“No, God, I—”
“I know, I’m teasing you. Even I, who wouldn’t know a ruby from a sapphire, can tell it’s worth more than whatever cash you’d carry around in your purse.”
I laugh. “I hope so, it’s an anniversary gift.”
“Then I’m sure it’s very expensive. So, I still have to give you my details, and I could use a cup of coffee. What do you say?”
I hesitate. “It’s just that I’m expected, and . . .” I lift Jim’s jacket, wrapped in its plastic cover, to illustrate the point.
“Just one. Please.”
Then he pauses, and says something I didn’t expect.
“I know who you are, Emma Fern. I can’t begin to tell you how much I admire you. So meeting you like this, and you talking to me—I don’t want to sound weird here, but it’s a wonderful moment. If you would let me buy you a coffee, then my life would be complete. You don’t need to pay me back, by the way. In fact, I’m buying the coffee. What do you say?”
Should I? I have no idea what to do. I am rooted to the spot, overdressed and holding up a tuxedo jacket, considering going to Starbucks or whatever that place is.
“Come on.” He puts a hand below my elbow, and gently guides me to the crossing.
I let myself be guided, since that’s the kind of person I have become, but I stop two steps back from the curb, then I look behind me. It’s what I do now. Every time. Once I know there’s no one there, I can step off the sidewalk.
4
“So, first things first, let me get your phone number before I forget.”
I’ve recovered myself and we’re sitting at a corner table near the window. I am rummaging through my purse, looking for something to write on. I notice we both take our coffee black and strong, European-style.
“Well, my name is Sam Huntington.”
I write that down on my scrap of paper. “Sam Huntington . . .” I pause and he reels off his phone number, which I quickly note down. “Thank you. What’s the best way to do this? We could meet back at the dry cleaner’s tomorrow, same time, I can pay you back then. Would that work?”
“You don’t need to pay me back. I told you.”
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Let’s have our coffees first, and then if you really insist, we’ll make some other arrangements. But right now, I’m just thrilled to meet you in person.” He beams.
“Thank you. And it’s nice to meet you too, Sam.”
I can’t help feeling a little awkward. This complete stranger has just bailed me out of a tight spot, but now it turns out he’s some kind of fan, and I feel obligated.
“I’m a great admirer of your work, I really am,” he says.
“Thank you, Sam, it’s good of you to say so.” That’s the other thing since the accident that I’m so sick and tired of: people giving me too much attention.
“What about yourself?” I ask. “What do you do?”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“I can’t promise that,” I tell him. “What if you’re a professional circus clown? Or a lion tamer? Or one of those workers who pick up dog poop from the street?”
“Do they do that? That’s a job?”
“So I’ve been told, but I don’t know if it’s true.”
“I must look that up immediately.” He pulls out his phone.
He’s really charming, Sam Huntington. There’s something about him that makes me feel that it’s okay to relax. I’m starting to enjoy this little detour.
I laugh. “Okay, so what do you do?”
“I’m a professional circus clown.”
Now I really laugh. “I don’t believe you.”
“Nor should you. I tell fibs for a living.”
“That’s funny,” I say, cocking my head, “so do I.”
He raises his cup of coffee in a mock toast. “I’d like to say ‘great minds,’ but that would be untrue. I am nothing like you.”
“Don’t say that,” I chide, but I’m starting to enjoy myself enormously. I initially went along with this to be polite, but now, I’m glad I’m here. “So, what does telling fibs entail, from your end?”
“I’m a ghostwriter.”
I burst out laughing. “No! You’re not! Now you’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you. Wait, look.” He fishes a business card out of his wallet and hands it to me.
“Sam Huntington, Ghostwriter,” I read out loud. “People put that on their business cards? You’re serious?”
“Yes, I am. Completely and utterly serious. There’s my website.” He leans forward and points to the URL on the card.
“Isn’t that like saying, ‘Sam Huntington, Professional Burglar’? Not to suggest you’re stealing anything.”
“You’re hurting my feelings, Emma Fern, Professional Novelist.”
“Sorry, but it’s hard to take it seriously.” And as I say it, I chuckle, which turns into a great big laugh, which is completely inappropriate, but I can’t help myself.
He smiles as I recover, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. “You’re not a dog poop picker-upper pretending to be something else, are you?” I ask.
“What, like a professional bank robber? Nope, I’m a ghostwriter. It says so on the card, so it must be true.”
“Well, that’s amazing. I’ve never met a ghostwriter before.” I almost blurt out that I’ve met a few ghosts, or at least one of them who stalks me on a regular basis.
“Or maybe you have, but you didn’t know it.” He winks and I bring myself back to the conversation. Ghostwriters. That’s what we’re talking about. “You’d be surprised, Emma Fern.”
“Okay, I believe you. So tell me about it. It sounds fascinating. Is it?”
“Yes, it is.” He leans back in his chair and makes himself more comfortable, clearly in his element. “I started writing essays for students. Most people in my field start out like that.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“I have no idea. Probably.”
“Then what?”
“Then I graduated to writing about other people’s lives. Lots of people want to pen their memoirs, but don’t know how. And lots of people have fascinating stories to tell. That’s the best part of the job. That man sitting over there”—with a nod he points me in the direction of a man in his sixties or thereabouts, wearing a dark coat—“he might seem perfectly ordinary to you, but who knows where he’s come from? What he’s been through?”
Sam leans forward, his forearms on the table.
“I had a client once, who ran away as a child,” he says. “Not from an abusive situation, but on impulse. He wanted to make a point, because he felt he’d been unfairly punished. He got on a train and went as far as he could, then jumped on another one, then another. No one stopped him; no one asked him where his parents were. After one whole day he was ready to go home, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t know his own address; he barely knew how to read, because he was five years old. And this was in Eastern Europe, by the way, whatever that means. Anyway, his family was frantic, but they didn’t find him for two months. And in that time he’d met an old man who played the violin in the street. The old man looked after him and taught him to play. By the time his parents found him, he could play the violin. He has never forgotten the old man, or how to play the violin. Then he emigrated here, and now he sells shoes.”
“That’s an amazing story. Is it true?”
“Yes! The search for him was well documented, and he does play the violin.”
“How old is he now?”
“Early fifties.”
“Wow!” I stare at the man in the dark coat, wondering what tales he carries along with him.
“My story didn’t use to be interesting. It is now.” I smile. “But for the first thirty years or so, it wasn’t interesting at all.”
“Everyone is interesting. You just need to ask the right questions.”
“I bet you’re very good at that.”
<
br /> “I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“Somehow, I suspect that will come.”
“I hope so,” he says, surprisingly genuinely.
“So that’s what you do now? Write about people’s lives?”
“No, I write fiction now. I write for authors just like you.”
“Not just like me, surely.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“So you keep saying. Okay, try me. Who have you ghostwritten for?”
“Ah, that would be telling.” It’s such a nice smile. Slightly crooked. “But I can tell you that writers, well-known writers, sometimes have writer’s block. It’s not unusual, and they just need a little help. Sometimes they’re under pressure, maybe they have a deadline. And sometimes, they are so popular and sell so well that they literally can’t write fast enough to meet the demand.”
“You’re like an artist’s assistant.”
“That’s right.”
“But don’t you resent—”
There’s a buzz on my cell: Jim wants to know if I’ve remembered to pick up his jacket.
“. . . someone else getting all the glory?” He finishes my question for me.
“I have to go. Thank you, Sam Huntington, it was great to meet you.”
He stands. “It was my pleasure, Emma Fern, I hope I can see you again.”
“Of course. I owe you money, remember?”
“No, you don’t. You had coffee with me, remember? That was the deal.”
I gather my things and he holds the door for me.
“I’ll call you, Sam Huntington the Ghostwriter. Thanks again.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Jim says as I lay the jacket on the back of a chair. He’s fixing his tie in the small mirror he keeps in his office. Usually in a drawer.
“You won’t believe what happened picking this up.”
I take him through the whole story of me not having my credit card, which I seriously hope is at home somewhere, and not having any cash, and being rescued by a knight in shining armor. No, I leave that last bit out. But I say someone paid for it for me, and I’ve got their details to pay them back.
“I think I should call the bank about my card, just in case.”
“Your credit card? I saw it last night on your desk, near your computer.”
“Really?” I try to recall when I took it out again. “I’m going crazy. Oh well, that’s good, anyway. It hasn’t been stolen.”
“You’re okay?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m fine, why?”
“Just that I’ve noticed you’ve been forgetting things lately.”
I laugh, because he’s the one who forgot his jacket and I think he’s making a joke, but he doesn’t laugh with me. He puts a hand on my cheek and just looks at me.
I bristle. “No I haven’t! What are you talking about?”
“Never mind, sweetheart.” He leans toward me and kisses the top of my head. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your card.”
I shake my head. I’m trying to think of something to say, but I don’t understand what the problem is, so I mentally brush it off.
“You know,” he says, putting the jacket on, “people always complain about this city, but then things like this happen. It warms the heart.”
I watch his expression, straightening his tie for him.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not, I mean it.” He does a quick flick of the wrist, and checks his watch. “We should go,” he says.
I put my hand in the crook of his arm.
“You look very beautiful, Mrs. Fern.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fern. You look very dashing yourself.”
Tonight’s gala dinner is another fundraiser for the Forum, at an extravagant amount of money per head. I used to love these events. Recently I’ve found them difficult to navigate. I get nervous. But not tonight. Tonight, I feel great, and I’m happy.
The room is breathtaking, with its Greek columns and the magnificent curved ceiling. The tables are beautifully laid, with tall candles and flowers arranged in the center.
I reach for the first glass of champagne that sails past me on a tray, and knock it back, so that by the time the waiter comes my way again, I can swap my empty flute for a full one.
I wonder how much all this cost. The Millennium Forum has never had a gala fundraiser like this before. Normally it’s more of a cocktail party in an art gallery—still swish, mind you, but not on this scale.
Jim puts his arm around my shoulders. “You’re all right, sweetheart?”
“Yes, of course, why?” What did I forget this time? I almost ask.
“I just want to make sure you’re having a nice time.” He takes my hand in his, lifts it up. “You still like your ring?”
“I love it. It’s beautiful.”
He pulls me close, and I rest my head on his shoulder. He presses his lips to the top of my head. “You smell of vacations,” he says.
“It’s my hair product,” I reply, nestling into his neck.
“Exotic flowers and white beach sand.”
“Is it? I can’t smell anything.”
“That’s because your hair’s too short.”
“Hey, you two, get a room!”
I know that voice, and I’m already smiling when I look up.
“Hello, Emma,” Terry says, smiling back at me.
“Hello, Terry, it’s nice to see you.” I kiss him on the cheek and he blushes a little.
Jim puts a hand on my back. “Sweetheart, excuse me a minute. I just spotted Patrick Plummer.”
“I was wondering how long it would be before you went to work the room. Isn’t that why we’re here?” Terry says.
“Correct. You want me to find an important person for you to talk to?”
“I found one,” Terry replies, his chin pointed in my direction. I laugh.
“Good man.” Jim clasps Terry’s shoulder as he walks away, and we watch him go.
Terry turns to look at me. “You look lovely, Emma.”
“Thank you. You look very fine too.”
“Really? I feel dreadful. I’ve that bug, flu, or something; everyone at the lab has come down with it, except Jim, of course.” He smiles. It always amuses me that Terry, and Jim for that matter, call their workplace “the lab.” These days, work at the Millennium Forum takes place in boardrooms and offices; it’s more about backroom deals with government departments than test tubes or Bunsen burners, yet they still can’t help referring to themselves as mad scientists.
At the mention of my husband, I find myself looking down at my ring again.
He follows my gaze. “Very nice. Is it new?”
I nod, a little coy. “Not new, but recent.”
“A present?”
“Wedding anniversary.”
“That’s nice. I’m really pleased to see you and Jim like this. I never got the chance to tell you, but I’ve wanted to. I was worried about you two there, for a while.”
“Were you?”
“Of course! He was so stressed. Work was . . . well, you know, you were there; it was touch and go for a while. The two of you didn’t seem to cope well, for a time anyway.”
“No, we didn’t, did we?”
There was no point in prettying it up. Terry had witnessed that terrible scene in the restaurant way back when, where I made a complete fool out of myself by being fall-down drunk and definitely disorderly, and Jim had been brutally cruel to me, in front of everyone. Not one of our finest moments.
“And then I thought, with Carol, you know, I wasn’t sure—oh Christ! Why am I talking about this now? Sorry, Emma. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Blame it on the flu.”
“It’s all right, water under the bridge,” I say brightly, patting his forearm. “But I agree, let’s not talk about it anymore, Terry. It’s a long time ago, thank the Lord, and as you say, things are different now.”
Carol. And here I was having such a nice time. The last thing I want to think ab
out is Carol fucking McCready, who worked with my husband and screwed him behind my back. They almost ran away together, for Christ’s sake.
I shake the memory away. All that was before I got him back. No need to reopen old wounds.
“I don’t know why I said all that,” Terry says again.
“It’s fine, really.” I lean forward and kiss his cheek, then lift my glass in a toast.
“To happy days,” I say.
He brings his glass close to mine so they touch.
“Oh, and to tonight! May it be a great success! Well, it already is, but may the coffers be full!”
“Please . . .” He raises his eyes skyward and puts his hands together in prayer. “It has to be.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
He frowns. “If we don’t get a big cash injection, we’re going to be in some trouble. Didn’t Jim tell you? That’s why we’re doing this.” He extends an arm around the room. “On top of that, we’ve got an audit in progress. We’re a for-profit think tank, and we’re not a startup anymore. So it’s not that easy to get people to part with cash in return for, essentially, a good meal. We had to pull out all the stops.”
“Well, everything looks amazing, and it’s packed too. But no, Jim didn’t say. I wish he had.”
“He probably didn’t want to worry you, especially after the accident. Show me your scar.”
When Terry visited me in the hospital, I was not in a good place. I almost told him about what I thought had happened. I didn’t, but his gentleness to me then deepened our friendship, and I know he’s asking because he cares. I lift the hair that falls across the side of my face. He brushes the scar softly.
“Almost gone,” he says.
The sound system spurts out loud popping sounds, and we turn to see the MC tapping the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen . . .”
I turn back to Terry. “I don’t know where I’m seated. I should go and ask the nice man over there with the clipboard,” I say.
“I think we’re at the same table. Come with me.”
5
“You’re up early.” It’s the first thing Jim says to me this morning, and no wonder. It’s not even eight o’clock. I’m always still asleep at this time these days. But today I even made coffee.
After He Killed Me Page 3