The Love of My Life(41)

‘When you and Emma parted ways, was it her decision or yours?’ I ask.

Mags sits back in her chair, visibly surprised.

She recovers quickly. ‘It was Emma’s decision, of course,’ she says. ‘May I ask why?’

That weightless feeling again. I think a tiny part of me still believed Mags would trash Robbie Rosen’s story. ‘It’s complicated,’ is all I manage.

‘I was shocked,’ Mags says. ‘But she didn’t sign with anyone else, so I supposed she meant it when she said she was done with TV.’

I nod wordlessly. Outside the sky is a perfect blue.

Jeremy and Emma. Emma and Jeremy. The picture of them sharpens focus, obscenely.

‘What’s this all about?’ Mags repeats. She leans forward on her elbows, watching me. I think she’s had her teeth whitened.

‘Emma told me you let her go,’ I reply. ‘She was heartbroken. She went off to spend three weeks on the coast, recovering. I don’t – I don’t understand why she said one thing and you’re saying another.’

Mags frowns. In the background I can hear phones and a giggled conversation in some corner. Mags’ agency is the oldest and largest in the entertainment business, their website says.

‘I can show you the termination letter she sent if you don’t believe me,’ Mags says. ‘I remember it well. I left her a voicemail – asked her to have a proper think about it – but she wouldn’t talk to me. I emailed her, even wrote her a letter, but she was having none of it. Just sent me a note saying she was done with television.’

She scratches her elbow. ‘I still receive fifteen per cent of her BBC Worldwide royalties, though, so it wasn’t all for nothing.’

Emma had sobbed on my shoulder and told me she’d been dropped. What was she really crying about? What was going on? I feel dizzy just contemplating the possibilities.

Mags is studying me carefully. ‘Emma was having a bad time. Bear that in mind, won’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I say vaguely. I’m too hot. I undo a button of my shirt, and look pointedly at the aircon unit above Mags’ desk, which is not switched on. ‘By “a bad time” you mean her cancer diagnosis – right?’

Mags picks up a pen that she rolls between the finger and thumbs of both hands. ‘I actually meant her being sacked from the BBC. But yes, the cancer news was bloody terrible, too.’

‘Right. Well, on that subject, can I ask if you know why the Beeb sacked her? She told me at the time it was all a bit vague and nobody could really explain it – a new commissioner, something like that. But I’ve since heard it wasn’t vague at all.’

Mags continues to roll the pen. ‘Have you two split up?’ she asks.

I tell her we have not. Then, after a brief internal struggle, I level with her.

‘Look, Mags – I apologise. I’m poor at lying. The reason I’m here is that I’ve discovered Emma has misled me about a great number of things. I’m getting my facts straight before speaking to her later.’

Mags thinks about this for a moment. ‘Sounds difficult,’ she says. ‘But it’s not appropriate to involve me.’

She places the pen on the desk, then picks it straight back up. I think this is rattling her.

‘I agree it’s not appropriate,’ I say. ‘And this isn’t how I’d behave, normally, but I’m desperate. Will you at least tell me why the BBC got rid of her – if you know, that is?’

‘Of course I know.’

‘But you won’t tell me?’

‘No. If Emma didn’t tell you, I won’t.’ The set of her jaw tells me she means it.

‘Well then – I guess I’ll get going.’

‘I think that’s a good idea. Nice to see you again, and goodbye!’ says Mags.

In another time, I might have smiled, but not now. I sag in my chair. ‘Oh, look. Please will you help me out?’

‘I can’t.’ Mags looks at her watch. ‘And I really do have to get going. Leo, I urge you to go home and speak to Emma. That’s the best I can offer.’ She throws me a stinging smile and then snaps her laptop shut.

There’s nothing for it.

‘Your husband,’ I say, as she places the laptop in a sleeve. ‘We have a stock obituary on file for him.’

She stops what she’s doing, but says nothing. Mags’ husband was the political editor for ITV for years. He hasn’t been an honourable sort of a man.

‘A mutual friend told me several things about him. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person they confided in, so none of it has made it to the stock yet.’

I jam my hands between my legs, where they dance and jitter. This had seemed like a good idea on the train, but I’m not that sort of hack. I never have been – it’s why I ended up in obits.

‘Oh, forget it,’ I mutter. ‘I’m sorry. That’s blackmail.’

Mags is watching me with disgust. She doesn’t say a word.

I scrape back the chair. ‘People do awful things when they’re desperate, don’t they? Just – forget I was here.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Mags snaps. She almost throws her laptop back onto her desk. ‘The reason the BBC—’