The Love of My Life(30)

I angle my screen away from passers-by and pull up the production crew on IMDb. I find him straight away: Robbie Rosen, the series runner. Less than thirty seconds after that, I discover via Twitter that he’s now an assistant producer at BBC Scotland in Glasgow. Gin and tea; my cats, Friends jokes and occasional telly stuff, his profile says. He looks about sixteen, and is wearing good make-up.

I half smile. Emma definitely hasn’t had an affair with this boy. But there’s still reason why his note has been kept in her file. She wanted to remember it, to look at it again some time.

Why? Who is he?

With some effort I tear myself away from his Twitter page to finish Billie Roland’s obituary.

*

Half an hour later, we’re done, and my mind returns to Robbie Rosen of BBC Scotland.

Glasgow University’s End of Life research unit is putting on a death conference on Thursday. I didn’t book because there wasn’t anyone of note speaking, but they’ve since confirmed Di Sampson, who writes quite literally the best obituaries in the world. I know they’d find me a place if I called them.

. . . For what reason? I ask myself. So that I have grounds to pop along to BBC Scotland afterwards? Interrogate some poor kid about a programme he worked on half a decade ago?

Somewhere across the newsroom floor, there’s a cheer and a scatter of applause. I look up, but they’re out of sight, somewhere in features.

What I do see, though, is Sheila, watching me.

‘Leo,’ she says. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes . . . ?’

She returns to her screen, but sends me an instant message: You’re a little red in the face.

I reply, because it’s too hot. It’s nearly 30 degrees outside. London is sweltering and thirsty.

I’m always here if you want to talk, she writes.

I look up at her again, and she’s just watching me, levelly, as she did when she was asking all those questions about Emma. I wonder if she used to do this during interrogation. It’s bloody unsettling.

After a long stare, she mimes, pint?

I shake my head, because it’s not even 11 a.m., so she sends another note.

You sure? You’re a man with a lot on his plate.

I write, Sheila. You seem oddly certain I’m having a crisis. IS there something we need to talk about?

And for a second – just a second – she pauses. And I think, she knows something about Emma.

I look up at her again.

What? I mouth. I almost don’t want to ask.

Sheila starts typing.

Nothing, she writes. But I know Kelvin’s asked you to write a stock for Emma, and if that’s what you’re doing, I suspect you’ll be feeling all sorts of unpleasant things.

Then: Sorry. I was actually just trying to be helpful. You know that’s not my strong suit.

I realise I’ve been holding my breath.

I have got to put a stop this. It doesn’t matter what happened with my parents, my adoption: that’s past tense. This situation with Emma is my present, and I must deal with it as a functional adult would. I need to talk to her, properly, and soon.

And while I’m at it, I must stop reading into everything Sheila says. She’s met Emma twice; they have no contact beyond me, no friends in common. Sheila simply saw Emma in Waterloo Station, an unexpected place, and was being nosy.

I write back and tell her again there’s nothing to worry about – I really am just hot – and I go to get some water.

. . . And yet, I still can’t quite let go. As I cross the newsroom floor I think about Emma’s papers, which have not reappeared in the green shopping bag. I’ve searched the house for the university letter: gone. The letter about her father: gone. The note from Robbie x: gone. I started flicking through the skeleton paperwork that remains in her cupboard, but I had no idea what I was looking for; what she might have taken out. And the further I looked, the deeper I was pulled into the black song of the past, into my parents’ spare room that day.

We are Emma and Leo. We’re a good couple. A great couple. So great our friends find us annoying; we’re not that couple whose relationship is riddled with secrets.

Aren’t we?

I decide in that moment that I’m going to Glasgow, and I will speak to Robbie Rosen.

Knowledge is power, we tell ourselves, only that’s a lie, too. I’m already way out of my depth.

I pick up the phone and call Glasgow University. I bring up Easyjet to book a flight. I message my university friend Claire, who works at BBC Glasgow, and ask if she’s around for coffee on Thursday afternoon. She responds straight away: YES! Fantastic! Can you come to the BBC? I’ll sign you in!

Finally, I log into an email account I’ve had for years, from my hack days. It’s not my real name. I email Robbie Rosen and ask if he’s available on Thursday for a quick chat about Emma Bigelow, because she’s been ill recently and I’m writing up a stock obituary. Forty minutes later, he replies to say he can.

It’s as easy as that.





Chapter Seventeen


EMMA


Something in me breaks when Leo’s sad. I can’t rest until I’ve solved whatever the problem is; I stop at almost nothing. But of course, it never works; it just drives him mad. It’s probably the only time he loses his temper.

Thankfully, Leo is nothing like me. When I have a problem he trusts me to deal with it howsoever I see fit. He’s never once questioned my need to escape to Alnmouth when dark clouds gather – he calls these my Times, and knows to take a back foot. ‘Go and reset,’ he’ll say, kissing me, at King’s Cross station. ‘And remember, I love you.’