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

by Natalie Barelli

  I was under no illusions: had I not met Véronique, or had she not liked the novel, of course, it would have plodded on for a little while, and after a few short weeks dwindled to oblivion. Instead, we were already on the first reprint, in much larger numbers than the original print run, and still could barely keep up with the demand.

  It made me wonder about the many books that must have been out there that didn’t get the benefit of a glowing review in the New York Times, simply because their authors didn’t happen to sit opposite one of the most respected literary journalists in the country at a dinner party. Could literary success really be so . . . random?

  I didn’t let that train of thought bother me. Since I was on the right side of said randomness, what did I care?

  All this activity had the added and not unwelcome benefit of paying me substantial royalties. Frankie had only been able to afford a small advance, and at the time I hadn’t cared, but by this point, we were starting to make some significant profits, he and I.

  Beatrice and I spoke regularly, but we hadn’t seen each other much over the last two months, partly because I was crisscrossing the country doing my bit, partly because she had her own busy schedule to contend with. I missed her, and decided on the spur of the moment to invite her to lunch, at L’Ambroisie, of course. I also wanted to talk to her about my own book. I needed her advice on how to make headway with it. Some nights, I would wake up with a start, as if from a bad dream, in a state of panic that I hadn’t written a single word yet.

  I’d been there myself recently, at L’Ambroisie, without Beatrice. In fact, I’d been there a few times. It had become my restaurant of choice for any sort of casual business lunch, such as the meeting Frankie and I had with a film producer who wanted to acquire the movie rights to Long Grass Running.

  As a result, I was no longer Madame Johnson Greene’s guest; instead, Alain the maître d’, the sommelier Monsieur Raymond, and the floor staff all knew me and greeted me by name: “Madame Fern. How wonderful to see you again. Come this way, please, your party is waiting.”

  Beatrice was sitting at our table, breaking off small morsels from a crusty roll. Looking bored.

  “Darling!” I exclaimed, arms wide, imitating the way she normally greeted me.

  “You’re late,” she said dully.

  This must have been the first and only time since we’d met that Beatrice had had to wait for me, a fact that clearly had not occurred to her.

  “No, you’re early,” I replied, sitting down opposite her. I meant it as a joke but she didn’t laugh.

  A middle-aged couple at the table near us smiled in our direction and gave a little nod in greeting. I looked at Beatrice, waiting for her to nod back, and then realized it was me they were looking at. I couldn’t stop my heart from doing a little leap of pride, and I stole a glance at Beatrice to see if she’d noticed, but it was hard to tell.

  “So! You’re unusually quiet today. Everything all right?” I asked. She was looking down at the menu, seemingly choosing something to eat, but really avoiding looking at me, for some reason I didn’t understand.

  I tried again.

  “I’ve had some thoughts about my novel I want to ask you about. I think I should get a little recording device—do you use one of those? They even make pens like that, I think. See, the thing is, whenever I have a brilliant idea, I’m invariably in the shower”—I chuckled—“but also I could use it to record our writing sessions. I’m sure my brain always bubbles over with ideas when I talk to you.” I was rambling, but she was still studying the menu as if it were the most fascinating piece of literature she’d ever read in her life.

  “You need to bring me some pages—some real ones, Emma. I need to see something,” she said finally, still not looking up.

  “Yes, I know. It’s been hard to concentrate but I’ve got it now. I’ve started and it’s going well,” I lied.

  So we decided that I’d bring over some pages, that there was no need for us to do anything else until I did. I reluctantly agreed to this, knowing that I had been promising to do so for weeks. Neither of us mentioned that.

  “Let’s talk about something else then. No more work—that’s all we talk about,” she said, finally letting go of the menu and sitting up in her chair. “How’s the store going?”

  The store. I couldn’t even remember the last time I went there. “It’s ticking along nicely. Jackie has it all under control, you know? I’m not really needed there anymore. Lord knows, I’m so busy, I hardly have time to sleep. And anyway, selling my wares, I don’t know, I feel like I’ve moved on.”

  Because why were we talking about the store anyway? Surely my life was more exciting than that these days? I changed the subject.

  “Did you see my piece in the Globe?”

  “Your profile? Yes, of course.”

  “What did you think?”

  Before she could reply, the waiter came to get our orders.

  “No champagne today?” I asked. This was different and disappointing. I wanted us to joke and laugh and celebrate and carry on, like we normally did.

  “No, I have work to do after this. I need a clear head.”

  “Oh.”

  Which was also different, but maybe she was busy and had things on her mind. It deflated me somewhat. We hadn’t seen each other for weeks. Couldn’t she have said today wasn’t ideal? That she’d rather we got together on another day? When she was more available?

  I found myself irritated with her again. I was working so hard for her—surely I deserved a little more than being slotted into her schedule.

  “So you didn’t like it?” I asked, trying to match her bored tone.

  “Like what?”

  “The Globe!”

  “Oh, I liked it.” She hesitated a little. “It’s just that—I don’t know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t think you should be so—now, how shall I put it—forthcoming?”

  That made me recoil slightly. I took a short audible breath. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “You make it sound as if you’ve earned it, this success. You wax lyrical about how hard you’ve worked for it.” She was shaking her head in disbelief as she said this.

  “What else am I supposed to do? This is my role, isn’t it? I can’t exactly say I popped it out of a cereal box, can I?”

  “No, but I think you should tone it down a notch. The ‘tortured writer’ life, the years of toiling at your craft. It’s a little, I don’t know—jarring.”

  “Jarring?” I said that very loudly, felt my face go crimson. I put my napkin down on the table and glared at her, waiting for her to enlighten me some more.

  Jarring?

  “Oh, darling, don’t be upset. I’m guiding you, you know that. Readers don’t want to hear the author ramble on about how special they are. It’s a turnoff. They’ll leave you in droves if you keep this up.”

  “In the first place, I don’t ramble on about how special I am, but I need to project a persona—we discussed this. I need to give some history, some context to my novel, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “ ‘My novel’?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “You know what I mean.” I looked away. “Anyway, we’ve discussed this a million times. It’s my job. I bring life to the novel so that people will buy it. I construct an aura around it. I know what I’m doing, I promise. I know what this novel needs.”

  “You think you know this book better than I do?”

  This was an interesting question. I leaned back and thought about it before replying.

  “I know it sounds strange, Beatrice”—I leaned forward then—“but it’s as if I’ve transcended it, do you understand that? It’s as if I was meant to write it, and now it’s as if I have, so yes, I do know this book better than you do.”

  She looked at me as if I had two heads. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  I shrugged.

  “Don’t let this go to your
head, Emma, and I’m saying this for your own good, because you’re starting to sound a little crazy, my dear.”

  “You know what I think, Beatrice?”

  “No, but I suspect you’re going to tell me.”

  “I think you’re a little jealous.”

  She snapped her head up, her lips pursed together tightly. It deepened the wrinkles around her mouth—not a good look for her.

  “I think you’re forgetting who you’re talking to, Emma.” Her voice was dripping with that snobbish haughtiness I’d heard her use on other people, but never with me, until this moment. I was about to say something cutting in reply, but then I caught myself. What was wrong with me? What on earth was I thinking? I couldn’t get on the wrong side of Beatrice, for God’s sake.

  I made a show of staring at her with narrowed eyes, as if I was about to shoot burning embers from them, and then I broke and hooted with laughter, banging both my hands on the table. “Oh, Beatrice, I was only joking! You should see your face!” The couple at the table beside us looked up and smiled. “Beatrice, come on! I was putting you on!”

  She blinked a couple of times and lifted a hand to rub the base of her neck, and her features started to relax a little. She was going to give me the benefit of the doubt. I knew her. After all, she’d done the same to me, many times. Making me cringe with embarrassment, telling me I’d made the ultimate blunder, only to laugh in my face.

  “Very funny,” she said, her mouth now in a little pout. I’d offended her, of course, and she couldn’t have been enjoying the attention lavished onto me, her “protégée,” even if we both knew it was a charade. But to the people there, in that restaurant, I was the more interesting of the two of us. I was the one they had noticed. And Beatrice was going to have to get used to it.

  I sighed.

  “Look, you’re right. Of course you are. I don’t really know how to do this and I do need your guidance. You know how it is. It’s a circus, a whirlwind—it’s insane.” I shook my head. “Thank the Lord you’re here to set me straight. Thank you, really. I’ll take your advice to heart.”

  She raised an eyebrow, as if trying to decide whether I was mocking her or not, but her mood shifted and she smiled a little.

  “How’s your lovely George anyway?” I asked, desperate to change the subject. “You should bring him along to one of our lunches sometime. It would be nice to see him.”

  She shrugged. “George always eats at his desk. He’s not really a lunch person.”

  “Really? What—like you pack yesterday’s leftovers for him in a little lunchbox?”

  “Smoked salmon and cream cheese on a bagel from the deli around the corner, and coffee from Starbucks. Always the same. When he’s at his office downtown, anyway. He thinks going out for lunch is a waste of his time. He prefers to be working.”

  My phone rang. I fumbled through my handbag. “I’m sorry. I should have turned it off.”

  “That’s all right.” She flapped a hand in the air. “Take it, really. It’s fine.”

  I looked at the screen. “It’s Frankie—I’ll just be a second,” I said.

  I took the call. I was about to ask him to call me later, explain I couldn’t talk right now, but the urgency in his voice stopped me, so I listened to him, and it suddenly felt too warm in there.

  When he had finished, I thanked him, told him I’d call him later, and hung up.

  “Everything all right?”

  I was staring at her, but it was difficult to focus.

  “I’ve been shortlisted for the Poulton Prize.”

  Beatrice was as excited as I was at the news, and as shocked.

  “This is wonderful. It couldn’t be better. What good news, Emma! What absolutely wonderful news.”

  I was relieved she was so positive about it, and why wouldn’t she be?

  “I have to go, but come over later, will you?” She stood up and was signaling for the check.

  “Really? You don’t want to have your lunch?”

  “Sorry, my dear, but I couldn’t eat anything right now. This is such wonderful news. I need to dash, but will you come over this evening? We’ll go to Craig’s. It’ll be fun, just like old times.”

  “Sure!” I said, a bit puzzled, but yes, it would be fun, it would be loads of fun, especially when I told them—her friends, our friends. Was I allowed to tell? I wondered. I hadn’t checked with Frankie. Yes, probably, surely.

  Oh, I wished Beatrice hadn’t dashed off like that, I wished she’d stayed with me. We should have been celebrating! Pink champagne!

  That evening I took a taxi to Beatrice’s apartment, and my mood was restored as soon as I saw her. She was beaming with joy and flushed with excitement in greeting me.

  “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and find that none of this ever happened,” I said in her embrace.

  She pinched me hard on the arm.

  “Hey, that hurt!”

  “You’re awake then,” she laughed. “Have a cocktail with me before we go.” We walked over to the bar. She was a little unsteady on her feet: this clearly wasn’t her first cocktail of the evening.

  “I haven’t eaten anything yet. I’m not sure I should be drinking.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, don’t worry about that—there’ll be food at Craig’s party.”

  I didn’t take much convincing and accepted the glass she offered.

  “Can you believe this? In your wildest dreams?” she said, her eyes wide, sparkling.

  “Maybe in my wildest dreams, yes, probably.”

  She laughed. “We need to do more plotting and scheming, you and me, to keep the momentum up.”

  “And you need to do some real mentoring. I’m starting to get terrified that I won’t have anything to follow this up with.”

  “Don’t worry, we will. We’ll start soon, all right? We’ll do some real plotting and scheming. Let’s talk about that tomorrow.” This was great news. First thing tomorrow, I decided, I’d start on the new outline. We downed our drinks quickly and left.

  “The protégée! There she is, everyone!” I laughed into the noise, the heat, as Craig kissed me warmly on both cheeks, then took my hand and bowed to kiss it. “Congratulations, Emma,” he said, very genuinely.

  “Thank you, Craig, very much. I assume you mean The New York Times review?”

  “Oh, everyone knows about your review, darling. But the prize! The prize! You’re the toast of the town!” He handed me a glass of champagne. People were coming over to say hello to me, some of whom had never done so before. In fact, it wasn’t that long ago that I’d felt I was perpetually reintroducing myself to most of them.

  A woman I vaguely recognized, but had never spoken to, made her way through the crowd to join us. She put a hand out to me and I shook it. “Emma, we’ve never been introduced.” She turned to Beatrice as she said this. “Hello, Bea,” she said, kissing Beatrice on the cheek, still holding my hand.

  “Hello, Natasha. This is Emma Fern,” Beatrice said.

  “I know who you are, although until today I didn’t know your name. Everyone seems to call you ‘Bea’s little protégée,’ but I don’t think that’s going to happen anymore.”

  Beatrice’s body stiffened a little.

  “I wanted to congratulate you, Emma. I confess I had no idea we had such a talent in our midst.” She was speaking to me, but looking at Beatrice when she said it. “You’ve been keeping her very close, Bea.”

  Craig put an arm around my shoulders. “I must say, success suits you!” He looked down at my outfit, then up at my hair. “The dowdy peasant housewife look was never for you. I’m pleased to see you gave it up.”

  I laughed. Had it been that long since I’d seen him?

  Craig turned to Beatrice. “So, Bea, it looks like your little protégée has outclassed you. Congratulations to you too—you must be an excellent tutor.”

  “Are you working on anything new, Bea? A sweet little cozy mystery, perhaps?” Natasha asked.

  Beatri
ce tried to smile at her and failed, so it came out more like a grimace. “I’m writing the perfect murder, in fact, Natasha.”

  “Then I won’t stay on your radar any longer, lest I get hit by a stray bullet.” Natasha gave my hand a squeeze and walked away.

  It all sounded like genial banter on the surface, but I knew Beatrice, and I could tell she was tense. Something was off. It occurred to me that she had brought me here to show me off, her little protégée who had done so well under her tutelage. She had expected to bask in my glory as much as I did, and it wasn’t turning out that way.

  She got very drunk that evening, even more than usual, so much so that when I put her in a taxi, I wondered if she’d remember that we had plans the next day to work on my own novel.

  The next morning I found myself being whipsawed by my emotions. In one moment I was elated, floating on a cloud, thinking that no one could possibly be happier than me, ever. In the next moment, I became paralyzed with fear, consumed with paranoia, vibrating with anxiety.

  The most important thing I needed to do was write my own novel, and Beatrice absolutely had to help me do that: it was imperative. Did I really believe that I could follow this success with something comparable? Did it matter? After all, there must be plenty of people who only ever write one book. There was nothing wrong with that, surely.

  But the fact was, I’d become affected with that most modern of diseases, an addiction to myself. I knew that in a year or two the interest in me would wane; and that even if I made enough money from this to invest and live off later—it was out of the question that I’d go back to work in the store. I’d already decided to sell it—I’d still need my fix of fame and unbridled admiration: the way people wanted to know what I thought on any given topic, the way they looked up to me. I was almost famous, and for all the right reasons. And to cap it off, Jim loved it, loved me, even more. He was so proud of me. We had become such a good match. I loved how proud he looked when we went out to various functions and conferences; he insisted all the time now that I join him, whenever my schedule allowed it.