I follow.
I was asked by one of our weekend supplements to write a short feature about Janice, which they published a few days ago – nothing that sounded like an obit, of course, just a look at her life and career to date. She’s still all over the news; there’s been no sighting of her and the police appear to have drawn a blank. Readers want to hear more about her life.
We receive complaints all the time on the obits desk, mostly because grieving relatives frequently believe it’s our role to nurture their loved one’s personal propaganda machine. When we don’t write a misty-eyed hagiography, and instead publish a truthful account of the deceased – crime, bigotry, sexual misdemeanours and all – they tend to send furious letters. But the Janice feature I wrote last week is unequivocally positive, and the piece was well received online. I’m surprised someone’s objected.
‘It was actually Jeremy Rothschild who complained,’ Jim says, as I sit down at the empty meeting table. ‘He was upset that you included the story of Janice leaving the psychiatric unit after they had their son.’
I frown.
He frowns back, with Senior Management steel.
One of the first things I did when writing this feature was to go back to the piece I found in our archive. It was very short – no more than a few photos of Jeremy and Janice leaving a psychiatric unit for mothers and babies, and a caption saying exactly that. The paper that published the photos has no morals, but they’re protected by an army of lawyers and they were smart enough not to speculate. The photos are more than enough to suggest Janice suffered a psychiatric emergency after giving birth.
I referred to this in the feature, of course. It would have been negligent not to mention a previous mental health crisis when she’s disappeared into thin air, and besides, the pictures are in the public domain – they’re hardly a secret. I’m quite sure other newspapers have found and written about them.
I say as much to Jim.
He nods, as if he understands, but says, ‘The photographs were devastating for her at the time – for both of them. Jeremy felt it was an insensitive inclusion at a time like this.’
I cannot believe I’m hearing this from a newspaper editor.
‘Are you telling me you’d want me to cover it up?’ I ask, after a pause.
Jim seems to have some sort of conflict with himself before shaking his head. ‘No. Of course not. To be honest, I’m as surprised as you about this. I suppose he must just be in a bad place – not thinking rationally. But he’s a good friend.’
Of course. They’re probably members of some expensive club, somewhere; them and the rest of modern journalism’s top tier. I notice how scuffed my shoes are. Jim is wearing very nice brogues.
‘I was straight with him,’ Jim says. ‘I told him that a retraction or apology would be out of the question. But I do think someone else should write the obituary, if Janice turns out to have . . . passed.’
I smile, briefly. Obituary writers are probably the only people on earth who aren’t afraid to say dead or died. It can be quite a sport watching other people flounder around with words like passing and loss.
‘We haven’t done anything wrong,’ Jim says. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong – if it’s the truth, we publish. But he’s a friend, and he’s very worried about his wife, and I don’t want to rub salt in the wound by having you write the obituary. That’s all.’
‘OK,’ I say, eventually. ‘But I’m surprised. I mean, for starters, we don’t byline our obits. He wouldn’t know who’d written it.’
‘Oh, I think he would. Your obituaries are brilliantly distinctive, Leo.’
In an industry entirely lacking in positive feedback, this is hands down the most lavish praise I have ever received. I try not to beam.