He doesn’t want me to be successful in my own right. He prefers me to be in awe of him and his accomplishments, me as his supportive companion who will look after his every need, but I shake that unpleasant thought off, like an insect that’s crawled up my neck. I know he’s proud of me. I remind myself how proud and happy he looks when we’re in public, holding my arm, never letting me go very far.
29
“What’s this about selling the store?” Jim’s loading the dishwasher and I’m pretending to put things away, but I’m constantly glancing at my phone, to see whether Amazon has removed the reviews.
“Why not? I’m too busy. I want to sell it to Jackie—I’ll give her a good price.”
“But it’s your life, Em. You’re sure about this?”
“It was my life, Jim, but I’m a writer now. I can’t do both—haven’t you noticed?” I say this with a knot in my stomach. Hopefully, I will remain a writer.
“Well, it’s up to you.”
Still nothing from Amazon. I put the phone down. “Speaking of being busy, I think we should get some help—at home, I mean.”
“Help how?”
Jim really is doing a terrible job of loading the dishwasher. He keeps taking things out to make them fit. I’ll be redoing the whole thing as soon as he leaves it alone.
“Cooking, shopping, dry cleaning, that sort of thing.”
“We have Julie,” he says. Julie is our cleaner. She’s been coming once every two weeks.
“Julie doesn’t cook, shop, iron your shirts—and I don’t have the time anymore. I’m exhausted, Jim.”
He straightens up and turns to me. “You do look tired, sweetheart. You should take a break from all this writing business.”
“Bit late for that, don’t you think?”
He sighs, as if I’m being deliberately difficult. “Of course, you’re right. You’re doing far too much. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I should take better care of you.”
There are tears behind my eyes hearing this. I want to put my head on his chest and forget everything for a moment.
“I wanted to talk to you about something. It’s important,” he says.
Oh God, what now—something to do with Allison? “What is it?”
“Don’t look so worried. I want to talk about money.” He’s hesitating.
“We have plenty of money. That’s one thing you don’t need to worry about.”
“Exactly, and I want us to invest some of that money.”
“Darling, you look after all that. You don’t need to discuss it with me. I don’t have the head for it, to be honest. Not right now.”
“I want to invest your money.”
“Invest in what?”
“The Forum.” He’s concentrating very hard on the cutlery, organizing it in its drawer. “We’re so close to our goal. It’s going to be big, huge, incredible. But we need some capital.”
“And?”
“We have money in the bank, thanks to you. I want to use it for a little while. Not long, just a few months. Then I’ll put it back.”
“What, all of it?” The money has been piling up—the book’s selling fantastically well—and we haven’t done anything with it yet. We haven’t needed to.
“I have plans for that money, Jim. I think we should move, for one thing.”
He’s looking at me again. “Move where?”
“Somewhere in Manhattan. You could be closer to work. You’d like that, right? You’ve talked about that often enough. We can afford it now.”
He makes a sweeping gesture. “What’s wrong with this?”
Amazing. A year ago, Jim would have sold this house and moved in a flash. And now we’ve completely reversed our positions.
“It’s miles away from everywhere, from your work, from my commitments. Other than that, nothing I guess, but we can afford better now,” I say.
There’s a pause between us. A silence hanging in the air.
“Just for a couple months, Em. Once I close the deal, you’ll get it back.”
“What if you don’t close the deal?”
“The only way I won’t close the deal is if I don’t have the cash up front to demonstrate we’re in for the long haul.”
He leaves the dishwasher alone, finally, stands up and looks at me.
“What’s about to happen is enormous, sweetheart. I’m not supposed to tell you, but you’re my wife, and I trust you. So I will tell you this: we are in the process of signing up with the most important federal government department. We’re this close”—he brings his index finger and thumb close together—“to signing. And then, I really will change the world, Em, really. You have no idea how big this is.”
“But I don’t understand why you need this money.”
“Because I need to show them I can afford the salaries, the overheads, the research, for at least two years. That’s part of the contract.”
“Can’t you?”
“Some, but I need the extra cash.”
“How much are we talking about?”
He turns around and bends down again. That dishwasher’s being loaded to within an inch of its life.
“One million dollars.”
“What?”
“To top up what we already have. That’s what it will take.”
“Wow! Changing the world isn’t cheap.”
“I’ll put it back, Em.”
“With a lot of interest, I hope. Anyway, that’s academic. We don’t have a million dollars.”
“We can take out a second mortgage on the house. With your money, we can come up with a million dollars.”
“You want to take out a second mortgage?”
“It’s for us too, you know, not just me.”
I can’t quite see that part, but I let it slide. He comes to me now. Puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eyes.
“That’s what it will take, Em. But it’s going to be big. It’s ambitious to want to change the world. And look at what you’ve achieved! We’re on a roll here. Do this with me, please. Be my partner in this. It’s going to be incredible, Em.”
Him and me. Changing the world. My heart melts. I’ve fantasized about Jim saying things like that to me. He takes me in his arms, enveloping me. I love his smell, his touch, his strength.
“You and me, Em,” he whispers into my hair. “This is what we’ve been working for.”
The warmth of his embrace releases all the tension that was locked inside, and I start to sob.
“Hey!” He pulls back. “What’s this about? Oh, sweetheart, you need a break—you’re so tired! I’m going to talk to Frankie, get him to lay off for a while and allow you a vacation.” He draws me back into him. I’m crying onto his shirt.
“No,” I say between sobs. “I’m fine, really. Just getting used to all this, that’s all. I can’t—I don’t want a break right now.”
“Once it’s done, you can take all the vacations you like. You can sell the store. We’ll move to an English castle somewhere if you want, or a twenty-room farmhouse in the south of France. We’ll hire a huge staff, and you can sleep all day if you like.”
“Every day?”
“Every day.”
“Tell me.” I’m nestled against his chest, talking into it.
“I told you.”
“Tell me again. Tell me more.”
“We’re going to be hired by the government. All their economic and social policies will be based on our model. The money’s going to be huge, beyond anything you can imagine.”
“And you’ll be making the world a better place?”
“Much, much better.”
I hiccup a little, pull out a crumpled Kleenex from my pocket, and blow my nose.
“Okay, I’m in.”
He hugs me tighter. “Thank you, my love.” His breath is warm against my ear. We stay like this for a little while until he releases his grip. “I love you,” he says. I look into his eyes and I can see he means it. I know Jim—every inch of him, every look, every twitch—an
d I believe him.
“What does Allison really want?” I ask.
He pushes me away, looks sideways, like he’s trying to decide something, then he says, “I told you. She wants a job. She’s a pain in the proverbial, believe me.”
And because I know him so well, I can see he’s lying to me. Although, to be fair, it’s not that hard. Jim is a terrible liar.
“You’re going to give her a job, then?”
“Seriously? No! Absolutely not! There’s no job to offer, and even if there was, the last person I’d give it to is Allison. She’s a pain, Em! I’ll sort her out, believe me!”
“Have you talked to her about me?”
“No! Why would I?”
“Are you sure? About my novel? About Beatrice?”
“Don’t be silly! Why would I talk to her about you?” He lifts a corner of his mouth. “You weren’t worried, were you? About Allison?” he asks.
“A little, yes.”
“Sweetheart, no! Allison is no one you should worry about, I promise you.” He brings me back into his embrace.
I can forgive him this, I decide. I have forgiven him.
“I’ll go and write some emails. This is just wonderful.” He walks out of the kitchen, smiling at me all the way.
Half the dirty dishes are still piled up next to the sink, so I proceed to reload the dishwasher.
When it’s all done, I decide to relax, put my feet up, go and watch something mindless on television with a Scotch in hand. I grab my phone on the way, and as usual glance at the Amazon page on the screen.
There’s a new one, nestled among the praise, right up at the top.
One star – A rocking good read, especially between the lines!
Enjoying this, Emma? No, I didn’t think so. Good news! You can make this go away. Stay tuned.
Published 33 minutes ago by Beatrice_isdead
I scroll down the page and sure enough, the other reviews are still there. Who on earth would choose the user name Beatrice_isdead? What kind of sick joke is this? What kind of twisted individual would do this?
I go through the whole rigmarole all over again: I click the “Report” button, I send more emails, and this time I tell them that my life’s now in danger, all because they couldn’t sort this out quickly enough. This is a threat, for God’s sake.
You can make this go away.
What on earth does this mean? Do they want me to reveal myself ? Publicly? I shudder.
I sit on the couch with my laptop, staring at the screen, waiting for another review to tell me how I can make this go away, but there are only new genuine reader comments coming through, burying the crazy ones farther down the page, thank God. No one seems to pay attention to the deranged comments, which is a mild relief.
30
“You ready for breakfast? I’m making pancakes.” I’m determined this morning to not let these reviews get the better of me. I’ve made a little mental list I can refer to whenever I find myself getting anxious again: (a) there’s no proof—well, not anymore, anyway; (b) there haven’t been any new ones since last night, although that doesn’t mean much, but still; and (c) why would anyone believe nasty reviews like these? The web is full of nutjobs; everyone knows that. People will feel sorry for me that I’m a target—me, the celebrated author of a wonderful novel that has touched so many hearts. So fuck off, Beatrice_whatever. I have not come this far to be beaten. There’s a lot more fight left in me yet.
We’re going to spend a lovely weekend together, Jim and I. I have no appointments/book readings/radio or TV interviews, which is a great relief, as much as I usually enjoy these things. Or used to. I suspect Frankie has been canceling things, paring back my schedule until I’m more myself again.
I’ve got the Saturday papers spread all over the kitchen table. It’s already a lovely day, sunshine streaming through the window. I’ve been up for a while.
“Pancakes? No, thank you,” Jim says.
“Really? But you love pancakes for breakfast.”
“I’m watching my figure.” He smiles and demonstrates this helpfully by patting his stomach. I take a better look at him.
“What on earth are you wearing?” I can safely say I have never seen Jim in a getup such as this. It’s some kind of . . . activewear? A tracksuit of some description.
“I’m going for a run.”
I burst out laughing. “You are not!” At least it’s not velour. Thank God for small mercies.
“I am so. Do we have fruit or something? Or yogurt? I could have that when I get back.”
I look down at gleaming white sneakers that I have never seen before. “Oh my Lord, okay. I wish you’d told me; we could have gone running together.”
He smiles. “Let me warm up for a month or two, see how I manage first.” He does a little run on the spot, like he’s waiting for the lights to change, or to get going.
“Off you go then. I’ll see you in a mile or two. Stay away from anything that sparks, because that thing”—I point at his outfit—“looks highly flammable.” I wave him off.
He gives a little chuckle and sort of trots out of the house. I shake my head, amused. It’s kind of sweet, really. I can’t help thinking a little of this newfound vanity is for me. I’ve upped my game. I look great—well, not lately, but still.
I make pancakes for myself anyway, but replace the maple syrup with lemon and a little honey to make myself feel virtuous, and it works.
The doorbell rings and I laugh to myself. Only half a mile at the most then, and of course Jim didn’t take his keys.
“I haven’t—oh crap, now what?” Detective Massoud and the other one—what’s his name? Carr—are standing there. I wrap my robe tighter around my chest. “I guess I should ask you to come in?”
“You don’t have to, Mrs. Fern, but we thought this was better than bringing you to the station, in view of your—public profile. But it’s up to you.” She says this deadpan, like it’s genuine enough, but it sounds sarcastic to me.
“Can I get dressed first?”
I’m being sarcastic, but she says, “You can get dressed. We’ll wait out here.”
I rush to the bedroom and quickly get changed into more suitable clothes. I hope I can get this, whatever this is, over with before Jim gets back.
When I’m ready, I lead them to the living room.
“So, what can I do for you?”
Carr pulls out his little notebook again, lets Massoud lead.
“We need to clarify something about your movements on the day Mrs. Johnson Greene died.”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“You stated that around 12:30 p.m. you were in the vicinity of Mr. Greene’s office.”
“So?”
“Do you still maintain that?”
“Why?”
Massoud lets out a sigh. “Mrs. Fern. As we previously explained to you, we’re trying to find out exactly what happened to Mrs. Johnson Greene. If you could please answer my questions. I repeat, do you maintain that on the day in question you were in the vicinity of Mr. Greene’s office, and that you saw Mr. Greene at that time?”
“I think it was that day, but maybe I was mistaken.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You were very sure in your statement.”
“I believe that’s the day I saw George, yes, but I can’t guarantee it one hundred percent.”
“I see.”
“You didn’t answer my question. What is this about? I thought you’d cleared that up. George said it was cleared up. You’re not still suspecting him, are you? I’m sure he can account for his whereabouts. He works in a busy office after all; his alibi’s bound to be—what do you call it? Ironclad?”
“It’s not Mr. Greene’s whereabouts we’re concerned about, Mrs. Fern.”
“What then?”
“It’s yours.”
I explode into loud guffaws. It goes on longer than it should and threatens to turn into hysterics if I don’t pull myself together.
&
nbsp; “Me?” I manage to say once I’ve recovered myself, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. “My whereabouts? That’s priceless. What do my whereabouts have to do with anything?”
“We’re not suggesting anything, Mrs. Fern, but we would like to eliminate the possibility that someone was in Mrs. Johnson Greene’s apartment the day she died.”
“I see. Things must be quiet out there then, if you have nothing better to do than to listen to gossip from the neighbors and harass Beatrice’s family and friends like this. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Beatrice has the right to rest in peace and her loved ones need to grieve in private, not put up with these outrageous, scurrilous stories spread in the media like cheap tabloid fodder. Do you get a kickback for that? Do you have a little arrangement with the tabloids to supply them with nasty gossip about successful, respectable people? Don’t they pay enough in the police force?”
I’m starting to hyperventilate, and my cheeks feel hot. I know how shrill I sound, but they say a good offense is the best defense, and I sure hope that’s true.
The detectives look at each other. Clearly they’re not used to being spoken to like this.
“If that’s all, then I’d like you to leave now.”
“We were able to confirm your hair appointment that afternoon, Mrs. Fern. But none of the stores you supplied us the names of were able to confirm seeing you prior to that. If you could provide a receipt? Something like that?”
“I can’t provide a receipt when I didn’t buy anything.”
“Because you see, Mrs. Fern, we also checked the CCTV cameras for both stores, and we couldn’t find you.”
That makes my heart skip a beat. “So? Maybe it was a different day. I thought it was that day—I got confused.”
Detective Carr speaks for the first time. His voice surprises me: it’s pitched higher than I expected, than his looks suggest.
“Mrs. Fern, the cleaner was in the building that morning and—”
“That’s right! She was! George told me that! Oh my Lord!” I clasp a hand over my mouth.
“What is it?” Detective Massoud asks.
“Are you saying she—the cleaner?”
“No, we’re not saying that at all. We know Miss O’Brien, the cleaner, left before Mrs. Johnson Greene came home.”
Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1) Page 20