The Love of My Life(52)

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

Sheila ends the call without comment, as is her fashion.

Jeremy is still watching me, when I open my eyes. He’s put the watch down, but it’s still there in front of him, a sad talisman.

‘I apologise,’ I say. ‘There was a message from Emma to you in her phone. A draft. It said, I know you are the father of my child. I’m not sure how else I was to interpret that.’

He nods, almost as if he saw this coming. ‘I can understand why you’d think what you did.’

He doesn’t offer anything else, but I sense that it’s on its way.

‘I know for a fact that Emma hasn’t had any other children,’ I continue. ‘I was there when Ruby was born. Things started to go wrong and they had to get her out with forceps. I clearly remember the obstetrician telling me this was common for a woman’s first delivery.’

‘Yes,’ Jeremy says, staring down at Janice’s watch. ‘I believe it is.’

‘And as you well know, I’ve seen photos of Janice shortly after she gave birth to your son, Charlie, so Emma can’t be referring to him either, when she talks about this child.’

Rothschild doesn’t say anything. It’s not even 8.30 p.m. and the man looks exhausted. I’ve been in the hellish uncertainty of trying to find my wife for less than twelve hours; I can’t begin to imagine how he’s borne it for two weeks.

‘So I have to ask what has been going on,’ I tell him, and my voice finally crumbles. ‘I don’t know who you are to my wife. Why would she call you the father of her child? And why has she changed her name? This whole thing is awful. Just unreal.’

‘It must be a terrible shock.’

I wait for him to say more but he doesn’t, so I go and sit at his table. ‘Please,’ I say, and I gesture for him to sit down. ‘Talk to me. Why are you trying to reach her? What’s going on?’

After a long pause, he lowers himself into a chair opposite.

‘Can you start off by telling me where she is?’

Rothschild pauses as he pulls in his chair. ‘What do you mean, where she is?’

‘Where Emma is.’

He looks confused.

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘No! What’s happened?’ He looks genuinely worried. ‘Is that what you meant when you mentioned the police to Sheila just now?’

‘She’s gone,’ I tell him, and a vault of panic opens up again. I thought this was how I’d find her. ‘She disappeared nearly twelve hours ago. She went to drop Ruby off at nursery and never came home. She left her wallet and phone in our bedroom . . . That’s why I called you. I found messages from you asking for a meet-up. I thought . . . I thought . . .’

‘That I’d – what? Kidnapped her? Killed her?’

‘I don’t know. I just want to know where she is.’

Jeremy takes this in, across his handsome oak table. I wonder how many dinner parties it has seen. How long it will be before people sit around it again.

He comes to life. ‘Of course. I’ll tell you everything I know. Do you think she’s vulnerable?’

‘She’s had depressive episodes in the past. But I wouldn’t say she’s been in a particularly bad place lately.’ I watch his face. This conversation must be horribly familiar. ‘Why? Do you really not know anything?’

Jeremy shakes his head. ‘I promise you, I have no idea where Emma is. None at all.’

‘Then what’s happening? You must be out of your mind about Janice, and now Emma’s missing too – I don’t understand any of this. Why did you say you needed to be in touch with Emma? What’s going on?’

What is going on is that I have lost my wife, my Emma, and gained in her place a stranger called Emily Peel. Although, in this moment, I don’t even have Emily Peel.

The streetlamp across the road from the Rothschilds’ house glows brighter as darkness creeps.

‘OK.’ Jeremy says. ‘I’ll tell you what I know. But only Emma can tell you exactly what happened, and why she did the things that she did. Some of them I can understand, others I don’t think I ever will. But, for what it’s worth, here’s my side of the story.’





PART II


EMILY





Chapter Thirty-Two


EMILY RUTH PEEL


Twenty years earlier

The night we met was like something from a film, Jill said at the time, but it’s hard for me to look back on it as anything more than a sordid night of student drinking.

Jill and I found him lying on a pavement on the Kinnesburn Road, at around 6 p.m. He was surrounded by his friends, who were laughing hysterically. ‘Dickheads!’ he was shouting, as if his friends were responsible for the fall. I doubted they were. He looked drunk; they all did. I thought they must be postgrads: they were at least ten years older than everyone else.

We gave them a wide berth because we’d already decided they were fools, these overgrown boys with their all-day drinking and attractive faces, but he caught my eye and begged me to help him because his friends wouldn’t, and we ended up getting drawn into their gang and drinking in the Whey Pat until closing time.

It was around nine, maybe ten, when Jill cornered me. ‘How do you do it?’ she whispered in my ear. Her breath was damp and gin-fumed. ‘They’re eating out of your hand, but you’re not even trying. Damn you, Emily, share your secrets!’