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

by Natalie Barelli

  There had been no mention of Allison, no phone calls, no sudden dashing off to conferences somewhere or other, and no young women on the doorstep. Whatever had been going on between those two, I was pretty sure it was over.

  George greeted me when I arrived at Beatrice’s house for our writing session. “Darling George, how are you?” I kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Oh, you know, ticking along, but what about you, more to the point? Are you enjoying fame?”

  I laughed heartily. Who, me? “It has its moments,” I replied.

  He nodded thoughtfully, as if he knew exactly what I meant. “Beatrice is upstairs in her office.”

  “Lovely, I’ll go up then. You’re well?”

  “Just fine, thank you. I’ll leave you to it then.”

  This was a little unusual for George. I was used to his being attentive to me; he even called me his little friend. “My little friend Emma, who is Beatrice’s big friend.” It was a funny thing to say, but I liked it.

  Maybe he had things on his mind. After all, his work was very demanding. Beatrice said that often enough.

  “Darling George barely knows I exist today. I might as well be a chair. But what can I do? He has things on his mind, and when he does, I’m a chair. I just hope I’m a Louis Quatorze–style chair. I always wanted one of those,” she’d say.

  I went upstairs to meet her in her office. She was typing at her desk, clearly concentrating, so I trod softly and sat in my usual spot on the large couch.

  “Oh, here you are, darling. How are you?”

  “Mighty fine. You’re busy?”

  “No rest for the wicked.” She turned to me then, put her hands on her knees. “So, what have you brought me?”

  She wasn’t unfriendly exactly, but there was something in her tone that made me think she was annoyed with me. Was it about the prize? The party?

  I bent down to my bag to pull out the folder with my pages; I’d brought my laptop also. I stood up and put the folder on the desk.

  “Let me see that.” She took it and flicked quickly through its contents. “This is the outline?”

  “Lord, no, it’s the outline of the first couple of chapters. The life of the successful writer is a little more demanding than I’d expected.” I laughed, hoping for some lighthearted banter between us—Don’t I know it! Tell me about it! Something like that. We were equals now, right?

  “So why did you come?” she asked instead.

  “What do you mean? You know why I came.”

  “We keep making plans, Emma. You want me to help you and I am. Now, so far, all I can see is basically nothing. What have you been doing? Other than photo shoots?”

  “Hey, Beatrice, are you joking? Do you have any idea what’s been happening here? I don’t have the time to catch my breath! If I have to wait a little before doing some more work on the novel, then so be it. I don’t really have a choice here, do I?”

  She snorted. “Some more work? Emma, please! This”—she threw the contents of the folder on the floor—“is not work!”

  The back of my eyes hurt from the prickles of tears. “Don’t say that.”

  “The only person who’s done any work so far is me.”

  “Are you kidding me? You don’t think what I’ve been doing is work? I am literally being run ragged. Everyone wants a piece of me—there’s hardly anything left for me to give!” I was crying now. Tears of frustration and exhaustion were finally escaping, and I couldn’t stop them.

  “Well, you can relax, Emma. It’ll be over soon.”

  “You think so? Doesn’t seem very likely, Beatrice. The buzz around the Poulton Prize has already started, and it’s only the shortlist. Can you imagine if I win?”

  She studied me, her head very still, then she drew herself up.

  “This changes everything, the Poulton. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  Boom!

  “What are you saying, Beatrice?”

  “We have to come clean, Emma. I have to come clean.”

  “You’re not suggesting—”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, I’m telling you that now that the novel is nominated for the Poulton Prize, we must explain to the world that I wrote it, not you. It would be a deception otherwise. Probably fraud even.”

  The room began to sway. I felt faint. “That’s not possible now, Beatrice. You know that,” I managed to say, but my voice was trembling.

  “It’s already in motion, Emma. I’ve spoken to Hannah—”

  “What? Your agent, Hannah?”

  “I’ve spoken to Hannah and told her that you and I have a big announcement to make. She’s going to schedule an appearance on Books and Letters. She’ll talk to Frankie first of course.”

  Frankie. Hearing his name made my heart flutter. What will Frankie think?

  “When did you do that?”

  “This morning. Before you got here.”

  “You told her?”

  “Only what I just told you. She doesn’t know what the announcement is about. I think it will be more effective if we do that on the show, don’t you?”

  “And you didn’t think you should discuss this with me first?”

  “No, not really, and anyway, I’m discussing it now, aren’t I?”

  I was shaking; from anger, from fear, from watching my world collapse, from hanging on desperately to the tendrils of hope that maybe I could make her see we had come too far for that. “I can’t believe you’ve talked to Hannah.”

  “I told you, I haven’t told her why, just that we want to make an appearance on Books and Letters. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’m only asking out of courtesy.”

  “Courtesy?”

  “You can keep all the proceeds so far. Don’t worry about my half.”

  I sat back down silently, watching her. Why was she being like this? My darling Beatrice, my friend, my very dear friend. What was going on?

  She was busying herself with papers on her desk, not looking at me. The skin I was gnawing at on the side of my thumb had started to bleed.

  “Is that it? We don’t have anything to discuss?” I asked, although I wasn’t expecting the situation to improve much.

  “No.”

  “You know this can’t happen, right?” I tried again, clinging to whatever sliver of hope I’d gotten hold of. “It’s too late now, Beatrice. You can’t back out of the deal now.”

  “Oh, shut up, Emma. I think you should leave.”

  This was truly awful. I was crushed. Why was she so angry with me? She was the one who was doing wrong by me, and yet she was making me feel like I’d screwed up.

  “And take your trash with you.” She gestured to the papers on the floor. I got up from the couch and bent down to pick them up.

  “Can I still go with you to the interview?” I asked in a small voice.

  “Just go, Emma.”

  I went home. I was devastated. I was due at a book reading later that afternoon, which, obviously, I needed to cancel. I’d tell Frankie I was too ill. He’d be sympathetic. Dear Frankie, he always accompanied me to these events even though I didn’t need his moral support anymore. I was no longer terrified of public speaking, but he still came, to be there for me, and I’d never bailed on him before.

  I went upstairs and lay on my bed, trying to silence the panic that gripped me. What will they think of me now? I imagined Jim’s reaction to the news that it was never me, the talented Emma, whose soul was so rich in humanity that she had penned this masterpiece, and with no great effort either. I could picture his shock, but also I feared the small, smug smile on his lips, the unmistakable look in his eyes that would say I knew it.

  I thought of how hurt Frankie would be on discovering that I was a liar and had lied to him all along. Our friendship was not going to survive this. I had no illusions about that. Would Beatrice even keep him on as the publisher? Or would she transfer it to her own? Poor Frankie—just when he was about to hit the jackpot, the rug would be pulled ou
t from under him.

  Oh, how I wished I had never met Véronique. None of this would have happened. The novel would have enjoyed a respectable life, but no more, and Beatrice and I would have laughed in years to come about the deception we’d performed, and how lucky we were that we’d gotten away with it.

  The betrayal I felt was making it impossible for me to breathe properly. After everything I’d done, all of which had led us to exactly where we were today. None of this would have happened without me, and now I was to be discarded, scorned, and humiliated. Surely I was the one who should be angry, for God’s sake, but instead she was angry with me? That old trick.

  I sat up—I needed to go back and see Beatrice, right away. Make her see the cruelty of her suggestion; beg like I had never begged anyone before. Call upon her kindness, her generosity, impress upon her that the Poulton shortlist was because of me. Because of me. Make her see that she was about to ruin my life.

  Just write another one, I would tell her. You can—you truly are a great writer, and you did find out how successful you can be at this. You can just write another, and the Poulton will be yours, next time.

  I would go to the book reading after all, I decided. I needed to keep everything going as normally as possible and make Beatrice see sense.

  “So! What are you two up to?” Frankie wore a little grin when he greeted me at the bookstore.

  “Who?” I pretended to be casual.

  “You and Beatrice? Hannah called me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That we’re talking with Books and Letters for some sort of joint appearance by you and Beatrice?” He said this as a question, as if I were supposed to know what he was talking about.

  I’d been hoping Hannah hadn’t spoken to him yet, but no such luck. Oh Lord, I was dreading this conversation. I wasn’t ready for it.

  “I didn’t realize Beatrice had a book coming out,” he continued.

  “Neither did I—well, I don’t think she does.” He gave me a puzzled look. “She’s working on one, I know that, but it’s still at the draft stage.”

  “I see, so just a straight interview then?”

  “Hannah didn’t say?”

  “No, she asked me if I knew. So I’m asking you.”

  This was getting ridiculous. “I don’t know either, Frankie, just that Beatrice wants us both to go on Books and Letters. That’s all.”

  “Oh, come on, Emma, don’t make me wiggle it out of you. What’s the angle?”

  “You know—mentor and mentored, I think.” I sighed a little. “I think Beatrice wants to talk about the process of teaching me how to write, how she took me from a complete unknown to Poulton Prize shortlist.”

  He raised both hands up, palms toward me, as if to ward me off. “Whoa, Emma, please! I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  Thank the Lord. “Well, you know”—I pretended to think about this—“she has a point. She did encourage me enormously. She gave me the confidence I needed.” I figured a little generosity of spirit wouldn’t hurt.

  “It’s your novel, Emma. That’s all that matters.”

  “I know. To be honest I’m not crazy about the idea either, but Beatrice is, well, she’s adamant we should do this.” I looked at him. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Leaving aside the fact that I, not Hannah or Beatrice, handle your publicity”—Good point, I thought—“it’s going to come across as a little desperate on her part,” he said finally.

  “I’ve had those thoughts exactly,” I replied, watching the room filling up fast. A staff member motioned for me to take my place on the stage. “To be honest, Frankie, and I hate to say this, I really do, but I think Beatrice is a little—I don’t know—put out, I guess. She’d like some of this success for herself somehow, or to be associated with it.”

  Now he looked really confused.

  “I don’t know Beatrice very well, certainly not like you do, but that doesn’t sound like her.”

  I was overplaying it. Go back, careful, tread carefully.

  I shrugged. “Maybe I’m imagining it.” I began to walk away from him toward the armchair that had been set up for me. “But she’s been saying things lately,” I continued, reluctantly, “like that without her help, her guidance, none of this would have happened to me, something along those lines.”

  Someone was introducing me onstage.

  He shook his head. “You’d better go. I’ll talk to Hannah.”

  I turned and put a hand on his arm. “Don’t tell Hannah what I just said, please. I may be completely off the mark.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll ask her to wait before scheduling anything. Anyway, there’s no great rush—Beatrice is away until the end of next week.”

  “What?”

  “Los Angeles. The Crime and Thriller Writers of America conference.”

  That’s right, I’d forgotten about that. I wouldn’t be able to see Beatrice again until she got back. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe she’d take time to think about what she’d said; about the consequences.

  And then something twinkled in me. The merest germ of a thought, barely an idea yet, flickered on the very edge of my mind.

  I reached the stage and the applause lasted a long time. It’s difficult to explain the effect of adoration of complete strangers to people who have never experienced it, but it’s the closest thing to feeling like you’re blessed.

  Finally, the host of the event managed to calm everyone down and I began my sixth book reading in as many days.

  21

  It was cold on the day I went crazy. I remember because it meant I could wear my hooded parka, and no one would see that as unusual or suspicious. I did all the things one reads about in novels. I called Beatrice’s apartment that morning, and I let it ring until it cut out, which took twenty-one rings. When I arrived at her apartment building, I called again from my cell phone. Still no answer.

  I went in through the basement parking garage, and from there I buzzed her three times. I was about to punch in the code on the keypad—the code that opened the door, the door that would let me get upstairs—when a young woman came out. She barely looked at me, her head down. She wore one of those navy duffel coats. I saw the slightly pilled cuffs when she held the door open for me. I figured it wasn’t likely she lived there, and I noticed the garbage bag she was taking out.

  Beatrice’s apartment door still had the old-fashioned type of doorbell, a brass circle with a small button protruding from its center. I pressed on that twice, although I did wonder if anyone else in the building could hear its shrill sound and, thinking that I shouldn’t bring attention to myself, I kept that short.

  Finally satisfied that no one was home, I took the key from my pocket and opened the door.

  Houses are strange beasts, I thought, not for the first time. They’re permeated by the energy of their inhabitants, and Beatrice’s apartment was no exception. I had never been there on my own before, and it was a very different experience. The silence I found myself in was slightly uncomfortable, certainly not welcoming, and not just because I was there uninvited. It felt more empty and cold than it should, slightly accusatory even. It made me shiver, and I had no intention of lingering.

  I went upstairs immediately to proceed with the purpose of my visit. I was fairly sure that was where I should start. I intended to complete my task as quickly as possible and get out of there pronto.

  Talking to Frankie the previous day had given me the idea. I still held out hope that I could convince Beatrice that her intentions were completely dishonorable toward me, and might not do her any favors either, but now I had a fallback position. I decided that, should she go ahead with her betrayal, all I had to do was deny everything. It was so simple: unable to graciously accept her protégée’s success, Beatrice had been eaten from within with jealousy. In her seething, deranged state, she became obsessed with being nominated for the Poulton, and the fastest, surest way to achieve that was to claim to be the actual
author of Long Grass Running. Brilliant.

  I’d even planted that seed the day before, talking to Frankie, without grasping the full potential of my words. But I did now.

  The only piece of evidence that tied us together to this book was the stupid cocktail napkin on which Beatrice had drawn up our agreement. There was no trace of the manuscript she’d given me, and I knew she hadn’t kept a copy on her own computer. She had been so careful to cover her tracks. So all I had to do was retrieve the napkin and destroy that, and all would be right with the world.

  The stars had aligned beautifully for my quest: Beatrice was away for a week, George was at work as usual, and I had a key. To top it off, it was a beautiful, if cold, sunny day, and I’d even booked a last-minute appointment with my hair salon, around the corner from here, so should anyone spot me in the neighborhood, I had an explanation.

  I started with her office. That’s where we had gone when we returned from our drinks and our signing ceremony, and I vaguely remembered her putting it on top of her desk. With any luck it would still be there, but if not, it probably wasn’t very far—in one of the drawers; somewhere like that.

  Her desk was neat. There were only a couple of letters stacked on the top, a pen, a photo of George.

  Her drawers were equally tidy; a couple of flash drives in a little wire basket, a few pens, an unopened pack of white envelopes, along with a few more equally dull items of stationery. Definitely no cocktail napkin.

  I scanned the bookshelves on the wall—plenty of places there to store the napkin—but then I thought of the bedroom. The sulking room. That was a more personal place for Beatrice. Lord knows we’d spent a lot of time there, chatting, laughing, getting drunk. So I went in there and started rifling through her (much less tidy) nightstand.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  I jumped. I really did. I straightened up and turned around in one single movement and felt my heart explode in my chest. Beatrice was standing in the doorway, staring at me with a mixture of disbelief and anger, her eyes narrowed, a thin pale line where her lips should have been.