Page 32 of The Love of My Life
I wait. Ruby is still chatting away about tea plantations.
‘Oh, look, I’ll tell you when I see you,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to do this on the phone.’
‘Are you sure? Do you have news? Are you all right?’
‘I’ll see you on Tuesday,’ he says, and ends the call.
I close my eyes and tell myself everything will be OK. I’ve survived twenty years of this back and forth with him, after all.
Chapter Sixteen
LEO
When the Queen dies, a global response plan named Operation London Bridge will be set in motion by her private secretary. Prime ministers and presidents will find out first, but the international press will follow soon after. At my newspaper, we have twelve days’ coverage ready to go. At the BBC they have prerecorded TV packages ready, and staff carry out emergency drills every few months. The armed forces are on standby, your local village radio station is primed. Just say the word.
Obituary writers, on the other hand, need to operate at this level of preparedness for just about everyone. If a singer cancels his stadium tour, you can guarantee I’ll be writing his stock – what if he’s losing a battle with addiction? We have moles in politics, in finance, in theatre, film, the church and beyond. Basically, if you’re not looking good, we’ll be writing you up.
Someone always slips through the net, though. Someone we just weren’t ready for. Today it’s Billie Roland, celebrated mistress of half the cabinet in the early eighties. Heart attack in the middle of the night – she lay there for three days before her son let himself into her flat and found her.
I haven’t a clue why we didn’t have her written up in advance. All I know is that she had a dizzyingly busy and fascinating life, and that we are woefully behind. Everyone apart from Sheila is off, we’ve had to completely reshuffle tomorrow’s obituary page and the poet who was meant to have sent us his buddy’s obit by midday has disappeared into thin air. I’m racing against the clock to get Billie a half page vertical filed by our print deadline at 4 p.m.
It’s therefore completely unjustifiable that I’m googling the production team who worked on Emma’s BBC series. I’ve told myself it’s because I’d like to get one of them to say something about her for her stock obit, but, really, I just want to identify who ‘Robbie’ is.
Hey doll, I’m sorry I missed you this morning. Call me. I don’t want this to be goodbye ... Robbie x
It’s not that I think this is a lover’s note, left on an empty pillow – Emma would never have an affair with someone who called her ‘doll’ – but there’s something here. Some connection I don’t know about. And I can’t help thinking there’s a reason why I don’t know.
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,Friendsjokes 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.
