“I have reason to believe that Jim has faked his research. The cornerstone that this place is built upon may well be made of sand.”
I can’t help letting out a laugh. It sounds like a bark, but he made it sound so poetic, I have to wonder whether this is a line he’s been practicing.
“It’s not a joke, Emma.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Tell me, what makes you say that? What did you find?”
Sam is back. He smiles at me as he sits at the desk. I make a gesture to say, Do you want me to leave? but he shakes his head.
“We went back to the original data to replicate the calculations—the graphs, the trends, all the work that the forecasts were built upon—and they don’t match up,” Terry says.
“What do you mean, they don’t match up?” And I ask the question even though I already know the answer, because I’m suddenly aware that while I’ve been sitting on that information for a long time now, it never occurred to me before today that this is not just about Jim, or me. There are dozens of people who work there. Many of them who have put their faith in the system that Jim developed. There was real hope, among those walls, and outside of them, that the Forum had found the key to a balanced society, and was working with the right people to implement it. To make the world a better place, is what Jim had said. Way back when.
Should I have said something? Probably. I used that information to keep my marriage together, with no thought spared for the people whose lives and reputations rested on that fake research. And while I sit here, reflecting privately on what my actions have meant for these people who are about to lose their jobs and reputations, I am also thinking about what this would do to me, if it came out that I knew. Would I be held partly responsible? Did I do something illegal? Probably, now that I think about it.
Do I need a lawyer?
“I don’t know how else to say it, Emma. They just don’t match up.”
“So you think the original research is fake.”
I can hear him sigh. “I’m starting to be fairly sure that’s the case, yes.”
“But why?”
“Good question. Why would he do it? I don’t know. I’ll leave that to the psychologists.”
“No, I mean, what makes you believe it’s fake?”
“Because we’ve completed recreating the original modeling, and the results are different. Very different.”
“I see.”
I ponder this for a moment. I remember the late nights; the frantic work Jim did hiding in his office—that’s what it was all about. He was trying to replicate the modeling and make it work, as if by some miracle it would all come out fabulously well the second time around.
I should be preparing myself for the inevitable question that will come soon: Did I know? Because at some point, Terry will want to know what I know—or what I knew, more importantly. Am I going to be blamed for Jim’s crimes? Like hell I am!
“So I need to find him,” Terry says. “I need to give him a chance to explain himself, you see? There may be”—he pauses—“other parts of the research we’re not aware of. Reasons why we can’t make it add up. We should be able to duplicate it, obviously. Replication of experiments is the bedrock of science.”
Cornerstone. Bedrock. Terry should have been a geologist. Or an architect.
“I just want to give him a chance, Emma, that’s all. I know things have been . . . awful between you. The breakup of a marriage is always painful. I haven’t experienced it myself, but I can imagine.”
Huh, probably not in this case.
“But I just want to know if you have any contact with him. If you can help me help him. Can you?”
It’s always something of a revelation talking with Terry. Anyone else would have already jumped to the rock-solid, bedrock-like, cornerstoned conclusion that Jim has skipped town and damn the consequences. But Terry, Lord love him, really does want to give Jim a chance to clear his name. There must be a part of him that genuinely believes that Jim was—is—a genius, and the numbers are real. The motivation behind the Forum is real. The tools to make the world a better place are real. Terry wants to believe this more than anything.
“Terry, I think you should consider yourself here, and the other people who work with you.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sure Jim meant it when he said he would come to see you, but it’s also highly possible that he got scared. If what you’re saying is true, about the fake research, what would the consequences be for Jim?”
He sighs. “Seriously? I don’t know. Prison, probably.”
“Don’t you think it’s a strange coincidence that Jim leaves me—leaves both our marriage and the marital home—and then resigns? We have no forwarding address, no means of contacting him. I don’t think it takes a data scientist to figure out Jim knows exactly what’s happening here. I think you need to be proactive, and call the police. Otherwise you’ll be the one facing the consequences.”
I can hear his sighs as clearly as if I were standing next to him.
“Just do it, Terry.”
“Okay, thanks Emma. I’ll keep you posted.”
Now if Jim’s body would kindly wash up somewhere, that would be even better.
“Are you listening, Emma?” Sam asks, not unkindly.
I shake my head. “Sorry, with one ear only. I got distracted by that call.”
“That’s all right. I know you have to go, but will I see you tomorrow?”
He grins, and I can’t help doing the same.
“Sure.”
24
Nick’s book launch is a trendy affair that takes place in a groovy restaurant in Soho. I bet Nick insisted; it wouldn’t surprise me. He fits right in, with his black turtleneck in the middle of summer. At least there’s a bar. From that perspective, this is better than having a launch in a bookstore. I may be watching my alcohol consumption, but there are limits.
There are many people here I know, like Gusek, the first person to interview me after I published Long Grass Running. He winks at me and makes me laugh. I see many reviewers and writers that I’ve met. The place is like a who’s who of the publishing world, and I wish all this was for me, but soon I too will have a book. It will be a great book, and I will have my own book launch and Nick the Prick is already not invited. I don’t care what Frankie says.
It’s a bit awkward being here by myself, but Frankie has spotted me and is waving for me to come over. I push my way through the crowd.
“Em, come, let’s take a picture,” he says.
There’s a photographer here, as there would be.
“Hello, Emma, it’s great to see you again,” Nick smirks, shaking my hand. I want to rush to the bathroom and wash it, but then again I’d hate for him to think it was appropriate to kiss me. He repulses me.
“You’re feeling better?” he asks, eyebrows arched as per usual. “I couldn’t find you yesterday after you rushed off.”
“Yes, I had to. I know that old hag.” I shake my head. “She’s my stalker.”
“Is she?” he blurts, mouth forming a perfect “O.”
“Nick, if you hadn’t come when you did, I would have had to call security. She follows me everywhere, begs for my autograph, then berates me if I don’t give it to her.” I raise my index finger and make a circle near my temple.
“Oh no! Emma! That’s terrible! Have you told the police?”
“God no, did you see her? She’s an old lady, I can’t do that. She’s obviously got mental issues. She liked you, though, I thought.”
He blinks.
“Just keep an eye out. I hope she doesn’t start to stalk you. She always makes a scene.”
“Come, come, you two.” Frankie gathers us on either side of him, his arms around both our shoulders. He’s like a proud parent. The photographer takes pictures. Nick tries his best not to look terrified, clearly pondering the prospect of being stalked by a crazy old lady, which is nice. Still, I can’t wait to wriggle my way out of here.
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Frankie and Nick take their place on the low stage, where two stools have been set up, with a small round side table and microphones. It’s very trendy, like I said.
“We’re absolutely thrilled to be here today, everyone,” Frankie says, “and I’m proud to introduce Nicholas Hackett, who of course none of you have ever heard of.”
The crowd titters. I zone out, otherwise I’ll puke.
I retreat to the bar.
“Emma? Is that you?”
I turn. She looks vaguely familiar, and I plaster a smile on my face while I try to place her, but she beats me to it.
“Natasha,” she says, extending a hand. “We met at Craig Barnes’s party, oh, it must be two years ago at least, so don’t feel bad if you can’t remember.”
I shake her hand. I do remember her now, and I’d liked her. She was a friend of Beatrice’s, although there was a strange energy between them. As if they’d been close once, but no longer.
“Hi, Natasha, how are you?”
“Oh, you know, alive,” she laughs, and then her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh God, how clumsy of me,” she says, and for a second I don’t know what she’s talking about.
Nicholas is speaking now. “I just want to say, I’m so lucky to be working with Badosa Press. They’re the best publishers in the world, as far as I’m concerned!”
The crowd laughs and I can’t believe they’re taken in. He’s not humble, for God’s sake, he’s playing you. He’s a fake, a fraud, and a phony, and you’re all falling for it. I’m disgusted. I raise an eyebrow at Natasha, who smiles at me. I think we understand each other.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask her, noticing that she doesn’t have a glass, let alone a full one, and I don’t understand what the point of coming to one of these things would be were it not for the free drinks.
“Yes, I’d love one. Whatever you’re having.”
I turn to the bartender and ask for two glasses of white wine.
I hand one to Natasha. “There. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
We both take a sip and exchange pleasantries, and then she says, “I’ve been delighted to follow your success, Emma. I think when we first met you’d been shortlisted for the Poulton Prize. Are you working on anything new?”
Funny, I used to hate that question. Now I love it.
“Yes, I am. Working on another novel, as it happens.”
“Wonderful, I hope it goes well.”
“Thank you. And you?”
“The usual. I show with my gallery, it follows its course, I can’t complain.”
I must be getting a little tipsy, because otherwise I’d never ask what comes out of my mouth next.
“I do remember when we first met, Beatrice introduced me. But the two of you, I don’t know, there was something off. She seemed a bit uncomfortable. Did you have a falling out? Not that it’s any of my business.”
“No, that’s fine. Yes, we did somewhat, although I never quite understood why. She had this crazy idea. She wanted me to say that I wrote her book or something. I don’t know.”
She flaps a hand in the air and my heart stops. It just stops. Completely. Then it restarts, and it’s going at five hundred beats per minute. I feel myself going red, I feel my heart climbing up my throat. I put my hand to it, in a manner I hope is natural.
“I know,” she says, mistaking my gesture for consternation, and again she flaps a hand in the air. “It was stupid. I didn’t know what she wanted me to do, or why she was asking me, but I said no, obviously. ‘What would I want with your book, Beatrice? I’m a painter. What would I do something like that for?’”
I turn to the bar and gulp the rest of my drink before handing it to the barman and asking for a refill.
I turn to face her again. “So what happened then?” I ask, through the thumping of my heart.
“Nothing.” She shrugs. “But she was never the same after that. It was as if she couldn’t forgive me for turning her down. You probably never experienced that side of her, but she could be very selfish, Beatrice.”
“Really?” I ask, bemused.
“Yes, surprising I know, since she was also so generous and wonderful and all those things that made Beatrice who she was, but trust me, if she didn’t get her way, you were persona non grata.”
“Huh!”
“Anyway, that’s all in the past.” She flaps her hand again.
I want to ask her if she knew the book Beatrice wanted her to say she wrote, but she couldn’t have. Otherwise, she would have known, well, everything about me, essentially.
“I don’t know if she ever found someone to do that for her,” she says, echoing my own thoughts. “Whatever that was, because to be honest, I still don’t understand it.”
“No, neither do I.” I take another long sip. I look around for someone I know, anyone. I want to catch someone’s eye and pretend I’ve been called away. I do catch someone’s eye. Someone I had not expected to see here.
Sam is talking to someone, but he’s seen me. He smiles at me and makes a gesture to indicate he’ll come over.
“I’m not surprised she never asked you,” Natasha says.
“No?” I turn back toward her, taking another sip.
“You’re a writer, you see. She wanted someone who wasn’t a writer, someone with no aspirations of their own, at least in that department.” She shakes her head. “I don’t mind saying, Emma, I think Beatrice had a tendency to use people.”
“Really?”
“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, I’ll stop now.” She puts a hand on my forearm and smiles, and I do too; what else can I do, since I’m speechless?
“Except maybe Hannah, her agent!” she continues, eyes wide, like she just remembered a juicy bit of gossip. “What about that? I fell off my chair when I found out she killed Beatrice. I mean, of all people! God! I never met her—did you?”
“Me?”
“Emma, I forgot to say! Congratulations!” Nick has materialized by my side, he’s touching my elbow, and it’s all I can do not to throw my arms around him.
“What for, Nick? Oh, this is Natasha, by the way.”
“Oh, hello, I’m a great admirer of your work,” he tells her.
“You know Natasha’s artwork?” I blurt out, incredulous.
He turns to me. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Thank you,” Natasha says, “that’s kind of you. And congratulations on your book launch.”
He takes an exaggerated bow, a grand gesture, complete with one arm at the front and one arm at the back, and I want to knee him in the face. How’s that for theatrics, Nick? But I’m so grateful he’s interrupted our previous conversation that I leave him alone.
“Congratulations on the New Yorker article, Emma.” He doesn’t exactly grin, it’s sort of a self-satisfied smile; his lips turned in slightly, the corners raised high.
“Thank you, Nick. I didn’t realize it was out already.”
“Oh, it’s not. Frankie told me about it and I have a friend who works there. He emailed it to me. Oh, you don’t mind, do you? Was it all right for me to read it early? It’s hitting the stands this week. I should have waited until then. I hope you don’t mind?”
Is this guy completely crazy? Or is it just that he’ll go to any lengths to make everything all about himself?
Someone touches Natasha on the back of her shoulder and she exclaims with delight at whoever it is.
“What’s this about?” Sam’s voice asks behind me. He puts a hand on the small of my back. I turn around in such way that his hand falls away. I smile back, a question in my eyes. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Oh, Emma has an interview in the New Yorker. It’s coming out Monday,” Nick says, helpfully.
“Congratulations,” Sam says, with genuine enthusiasm.
See, that’s how it’s done, Nick. That’s what sincerity looks like.
“Thank you. It’s for the series they’re running on Po
ulton winners.” I say that last bit looking straight at Nick, who still has that stupid smile on his face.
“And of course it’s all right,” I tell him, while planning how I can kill Frankie in the most painful way imaginable. “Why wouldn’t it be all right? We’re all, you know, together, working with the best publisher in the world, after all.”
He raises his eyes and puts a hand on his chest to illustrate his great relief. I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me, or if he really believes it looks, I don’t know, adorable?
“Well, I can’t wait for you to read it. It’s wonderful! It’s very you, Emma. They really captured the essence of you! You’ll be so pleased.”
“Thanks Nick!” I say, turning to Sam so as to give him my full attention.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m here for a book launch. What are you doing here?”
I laugh. Of course, why wouldn’t he be here? We work in the same industry. I just feel more than a little uncomfortable showing the world how well we know each other.
“Can I get you another glass of wine? What are you drinking?” he asks, touching my cheek. I flick my head away.
“Please don’t,” I say softly.
He lets his hand fall back down. “Sorry,” he says, just as I catch from the corner of my eye the smirk on Nick’s lips, looking right at us.
25
When I wake up on Monday morning, the first thought that comes into my mind is how perfect it is, that the New Yorker article should come out so soon after that embarrassing debacle at Williams-Sonoma. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. I don’t know if Nick believed my little stalker story, but he looked like he did, so let’s hope. I chuckle to myself at the thought of him running away from every little old lady he comes across. God! I wish he’d take his snobbery and his pseudo-intellectualism and his black turtlenecks and jump in the Hudson River.
It’s wonderful! It’s very you, Emma. They really captured the essence of you! Oh, was it all right I read it before you did?
After He Killed Me (The Emma Fern Series Book 2) Page 16