No. I can’t let this happen. I have done so much for this man, and how’s that for a cliché? I really did give him all my money, my hard-earned money, because no one can say they worked harder than I have to be where I am.
I need to pull myself together. I go upstairs to shower and change. I go through the motions without thinking about the last few hours, what I’ve just done. I only think of the present. Of all people, I cannot let Allison beat me, not after everything I’ve gone through.
Poor Allison. She doesn’t know me at all. She has no idea who I am, what I am, what I am capable of.
I chuckle to myself at the thought that I even contemplated letting Jim leave me, as if I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Surely murder is a lot like having children, or getting a pet: it’s the first one that changes your life. After that, well, it’s just incremental. Not such a big deal anymore. I’ve killed two people, for Christ’s sake, and frankly, I’m getting rather good at it, even if I do say so myself.
Allison Vickars.
I’m almost vibrating with excitement when I get into a cab, armed with her address. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but let’s be honest, I’m really very good at improvising.
Just as I get out of the taxi I catch sight of her, outside her building, unlocking her bicycle. There’s a rush of anger through me that makes me grit my teeth so hard I wonder if they’ll break. Look at her, little perky Allison, with her little leather jacket and her cute haircut. It baffles me what Jim sees in her, honestly. She looks like a . . . student. The kind who struggles with student loans, the kind who works at the grocery store checkout on Sundays to make ends meet. I can’t see her on Jim’s arm myself, but maybe now that he’s scored all my hard-won cash he’ll spend some of it on her. She could really use it. I had no idea Jim had such bad taste. What on earth do they talk about? America’s Got Talent?
“Hey, Allison!”
She turns around.
“Well, well, Emma Fern. That’s interesting. What are you doing here?”
“Well, you know, I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d pop in and smash your face.”
“Ha! Nice one!” She doesn’t look remotely guilty or even nervous. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think Jim had the guts.”
“You’re going to leave him alone, Allison, and I say this politely because that’s the kind of person I am, but I need us to be very clear about this. You will have nothing to do with my husband ever again.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Emma—can I call you Emma? I got what I wanted. I’m not going to milk this anymore. That was the deal, like I said. The originals are all here.” She pats the large bag hanging off her shoulder. “He sent you to pick it up, huh? I was on my way to meet him. I guess he didn’t trust me!”
I have no idea what’s going on, but it sounds interesting. I can smell it. So I’m just going to play along.
She opens the bag and pulls out a couple of large, bulky beige envelopes.
I hold out my hand.
“All yours, Emma. Like I said, these are the originals; there are no copies. I’m not stupid. I know if I try to wrangle more money out of him, it won’t end up nice for me. Like I said, I got what I wanted.”
I take the bulky envelopes from her.
She cocks her head. “Tell me something, I’m just curious. Does he really think he can fix the problem between now and then?” She chuckles. “Tell him from me, good luck with that. Like I said, no skin off my nose. You people do what you want: I got my million bucks.”
She grabs hold of her bicycle, which was leaning against the wall, and rests one foot on the pedal.
“Thanks for saving me the trip, Emma, but don’t come here again, okay?”
I turn around and walk down the block.
She’s pedaled away by the time I’ve turned the corner. I walk a couple more blocks until I come across a small park. I go in and sit on a bench. A million bucks. He gave her my money, the swindling fucking bastard. What kind of creep did I marry?
I take the first envelope, tear it open, and pull out the thick stack of papers. At a glance, the top page is dense with text and charts and tables. Something jiggles at the bottom of the package. There are CDs in there, and a couple of flash drives. I pull out one CD; it’s marked “Data dump 1” in thick black marker.
I look at the papers more closely, then flick through them quickly. It looks brain-numbingly technical—stacks of spreadsheets filled with numbers, more graphs, and pie charts. Then I find the summary section.
The application of the forecasting model as described has yielded inconclusive results in all data subsets [1971–1980], [1981–1990], [1991–2000], [2001–2010], [2011–2015].
It goes on like this, and it’s complete gibberish to me, but I take my time. There has to be something in there if Jim paid all that money for it—all my money for it—so I keep reading:
As a result of the empirical analysis of the data for seven OECD countries involving the variables detailed in Appendix H, the economic model as described does not yield sufficiently conclusive results to be considered viable.
I read that part back again, from the top, twice, three times. Then I reread it again, just to be sure. I flip through the pages, scan certain sections that make a little more sense to me; I go back to the summary and concentrate on each word; I study the spreadsheets and graphs, actual results against the predicted results of Jim’s economic model that’s going to Change The World As We Know It.
I get it, I’m sure. I know what’s going on here. I’m smiling. Then I’m grinning.
And then I laugh, a big belly laugh, the tears streaming down my face, and finally, this time, not from grief.
38
Obviously Jim hasn’t made a big announcement about us because when I get to the lobby of the Millennium Forum, Jenny greets me with a smile and a “How are you, Mrs. Fern? It’s nice to see you again.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or just very polite, but I am in such a great mood that I don’t care. I take the time to have a little chat about this, that, and the other. Eventually I climb up the stairs to Jim’s office with a fat envelope in my hand and a spring in my step.
“What are you doing here?” he barks. He’s standing by his desk, his coat on, with the air of someone who has just walked in and isn’t happy about something. His hand is on the phone on the desk.
“Calling Allison? Don’t bother. Think of me as your personal messenger service.” I drop myself heavily in the chair opposite. “I am beat! What a day! And it’s still only morning, can you believe it?”
He’s not angry. I can see it in his eyes. He’s confused, but with just the tiniest little sliver of fear poking through.
“Emma, you can’t be here, I’m busy. If you want to talk about anything, make an appointment, all right? Better still, call my lawyer.”
I smile at him benevolently. “Of course, darling, I understand, but this won’t take long.”
“What do you want?”
“Missing anything?” I slap the envelope onto the desk.
He picks it up. “What’s this?”
“And here I was, thinking you were the smartest man I’d ever met. Lord, when I think about it I want to laugh!” Which I do. Heartily.
He flips through the pages. “Where did you get this?”
“There you were, acting so superior all the time, prancing around like you were some kind of genius, and making me feel like I was cramping your style, because what am I—a shopkeeper, you said once. But no, wait, a Poulton Prize nominee, bestselling author, on the New York Times bestseller list, and still I’m not good enough for you. Little old me, I couldn’t hold a candle to you, my genius of a husband!”
I shake my head, laughing. I’m having so much fun, but I don’t think Jim is, because he has turned very pale.
“And all this time, you were just a common little con man. Out for a buck, just like the rest of us.” I lean forward, rest my arms on his desk. “W
hat will they think now, Jim? Your donors, your clients? When they hear that all the research is fake? That they’ve been conned? That your ooh-la-la PhD research that has made you famous, has given you all this”—I look around the room as I say this—“is fake? That what you were trying to do was never going to happen? It was impossible, wasn’t it, analyzing the past and coming up with a magic formula for the future, so we could all be comfortable, employed, own property, have healthcare, la-di-da, except, oops, it doesn’t work.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think I do. It’s all in here.” I pat the envelope on the desk. “No, wait, actually it’s not all in here. That’s only a little bit. I kept the rest. I didn’t think you needed to see it anyway—I mean, it’s your research, right? You know it by heart. You know how bad the numbers are, how fake the data is.”
“Where did you get this, Emma?”
“You know very well where I got this. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I was just trying to be helpful, save you the trip. Allison was grateful. Anyway, she said to tell you not to worry because she won’t take it any further. She will honor the deal, and between you and me, Jim, I think she realizes she doesn’t have a choice. So don’t worry about it. If she ever rears her pretty little head, I can take care of it. I seem to have developed quite a knack for taking care of people.”
He doesn’t seem relieved by that.
“She also said to tell you—now, how did she put it? Ah yes, ‘good luck with that.’ I’m not exactly sure what she meant, but if I were to take a wild guess, I’d say she meant: Good luck applying that model or whatever you call it, and getting the kind of results you’ve been trumpeting about. Which I think is a little harsh myself. I’m sure you’re close, aren’t you? Well, I hope you are, otherwise you’re one hell of a fraud, my love. But you get an A for audacity.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. These numbers”—he slaps the sheets of paper fanned out on the desk—“they’re old. I’ve refined it since then, I’ve cracked it. This means nothing.”
“I see. So that million dollars you gave her was for . . . ? No, don’t tell me, let me guess. Furthering her education? Because I’m with you: I think she needs it. No? Okay, don’t tell me, don’t tell me, you gave her a million dollars because . . . hmm, what could it be? She was your student, she was assisting you in your research, right? It says so in here.” I point to the papers. “She knows as well as you do that your research is bogus. She never wanted a job, did she? She was blackmailing you, because you have no model, or whatever you call your magic formula—magic mushroom is more like it! You’re just winging it! Or should I say lying?”
“Shut up, Emma! You’re shouting!”
“Am I? Sorry about that, just the excitement of it all, and I’ve not slept for two days, can you believe it? Well, I did have a little nap on the floor of the hallway after you left but I don’t think that counts. So my senses are a bit, you know, off-kilter. Anyway, where were we?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, Jim.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Come on, what kind of wife would I be to turn on my husband like that? Do you really think I’d do that to you—humiliate you? Publicly? Ruin you? You’d never work again in your life, Jim. You would be a shell of a man, the remnants of great promise, begging on the streets for small change. No, of course not. I love you, you know that. It will be our little secret. But I think you should come home now, don’t you?”
“You bitch!” He hits the desk loudly with the palm of his hand. “You can’t do this! What do you want? Your money back? I’ll get you your money back!”
“Who’s being loud now, Jim?” And just as I say this, the door opens and Carol walks in, all wide-eyed.
“What’s going on?”
“Hey, Carol, how are you? Nice to see you.”
She walks over to Jim and puts a hand on his shoulder. She looks into his face. “We can hear you all the way down the hall!” Then she gives me a hard stare: the protective type.
Huh. Carol?
“I think you should leave now, Emma.”
“Wow, okay, I did not see that coming. Carol, congratulations. I really thought you were a lovely person. I had no idea you were scuttling behind my back and fucking my husband.”
“It’s not like that, and I’m sorry if you’re hurt. It just happened between us. We didn’t want it to happen, but it did.”
“Huh, original. Oh well, never mind, not to worry, Carol. I’m sure Jim will give you an appropriate reference.” I stand up. “Coming, darling?”
“He said you would be difficult,” Carol says with narrowed eyes.
“He said that? Jim, you really need to get some new material. Anyway, who cares, he’s changed his mind about that. Haven’t you, sweetheart?”
Jim’s rooted to the spot. He’s red in the face, staring at me. We’re both looking at him, Carol and I—she with confusion, me with a benevolent smile—but we both know that because he hasn’t said anything yet, the die isn’t cast. The corners of her mouth droop and tremble. She’s genuinely surprised that he hasn’t contradicted me. I feel very sorry for her. No, I don’t.
He turns to her and gently removes her hand from his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Jim, it’s all right. We discussed this,” she says this in a tone more appropriate to the nursing staff at the local hospital.
“No, Carol, I’m really sorry. I made a mistake. I’m going home with Emma. I’m really sorry.”
She looks crestfallen but already a shadow of acceptance has appeared on her face. Not a fighter then.
I get up and point at the desk.
“Don’t forget your papers, darling. You’ll want to take these home with you.”
39
The New York Times
Poulton Prize Winner Emma Fern and the Mentor Who Inspired Her
By Pushpa Sharma
When this year’s Poulton winner Emma Fern was asked where she got her inspiration from, she replied, “In a dream, it all came to me in a dream.” Emma Fern’s win was a surprise—she’s only the second first-time novelist to win the coveted prize—and she knows it. “I never thought I would win, not in a million years. I am very humbled and thrilled that my little novel has pleased so many readers around the world.” Long Grass Running has sold over two million copies and been translated into seven languages.
So, what’s next for this talented young writer? “My husband’s taking me away on vacation. We both had a big year and we’re looking forward to some time together.” They certainly have had a big year. Emma Fern’s husband is the eminent economist Jim Fern, the man who made economics sexy and whose groundbreaking work was recently adopted by the Department of the Treasury. “But I am working on a memoir, of my very dear friend and mentor Beatrice Johnson Greene.” Mrs. Johnson Greene, a bestselling crime novelist, was murdered by her literary agent, Hannah Beal. Ms. Beal committed suicide two months ago.
Will there be any mention of this tragedy in Mrs. Fern’s memoir? “Well, yes, I believe I must. I will be writing about the truth here, so I have to include these tragic events, as sad as that is for me.”
So will we have to wait a little longer for her next work of fiction? “Not too long, I hope! Of course, this memoir is one hundred percent nonfiction, definitely,” Mrs. Fern says, “but after that I will be dedicating myself to my next novel. My fans demand it, and so does my heart.”
We simply can’t wait.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Until I Met Her has been through quite a journey now, and this new edition comes with my heartfelt thanks to the wonderful Jane Snelgrove and the lovely team at Thomas & Mercer for all their work in making it happen.
Thank you, dear EB, for reading the first draft and helping shape the writing. You’re a wonderful friend.
To Katrina Diaz and Aja Pollock for their brilliant editing work on the original edition.
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br /> A huge thank you to my friends and family, whose affection and enthusiasm mean the world to me, and especially to my husband, my love, who makes everything possible.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Natalie Barelli can usually be found reading a book, and that book will more likely than not be a psychological thriller. Writing a novel was always on her bucket list, and eventually, with Until I Met Her, it became a reality. She hasn’t stopped writing since.
When not absorbed in the latest gripping page-turner, Natalie loves cooking, knits very badly, enjoys riding her Vespa around town, and otherwise spends far too much time at the computer. She lives in Australia, with her husband and extended family.
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