So I spend the rest of the morning doing research, and because I feel better, having had the most productive day I’ve experienced in a while, I go shopping and make Jim a delicious dinner. Spaghetti with scallops in champagne and tarragon sauce. Easy to make, very nice to eat.
“How was your day? Any feedback from the function yet?”
He has his fork in one hand, and his phone in the other. “Mmm?” he replies, eyes on the screen, scrolling with his thumb.
I think I’ve put too much tarragon in the sauce. I take another bite.
Jim looks up at me. “Sorry, darling, so much going on. This is delicious.”
I’ve barely touched my food and he’s almost finished. He hasn’t touched his glass of wine, a sure sign that he’ll be going back to work in his office as soon as we’re finished eating.
“That’s okay,” I say.
Jim stopped working at home every night long ago, but lately it’s been creeping back. I guess there’s a lot going on at the Forum. But he helps me clean up. I talk about my day. I tell him about the piece the New Yorker is going to be doing. He’s impressed, I can tell. At one point he asks, “How’s the new book going?”
One day, soon, I will not have to answer this question anymore. Because the new one will be out, nicely displayed on the shelves of our local bookstore, and he can go get his own copy if he’s so interested in it. I long for this day. However, since today is not this day, I reply, “Not too bad, pretty happy about how it’s going.”
Because the more I think about it, the more I wonder, who am I not to follow the hand of God?
7
My cup runneth over.
I slept late this morning, as I usually do, and when I got up around ten, I saw a missed call from Frankie, but there was also a text:
Come for lunch today, tell me you’re free, I want you to meet someone. At L’Ambroisie 1pm okay? Please be there! xo
If the clouds had parted just then and the sun had streamed through my window, warm and bright, I would have thought it was for me. It feels like the tide has turned, thank God. I’ve been waiting long enough.
I love L’Ambroisie. Beatrice and I used to go there all the time, back in the days when she was nice to me. I don’t remember the last time I went there, but if Frankie picked it, then I know it’s special, and I know who and what that means since he already told me, in his coy way. So I spend the morning pampering myself. I put on the Givenchy dress that I love. It’s very flattering and very modern, and the color is nice against my skin. When I get out of the taxi, I have butterflies in my stomach at the prospect of meeting the producers who will be making the movie of Long Grass Running.
I’m a little early, and Frankie is already there. I can see him in the distance as I walk into the restaurant, talking earnestly to someone whose back is to me. He looks so excited and animated. Wait for me, I want to shout. Don’t start without me! And I walk quickly between the tables. Even then Frankie doesn’t see me; doesn’t register that I’m here until I’m standing right by his side.
He looks up at me and gives me a beaming smile. “There you are,” he says, standing up, and we put our arms around each other warmly.
“That’s me. I’m here,” I giggle, and Frankie puts a hand on my back, then extends his other arm to the man at the table, who is also standing and smiling.
“Emma Fern.” I shake the hand proffered to me and he bows. “It’s an honor.”
I smile back at this man, who is much younger than I expected, but then what do I know about producers? As long as he’s old enough to sign his name on my contract, that’s all I care about. But I have a flicker of recognition, there’s something about him that looks vaguely familiar.
“Emma, this is Nicholas Hackett,” Frankie says with a little flourish. He looks so happy, and I’m grinning so much my face is starting to hurt.
“Call me Nick, please,” he says, and we all sit down.
Frankie starts to say something. “Nick is—”
But Nick speaks at the same time, so Frankie stops abruptly.
“I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to meet you, in person. I’m in awe of your talent, Emma. Oh, is it all right if I call you Emma? May I?”
His face is so open, so earnest. He looks almost scared, with his eyebrows arched, like he’s really worried he just committed the ultimate faux pas. It makes me want to pat him on the hand. There there.
I smile at him, reassuringly. And I realize where I’ve seen him before, with his black-rimmed glasses and his youthful appearance. In fact, I’ve never seen him before, but he’s the spitting image of that documentary maker, Louis Theroux.
“Of course, Nick. Please call me Emma,” and I am more than a little gratified at his little gushing display.
“Shall we order first?” Frankie picks up his menu and Nick and I do the same. Good idea, I think, get the small stuff out of the way. I order the first thing on the menu, and there’s a bit of activity with glasses being filled and waiters taking our orders, but then it’s just the three of us again, and Nick says, “I’m honored that we now share the same publisher, Emma. That’s why I picked Frankie, you know, because of you.”
He looks at me with his big guileless smile and I think he’s waiting for me to say something.
“Pub—publisher?” I stammer.
“Yes!” Frankie pipes up brightly, and then he puts his hand on mine. “Do you remember the article in the New York Times? About Nick?”
I turn to look at Frankie. I’m still smiling, but it’s a little forced. Frankie is looking proudly at Nick, even though I’m pretty sure he was addressing that question to me.
“The article?”
Nick puts both palms up in a mock gesture, as if to fend off all the attention.
“Please, let’s not talk about me, it’s too boring. I want to hear all about you, Emma.”
Frankie chuckles. What on earth is the matter with him?
“We’ll get to that,” he says, “but first let me explain. You’ve seen the article, haven’t you? About the bidding war for Nick’s novel?” At last, he is looking in my direction.
“Oh, that was crazy, crazy stuff,” Nick interjects, flapping his hands. And what’s the matter with him too? Is he drunk? He has the strangest mannerisms. But then again, so does Louis Theroux.
“There was a bidding war for Nick’s novel. Wait till you read it, Emma, it’s something else, let me tell you. It’s like you, you know? That feeling I had. I can’t wait for you to read it.”
“Frankie, stop it!” says bashful Nick, and Frankie laughs.
“Anyway,” Frankie continues, “I put in an offer, but I wasn’t in the running. As good as you’ve been to me, darling Emma, I couldn’t compete with the heavyweights. This was way, way out of my league. But you know what he did?” He points his chin at Nick in a gesture that is so familiar, it’s almost rude. But Nick seems unfazed. He’s rearranging breadcrumbs in a little pile next to his fork, all the while smiling at the white tablecloth.
“No,” I say finally, because Frankie seems to be expecting me to say something, and at this point I have no idea what the heck he’s talking about, or who he’s talking to, or who Nick is, and this better be good because I am having a great day, and the tide has turned, and the hand of God is guiding me. And now I do remember the article, and I remember Nick’s guileless face staring out from the page, and funny, I didn’t notice then that he looked just like Louis Theroux. But I do remember something about the promising young writer who’d written a masterpiece, put it up for auction, and then didn’t take the highest bidder, which was unheard of—unethical almost, if you ask me. But what I don’t understand is why we’re talking about that, and when do we start talking about my movie rights?
“He chose us, Emma. We’re publishing Nicholas Hackett, aka the most promising writer of his generation. Can you believe it?”
What is it with Frankie? He’s talking to me, he’s saying my name, but all the time he’s looking at Nic
k like he’s a lovestruck puppy, and Nick is playing with his breadcrumbs. Am I supposed to say something now? Something other than what the fuck?
I look around quickly, because suddenly it occurs to me that maybe they’re playing some kind of prank on me. There’s someone out there filming my reaction, and then we’ll all crack up and forever be saying things like, Do you remember the time we signed with Nick the producer, but we tricked you into thinking you were meeting Nick the most promising writer of his generation? And we’ll roll over laughing. But somehow, I don’t think that’s happening, not really. That’s not Frankie’s style.
“You’re embarrassing me, please stop it,” Nick keeps saying, with a modesty so genuine he must have practiced it an awful lot.
Finally they remember I’m here and they turn to me, smiling expectantly.
“Wow,” I offer, that being the best I can come up with.
Frankie gets us a bottle of champagne, and we toast the most promising writer of his generation, no less, and I am wracking my brain, because how could I possibly get this so wrong? Did Frankie actually say we were meeting with a producer? No, of course not, but he hinted at it—didn’t he?
I’ll have a surprise soon for you—isn’t that what he said? Come for lunch today. Please be there. I’m sure that’s what he said.
What does Frankie think I’ve been waiting for? He knows full well what I’ve been waiting for. For him to do his job, for one thing. He is my agent-cum-publisher and he’s been peddling my movie rights for almost two years now. Why on earth does Frankie think I’m going to be so excited to meet this . . . dork? And now he has eyes only for Nick, like Nick’s walking on water, like he’s in love. I know that look. That’s the way he used to look at me.
“But tell me about you, Emma—really, enough of this. I loved Long Grass Running so much. You are an inspiration to me, to many of us aspiring writers.”
Frankie beams again. “I’m so happy you two have met,” he says.
“What’s your novel about?” I ask, even though I already know, since I did read the New York Times article and it’s all coming back to me in big, bright, neon signage.
“Oh, let’s not talk about my novel anymore, tell me what you’re working on. There’s so much anticipation since the Prize!”
“Well, I . . .” and from the corner of my eye I can see Frankie’s face has frozen in place, because he doesn’t like that question any more than I do.
“Emma did write something since then: a memoir, of her friendship with the writer Beatrice Johnson Greene,” Frankie says. “Did you read it?”
“No! I didn’t know about that. I’m so sorry!”
Which is no surprise, of course, because that book tanked.
“Nonfiction is not an easy switch to make. It was more of a personal testimony to a dear friend,” I say, to no one in particular.
“Oh, so nothing in the works for you? I would have thought that you’d be on the verge of publishing by now. But what do I know? I’m such a novice,” Nick says, and I stare at his fork, picturing myself lunging for it and sticking it in his neck, or should I do Frankie first?
“I’m sorry?” I ask, realizing Nick is saying something else.
“I said it can’t be easy after winning the Poulton. It’s not like you can hit that note twice, surely.” He presses his lips together in an apologetic smile, and it occurs to me that Nick is not as guileless as he seems.
This is not my lucky day.
I decide to walk back from the restaurant. I’m too agitated and frustrated to go home yet. I’m so angry with Frankie, I’m almost shaking. How could he choose that preppy little fake over me? How could he do this to me? I’m the one who won the Poulton, for Christ’s sake. I’m the one who put Frankie and his pitiful little publishing company on the map. And this is how he repays me? There would be no Frankie, no preppy “Nick the Prick” if it weren’t for me. I made Frankie, and now Frankie is going to make Nick. And what am I? A has-been? Is that what he thinks? I can walk into any bookstore in this city, secure in the knowledge that my novel, my Poulton Prize–winning novel, will be on the shelves, prominently displayed.
I’m feeling so rattled that I keep walking, and now I’m downtown, so I take a detour to that little bookstore I like on the Lower East Side. I’ll go and check, and I’ll bet anything they still stock my book. It will make me feel better; maybe I’ll even buy a copy. Maybe I’ll buy them all. Get them to order new stock. But I get there, and it’s all boarded up. I’d forgotten, even though it’s been like that for months. They say something terrible happened here, but I don’t believe it. It’s just gratuitous gossip as far I’m concerned. I think the man who looked after the store has simply moved on. Bookstores are not exactly thriving businesses these days. Still, it’s a shame. We chatted once or twice and I liked him. What was his name again? Joe. I wonder where he went. I thought he was—I don’t know—simpatico.
I sigh, and walk away. I’m never going to read Nick’s book. And what about my movie adaptation? That’s what I want to know. I bet Nick gets his movie made before mine, and if that happens, I will fire Frankie, and then I will kill Nick.
I don’t want to go home yet. I walk in the direction of the Forum, and when I’m a block away, I take out my cell phone and call Jim.
“Hi, Em, what’s up?”
“Nothing much, just . . .” I hesitate.
“You’re okay?”
“I’m fine, really. I was wondering, do you want to have a drink? I’m not far from your office and—”
“Now?” he asks. “It’s what? Three o’clock in the afternoon and you call me to have a drink?” He sneers on the word drink. “No wonder you’re so vague, Em.”
“Oh! I thought it was later than that. Sorry, darling.”
“I’m really busy here, Em, I’m at work. Was there something you wanted?”
There are voices in the background and Jim says something that sounds muffled, as if he has his hand over the phone.
“No, I—sorry, no,” I say, stuttering, “I’ll see you later.”
I put the phone back in my bag, keeping my eyes down. I shouldn’t have mentioned having a drink. I feel a flush spread across my cheeks. I wish now I hadn’t called. Really I just wanted a hug from him. Sometimes Jim is incredibly attentive, and yet it’s surprisingly difficult to ask him to be there for me. I know he’s busy and he’s at work, but the abruptness of his tone just now stings and I start to cry. I feel ridiculous, rooted to the spot, unable to move. I put my hands over my face, waiting for the sobs to subside.
“Emma?” I hear beside me, a woman’s voice I don’t recognize, and a hand now sits on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I take my hands away from my face and look up.
“Carol?”
8
“What happened? Are you all right?”
I just stare at her, in mild disbelief. Carol. Jim’s Carol? Carol, who tried to take Jim away from me? Carol, who worked with Jim at the Forum and pretended to like me, all the while engaging in sordid trysts with my husband?
Carol McCready?
I shake my head.
“What are you doing here?” I ask finally, hiccupping a little. She still has a hand on my shoulder, rubbing it gently. As much as I hate myself for it, I don’t want her to stop. It’s surprisingly comforting.
“I just had a meeting,” she says vaguely, “then I saw you. Are you okay?”
“With Jim?” It comes out a little more abruptly than I intended it to.
“Jim? No! God no.”
But I burst into tears again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s this horrible lunch with Nick. It’s made me feel hopeless.
“Come with me. Let’s go and sit somewhere,” she says.
“I’m not going with you.” I shrug her hand off my shoulder. She cocks her head slightly, gives me a look that says, Don’t be like that.
“And anyway, don’t you need to go? Surely you have work to do.”
She
shakes her head. “Nothing that will miss me. I could use a drink, to be honest. And it would be nice to talk.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Come on, I know just the place,” she says, gently grabbing my elbow.
I don’t know if it’s the mention of a drink, or if it’s because I’m so angry about Nick that I just want to tell someone, or if it’s that I wonder what on earth Carol thinks would be nice to talk about that makes me follow her. Maybe it’s simply the sympathy in her voice that does it. Or maybe it’s the thought of what Jim would say if he could see me now. See? If you hadn’t been rude and dismissive, I wouldn’t be here, chatting with your ex-lover.
Who knows? Either way, against all odds, I let myself be led.
It is just the place, she was right. It’s dark enough, with soft music playing, and at this time of the day it’s almost empty. I order a Scotch and Carol surprises me by doing the same.
I take a breath. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For being kind.” I give her a small quick smile. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“You looked a bit lost there, Emma. I didn’t want to leave you like that. But you’re welcome.”
We take a sip of our drinks. After a moment, I ask, “What do you do now? For work?”
“Still economics, of course, but I’m based in D.C. now, at the Department of Labor.”
I nod. “Is that where you went after . . .” I let the question trail since we both know what I’m talking about. After you had an affair with my husband and I had to blackmail him into ending the relationship.
“Yes, the opportunity came up, I needed to move on.” Carol drums her fingers against her glass, her gaze down. I take a better look at her. She hasn’t changed much, but she looks good. She’s lost a few pounds, and her dark hair is longer than it used to be, or maybe that’s just my memory. It suits her, this hairstyle: thick and shiny over her shoulders. She’s still ordinary looking, really, but with her nice, fitted suit, she looks very professional. I become aware I’m clenching my teeth.
After He Killed Me (The Emma Fern Series Book 2) Page 5