Rosen returns to the table. ‘Where were we? Oh yes, Emma ditching her agent. And commissioners being dicks.’ He leans back in his chair, and I realise how much he’s enjoying this. I suspect he’s rather overlooked in his job.
‘The worst thing about Emma’s dismissal was that they did it because some Big Knob BBC presenter insisted they sack her. I mean, who hates Emma that much? And why? It must have been someone pretty famous to have that sort of leverage.’
After a shaky sip from my teacup, I express my own surprise. ‘I’ve heard nothing about enemies,’ I admit.
‘Well . . . This can’t go on the record – nor can anything to do with the BBC, of course –’ I nod. ‘But not everyone loved Emma,’ he says. He’s really energised now.
‘Oh?’
Then my phone starts ringing, and it’s my wife. I immediately cancel the call, but not before her name and face have flashed up on my screen. Rosen thinks my name is Steve Gowing, and that I have never met Emma Bigelow. I look at him carefully, but his face remains impassive. I think – I hope – I’ve got away with it.
Either way, though, the interruption has broken our spell. ‘Oh, look, I should get going,’ he says, and I know from my years as a hack that he’s lost his nerve. ‘Can we leave it there? Those stories should be enough, right? It’s just that I have a meeting soon.’
I could have scripted it.
I give it one more try, but he won’t say any more. He tells me he’s got to get back to work; reiterates that the stuff about Emma’s dismissal is one hundred per cent off the record. Then he shakes my hand and is gone.
I stare out at the clouds creasing over the city, the dark dragon green of the River Clyde. I think about this morning’s conference, all the earnest talk of community remembrance spaces and respectful deaths. I had sat there, thinking about this encounter with Rosen, and had decided it would go really well. My journey of doubt and insecurity would come to an end in the BBC canteen, and we’d get on with our lives as a family without cancer.
The fact is that this meeting has made me feel much worse.
My phone pings, but it’s only Mum, checking my arrival time later. I’m going to stay with her and Dad tonight so I can help around the house tomorrow, give Mum a break from flu carer duties.
It’s all part of the family story we enact, these days. In this narrative I have completely forgiven them for lying to me about who I was, and everyone loves everyone again. Mum is the director, Dad and I the weary actors. But it keeps us ticking along. And who knows; in ten years I might even have convinced myself it’s all true.
*
I hand my visitor’s pass to the receptionist on my way out, and stop by a gigantic pool of rainwater. The air is cold; it smells of minerals and fresh earth – here, in the middle of the city, as if I’m in the Trossachs. I get out my phone and try to work out how to get to the airport. I don’t want to think about anything else.
I’ve just ordered a cab when Rosen runs outside. ‘Oh, hi!’ he calls. ‘I wanted to . . .’
I wait, as he pulls a jumper on.
‘You’re her husband,’ he says, when he’s done. He’s annoyed, but also pleased with himself. ‘I thought there was something weird going on. Then she called you! I remembered her husband was an obituary writer so I looked you up. What the hell? You told me your name was Steve.’
After a pause, I nod. ‘I . . . I’m sorry. It’s not appropriate for us to behave like that anymore. Journalists, I mean. I don’t know what I was . . . I’m sorry.’
He watches me. ‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he says. ‘But I know she adored you. She talked about you all the time. Why are you here, asking about her?’