Page 45 of The Love of My Life
LEO
Mags Tenterden’s offices are in one of the new blocks at King’s Cross. I pause by the canal before going in, looking at the crowd of well-dressed young people lounging by the water on cushions. Why are they not at work at 3.45 p.m. on a Friday in June? When I was twenty-five I was slaving away on a hot newsroom floor for twelve hours straight, too fearful even to take a piss.
Behind them, children run shrieking between choreographed plumes of water. There is live music somewhere, and the workers queueing for late lunch at the street food stalls have their sleeves rolled up. Everyone is having a nice day.
I turn back to Mags’ office building and my stomach churns.
‘I don’t have a great deal of time,’ Mags tells me. She’s aged only fractionally since I saw her last, but seems even more fashionable than before. Her silver hair is cropped, and she wears large red glasses with a dress that is all Scandinavian angles. ‘Sit,’ she adds, pointing to a chair.
I almost laugh at her frosty welcome. When I first met Mags at the BBC transmission party forThis Landshe warned me ‘not to be a pain in the backside’ if Emma’s career took off. It had taken me so completely by surprise I’d been unable to swallow my G&T and just stood there, cheeks bulging like a hamster.
‘I won’t be long,’ I reply.
She watches me. I expected her to have a clichéd agent’s office, covered in yellowing photos and dust-gathering trophies, but this place is like a waiting room in a design consultancy. Blonde wood, architectural steel, white-painted walls and prints in slim black frames. There is nothing to suggest that this woman represents close to a hundred actors and television presenters.
‘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.
