After He Killed Me

by Natalie Barelli

  “I bet Jim gave you an excellent reference.”

  She looks up at me, startled.

  “Sorry, it just came out.”

  She shakes her head. “I understand, of course. Those were hard times, Emma, for me as well as you. Honestly, I’m so glad that’s all over.”

  “Do you ever see him?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Your paths never cross?”

  “Once or twice, from a distance, at the odd conference, something like that maybe. We just avoid each other when that happens. The Department has dealings with the Forum, but not through my section, thank God.”

  “Do you miss him?” I hear myself ask. I don’t dare look at her though, and it’s me who stares into my drink now.

  There’s a beat of silence, then she says, “I miss the feeling sometimes. The feeling of being so head over heels in love with someone. Being obsessed. Not wanting to think about anything or anyone else. But do I miss him? No. He wasn’t for me, Emma. He’s too selfish, too much the narcissist.” Our eyes meet. “Sorry.”

  I blink the apology away.

  “I fell for him hard,” she continues, “for his grand ideals and his genius. But he never loved me, you know. He just loved the fact that I loved him. I realized that pretty fast.” She sighs.

  It’s interesting hearing her say those words, not least because I’ve wondered about myself over the years: whether what Jim loves most about me is that I put him on a pedestal. Although I don’t think about that so much now.

  “Being found out is the best thing that happened to me. I’ve moved away, I love my new job. I travel the world for my research, I have a great place in D.C. and new friends. And I’ve got some perspective on a relationship that was pretty toxic, if I’m honest. I’m glad to be out of it.”

  It’s funny, because I don’t know anything about what their relationship was like. In my mind, it was excruciatingly perfect, they were so well suited. To hear the word toxic to describe their affair is a revelation.

  “Anyone special now?”

  She gives me a little smile. “Maybe. Too soon to tell, but it’s promising.”

  “That’s nice. I wish you all the best, Carol. And thank you for being honest.”

  She clinks her glass against mine.

  “To the future.”

  “And is that what brought you back here today? Your work, I mean?”

  She nods. “I’ve been asked to host a seminar at NYU, on law, ethics, and economics. It’s become somewhat of a specialty of mine.”

  “Wow.” I can’t help but be impressed. For a surreal moment, I am flattered that she’s here with me, having a drink.

  “But you,” she says, “what a great couple years you’ve had, winning the Poulton Prize too. That’s amazing, Emma. You’re incredible.”

  I feel myself blush at the compliment.

  “Thanks. Yes, it’s been quite a time.”

  “And you’re happy? You and Jim?”

  I nod. “We are. It wasn’t easy, but I’m happy to say we made it.”

  “I’m glad,” she says, patting my knee. “I truly am. The two of you belong together. Things are exactly as they should be.” We fall silent, each in our own private world, and then she says, “I never had the chance to apologize to you, Emma. But I’ve thought of you many times over the past couple years, and of what I put you through. Looking at it from this angle, after all this time, I can’t believe I behaved as I did. Having an affair with a married man. I’m truly sorry, Emma. For all the hurt.”

  Her words are so unexpected that my eyes fill with tears, and I’m going to start crying again, but she gets hold of my shoulder and says, “No! No! Please! Not Niagara Falls again! I’ve run out of Kleenex!” and I crack up, and she does too, and we’re both laughing so hard that people are looking at us, but it’s such a relief. Then we hug, and she tells me again how sorry she is.

  If anyone had told me that I’d be having a drink with Carol; enjoying her company, I wouldn’t have known whether to laugh at them or punch them. And yet here I am, and it’s nice. It reminds me how I used to like her. I want to tell her I came to see Jim today because I was feeling fragile; I needed him, but he was so abrupt and dismissive that I felt even worse. I’m sure she would listen, and understand. But I don’t dare.

  We order another round, and she asks me about Terry; the “lovely Terry,” as she calls him, and she wants to know what it’s like winning the Poulton Prize. She’s fascinated by my life. She says she wishes she had my talent; that I’m so lucky, which is funny to me since she’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.

  “So? What did you think?”

  “How about, ‘Good morning, Emma, you look lovely today, how’s my favorite author doing?’”

  “Sorry. Good morning, you look lovely, Emma, and what did you think?” Frankie says, kissing me on the cheek.

  I smile, all wide-eyed and innocent. “About what?”

  “Well, Nick, of course!” At last he extends a hand to indicate the chair for me to sit in. If I am to sing Nick’s praises, I’m allowed to do it sitting down.

  “He looks an awful lot like Louis Theroux.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, that documentary maker, the English guy. He’s on BBC America—Louis Theroux’s Long Weekends or something.”

  He cocks his head at me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, it’s your loss. It’s amazing. They could be twins.”

  He waves both hands in front of himself, as if to say, Stop it already. “I’m not asking about what he looks like. What did you think of him as a person? As a writer?” and when he adds, “You must have been impressed,” I tell myself to breathe, to concentrate on a spot just above his head, and that I should look up that meditation app I read about last week.

  “Yes, Frankie, I was very impressed.”

  “He couldn’t wait to meet you, you know. He’s in awe of you.”

  “And I of him.”

  “No, Em, seriously.”

  “Frankie, as much as I’d love to wax lyrical about young Nick, that’s not what I’ve come for.”

  “I know. Okay. Here.” He pushes a couple of sheets of paper across the desk toward me.

  “What this?”

  “Your publishing schedule.”

  I pick up the pages and quickly read through them.

  “Very funny,” I say.

  “What?”

  I point to the top of the first page. “The working title. I’m Working On It.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he says. “But don’t forget, I have a team of people waiting for you. Cover designers, editors. It’s all in there.” He points at the document.

  I scan through the details until I find the part I dread. I have six months to deliver the draft. I have no idea how long it takes to write a novel. I wonder how long it would take Sam.

  “Okay. That’s fine.” I hope.

  “It should be. You’re eight months behind schedule.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

  “I want you to meet Waleed. He’s going to be your main editor, and he’ll be coordinating everything from now on. Whenever you and I speak, it will be about where to go for lunch, okay? He’s fantastic. You’ll love him. He’s heading up our new imprint.”

  “You have a new imprint?”

  “We have a number of new imprints. Thank you for noticing.”

  “Wow, things have really changed around here.”

  “You bet they have!”

  “Can I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “How much are you giving young Nick?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Em, you know that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s confidential, just like your terms.”

  “Did I get more?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Okay, good.” I reach down for my bag. I just want to get out of here.

 
“You’re ready for this afternoon?” Frankie asks.

  “The New Yorker interview? Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be? Or maybe you’d rather Nick did it? There’s still time to switch, I’m sure,” I say, pretending nonchalance.

  “Stop it. Go away. Call me after.”

  9

  Of course I’m ready. And I woke up early and cleaned the entire apartment, even though I know they’ll only see the living room.

  “So, where would you like me?” I giggle. I’m so nervous I’m overcompensating. My movements are jittery as I set down the carafe of water and tray of glasses on the coffee table. I would have preferred “coffee or something stronger?” but they turned it down with a “maybe later, but some water would be nice if that’s all right.”

  Of course it was all right. It also gave me a little time to calm myself. I haven’t done one of these in a while and I just need to get back into the swing of it.

  My interviewer, Alex Gonski—“call me Al”—is quite charming, if maybe a little younger than I expected from checking out his byline picture last night. I thought he’d be in his late forties, at least.

  He turns to the photographer.

  “Sofia?”

  Sofia is crouched on the floor getting her equipment organized. She points her chin in the direction of my Nella Vetrina plush Italian couch. “There’s good. The light is nice.”

  “Okay.”

  Al extends his arm, inviting me to sit down, as if he were the host and I the guest. I do as I’m told and cross my legs at the ankles, prim and proper, then change my mind and cross them at the knees.

  Al settles himself in the armchair opposite me and pulls out his notebook, and a small recording device, which he sets on the glass coffee table between us. The click he makes with his pen brings up a flash of another interview moment, in very different circumstances, when Detective—who was it?—Carr, I think, and the other one, harbored disturbing suspicions that I might have been involved in a murder.

  I mentally shoo the image away and concentrate on my interviewer.

  “So, Emma Fern. It’s very nice to meet you. Thank you for agreeing to this.”

  “Not at all. The pleasure is all mine.”

  “I’d like to start with the interview, and Sofia”—who by now is standing quietly, framing me in her lens—“will take pictures. Is that all right with you?”

  I nod.

  “Once you and I are finished here, we’ll take more pictures. How does that sound?”

  “Great.”

  “Okay, let’s begin. What’s it like to win the Poulton Prize?”

  Oh good, an easy one.

  “It’s a dream come true, Al. It’s everything you could imagine—humbling, shockingly unexpected.”

  “Did it change your life?”

  “Oh God, yes.” My gaze wanders around the room as I say this. “It’s changed my life.”

  “Okay, great.” He makes a couple of notes. I’m aware I should say something else.

  “It’s a big confidence booster for my writing career, too.”

  “What was it like working with Beatrice Johnson Greene?”

  Frankly, I’m getting mind-numbingly tired of that question. I should never have written that stupid book in stupid memoriam of my friendship with Beatrice. I’d meant to set the record straight, but as a result, I get more questions about that than about Long Grass Running.

  “Well, that’s very well documented. As you may know, I published a short memoir of my friendship—”

  “Yes, I read it. It was touching.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But in your own words?”

  Whose words do you think it was in? I want to ask. I take a breath. Let’s get this part out of the way, then we can get back to me.

  “Beatrice was . . .” I look out of the window, as if losing myself in the recollection, which I’m not, but I always find this is a good look, and I give him my spiel about Beatrice having adopted me as the daughter she never had, and how she believed in me, la dee dah, such a tragedy, la dee dah, and frankly I can go on about this for hours if I have to, and finally I wear him down.

  “Thank you, that’s a lovely recollection. I was more—I’m also interested in the writing process. I appreciate how important her support was to you, but as you point out, you’ve written about it in your memoir. I’d like to talk about her contribution to the writing of Long Grass Running.”

  I actually recoil at the question, and my hand flies to my chest, palm open.

  “Beatrice’s contribution? What does that mean?”

  “I didn’t mean . . .”

  The gesture was a little too dramatic. He’ll think he’s offended me, and that’s not where we should be going. So I cough a few times, my hand still flat on my chest.

  “Sorry,” I manage in between coughs. He hands me a glass of water from the tray and I take it gratefully, swallowing small gulps.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Dry throat. Thank you. I’ve had the flu, but I’m fine now. Where were we?”

  “Discussing the collaborative process with Beatrice Johnson Greene.”

  “Ah yes, well, you have to understand that Beatrice and I did not write in the same genre. If I’d listened to Beatrice, Long Grass Running would have ended up as a cozy mystery!” I chuckle and he smiles, but doesn’t move on, so I continue. “But in terms of, maybe, structural elements? Yes, certainly, or after reading a draft chapter, she would say something like, ‘What about the older sister? I liked her. Why isn’t she part of this scene?’ And I would then see the scene through her eyes, and therefore my readers’ eyes, even though they came later, of course, and I would consider her advice. It’s very helpful to know what your readers think of your characters; which ones they like best, that sort of thing. So yes, that’s the sort of contribution she made toward the novel.”

  I’m quite pleased with that. I smile. Benignly. He goes back to his notebook, takes a moment to read something, then he looks up at me.

  “In your email, you said you wanted to make certain admissions about the part Beatrice Johnson Greene played in the writing of Long Grass Running. Maybe it’s better if you tell me in your own words.”

  I smile at him. A thin, tight smile.

  “In my email?” I ask finally.

  “Yes, let me see, I have it here. The one you sent yesterday. You wrote, ‘I want to make certain admissions about Beatrice’s role in the writing of Long Grass Running.’”

  I look away. The silence between us is going on for too long, and the panic that fills my chest is making it hard to breathe. I take a small gulp of air and turn back to him.

  “The thing is, Mr. Gonski—”

  “Please, call me Al.”

  “Al, the thing is, I miss Beatrice very much. And you writing this profile of me, in a magazine as prestigious as the New Yorker, makes me want to share and acknowledge Beatrice, and the incredible friendship we had. I thought we did that already. Didn’t we?”

  He blinks. “But the word admissions . . .” he says.

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it implies something different than, say—”

  “Recollections? Because that’s the word I meant to use. I wanted to make certain recollections about Beatrice. The phrasing may have been awkward, but that’s what I meant. Can we move on now?”

  I have both hands on my knees; my knuckles are white from their grip to stop myself from shaking.

  He blinks again, quickly, and then he says, “Of course. So, next, which is your favorite Poulton Prize–winning novel?”

  Is this a joke?

  “Well, Long Grass Running, obviously.”

  I breathe again. The energy in the room is back to normal, and I am so relieved that I burst out laughing, but then it strikes me that he thinks I’m the one who’s joking.

  But it’s the truth, and it’s everyone’s truth too. Long Grass Running is everyone’s favorite book. But I can’t tell him that, so instead I nominate my nex
t favorite Poulton novel: The Dollhouse, it’s called. It’s beautiful, and I tell him why. He thinks it’s a good choice. I can tell.

  “So, the question on everyone’s lips, Emma, is are you working on something new?”

  “Ah-ha!” I wave an index finger at him. “The million-dollar question.”

  I pause for a moment, ready to spill out one of my many platitudes, but then I think back to my conversation with Carol.

  “This Nick guy sounds like a complete jerk,” she said. “Did he really say that? That you won’t be able to hit that note twice? That’s just—nasty.”

  “I know, and in front of my publisher—our publisher, unfortunately—to boot.”

  “You know what you have to do, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Hit that note twice.”

  I laughed. “Easier said than done.”

  “Just write something brilliant. Then watch him squirm.”

  It inspired me, her saying that. Why couldn’t I hit that note twice? Well, plenty of reasons, obviously, but still, just thinking about it makes me chuckle.

  Al coughs softly.

  “Well, yes, Al, as it happens, I am working on something new.”

  “Really? Wonderful. Can you tell me about it?”

  “It’s a—” I raise my eyes skyward. Usually, I say yes out of habit, and I’ve lost count how often that happens. Just write something brilliant. “It’s about someone,” I begin, “who is observing someone else, you know?”

  He doesn’t look as if he does, so I try again.

  “This person is observing; following someone, but only in reflections.”

  We’re not making any inroads.

  “This person is trapped. They only exist in reflections, is what I mean: in mirrors, in water, in glass. They’re trapped, you see.”

  That’s quite good, actually, and I’m warming to my subject.

  “So this woman—no, this man, sorry”—I can’t make it about Beatrice’s ghost or I’ll never get another night’s sleep as long as I live—“this man, who can only exist in reflections, is in love with a woman and follows her, through bus stops—”

  He cocks his head.

  “I mean, the glass panes on bus stops, you know the ones? They’re reflective; at night anyway. And puddles, rearview mirrors, and other mirrors, all sorts of mirrors . . . That’s all I can tell you at this stage. I mean, that’s all I’m prepared to tell you. At this stage.”