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

by Natalie Barelli

  I haven’t really thought this far. For a moment, I contemplate throwing my glass at her and walking out, but I need to know what she knows, and especially what proof she has. If any.

  “Why would you even say that?”

  “Because it was my idea.” She leans forward and pokes an index finger into my chest. “My idea, you little bitch.”

  I don’t say anything. I can tell from her tone she’s desperate to tell someone, and who better than me? I don’t need to incriminate myself with questions. I put my handbag down on the bar, next to the bottle; settle myself on the armchair opposite her, make myself comfortable, and wait for the rest.

  She leans back on the couch. “I told Beatrice,” she says, “don’t publish this under your name, they’ll crucify you, the critics will. You’re a woman, you’re a commercial fiction writer. Test the waters first.”

  She takes a sip.

  “She was going to do it under a pen name, but I told her, forget it—it’s too hard. You can’t do interviews, you can’t do photo shoots. No, you need a stand-in.”

  A stand-in. I heard that very word from Beatrice, that fateful day.

  “And then you came along. She called me. ‘I found her,’ she told me, ‘the stand-in. She’s perfect. You absolutely have to meet her, Hannah.’ ”

  “At dinner, at her house,” I say.

  “And, boy, you were perfect. A puppy dog, madly in love with Beatrice. I told her, ‘You couldn’t have picked a better one if you’d put an ad on Craigslist.’ Oh, how we laughed at you.”

  She looks quite deranged, a grimace on her face, her head thrown back. It occurs to me she might be more dangerous than I anticipated.

  “Still laughing?” I ask her.

  She snaps her head back toward me. “But you had to go and ruin everything. Frankie Badosa!” She sputters his name with contempt. “I was supposed to represent you, obviously, to sell the book to a prestige imprint.”

  “You’re sure about that, Hannah? Because Beatrice certainly gave me the impression that you were not supposed to represent me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She said if it was you, then people might guess she had written it. Too close to home, she said. In fact, she was very insistent that she would find someone new.”

  Hannah reaches behind her to grab the bottle and refills her Scotch. I know the feeling.

  “Beatrice was a bitch,” she says, matter-of-factly.

  “Tell me about it.” I didn’t mean literally, but it’s too late.

  “I worked with that woman for twenty years. Twenty years of my life I spent massaging her ego, making her a success, taking an unknown and turning her into the bestselling female crime writer of the last decade, did you know that?”

  “I’m sure you did well for yourself out of it,” I say, looking around the expensively furnished room.

  “But she lost it—she lost her mojo. Did you read her last two books? They were awful. She wasn’t into it anymore. They didn’t sell well and she blamed me.” She does that finger-jabbing thing again, at her own chest this time. “Me! I made her, but even I can’t turn water into wine. So she wanted to dump me, change agents. She said I’d become complacent, that I wasn’t working hard enough for her anymore.”

  “Wow, that’s harsh.”

  “She fired me via email, can you believe it?”

  “Well, look, I’m sorry to hear all that—sounds rough, it really does—but what does it have to do with me? If she fired you, then you wouldn’t have been the agent for Long Grass Running anyway.”

  “She wanted to change genres, and she didn’t think I was a good fit.” She almost spits out the last words. “Frankly, changing genres now, at this point in her failing career, wasn’t a good idea. Certainly not switching to literary fiction, that’s for sure. What a bitch! I can’t say I was sorry when I heard she’d died. I wouldn’t have wished it or anything, and the timing was off. If she could have fallen down the stairs after revealing herself as the author, well, that would have been much better.”

  “So if you knew about the novel, why did you call me about that old outline you’d found?”

  She laughs. “There was no old outline, Emma. I was just messing with your head.”

  “I see. And the Amazon reviews, the phone calls; that was all to blackmail me? You want a million bucks—I get it. You people are all the same. Well, as it happens I don’t have a million bucks. So you can get back in line.”

  “A million bucks? You must be joking. I want to be your agent, and I want back pay—you bet I do.”

  “But the note—” I don’t finish the sentence. Instead I mentally facepalm. What are the odds that Jim would ask me for a million dollars, and the next day there’d be a note asking for the same amount on my doorstep? Was that even intended for me?

  I wave the thought away. I can’t make any sense of it yet.

  “Okay, so here we are”—I look again around the room admiringly—“having a drink together, which is nice. We’ve been trying to catch up for ages. Anyway, I’m glad we’ve finally managed it, but again it begs the question: What is it you want, Hannah?”

  “Are you deaf or something? I just told you. I’m your agent now. You and I will sign a contract right here, and you will reimburse me all the commission I should have been earning. And more—we’ll call it interest on past due amounts.”

  “I see.” I’m not exactly sure how she thinks she’s going to make me, but no doubt I’ll find out.

  I lower my hand beside the armchair without changing my gaze, and gently pour the Scotch onto the carpet, very slowly, so it doesn’t make any noise, still looking at her. Then I stand up and go to the counter where the bottle is.

  I reach out my hand toward her constantly empty tumbler—that woman can drink me under the table—and she hands me her glass without looking.

  “Do you have any ice?” I ask. She turns her head to me, about to tell me to fuck off or something, but then goes out of the room, presumably to the kitchen.

  I rifle through my bag and pull out the bottle of pills Dr. Craven prescribed. I’m in awe of my own steady hands. I didn’t know I had it in me. I grab a cocktail muddler from Hannah’s impressively complete set of barware and crush at least half a dozen pills into the bottom of her glass, getting them down to a fine powder by the time I hear her start to walk back from the kitchen. Just as Hannah comes back with a small bucket of ice—the vintage type, with silver mesh on the outside, very pretty—I pour two fingers of Scotch into her glass, then mine. I grab the tongs and drop a couple of cubes into my Scotch.

  I turn to her, holding up the tongs. “You?”

  She shrugs. Good, I think, it’ll be easier to mix and mask.

  I hand her glass back to her and go back to my very comfortable armchair.

  “You need to start on that memoir, if you haven’t already. I can sell that,” she says, as if it’s all been settled, then downs half her drink in one gulp.

  “I’m still gathering my thoughts.”

  “Well, don’t gather too long. I’m going to type up that contract.” She walks toward the door with her Scotch, taking sips as she goes, and I assume she’s going to a study of some sort somewhere else in the house, but no, she pulls out a portable desk from a little nook I hadn’t noticed. There’s a small laptop and a printer. She pulls up a chair, sits down, opens the laptop, and starts typing. The woman is efficient, I’ll give her that.

  I have no idea how many pills it’ll take to put her to sleep, let alone what I should do when she is. I’m making a show of scanning the bookshelves opposite, when suddenly there’s a loud thump, and I turn and have my answer: Hannah has fallen off the chair and is sprawled on the carpet.

  I crouch next to her and shake her. “Hannah, wake up. Are you okay?”

  She opens her eyes slowly, mumbles something I don’t understand.

  “It’s okay. Here, let me help you up.” I reach under her arms and try to lift her, but she’s too heavy. “Hann
ah, come on—wake up!” I slap her, like I’ve seen in the movies. It feels fantastic.

  She mumbles again and dribbles a little but manages to move her arms, and after an eternity I maneuver her upright and drag her back over to the couch.

  I’m panting with exhaustion. I tell her I’ll go find help and look around the living room until I spot a scarf hanging off the back of a chair.

  I wrap the scarf around my hand and run out of the room, looking for her bathroom. I find it and rummage through the vanity drawers until I see what I’m looking for—a bottle of sleeping pills, almost full—and I give a mental prayer of thanks to the pharmaceutical industry of this country, which has made sure every household is well stocked with barbiturates. I snatch a bottle of Asendin while I’m there—better safe than sorry—and I also grab a lipstick from the top of the vanity.

  Back downstairs, Hannah’s still moaning and drooling on the couch. With my hand wrapped in the scarf, I open the mail application on her laptop and search for Beatrice Johnson Greene. An email thread titled “the puppy” draws my attention, and I read it. It makes my stomach churn.

  The puppy refuses to be trained, it starts. Beatrice is complaining bitterly that I’m not following her orders and lists many “mistakes” I apparently have been making. My name’s never mentioned, nor is the title of the book. She closes with: That’s it, I’m pulling the leash.

  But it’s the latest email thread I’m interested in. The one dated two days before Beatrice died.

  Re: Sales Report

  Hannah, thank you for forwarding the monthly sales report. I note your comment that it’s not our best. I’d like to correct you there: it’s not your best. It reiterates what I have been discussing with you over the last few months. I am appalled at your attitude and lack of professionalism. I have been in discussions with Evans & Marks and have decided to retain their services as of today. Therefore, please consider this email notice of the termination of our contract, effective immediately.

  Regards,

  Beatrice Johnson Greene

  I press “Print” and gingerly lift the page from the printer, making sure not to make contact between my skin and the keyboard or the paper. Then I fill up Hannah’s glass with the rest of the Scotch and swirl it around.

  “Here,” I tell the whimpering, dribbling Hannah, “it will make you feel better.”

  I take her right hand in my wrapped one and make her hold the lipstick. “Let me help,” I tell her. I hold the printed email against my knee, propping it up so that she can reach it.

  You’re a fucking bitch, is what we manage to write with the lipstick across the page—and it’s no easy feat, let me tell you. It’s sort of legible, enough anyway. I drop the page on the floor, let the damaged lipstick fall onto Hannah’s chest.

  I pop as many pills as I can into her drink, using the muddler to crush them as much possible. Then I lift her head and pour the contents between her lips.

  “Come on, there you go, gulp gulp gulp—that’s it, good girl. Here, this will help you.” I pour some more Scotch into her mouth, but she coughs and half of it trickles onto her chin.

  Stupid woman. Her head’s wobbling on top of my hand, like one of those weird toys people used to put on their dashboards, those dogs with the head bobbing up and down and sideways. It’s also surprisingly heavy.

  “Make an effort, Hannah. You’re not a child, for Christ’s sake—hurry up!” I give her more Scotch, and now she’s swallowing: great.

  I keep feeding her pills, and when I’ve made sure she’s ingested them all and the rest of the Scotch, I gently rest her back on the couch and watch her for a moment. Her eyes are open. I don’t know if that’s a good sign, and when I say “a good sign,” I mean a sign that she’s about to check out. I can barely see her pupils, they’re so far up her eyelids.

  If this doesn’t work, I have a whole lot more of my own pills, but I really hope I won’t need to use them. I leave her there, softly open the front door, and check outside. It’s very quiet at this time of night. I make sure the front door is going to stay ajar, then crouch down, quickly cross the road to my car, and quietly open the trunk. From beneath the spare wheel, I pull out the plastic bag that holds the shoes I was wearing when I killed Beatrice. Did those detectives really think I would put them back in my closet? Seriously, with police work like that, no wonder this country’s going to the dogs.

  Softly, softly, I close the trunk and crouch down again, listening. Still deadly quiet. I sprint back across the road and through the door, which I close gently behind me, and run up the stairs to shove the bag into her closet, right at the back, after I wipe off the bag and the shoes to get rid of my fingerprints. I am leaving nothing to chance. I thank my lucky stars that we’re the same shoe size, which I know because she tried my shoe on that day, the day I first met her.

  Back downstairs, I stand in the doorway and look at her poor sad body on the couch. Considering the massive cocktail I’ve just administered, I don’t need to take her pulse to know it’s over, but I do anyway. Measure twice, cut once, right?

  I make sure to wipe anything I touched earlier, like the tongs from the ice bucket, and clean any traces of the crushed pills off the muddler. Then I take the glass I drank from and shove it into my bag. This time, when I walk out the door, I make sure it’s securely shut behind me.

  There’s no sign of life in this quiet, expensive neighborhood. I turn the key one notch in the ignition, without starting the engine; shift into neutral; release the handbrake; and gently, slowly, let the car roll down the hill.

  37

  All I want to do is go to bed, by the time I get home. I am more exhausted than I can say, but also extremely satisfied after a job well done.

  “Where have you been?”

  I turn on the light in the living room. “Christ, you scared me, Jim. Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

  “You should have been home hours ago. Where were you?”

  “Oh, you know, here and there, busy busy busy. Had fun at your dinner? Nice people, I thought.”

  And then I see it—the large suitcase on the floor by his feet.

  “Oh, sorry, darling, you’re going somewhere. You probably told me, but I completely forgot! Honestly, my brain these days!” I remove my own coat and fold it over the back of the nearest chair. “Although in my defense, I’ve had a lot on my plate,” I add.

  “I’m leaving, Em.” He stands up and buttons his coat. I’ve never seen this coat before. It’s some kind of raincoat, nicely cut, expensive.

  “I can see that, Jim, and I’m glad I caught you. Where are you going again?”

  “I’m leaving you.” He bends down and picks up his suitcase. “This can’t be a surprise.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “I’ll get my things picked up later in the week.”

  “You’re leaving me?”

  “Come on, Em. This must be what you want. It’s not like we’ve been close. You’re too busy with your publicity tours, your book signings, your career,” he snarls. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. There’s someone else in my life now. There has been for a while and I’m going to be with her. She understands my needs.”

  “Someone else?” I’m struggling to make sense of the words. He ignores me. “What do you mean? Who is it, Jim? Allison?”

  “Don’t go into hysterics, please.”

  “Is it because of the dinner?” He’s standing in front of me. I’m blocking the way to the front door.

  “Can I get past, please?”

  I’m rooted to the spot, completely paralyzed. He pushes me aside, walks past me. I’m grasping at straws.

  “You can’t leave! Jim, please! Let’s talk about this!” My voice has gone up an octave.

  “Don’t be difficult, Em, not this time.”

  “Difficult? Jim, Christ, I’ve had a really, really hard day here, sit down and talk to me, explain to me what’s going on here. Are you going to be with her? With All
ison?”

  He shakes his head at me, just like at dinner, a look of disgust on his face. “You need to be an adult about this.”

  “What about the money?” I ask.

  “You’ll get it back—I told you. Don’t make this about money, Em, all right? When you’ve calmed down, call me at work and we can make a time to discuss the details of our separation. You have a lawyer, right?”

  “A lawyer?”

  “For the divorce. I’ll have mine get in touch and you can discuss it with him.”

  He opens the front door. Nothing he’s saying or doing makes any sense, but my heart is breaking nonetheless.

  “Goodbye, Emma,” he mutters, before closing it behind him.

  And that’s when I faint.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been out like this, on the hard, wooden floor in my hallway, but the sun is up when I come to. I lift myself on my hands and knees and hold on to the corner of the hall table to help myself up. I feel bruised and broken as I move slowly to the kitchen. I sit at the table, bury my face in my arms, and I cry like I’ve never cried before, not even when my mother died.

  I don’t understand what’s happening, after everything I’ve just gone through. I was so close to being free—free to be happy with my life, free to really be the better me—and for what?

  I remember the pills in my handbag. That’s what I’ll do. And I’ll leave a note and make sure that Jim knows I’m dying for him, the bastard. See what the papers make of that! I’m already composing the suicide note in my head.

  My darling,

  I can no longer bear your cruelty. My life has become unbearable. I have tried everything to make you happy. I have given you all I have: my love, my tenderness, my support, and of course, all of my money, just as you asked, every cent I earned from the novel I wrote—the one I dedicated to you, remember? But none of that matters. Those sacrifices I have made gladly.

  It cheers me up no end to fantasize about what the papers will print, because of course I will find a way for them to get hold of it. Maybe I’ll email them a copy. Would that be weird? Maybe I should text Frankie to come and get me—I’ve taken the whole bottle, I’ll tell him. He’ll come right away, he’ll save me, he’ll find the note . . .