The Pursuit of Emma Read online

  Anger shot through me and was released in the form of me putting my fist through the plasterboard in our lounge. My best friend Jack Williams (the one who got engaged and provoked the holiday to Mallorca) was now pretty high up in the Warwickshire police and I was tempted to see if he could lodge a formal complaint, but I decided against it. I knew deep down the officer was right, even if he was an arrogant, ignorant, rude, obnoxious, high-pitched, slimy twat. I’d already woken Jack up once that night to ask about Emma. Better not make it two phone calls.

  Writing this all down on paper was just creating more questions, not answering any. None of this added up. Firstly, I still truly liked to believe we were in love. I can’t describe the hours I have racked my brain trying to work out what I could have done to upset her that much. There was literally nothing. So, if there was no reason to leave, why did she? Why would she disappear and destroy any way of ever getting in contact with her? Why had no one heard from her?

  I knew then I could never move on until I found the answers to those questions and the thousands more floating around and around in my head. I had to put a plan together. I was finally out of my coma-like state; I was ready for action. I decided right there and then that I would not rest, give up or stop until I had seen her one more time.

  I was going to find Emma.

  Chapter Two

  ‘What do you really know about this girl?’

  The voice from this probing question belonged to my mother. Ironically, this was the exact same question she asked me when I told her I was moving down to London.

  ‘London?’ she cried emphatically. ‘What do you want to go to London for? You hate big cities.’

  I tried to explain that I had fallen in love but I wasn’t getting my point across. I dare any twenty-something male to try to tell somebody he has fallen in love with a straight face. You tell your parents and they tell you you’re wrong. You tell your friends and they tell you you’re ‘a giant hairy fairy pansy,’ (not my words, the words of Jack Williams). You cannot win. I think that’s what Donny Osmond got so worked up about in ‘Puppy Love.’

  ‘What do you really know about this girl?’ my mum replied, upon hearing of my intentions to leave home.

  ‘Nothing really,’ I smiled back and at the time I remember thinking how exciting that was. It was an unknown adventure to fall into head first. But that was then.

  Now that question stung more. Mum knew I was hurting and wanted to help her son in any way she could but I could still sense that ‘mother knows best’ tone to her voice, crossed with a pinch of ‘I told you so.’

  ‘You must know lots about her. You were married for three years for goodness sake!’ Mum seemed to be losing her patience with me. She wanted to find Emma too, but I had a feeling a loving embrace wasn’t on the menu.

  ‘I...I...’ I stuttered. I knew lots of things about her, but none seemed relevant right now. I knew her favourite cereal, how she liked to wear her dressing gown until the evening on her days off and how she liked her eggs cooked. I could tell you her favourite sexual position, what she dreamed of becoming some day and how she sometimes feels sad for no reason at all. I had spent every night for the last four years holding her as she slept, knowing her heartbeat as if it were my own. But none of this helped.

  ‘I don’t know where to start...’ I began before Mum shot me down again.

  ‘Have you called her parents?’

  ‘Yes and been round. Nobody is answering the phone or the door.’ This was true. I had phoned several times and spent an hour knocking on their large front door. Like most people who live in Chelsea, Emma’s parents have a lot of money and the house was certainly a fair representation of that. This also meant they were away, holidaying a lot, and I presumed this was where they must be now.

  ‘Come on Tom, think! Have you tried her work and seen if she still works there? No of course you haven’t.’

  The worst thing was that it never crossed my mind. Of course she would still go there! Emma had completed a law degree before we met and had started on the bottom rung of a huge law company, determined to work her way up. She was now earning great money and had a chance to become a partner within the next five years. Law was her life, outside of our home and it often kept her away at nights when she was working late or on weekends when she would have to go in to help. She once told me the partner’s (whose names I can never remember) were like family to her and had looked after her very well. She may have wanted to leave me but I couldn’t imagine her leaving the firm too. This was a good place to start.

  ‘Don’t forget you are married Tom, she can’t just disappear like that. She’ll want a divorce no doubt. You certainly will, I hope. There are legal channels, ways of finding her...’

  I allowed my mind to wonder while my mother ranted some more at me. She was right again. Well, sort of. I hadn’t even thought about divorce and certainly didn’t want to talk about it now. Maybe there is some legal route I could follow to find her. Maybe sue her for having the...cheek to dare to leave me...or something. You can tell I majored in Music Composition, huh? Just like my Year 7 Geography teacher once put it: ‘not one of this generation’s great thinkers!’ But I digress. I returned to the phone call, trying to stop Mum mid-rant.

  ‘OK ... thanks Mum...good ideas...got to go...yep... OK...’ I interjected when I could, before deciding just to hang up. It’s sometimes the safer option.

  Mum had given me some good ideas though and I knew just where to head.

  *****

  Raynmer and Stein, ‘the lawyers who care’ – apparently, own one of the grandest buildings in central London. I have never been inside it before but have often met Emma for a lunch, waiting in the reception hall for her to come down. I have a theory that you can judge how good a company is on the condition of their reception. Raynmer and Stein definitely don’t disappoint. Everything inside the building oozes class from the marble flooring up to the highly polished stainless steel that frames the modern furniture. Even the staff are beautifully presented and attentive. Dressed in a classic black uniform that seems more suited to a catwalk than a job in administration, the reception team (and it is a team of at least 15 people around the building) blend perfectly with the stylish atmosphere of the company as a whole.

  Walking up the street, I could see the glistening building in the distance, getting closer all the time. My stomach started churning again. What do I say to the receptionists? What if Emma won’t see me? What if she’s not there? Oh God, what if she is there? What the hell would I say?

  Twice I lost my nerve and went to turn back. I paced outside for a while and must have been quite a sight to passersby. I knew I had come too far to leave it now, but my legs seemed frozen to the pavement outside.

  ‘Come on coward,’ I jeered at myself. ‘The woman of your dreams and the answers to all your questions could be just inside there. Be a man; get up those stairs and WIN HER BACK!’ This sounded impressive in my head until I realised I had indeed said it out loud and in fact shouted the last few words. My cheeks flushed red as I realised how stupid I must have looked. I tried my best not to care what people thought of me but it didn’t work, like it had never worked before.

  I wanted to see Emma so badly but was frozen by the very real possibility that I may start weeping the moment I set eyes on her. I realise this story gives the impression that I’m quite the cry-baby. As a general rule I’m not, but Ems does this to me and I’ve never been able to control it.

  Finally, after what seemed like ages, I summoned up my courage and marched through the doors. Marching, at the very least had been my intention, giving an air of quiet, graceful dignity. Sadly for me the entrance to Raynmer and Stein is a vast, revolving glass door, which takes about a minute of awkward shuffling to get through. I am not a huge fan of confined spaces and tumbled out of the door with my dignity dented slightly.

  I looked around, partly to see who had seen my bizarre entrance, but mainly to look for Emma. Of c
ourse she wasn’t there. Why would she just be standing in reception, genius?

  As I approached the reception desk, I realised I had no idea what floor she worked on or even what department she was part of. This shouldn’t be a problem as reception must surely be able to find that out but it did strike me as odd that I didn’t know that. Was I just a terrible listener or had Emma never bothered to tell me?

  ‘Hello Sir, how can I help you today?’ came the question, in a warm friendly way.

  ‘Yeah, hello there,’ I started, making a quick calculation. If they know Emma, they might know her situation and may even be friends with her. If I barge in and demand to see her they may warn her and give her a chance to slip out a different entrance and so on. I decided I was going to have to think on my feet.

  ‘Hi, I am meant to meet one of your staff here, regarding some important medical information.’ I was hoping she wasn’t going to pry any further but of course she was.

  ‘Right and what exactly is this concerning?’ The question was equally warm and friendly, with a slight hint of distrust creeping in.

  ‘Ah well you see I can’t tell you that. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. If you could ask Mrs...’ I paused as she shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry Sir but I can’t put you in contact with our members of staff unless I see some identification. It’s the rule.’

  I usually pride myself for thinking on my feet, but this was getting difficult. Luckily, I still had one ace to play. An amusing humanism, a quirk that makes us all the same is our discomfort for things we deem ‘disgusting.’ Even the most professional of souls will crack if you can shock them.

  ‘I didn’t want to have to mention this but...’ I began. As a standard reaction I got that stabbing ‘Em is going to kill me’ feeling. Realising the situation once again, I pressed on.

  ‘...but one of your staff members had some tests done at our clinic recently and I’m afraid the results aren’t good.’ I let the thought linger for a second, looking as convincing as I could muster. ‘She does have Herpes after all...’

  It worked. What was normally a properly presented member of staff instantly turned into a grimacing child, horrified at the thought.

  ‘It must be treated right away before it...spreads,’ I continued. As luck would have it I have no personal experience with STD’s and am pretty certain my scientific facts were not perfectly accurate. I just hoped ‘Becky’ (according to her name badge) had no experience either.

  ‘As this is a delicate matter I was asked to come in person to help her deal with it. I would very much appreciate if you could get her down as discreetly as possible. She won’t want people to know, but it is urgent.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course. Who is the staff member in question?’ she enquired. I had done it. Even as I congratulated myself in my head I couldn’t stop thinking ‘you are a bad, bad man.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Sharpe, Mrs Emma Sharpe,’ I said calmly. ‘Sharpe with an “e”,’ I added helpfully.

  Becky repeated the name to herself as she typed away on the computer in front of her. After allowing it to load she looked at the screen quizzically. ‘Hmm, you did say Sharpe right? There doesn’t seem to be an Emma Sharpe on here. There’s a Julie Sharp with no ‘e’ but it can’t be her surely? She is retiring next year - almost sixty-five.’

  I frowned and asked her to check again, but still it yielded no matches.

  ‘These silly computers are always breaking down. Do you know what department she’s in and I can search for her that way?’ asked the ever-patient receptionist.

  ‘I don’t sadly...’ Then it hit me. Emma had been here for a long time, way before I met her. What if making a name for yourself as a lawyer was a bit like an actress? What if she never changed her surname after we got married? I felt hurt at the very idea. Her passport had changed, her driving license now read ‘Emma Sharpe’ so why wouldn’t she allow her company to use it? I could add this to the long list of questions I would ask her when I found her, if it was true. I delved into my thoughts to remember her maiden name and found it.

  ‘It could be under Emma Jordan perhaps,’ I stated calmly, hoping not to raise suspicions as to why she would have two names and how I would know both of them. I half-prayed that her Jordan wouldn’t come up, knowing at least then that she wasn’t ashamed of my name, and the life we had built together. Presently, the computer loaded once more.

  ‘I’m sorry Sir, nothing is coming up. Listen, are you sure Emma is right because I’ve just checked and we haven’t had an Emma work here for over fifteen years.’

  There’s that sick feeling again.

  ‘What?’ I asked incredulously. ‘That can’t be true. The computer must be playing up again.’ I fathomed in my mind for some explanation.

  ‘Sir, I sit here every day. I let every member of staff through and I pride myself on knowing all of them. We don’t have an Emma!’

  Gone were my worries of getting caught as a liar. I was panicking now. In my wallet I still carried a small but clear photo of Emma and I whipped it out quickly.

  ‘This woman, I’m looking for her. She’s worked here for over five years!’ There was a croak in voice and I could feel my emotions controlling my actions again.

  The receptionist began to get quite cross for the first time. She wasn’t rude but she was certainly more forceful and I could see a temper flaring behind her eyes.

  ‘Sir, in the seventeen years I have worked here I have never once seen that woman. I can promise you one thing, she does not work here!’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Is it possible to burn a hole through the floor by pacing?’

  It didn’t seem very likely but over the last twenty-four hours I’d certainly given it my best shot. The worst part was it wasn’t even my floor I was slowly sanding. I had been pacing the floor of our neighbour’s flat, trying to make sense of the previous day. My head was pounding, indicating some severely heavy drinking went on last night.

  ‘So, what exactly happened to you?’ my neighboured asked sweetly. I looked up at her, straining to remember.

  Sophie and David had been living in the flat above us since before I moved in. After what seemed like years of arguing, David finally moved out, to all of our relief. I didn’t know them well but I knew David was no good. From the muffled voices seeping through our ceiling at night you could always hear his voice first. Shouting. Controlling.

  When he left, Sophie became a fairly big part of our lives. Both Emma and I had a soft spot for Sophie, who had a heart of gold, even if she was a bit tentative. We endeavoured to include her in lots of our social activities and Ems often used to meet up with her for lunch.

  After the ‘incident’ Sophie was one of the first people I turned to. I knew she would help; I knew I could count on her. I had hoped Sophie may have heard something, or seen Emma leave or anything that could help me. She hadn’t but wished she could help.

  ‘Tom? What happened yesterday? I’m getting worried now. You’ve barely said two words today.’ I knew she was concerned and I wanted to answer her but I was struggling to remember.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said at last. ‘How did I end up ...here?’

  I remembered my visit to Raynmer and Stein, I remembered drinking and I remembered drinking some more. I could feel a bruise developing on my left hand and further examination found a few light cuts as well. Just what I needed. I must have been involved in a bar-fight at some point. There was certainly no recollection of that.

  Sophie smiled and offered some answers to me.

  ‘When I got up to get the papers, I found you passed out on the landing stairs. I was really worried, I thought you’d fallen or something. But it was pretty easy to work out you’d been drinking. So I just about woke you up enough to get you up the stairs and thought I better keep an eye on you. Hence you being here.’

  I looked around the room and could see a crumpled pillow and blanket lying on the sofa and suddenly felt real wa
rmth towards my kindly neighbour. She was not much older than myself with long, wavy dark hair and pale white skin. She seemed to have a fragility which could probably be traced back to David’s handiwork and as a result, she'd never realised how kind and lovely she really was. Emma had made it her mission to fix that before... she left.

  ‘Thanks Sophie, you’re a real friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes. I smiled at her and wanted her to know how much I meant it.

  ‘You’re welcome. Anytime. But it’s your turn. Go on then. What happened? Did you find Emma?’

  With great effort, I told Sophie everything. She already knew about Emma’s disappearance, so I skipped that and went straight to my conversation with ‘Becky’ at the law firm. She listened attentively, never interrupting, save a few gasps of sheer disbelief. As I spoke, the events of that evening slowly came back to me. I recalled leaving Raynmer and Stein and sitting on the steps outside, just trying to make sense of what I’d heard. How was any of this possible?

  Eventually my story concluded and Sophie sat silently in stunned amazement. After a long while she spoke.

  ‘What does that mean? I don’t understand.’

  ‘As far I can tell, there are three possibilities. Number one, Becky doesn’t know what she is talking about. Number two, for whatever reason Emma worked under a completely different name and somehow managed to avoid eye-contact with the reception staff every day. Or, number three...she never worked there.’

  Even saying the words made me feel sick.

  ‘Maybe this ‘Becky’ person was a friend of Emma’s and covered for her because she didn’t want to speak to you?’ Sophie was clearly trying to wrap her head around this too.

  ‘I don’t think so. Remember, I never revealed who I was so the receptionist wouldn’t know to lie. Plus, I don’t know anyone who is that good a liar.’

  ‘Number Two doesn’t make much sense, not that any of them do. I guess she could have changed her name but why?’ posed Sophie.

  In my heart of hearts, I knew it wasn’t number two. Emma was not just beautiful, she was stunning. Everybody turned to look at her. Men wanted to be with her and women wanted to be just like her. There is no chance you wouldn’t remember seeing her face.