‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll hand it to Sheila.’
It’s not right, though. How can Jeremy Rothschild, who embodies everything that is rigorous and impartial about journalism, object to us mentioning a part of Janice’s life that is already known? We’re a national newspaper! I pick at a lump of wool on my jumper, wishing I’d used the little comb Emma gave me for de-bobbling last week.
‘Great,’ Jim says. ‘Thanks.’
We get up and walk back to obits.
Jim’s gaze wanders to the haphazard Pinterest of deaths on the whiteboard above my desk; the spidery mess of my handwriting. Beside one of the names on my OBITS TO WRITE UP list are the words Shit! Apparently not yet dead! – also in my handwriting. He seems to linger on this.
‘Keep it up,’ he says, undecidedly, before leaving our corner of chaos and death.
I go for a pint at the Plumbers’。 It’s full of colleagues, staring at their phones and pretending the others aren’t there. Sometimes I wonder if journalism has changed that much, or if we’re all still on Fleet Street at heart, drinking ourselves to death while we wait for a lead.
I call Emma, but she doesn’t answer. I suffer a brief surge of anxiety as the business of her graduation rears its head again, but I’m able to deflect it. I have the option of calling St Andrews University, or even Jill, if I want to dig deeper. Instead, I have chosen to trust my wife.
I do a quick scroll through Twitter in case any deaths have slipped through our net.
Then Twitter disappears, and Emma’s name takes over my phone screen.
‘HI!’ she shouts, when I answer. ‘Sorry! I’m at Milk with Ruby!’ Milk is our local family cafe. It’s maybe my least favourite place on earth, but they serve ice cream sweetened with some weird-sounding substance that makes all the middle-class parents feel better about themselves. There’s also a children’s tool station, and Ruby, unlike her parents, is really into DIY.
‘Thanks for calling back,’ I say. A tourist in the street stops to take photos of the words ‘CASK ALES’ on the window glass, as if he has discovered a bonafide sixteenth-century alehouse right here on Lower Belgrave Street.
‘EVERYTHING OK?’ Emma shouts.
‘Ish. Jeremy Rothschild made a complaint about me. He didn’t like a piece I did about Janice at the weekend, and I’ve been told not to write her obituary.’
‘I mean, I don’t care who writes her obit,’ I add, when Emma doesn’t say anything. ‘It’s more just the principle of it. Felt like my editor was taking a shit on me to keep his mate happy. Which I didn’t appreciate.’
Emma calls something to Ruby. Then: ‘Sorry, I was struggling to hear you. A complaint from who?’
‘Jeremy Rothschild,’ I repeat, as quietly as I can. But of course she can’t hear me.
‘Sorry, darling, who?’
‘Jere— Oh, look, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Hang on, did you say Jeremy Rothschild?’
‘Yes.’
‘What the hell?’ She sounds angry.
Here she goes. Already smiling, I decide against the second pint.
‘I was honest about Janice’s mental health crisis after she gave birth to their son. He didn’t like that. Thought it was insensitive.’
‘You’re fucking kidding me!’
‘Nope.’
There’s a long silence.
Then: ‘Leo,’ Emma says. ‘Please don’t ever stop being the sort of person who wants to tell the truth. Jeremy Rothschild sounds like a complete megalomaniac.’