three more hours until I could read a copy of the review online, and my thoughts were swinging wildly between despair and disbelief, excitement and pride.

  Jim was snoring softly next to me, lying on his side with his arm flung across my chest, the contact of his skin soothing me, and I rubbed his forearm gently. He made a soft noise of pleasure in his sleep, and I wondered if I’d entered his dream.

  He had no idea what this day meant to me, but he had tried hard and been surprisingly supportive and attentive. That made me so very happy, so the thought of my subterfuge being discovered sent me into a deep, dark despair about what that would do to my relationship, in the highly unlikely event that it should survive.

  At a little after 5:00 a.m., I knew I wouldn’t get any more sleep. I gently moved Jim’s arm and got up quietly, grabbing my phone from the night table and my bathrobe from its hook behind the door, trying to remember where I’d left my slippers, and finding them in the bathroom. I padded my way down the stairs, softly, silently, into the kitchen, where I turned on the coffeemaker.

  It was rare for me to be up this early, but I liked it, this quiet hour before dawn. There was room for thought, and I suspected that the creative tap would flow well at this time. I decided to give it a go, to try to write my novel in the early hours, and see how it worked.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee, my taste buds rejoicing. Everything was amplified: all my senses were heightened, and my body was vibrating. I’d barely slept, but I felt no tiredness. I hoped that was a good thing as I sat at the kitchen table
, where my laptop lay shut.

  I looked up at the ceiling and I prayed with all my might. I promised to be a better person, a better friend, a better partner. I promised to donate money to charities. I’d help Mrs. Williams next door with her grocery shopping once a week, something I kept meaning to do but only achieved very rarely. I promised all sorts of things—I’d invite friends and Jim’s colleagues for dinner more often. I’d rescue a dog from the pound.

  Finally, at the appointed time, I opened the browser and looked, one hand over one eye.

  How best to describe this remarkable novel by Emma Fern?

  Words jumped off the page and hit me in the face, muddled together: enthralling, powerful, self-assured, a new talent. The breath that had been locked inside my chest escaped in a long, whistling, deflating motion. A tour de force. A new voice in the literary landscape that will change the way people write novels from now on.

  I burst into tears.

  My phone buzzed and I knew it was a text from Beatrice even before I picked it up.

  Emma darling! We did it! She LOVES my book!

  What? “My book”? What did she mean “my book”? Of course, yes, technically it was hers, once, but not anymore—which was the point, wasn’t it?

  Was it just a slip on her part? Yes, of course, it must have been. She probably meant “the book.” Or “our book,” even.

  But I did feel a small shiver of anxiety. It made me realize how vulnerable I was in all this, and I made a promise to myself that I would bring this up with Beatrice at an appropriate time. If this was going to work, we needed to treat this novel as mine at all times. Otherwise, how could I pull this off ?

  20

  I came to think of the novel’s trajectory in terms of Before the Review and After the Review. After Véronique published her glowing critique, everything changed, almost overnight. The sales went through the roof, the reviews came fast, and I was run ragged doing publicity, book signings, festival circuits—especially since we said yes to everything, Frankie and I, and everyone wanted a piece of me. It was exhausting, and exhilarating.