I believe him, even though there’s no hint of this in the Janice Rothschild we see on our screens. But what I’m really struck by is the absence of obvious damage in Emma. She’s had a few Times, over the years, and the postnatal depression, but none of these have lasted long. She’s not withdrawn, she’s not angry. She’s confident and trusting, and above all, she’s always so energetic and happy. Has it all been an act? Is that even possible? Surely nobody could spend ten years acting.
Another thought emerges.
‘Look,’ I say, slowly. ‘Forgive me for asking. But I don’t suppose you think . . . I don’t suppose you think there’s any way Janice has anything to do with Emma’s disa—？’
‘Stop,’ Jeremy says. ‘Stop there.’
‘I’m sorry. But you told me yourself that Janice threatened Emma after her court appearance. And I know that was years ago, but perhaps—’
‘No, Leo.’
‘I’m not suggesting Janice has done anything bad, or harmful to her, I just—’
‘Leo. Did you hear me tell you how fragile Janice is at the moment? Did you hear me say that – from the very beginning – it’s Emma who has been behind all the acts of aggression, of threatening behaviour? Janice hasn’t retaliated once. Nothing, not even in the face of unforgivable provocation.’
‘I accept that. But I—’
Jeremy carries on. ‘May I also remind you that you did not know until last night that your wife was born Emily Peel? That she has a child you knew nothing of? Leo, you are not sufficiently informed to be casting any aspersions about Janice, who, God knows, has suffered enough at Emma’s hands.’
Here he is. Here’s Jeremy Rothschild.
He walks calmly to the kitchen door. ‘It’s time for you to leave,’ he says. ‘My wife has had a breakdown and disappeared. I’m desperate with worry. And yet, in you come, wondering if she might have popped back to London to mete out some pathetic revenge on Emma. It’s tasteless, Leo. Tasteless and really very poor.’
‘Jeremy. Please. I apologise, I really didn’t—’
‘Oh, just get out,’ he says, suddenly tired. ‘Fuck off. Go.’
This is not how he ends his radio takedowns.
He stands by the kitchen door, not looking at my face, and seconds later I am standing on Highbury Place.
When I return to my car it has a parking fine stuck to the windscreen. After borrowing money from Jeremy to pay for the meter, it seems I failed to actually display the ticket.
Arsenal fans stream past me, singing, chanting, laughing. Sounds as though it was a home win tonight.
Chapter Forty-Nine
LEO
I pull out onto Highbury Corner. Rothschild had been so happy to spill the beans about Emma, her catastrophes and deceit, the harm she had caused. But it was a different story altogether when I asked one bloody question about Janice.
And then he just went for me, as if I were a lying politician. It was a humiliation I didn’t need – the man had just put my entire marriage through the shredder, for fuck’s sake.
‘Fuck you,’ I mutter, as I speed up Upper Street. （Why am I going this way? I don’t even live in this direction. I turn right onto Islington Park Street, to cut through Barnsbury.）
‘Fuck off,’ I say, loudly, to nobody.
I hit a speed bump I hadn’t even seen. ‘Fuck!’ I shout.
Tears are forming in the corners of my eyes now. Emma has disappeared. Emma doesn’t even exist.
‘FUCK!’ I yell, and I hit another speed bump. This time the bottom of the car scrapes the bump, and a pedestrian turns to look at this stupid driver, this speeding fool, destroying his car.