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

by Natalie Barelli

  “That was Terry. He’s been on my back about something.”

  “It’s a bit late, isn’t it?”

  “I thought you were asleep.” He’s shuffling papers on his desk now, pretending to tidy up.

  “Not anymore. I’m getting a cup of tea. Do you want one?”

  “No, I’m fine. Still work to do.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave you to it then.” I doubt very much that was Terry on the line, and I don’t understand why he’s lying to me, but my instinct tells me not to push it. I don’t know what to make of this, but at least it’s taken my mind off things.

  As I make my tea, I spot the book that George gave me on the kitchen table. I take it with me when I go back upstairs with my tea—let’s see what “Beatrice’s favorite book” is about—but there’s something odd. It’s a slim volume, but its thickness feels uneven. I put my tea on the table by the bed, sit down, and open it. Something falls to the floor and I recognize its texture immediately. It’s a couple of tissues, or a paper towel maybe, folded in half but not neatly, slightly crooked.

  I pick it up quickly and open it flat, stare at it, and then I close my eyes and put my hand on my chest to try to still my beating heart. I look again, throw my head back, and let out a deep groan of relief. This isn’t just any old Kleenex used as a bookmark. It’s the cocktail napkin.

  27

  Isn’t it amazing how everything can change in a flash? It’s incredible how things turn out. I wake up late, having slept like a baby, although as Jackie likes to point out, people who say they slept like a baby obviously have never had one. Before going back to bed last night, I took that stupid cocktail napkin and tore it up into as many little pieces as I could manage, and flushed it all down the toilet. Today—Hello world!—I’m a celebrated author, contender for the Poulton, if you please, and I have just one teeny little loose end to tie up.

  The Hannah situation.

  I haven’t wanted to think of Hannah, considering everything that’s been going on, especially with the police. The thought of our last conversation makes me shudder. For a horrible moment, it felt like the walls were closing in on me, when she said that she had in her hands an outline of Long Grass Running, stuck among Beatrice’s papers. But I hadn’t come this far to be taken in by the likes of Hannah.

  I’m sure she bought it, my little explanation. I could see why it was still confusing to her, but she had no other explanation for it anyway, and mine was perfectly reasonable. A good fit even, considering the facts of our friendship.

  I figure once I receive the outline, I’ll be sure to get rid of it immediately. Or maybe I’ll rewrite it in my own handwriting first, see if I can match the paper even. If this ever comes up again, I’ll have it at hand, but this time it will be undeniably mine.

  Except that I have not received it yet and it’s been long enough, in spite of Hannah’s assurances that she’d return it to me immediately. That’s the problem with trusting people to do the right thing—they rarely ever do. The moment they make the promise, it’s as if the deed itself is done and no further work is required.

  I give her a call at the office. She’s not there and I don’t leave a message. But then the phone rings right back—not my cell, but the home telephone, which is highly unusual in our house. I’m not sure I ever gave out the number to anyone. Anyway, it must be Hannah, calling me back, somehow.

  I pick it up.

  “Hello?” But it’s silence at the other end. Not silence as in the connection was never established, but silence like someone’s there, but won’t speak.

  “Hello?” I say again, then I hang up. People are so rude. Wrong number, I guess, sure, but still, wouldn’t kill them to say so, would it?

  I go back to the couch and proceed to mentally plan my morning’s activities. I have a book reading later this afternoon—I love saying things like that—so maybe first I’ll catch up on emails and then, let me see, do I have time for a manicure? Probably not, but I could—

  The phone rings again.

  “Yes?”

  This time I get a reply: a woman’s voice asks for Jim. Nothing else, just, “Is Jim there?” No please, no hello, no excuse me for bothering you.

  “No, he’s not, who is this?” I’m not his secretary, and you’re calling my home. Show me some manners.

  “Where is he?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry, who is this?” Did I say I’m sorry?

  I can hear her sigh, this rude person, as if this were rather inconvenient.

  “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “Where can I reach him?” she asks.

  “At his office, where you should have called to begin with. This is his home. Who is this?”

  “He’s not at work, I tried there already, three times. Tell him Allison called.” Then she adds a belated, perfunctory “Thank you.”

  “What’s this about?” I ask, but she’s gone.

  Allison. The little bitch hanging out outside our house with Jim. I was sure I caught sight of her that time, months ago, when I went to meet him at the bar. I told him afterward, asked him, “Was Allison waiting for you?” but he’d stiffened and said, “No, don’t be silly, Emma.” But now I think it was Allison, waiting for Jim, always waiting for Jim. So they were having an affair; I can feel it. What’s she up to now? Are they still involved? This is who Jim was talking to last night, I’m sure of it. I knew it wasn’t Terry—that was a stupid lie, unworthy of Jim, really.

  God, I never picked him for the type, the bastard. The professor who screws his young ex-student. Please.

  My stomach’s churning. What’s he up to? How can he do this to me? I do everything for him; I’d do anything for him. I can’t lose him: that’s simply not an option. I have worked so hard to make our marriage a success. We’re in love, we’re happy, we’re perfect together. Two very successful people who love each other. We are the envy of everyone who knows us. But maybe he’s not having an affair. When I think back to the phone call, his tone, he didn’t sound enamored, he sounded hassled. Maybe he doesn’t want to be with her—maybe she won’t let go. Yes, that sounds more like it. Didn’t Allison just say she’d called him three times at work and hadn’t heard back from him? That makes me chuckle. If you think that’s the way to get to my husband, you’re sadly mistaken, little girl. Jim hates being harassed.

  I call the office, ostensibly to pass on the message. Jenny, the receptionist, puts me through immediately. Good.

  “Em, sweetheart.”

  “Hello, darling. How’s your day going so far?”

  “Excellent. Couldn’t be better. Things are rocking around here, let me tell you.”

  I laugh. “That’s great, Jim, good to hear.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Oh yes, but I got a strange call just now—well, you did. Allison called. She was rather insistent so I thought I’d tell you right away.”

  Silence.

  “She said she called you three times at work but you weren’t there.”

  “Oh, I was here all right. Jesus, what a—sorry, sweetheart, she shouldn’t interrupt you at home like this. I’ll take care of it. I’m sorry. The stupid woman.”

  I give a mental fist pump. Yes!

  “What does she want?”

  “She wants a job. She was a student. I told you all this already.”

  “Okay. As long as everything is all right.”

  “It is, really. One moment, sweetheart.”

  I hear muffled sounds. Someone’s speaking; his hand must be cupped over the phone.

  “I have to go, sweetheart. Terry says hello, and he’s looking forward to tonight.”

  Oh God, I completely forgot.

  “Say hello to Terry. And that I’m looking forward to seeing him also.”

  “Will do. I really have to go, Em.”

  “I know. I love you.”

  “I love you, sweetheart.”

  My heart sings.

  I’m having too good a day to let the likes of Alli
son ruin it for me. Whatever was going on between them, he’s over it, that’s clear. I banish her from my mind and get to work on the laptop. I check the Amazon ranking—twenty-seven, thank you very much—and read through emails. Frankie’s planning all sorts of events for me, and it takes a while to go through it all.

  I’m surprised at the time, which has just caught my eye from the corner of my screen. I need to get ready for that book signing. It’s exhausting being me, really. I stretch my arms above my head. I need to get changed, freshen up. I’m about to shut the computer but something on the Amazon page, which is still up, catches my eye and I glance at this new review that has just appeared in the sidebar.

  The room moves. It’s as if the house is tilting on its axis but without taking me with it. I can’t breathe properly; there’s something pressing against my chest and the air won’t go in. I try to make sense of the latest comment, but I’m having great difficulty focusing and the letters keep getting jumbled up.

  One star – Great story, with a great twist! But. . .

  I cannot begin to say how much I enjoyed this book. The story of its provenance, however, is a lot less, shall we say, uplifting, and the real mystery here is who wrote it. Now, I don’t want to give anything away . . . Oh, never mind, SPOILER ALERT, it’s not Emma Fern.

  Published 4 minutes ago by Beatrice_777

  My whole body trembles. I have to delete this review, now. It’s my page. I should be able to delete this right now. I click around the screen without knowing what to do, but it doesn’t go away, I can’t delete it, I don’t know how, my heart hurts, my chest hurts. I click the “Report Abuse” link next to the review because damn right this is abuse, and no, this review was not helpful, but it won’t go away.

  I click on the link for Beatrice_777. He or she has only just joined and written one single review. Of course.

  A sharp pain in my thumb makes me realize I’ve bitten it so hard it’s bleeding. I don’t know what to do. I should call Frankie—he’ll know what to do. No, of course I can’t tell Frankie. My hand’s shaking so much, I have trouble keeping my finger steady on the trackpad as I search for a contact listing for Amazon, but all I find are email addresses to register a complaint, and I fire off emails to every single one I can find.

  I have to talk to somebody over there right now. I need to explain to them who I am, and that they must remove this review immediately. Finally, I locate a phone number and a robot answers telling me to press a number to choose my selection, but funnily enough, there’s no “To discuss trolls, threatening reviews, and other general nut-job bully behavior, please press any key.”

  I get sent back to the main menu because I’m not making a selection quickly enough, and I go around in circles. I’m crying, as much from fear as from frustration, so I just press a random number, and I’m told a bunch of stuff about international shipping policies and still no one comes on the line, and I’m sent back to the beginning and I scream into the phone and slam it down hard.

  I go back to the book page, hoping they’ve removed it already, that my reporting of the review has worked immediately, but it’s still there. No, wait, it’s another one, a different one, at the top of the “Most Recent Customer Reviews” list, above the first one.

  One star – More to this one than meets the eye!

  If you enjoy a good theft story, you won’t want to miss Long Grass Running! Congratulations to Emma Fern for pulling it off!

  Published 3 minutes ago by Beatrice_1234

  Once again I frantically click on the “Report” button, and I check the page for Beatrice_1234, knowing full well what I will see, that he/she has only just signed up and written one single review. My head’s swimming, and I wonder for a second if this is just a nightmare. It’s hard to focus on anything. I send more emails. This is worse than abuse, this is slander, it’s malicious and cruel. I could sue for this. I will sue for this. I write all this in the emails. They know, whoever they are, about Beatrice. But what do they know exactly? That she wrote the book? I can’t bear to think what else they know.

  I can’t go out, I can’t go to the book signing, I should be there now but I can’t leave. I have to sort this out. I have to call Frankie and make an excuse I—

  Breathe, I tell myself, breathe, Emma. Figure this out. You have come this far. It’s a troll, yes—isn’t that what they’re called? The loonies who trawl through the Internet, looking for anyone who’s achieving something, looking for success so that they can take it down, one nasty, cruel comment at a time.

  I must not call attention to this. Don’t give it any air. Do not tell anyone, just get Amazon to take these comments down, now. There is no proof. Remember that, Emma. There is no proof anymore.

  Nothing happens. I just stare at the book page and slowly pull myself together. I will go to the book signing at Barnes & Noble. I have to be normal. There are a hundred or so people patiently waiting for me, and I’m already dreading how many of these so-called reviews I will find when I get home.

  Frankie, who’s always watching over me, Lord love him, is a little surprised at my state of mind this afternoon. I give a terrible reading. My attention isn’t on the task at hand and I read a chapter with as much enthusiasm as if it were a notice from the IRS.

  But people are generous, and after the applause I move over to the table that has been set up for me with piles of Long Grass Running, ready for their dedication.

  Frankie can tell something’s wrong and is looking at me with his eyebrows knotted in genuine concern. I want to tell him that I’m ill—something I ate, I think. I have to go home. Please let me go home.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he asks, not unkindly.

  “Nothing, really, I’m fine.”

  I take the book from the young woman at the front of the line.

  “I so love your books, Emma. They’re really wonderful!”

  She can’t love them that much, or she’d know there’s only one.

  “Who should I make it out to?” I ask her, as if it’s a check I’m handing out.

  “If you could make it to—”

  My pen’s poised on the flyleaf, ready and waiting.

  “—Beatrice—”

  I snap my head up.

  “—please, or even to Dear Beatrice? If that’s all right, that would be wonderful. It’s not—”

  “Is it you?”

  “What?”

  “Is. It. You.”

  I’ve stood up and knocked over the table. The piles of books have toppled over, and I am pointing at this woman with a trembling arm.

  “What do you want from me?” I’m shouting, shaking. It’s awful, I can’t help it. Frankie places himself between me and the woman, who now looks utterly terrified. Everyone in the store has stopped talking and is looking at me. “Why are you doing this to me?” I’m like a crazy woman, pushing Frankie out of the way, but he has taken hold of my shoulders with both hands and now he’s putting an arm around me and dragging me away.

  “What’s going on? Emma, get a hold of yourself! What’s the matter with you?”

  I glance back at the woman, who’s on the verge of tears, being consoled by a friend of hers, who’s glaring at me. I don’t think it’s her now. I think that really was her name.

  “Emma! Talk to me!”

  I don’t want to tell him, but he might find out anyway. Better that he hears my version. I take a deep breath.

  “I think I’m being stalked.” I burst into tears.

  He takes me into the ladies’ room, having first made sure that there’s no one in there, and holds me tight, with compassion and tenderness. “What do you mean, stalked?”

  “Just that,” I manage to say between sobs. “Anonymous calls, weird emails, that sort of thing.” I don’t really want to send Frankie to the Amazon book page.

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Not yet, do you think I should?”

  “Yes, definitely. Right away.” His features are set in concentrat
ion. He’s trying to come up with something to fix it, I can tell. I look at him pleadingly. He smiles gently. “Well, you know what they say: you’re not anybody till you’ve been stalked.”

  “Very funny,” I reply, blowing my nose into the Kleenex he’s given me.

  “Listen to me, darling, it happens all the time. You’re on the bestseller list. I’m sure it’s nothing at all, just a fan. Forward the emails to me and I’ll look into it, but I really wouldn’t worry too much.”

  I don’t say anything. How would he know anyway? No doubt police murder files are riddled with cases of I wouldn’t worry too much—it’s probably nothing.

  He pulls out a pen from his shirt pocket, checks a number on his phone, and jots it down on the back of my hand.

  “Make an appointment. Dr. Craven. He’s the best. He’ll take good care of you.”

  “I’m not sure a doctor can help me, Frankie.”

  “Emma, you look terrible. You’re stressed. He’ll give you something to manage the anxiety. Whatever’s happening, you need to look after yourself.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Trust me.”

  He pops his head out the door.

  “Coast is clear. I’ll make excuses for you, I’ll think of something.”

  He takes hold of my elbow and leads me out quickly. There are still many people lingering around, confused about what happens next. I don’t see the woman I shouted at earlier.

  The table has been put back upright, but the books are nowhere to be seen. I guess management decided there wouldn’t be any more book signing today.

  Frankie deftly leads me through the store, and in no time we’re outside and he has hailed me a taxi.

  “Go home and rest, darling. Publisher’s orders. Call me tonight and let me know how you are.”

  “Thank you, Frankie. I’m really sorry.”

  “And call that doctor,” he adds before shutting the door.

  First thing I do in the taxi is check my Amazon page from my cell phone, and the two comments are still there. Then, once I’m home, I check again. There are no new ones. Thank God for small mercies. I feel ill. I email Amazon again; I’ll spam them into action if I have to. I try the number, but I can’t get through to anyone.