Until I Met Her (The Emma Fern Series Book 1)

by Natalie Barelli

  “Of course.” Right. That’s why everyone was here tonight, to raise money for the Forum, as it was known—the most cutting-edge, progressive economic think tank in the universe, as Jim called it.

  “Jim’s white paper was astounding,” he said.

  “I don’t think Emma’s read it, Michael.” Jim’s voice, behind me.

  No, I hadn’t read it, but did he really need to say that?

  “It’s true that I haven’t read it, and that’s clearly my loss, so, Michael, why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “Surely you’d want to hear it from the horse’s mouth?”

  “No, good idea,” Jim said. “I’d like to hear it from you myself. How would you describe it? I’d be really interested to hear your take on it.”

  Michael took a deep breath. I felt a bit sorry for him, having put him on the spot.

  “In one sentence,” I said, holding up an index finger helpfully.

  “One sentence—okay, let’s see. The old adage of ‘wealth trickles down,’ as we call it, is a complete fallacy, but it’s made its way into accepted theories that are now being tied to policy. Or rather have been tied to policies for decades.”

  “Not a bad take,” Jim said.

  “I don’t actually agree with it, by the way.” Michael shook his head. “Also, I think you’re taking the moral high ground.”

  “How so?”

  “That there’s a right way to make money, something like that?”

  “No. I don’t care how people make money as long as it’s legal. My work is about the principles of economics that underpin society; economics derived from work, trade, productivity. That’s why it works, Michael—the modeling. The part of economics that deals with making money out of money? Interest, loans, stock exchanges? That’s up to the individual, or groups of individuals. Our work is about wealth as an index of societal well-being.”

  Jim was glowing. This was what he lived for, someone asking him what his work was about. Michael started to interrupt, but Jim put a hand up.

  “All I did is take that idea—making money out of money—out of government economics, and bingo! The picture changed completely and the variables were clear. A tiny tweak here or there, on the order of point-zero-zero-one percent, whether applied to taxes, or to subsidies, or to welfare, can affect the balance.”

  A few people had stopped speaking, and a little circle had gathered around us, all of them listening closely, Alan Bunting among them. Alan spoke then, shaking his head. “I have no idea what all that means, sorry.”

  “Think of it as a magic formula,” I said quickly, “that will not just balance your budget, but pull it out of deficit and still achieve everything you want.” Jim stared at me, but I was better at explaining his work than he was. I didn’t need to read his paper; I already knew what it was about. How could I not? He’d spoken of hardly anything else in all the years that we had been together—seven years now—besides his dream to come up with the perfect government economics model.

  “We keep hearing so much about your magic formula, so where is it?” Michael asked.

  “I’d prefer to call it an EMT—efficient modeling template—and you can see it when enough generous people such as those here tonight contribute to the project,” Jim replied. “We’re so close, Michael. We’re at the finish line, but we need support to get over it.”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it? Your model will be more likely to benefit the poorer members of society, and yet it cost a cool two thousand to even get in the door of this event tonight.”

  “It’s not designed to benefit anyone,” Jim corrected him. “We’re data miners, and we have so much of it available to us, for the first time in history. So, what if you, being an economics adviser, had a template, a recipe, where you could just tweak this parameter or that value, very slightly, on the order of less than one percent, but very precisely, and come up with policies where everyone in this country gets an education; everyone gets a job”—Jim was counting on his fingers to make his point—“no one is poor; the rich are still rich; the roads are built, and so are the bridges; everything works; housing is affordable to everyone; everyone is healthy because healthcare is available and affordable, including preventive healthcare; water is available and clean; pollution is negligible. And that’s just to start with. Would you use that template?”

  There was a beat before Michael roared with laughter. “You’re serious? It sounds a lot like some socialist propaganda to me, buddy!”

  “Well, it’s not. It’s pure, sustainable, demonstrable, political economics.”

  “You show me that template, as you call it, and I’ll tell you whether I’ll use it,” Michael said.

  Jim smiled. “Okay, in good time, you’ll see it.”

  “I think you may have to show Jim a check to get that template,” I said, because, hey, I was sold. “Get in on the ground floor.”

  “Ha! You’re right.” And to my delight, Michael literally pulled out a checkbook from his inside pocket. “You do have my curiosity piqued, Jim, I’ll give you that.” Terry offered his back as a surface to write on. I heard people laugh and turned to see quite a few more people had joined us.

  “There you go,” Michael said with a flourish. “Ten thousand dollars. I hope that will go some way toward that template, or whatever you call it, and it better be a good one.”

  Everyone clapped, and then hands shot up. If Michael McCann was prepared to pay that much, then they would too. The scene was amusing, with Jim, Terry, Carol, and I all offering our backs for people to write checks upon.

  I was very pleased with myself.

  5

  “Wow. How good was that? Amazing! Congratulations, my darling! Are you pleased?” I clapped my hands, did a fist pump. I was exhausted but exhilarated too. It was almost midnight and we were in a taxi, going home, finally. I beamed at Jim, expecting him to look like I did, on the top of the world, but he was staring straight ahead, silent. The taxi moved off the curb.

  I waited until we had joined the traffic and put my hand on his knee. “Everything okay?”

  Silence, then a sigh.

  “You’ve known about this for ages, Emma. Tonight was crucial to me. Not just for the Forum, for the money, but for me. It’s my work; I need to impress the people who believe in me.” His mouth was tight, angry. “And you waltz in late because you had something more important to do.”

  He paused, and I waited; I knew it wasn’t over. We were both looking in opposite directions.

  “I don’t understand you. How hard can it be to get there on time?”

  “Darling, I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t think I’d be so late, and yes, it all happened at the last minute, but—”

  “I know, you told me. Never mind, Em.”

  We drove in silence for a while. It started to rain.

  “I did text you, you know. Twice,” I said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You could have replied.”

  “What for? It’s not like you were asking me anything, you were just telling me that you couldn’t be there.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. I was saying that a lot to Jim lately and wasn’t sure why. I worked hard to keep him happy—not that I minded. I loved him so much. My Jim. My husband. My life.

  He had seemed a bit on edge of late, but I thought it was the pressure of the new job. It was a dream job. A Research Director in economic policy—tailor-made for him. They’d sought him out, headhunted him. He was so smart, and so experienced, so passionate. So when he’d found out he was the successful candidate, we danced in the living room, we drank champagne—we were so happy, both of us. I was as happy for him as he was for himself.

  “This is a great opportunity for me. For us. And I want you to be by my side, you understand? Make a good impression. Be a part of the team, Em. We talked about this.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Jim. I really am.” I didn’t know what else to say. Neither of us spoke again until we reached our little h
ouse, some forty minutes later.

  Jim had started to hint recently that we should move to an apartment in Manhattan, so we could be closer to work. We could afford it now, he said. But I loved my little house in Woodhaven, and I loved our neighborhood. I was in no rush to leave.

  Jim paid the driver. He didn’t look at me, and I had that too-familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach that he was disappointed in me. I was exhausted by how much I wanted him, because I knew, deep down, that I was the one who loved more in this relationship, and my entire existence was a balancing act between being desirable enough that he would love me, but not so needy or dependent that I’d drive him away. Everything I did, everything I was, was underpinned by the fear that I might get the balance wrong and slip off the tightrope. One false move and it would all be all over, or at least that’s how it felt. Like he was waiting for that excuse to extricate himself from me.

  It was stupid. I was stupid. I didn’t know why I did that to myself.

  “I’m sorry too, Em,” Jim said finally as we both got out of the taxi, and my heart sang, the tension that had gripped my stomach instantly releasing its hold. He turned to look at me, gave me a little smile, and said, “Come on, let’s go in.”

  We walked up to the front door, hand in hand. I’ll feed us, I thought. That’s it, that’s what we need. I was about to go straight to the kitchen but he stopped me, put his hands on my shoulders, and said, “I overreacted, I know, I’m just—God, overwhelmed by this job, I think. I wonder if I’m in over my head sometimes.”

  It was such a candid thing for him to say that tears pricked at the back of my eyes. I led him to the kitchen and poured us each a glass of wine. We stood on either side of the kitchen island, and I looked into his adorable face.

  “Jim, look, it’s completely normal to feel that way. It’s a huge step in your career, darling. And you will find your feet, you’ll see. Not long now.”

  “I know. I’m just overtired. I don’t actually feel that way. I don’t know why I said that.” He took a swig of his wine.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “I love you too.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  I laughed and pulled ingredients from the refrigerator to make us a snack. We didn’t speak, but we were in a sweet place, just gentle with each other.

  While we ate our sandwiches, I told him about Beatrice’s coming into the store, but I didn’t tell him exactly how excited I was, how impressed, how pleased that she seemed to like me so much. He didn’t really know who she was anyway. I’d given him two of her novels, but I don’t think he’d ever read them.

  Then I told him about my delivery experience, and I made it sound funny, playing it up completely. We laughed a lot. I did a not-too-bad imitation of Margaret Greene’s snobbery, her wanting to give me a tip. He said I should have accepted it, and he pretended to be me receiving the tip, making faces of shock and outrage at the meagerness of it. He called her Lady Gan-Greene.

  It was nice, really nice.

  6

  I was still thinking about her two days later, at the store, trying to concentrate on some paperwork at the same time, when the phone rang.

  “I wanted to thank you, Emma. For bailing me out the other day,” she said.

  My heart took a leap. Lord, what a beautiful voice she had, a little deeper than most women, which gave her even more . . . What was it—confidence, class? It was a warm, honeyed voice and I was thrilled to hear it. I told her I was delighted to help, instantly forgetting the trouble it had caused me.

  “Emma, the reason I called is I want to thank you properly,” she said. “I’m not joking when I say you helped me out of a tight spot. You met the dragon, I presume?”

  I laughed. “I did, yes.” I wasn’t going to elaborate, but there was no point in pretending I didn’t know who she was talking about.

  “Well, then you see why I stayed away. Emma, I know it’s very short notice, but are you free for lunch? I was hoping I could take you out somewhere.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that.” It was my stock response to anyone wanting to do something nice for me.

  “Please, I’d like to. You really did me a huge favor—let me take you out for lunch. I enjoyed meeting you so much yesterday, so this is a selfish act on my part, really. I’d like your company. No, I would very much like your company, if you’re free.”

  I found it so strange, the way she said exactly what she felt, without stopping to think about how it would sound, how it would look. I admired her for that—me, who was always second-guessing myself. I wanted to learn from her.

  “Thank you, Beatrice. I’d like that very much.”

  “Oh, I’m so pleased. I’ll book us a table at L’Ambroisie. Is that all right?”

  “Oh Lord! Are you sure?”

  “Of course. Shall we meet at one? Or is that too soon?”

  I checked my watch. That gave me barely forty minutes to get there, but I could do it. “That’s great. Thank you, Beatrice. I’ll see you there.”

  As soon as I entered the restaurant, I wished I’d worn something more special for the occasion, but then I decided not to dwell on it. It was such a generous gesture on her part, and I was sure she didn’t care what I wore.

  She hadn’t arrived yet, but the maître d’ was expecting me and escorted me to our table. I was surprised she’d gotten a reservation on such short notice; the restaurant was completely full. But, of course, she could get a table there whenever she liked. This was Beatrice Johnson Greene: they’d have fallen over backward to accommodate her. I couldn’t help feeling a touch smug, sitting there at one of the best tables in the room, scanning the menu while I waited, relieved that the prices were not listed.

  I looked around at the decor, as I usually do. I can’t help it. When I first walked in, I thought it a little too dark for my taste, with its wood-paneled walls and draped windows, especially for a lunch date, but now that I’d adjusted, I realized it was perfect.

  I checked my watch discreetly. Maybe I’d misunderstood the time. I tried to remember: Did she say one? But then there was a shift in the air and there she was.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said, sitting down. “Oh, who am I kidding, I’m always late, I don’t know why. It’s in my bones. Well, never mind, we’re here.” She smiled. “It’s lovely to see you, Emma.”

  “It’s nice to see you too, Beatrice.” I had to pinch myself. Here I was, with this incredible woman I’d admired from afar for a long time. I expected everyone to be staring at her, but they hardly noticed her, or if they did, I suspected it was because of her looks. She was a stunning-looking woman. Could it be that not everyone knew who Beatrice Johnson Greene was? Was it possible they didn’t realize she was there, in their midst, lunching with me?

  “This is a wonderful place,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “You haven’t been here before?”

  “No, never.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat,” she replied as the maître d’ arranged the napkin on her lap. He nodded his appreciation of her compliment. I rushed to set my own napkin, feeling embarrassed at the thought of him doing it, telegraphing how out of place I was there, how out of my league.

  “Will you have some wine?” she asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t usually drink at lunchtime, to be honest.”

  “Go on, it’s just us girls, let’s let our hair down and live dangerously.” She quickly scanned the wine list.

  I laughed. “Okay, let’s, then.” And it felt great to say it. God, I was happy.

  “I’ll get the sommelier, madam,” the maître d’ said. He made a quick gesture to attract his attention, but she stopped him.

  “No need, Alain, I know what we’ll have. A bottle of the Barth. Thank you.” She handed him the wine list and turned to me. “I’m glad you could make it, Emma, and let me apologize again—wait, did I apologize at all?”

  “What for?”

 
“For dragging you into my life’s complications.” She shook her head.

  “It wasn’t that complicated, Beatrice.” Beatrice. I loved saying her name. My friend Beatrice. I tried it on for size: Have you met my friend Beatrice? Oh, do you know her? Beatrice Johnson Greene! The writer! Yes! That’s my friend Beatrice!

  “Well, it was generous of you to help me. So, thank you,” she said.

  I snapped back to the present. I was here, for goodness’ sake.

  I was about to contradict her again, but the sommelier arrived with a bottle of something that looked like pink champagne.

  “Monsieur Raymond, as always, your timing is exquisite.” She winked at him as he served us. I didn’t think I could get through half a bottle, but never mind. We were letting our hair down.

  “No, leave it here.” She put out a hand to stop him from taking the silver ice bucket to the sideboard a few feet away. She leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Do you think they do that to stop us from drinking too much?” she whispered. “Making us ask for a refill every time? You’d think that would be bad for business.”

  We ordered food, and as we were sipping our drinks, we asked about each other’s lives. Where do you live? Are you married? Do you have children? It turned out we were both married with no children, although I still wished for one or two very much, and at the age of thirty-two I still had a very good chance, I thought. I hoped.

  “Not me,” she said. “Well, obviously not me—even modern medicine isn’t that good yet. Or maybe it is? Anyway, I’ve never wanted children, and children have never wanted me.”

  “What about George?” I asked, then quickly regretted it. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”

  “George doesn’t care one way or another,” she replied, ignoring my discomfort. “He knew when he married me I didn’t want a family, not like that. He’s never asked me if I’ve changed my mind in the thirty-four years we’ve been married.”

  “Really!” I blurted out.

  “Is that so surprising? My books are my children. My friends are my family. We live a charmed life, George and I. Why ruin it with children?”