The Love of My Life(37)

I stare out at the clouds creasing over the city, the dark dragon green of the River Clyde. I think about this morning’s conference, all the earnest talk of community remembrance spaces and respectful deaths. I had sat there, thinking about this encounter with Rosen, and had decided it would go really well. My journey of doubt and insecurity would come to an end in the BBC canteen, and we’d get on with our lives as a family without cancer.

The fact is that this meeting has made me feel much worse.

My phone pings, but it’s only Mum, checking my arrival time later. I’m going to stay with her and Dad tonight so I can help around the house tomorrow, give Mum a break from flu carer duties.

It’s all part of the family story we enact, these days. In this narrative I have completely forgiven them for lying to me about who I was, and everyone loves everyone again. Mum is the director, Dad and I the weary actors. But it keeps us ticking along. And who knows; in ten years I might even have convinced myself it’s all true.

*

I hand my visitor’s pass to the receptionist on my way out, and stop by a gigantic pool of rainwater. The air is cold; it smells of minerals and fresh earth – here, in the middle of the city, as if I’m in the Trossachs. I get out my phone and try to work out how to get to the airport. I don’t want to think about anything else.

I’ve just ordered a cab when Rosen runs outside. ‘Oh, hi!’ he calls. ‘I wanted to . . .’

I wait, as he pulls a jumper on.

‘You’re her husband,’ he says, when he’s done. He’s annoyed, but also pleased with himself. ‘I thought there was something weird going on. Then she called you! I remembered her husband was an obituary writer so I looked you up. What the hell? You told me your name was Steve.’

After a pause, I nod. ‘I . . . I’m sorry. It’s not appropriate for us to behave like that anymore. Journalists, I mean. I don’t know what I was . . . I’m sorry.’

He watches me. ‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he says. ‘But I know she adored you. She talked about you all the time. Why are you here, asking about her?’

I swallow.

‘I don’t know what’s going on either.’ I stare at the giant rainwater pool, rippling in the wind. ‘Her health is fine – she got the all-clear. But I think something’s going on at the moment. Something bad, that she won’t talk to me about. I also think it’s something you might know about. That’s why I got in touch. I’m sorry I misrepresented myself to you. I . . .’ I take a long breath. ‘I’m worried. About her, about us, about whatever it is you won’t tell me. But I know that doesn’t excuse me sneaking around like a scumbag reporter from a scumbag newspaper.’

Rosen is watching me, fascinated. He wasn’t expecting this at all.

‘Why are you here asking me questions?’ he asks. ‘Why aren’t you asking her? Did you two split up?’

I shake my head. ‘No. And I have asked her, but she keeps deflecting me. Everything’s fine, apparently.’

‘But why don’t you believe her? If she’s told you everything’s fine?’

I explain to him that in the process of writing Emma’s stock I’ve stumbled across some very confusing documents. ‘They were all concerning things that pre-dated us, though,’ I say. ‘But her sacking Mags Tenterden – that’s news to me. It’s happened while we were together, and she’s lied about it.’

‘Well, I mean, I could have got it wrong,’ Rosen begins, but then trails off. ‘No. I didn’t get it wrong, I’m sorry. Emma definitely sacked Mags.’

I beg him not to tell Emma I visited him. ‘Not until I get a better handle on what’s going on. I just need to . . . I just need to establish that she’s not actually in some sort of trouble.’

Rosen looks anxious. ‘Look, can I ask why you emailed me, not one of her close friends?’

‘Because Emma and her close friends are as thick as thieves, and I thought they’d go straight to Emma and tell her I’m digging around. And I didn’t want to upset her with the news that I’ve been writing her obit when she’s only just got the all-clear.’

Rosen thinks about this for a while. Then: ‘Are you genuinely worried about her?’ he asks.

I nod.

‘OK,’ he says, slowly. ‘OK. Listen – my loyalty’s always going to be to Emma, but I’ve had my concerns about what was going on back then. If she was in some sort of trouble I’d never forgive myself for covering it up. Especially if it’s kicking off again.’

Especially if what’s kicking off again?

‘She had a visitor, one time. When we were filming in Northumberland, for the second series. I was up until the wee hours every night, photocopying shooting scripts and – well, on our last night I saw her talking to a man in the hotel bar. Late, when she thought we’d all gone to bed. And I saw them in a cafe in London a few weeks later. Near Broadcasting House.’

I sink my hands in my pocket. My fingers are shaking. ‘Do you know who the man was?’

There’s a long silence.

Then: ‘Jeremy Rothschild,’ he says quietly. ‘You know? The broadcaster?’

Recent memories replay at a screaming speed, while everything else becomes slow and silvered. A taxi pulls up at the edge of the road and my phone starts ringing.