The Love of My Life(26)

I referred to this in the feature, of course. It would have been negligent not to mention a previous mental health crisis when she’s disappeared into thin air, and besides, the pictures are in the public domain – they’re hardly a secret. I’m quite sure other newspapers have found and written about them.

I say as much to Jim.

He nods, as if he understands, but says, ‘The photographs were devastating for her at the time – for both of them. Jeremy felt it was an insensitive inclusion at a time like this.’

I cannot believe I’m hearing this from a newspaper editor.

‘Are you telling me you’d want me to cover it up?’ I ask, after a pause.

Jim seems to have some sort of conflict with himself before shaking his head. ‘No. Of course not. To be honest, I’m as surprised as you about this. I suppose he must just be in a bad place – not thinking rationally. But he’s a good friend.’

Of course. They’re probably members of some expensive club, somewhere; them and the rest of modern journalism’s top tier. I notice how scuffed my shoes are. Jim is wearing very nice brogues.

‘I was straight with him,’ Jim says. ‘I told him that a retraction or apology would be out of the question. But I do think someone else should write the obituary, if Janice turns out to have . . . passed.’

I smile, briefly. Obituary writers are probably the only people on earth who aren’t afraid to say dead or died. It can be quite a sport watching other people flounder around with words like passing and loss.

‘We haven’t done anything wrong,’ Jim says. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong – if it’s the truth, we publish. But he’s a friend, and he’s very worried about his wife, and I don’t want to rub salt in the wound by having you write the obituary. That’s all.’

‘OK,’ I say, eventually. ‘But I’m surprised. I mean, for starters, we don’t byline our obits. He wouldn’t know who’d written it.’

‘Oh, I think he would. Your obituaries are brilliantly distinctive, Leo.’

In an industry entirely lacking in positive feedback, this is hands down the most lavish praise I have ever received. I try not to beam.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll hand it to Sheila.’

It’s not right, though. How can Jeremy Rothschild, who embodies everything that is rigorous and impartial about journalism, object to us mentioning a part of Janice’s life that is already known? We’re a national newspaper! I pick at a lump of wool on my jumper, wishing I’d used the little comb Emma gave me for de-bobbling last week.

‘Great,’ Jim says. ‘Thanks.’

We get up and walk back to obits.

Jim’s gaze wanders to the haphazard Pinterest of deaths on the whiteboard above my desk; the spidery mess of my handwriting. Beside one of the names on my OBITS TO WRITE UP list are the words Shit! Apparently not yet dead! – also in my handwriting. He seems to linger on this.

‘Keep it up,’ he says, undecidedly, before leaving our corner of chaos and death.

I go for a pint at the Plumbers’. It’s full of colleagues, staring at their phones and pretending the others aren’t there. Sometimes I wonder if journalism has changed that much, or if we’re all still on Fleet Street at heart, drinking ourselves to death while we wait for a lead.

I call Emma, but she doesn’t answer. I suffer a brief surge of anxiety as the business of her graduation rears its head again, but I’m able to deflect it. I have the option of calling St Andrews University, or even Jill, if I want to dig deeper. Instead, I have chosen to trust my wife.

I do a quick scroll through Twitter in case any deaths have slipped through our net.

Then Twitter disappears, and Emma’s name takes over my phone screen.

‘HI!’ she shouts, when I answer. ‘Sorry! I’m at Milk with Ruby!’ Milk is our local family cafe. It’s maybe my least favourite place on earth, but they serve ice cream sweetened with some weird-sounding substance that makes all the middle-class parents feel better about themselves. There’s also a children’s tool station, and Ruby, unlike her parents, is really into DIY.

‘Thanks for calling back,’ I say. A tourist in the street stops to take photos of the words ‘CASK ALES’ on the window glass, as if he has discovered a bonafide sixteenth-century alehouse right here on Lower Belgrave Street.

‘EVERYTHING OK?’ Emma shouts.

‘Ish. Jeremy Rothschild made a complaint about me. He didn’t like a piece I did about Janice at the weekend, and I’ve been told not to write her obituary.’

‘I mean, I don’t care who writes her obit,’ I add, when Emma doesn’t say anything. ‘It’s more just the principle of it. Felt like my editor was taking a shit on me to keep his mate happy. Which I didn’t appreciate.’

Emma calls something to Ruby. Then: ‘Sorry, I was struggling to hear you. A complaint from who?’

‘Jeremy Rothschild,’ I repeat, as quietly as I can. But of course she can’t hear me.

‘Sorry, darling, who?’

‘Jere— Oh, look, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Hang on, did you say Jeremy Rothschild?’

‘Yes.’

‘What the hell?’ She sounds angry.

Here she goes. Already smiling, I decide against the second pint.