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, Friends jokes 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.
After a long stare, she mimes, pint?
I shake my head, because it’s not even 11 a.m., so she sends another note.
You sure? You’re a man with a lot on his plate.
I write, Sheila. You seem oddly certain I’m having a crisis. IS there something we need to talk about?
And for a second – just a second – she pauses. And I think, she knows something about Emma.
I look up at her again.
What? I mouth. I almost don’t want to ask.
Sheila starts typing.
Nothing, she writes. But I know Kelvin’s asked you to write a stock for Emma, and if that’s what you’re doing, I suspect you’ll be feeling all sorts of unpleasant things.
Then: Sorry. I was actually just trying to be helpful. You know that’s not my strong suit.