The Pursuit of Emma
By Chris Doherty
Copyright 2014 Chris Doherty
Licence Note
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Dear Reader,
I am well aware that you have already bought, downloaded or stolen this book and therefore it seems largely pointless to flatter your ego. That being said...have you lost weight? I’m serious, you look terrific. And that haircut...it’s a success!
I realise that you just want to read the book so I shall detain you for only a moment. As you may or may not know, this book is my debut novel and as such, it contains a little bit of my soul. I truly hope you enjoy it and it’s at this point I want to make a deal with you. I have decided to make this book completely free; writing is a huge passion of mine and as of now, money has nothing to do with it. In three years time when I’m penning my fifteenth novel aboard my shiny, new yacht my opinion on that may well have changed, but in the mean time all I want in return is your opinion. If you have done me the great honour of reading my little book, please indulge me a little further by letting me know.
I am truly fascinated to talk to you about it and hear your thoughts. Please leave comments on the various platforms the book has been sold on, or contact me directly. There is a facebook page (www.facebook.com/chrisdohertywriter) or twitter feed (@cdohertywriter) if you are young or one of the golden generation who have embraced modern technology (like my grandparents)! This is all done through me and not some robot named R745 or some such. The feedback for ‘The Pursuit of Emma’ so far has been genuinely heart-warming and it means the world to me. If you are a fan of the book then you are a good, honest person and you deserve life to smile kindly on you.
Finally, before I let the party get started (as it were), if you go on to enjoy this book in the (hopefully near) future, your future-self will be pleased to know the sequel, ‘The Pursuit of Perfection’ is out right now, with more from the characters you will soon come to love!
I hope we get to talk in the future and above all, it is my deepest wish that you enjoy my novel. Spread the word, tell your friends/amicable neighbour or chiropractor and start a beautiful community with me, before I get too big-headed off the success and only communicate to the general public through my agent’s agent’s assistant!
Enough chatting for now...go read the book.
Cheers,
Chris
For Alice.
My Wife. My Soulmate. My Emma.
Chapter One
‘Do you still love her?’
I wanted to say no. If truth be told, I wanted to scream,storm out and set the building on fire to defer attention away from ‘that’ question. However social courtesy dictates otherwise so I decided against arson.
‘Yes,’ I mumbled back, resigned to honesty at last. I didn’t want to talk about her.
I didn’t really want to talk at all but against my better judgement and with the advice of several work colleagues, I found myself sitting in the office of ‘Dr. Veronica Davies BSc (Hons). PhD. Dip Hyp.’ I barely know to this day what all those letters after her name mean, but it does seem to be an excuse to charge rates a developing country would struggle to afford.
Her office matched my pre-conceived notion of what a therapist’s office would look like down to the letter. Her walls were covered flawlessly with neutral wallpaper which looked to have the texture of silk more than the course sandpaper I had up in my apartment. All the furniture was expensive and wooden, crafted no doubt by hand through painstaking precision. The lighting was dim enough for a client to feel relaxed and open up but light enough for her to examine your expression in detail. The walls were lined with certificates and awards she had won, boasting of her superior intellect before she even spoke. Despite my best efforts I was yet to find one item personal to her in the entire room, save her handbag and a tiny photo frame, angled on her desk in such a way as to not be seen from either the client’s sofa or the door.
I don’t have much patience for therapists at the best of times and this was definitely not the best of times. I’m British and as a British person I bottle up all my emotions and carry on as if they weren’t there. It’s the law. It worked for my parents, particularly my father, and I have no doubt it worked for several generations before.
‘Do you find it painful to talk about her?’
Is she serious? Despite her personable manner I didn’t come here for a light conversation. Of course I find it hard to talk about her. Where did she get her doctorate? The internet?
‘Yes,’ I replied, wishing I could think of more than one-word answers to reply.
There was an awkward, long silence which was filled only by my fingers drumming rhythmically on the edge of the sofa. She sat motionlessly, looking at me, like a surgeon might examine a leaking spleen. There was no emotion in her gaze but a clinical professionalism which never wavered. I found it hard to imagine Veronica had a life outside of work. Honestly, I found it hard to believe anyone called her ‘Veronica’ and not ‘Dr Davies.’ After what seemed like hours (and I sincerely hoped was not, looking at the price she charged per hour) she spoke softly.
‘Tom, when we go through painful experiences the body shuts down because it doesn’t want to process the grief. We bottle up the emotions and hope they go away. But they won’t and you have to be strong enough to talk about it. Getting it out in the open is the only way to confront your demons and destroy them once and for all.’
I didn’t know what to say. Sure, I had my usual repertoire of one-word simpleton answers but they didn’t seem to cut it. I knew she was right, not that I wanted to admit it. She was desperate for me to get it all out and I was desperate to keep it bottled up.
‘You can do this Tom. I want you to start from the beginning. What is it that brings you here today? What is it that troubles you?’ She knew the answers to all of these but she wasn’t going to stop until I gave in. I gave in.
‘Emma’s gone...’ I started before she held her hand up, indicating me to stop.
‘No Tom, I mean right from the start. How did you meet? Leave no stone unturned.’ I was pretty convinced this was a money-making ploy to get several more sessions out of my wallet and I sneaked a small glance at the expensive clock hanging on the wall hoping the hour would be up. To my devastation only twenty-three minutes had passed. I was trapped.
‘Emma was the most beautiful girl I’d ever met. When I left university my best friend got engaged and it seemed like the perfect chance for us to get one final holiday before we all went our separate ways. Mallorca. Sun, drinking, making a fool of ourselves... you get the picture. After two days I thought my liver was going to fall out so we hit the beach and collapsed there for most of the day. It sounds stupid but seeing her come out of the sea was like a movie.’ I paused for a second, wondering whether this was finally too much detail for her, but she seemed unmoved so I persevered.
‘Long story short I fell in love the first time I talked to her. The boys went back after a week but Emma was holidaying there with family for another fortnight and I decided to stay out with her. I had no money, no job, nothing to go home to so why not?’
I continued describing every moment and as much as I hated myself for it, I could feel tears beginning to fill my eyes. This stereotypical display of emotion seemed pathetic to me but I guess this was the first time I had properly thought about her since ‘the day.’ I must have spent fifteen minutes describing her beauty
and I wasn’t close to doing her justice. She was slim, in an athletic way, with golden blond hair and the most striking blue eyes. When I was seven years old we were asked at school to draw the perfect person. Whilst art isn’t renowned as my strong point, I did manage a pretty decent drawing of a beautiful woman. For years this became my ideal for what I would search for in a girl. I had met hundreds of girls at school and even more through my adventurous years at university but nothing and nobody came close. Until Emma.
‘The term ‘whirlwind romance’ doesn’t even come close to what we had. Emma lived in North London and after two months of returning from holiday, I had left the comforts of my Warwickshire home to move in with her in a small London flat. I dropped everything for her and never thought twice.’
Again another pause while I forced back the latest assault of tears from my eyes. This was more painful than I had anticipated. Dr Davies seemed to sense my pain despite my best efforts to hide it and gave me some respite.
‘Let’s stop there for a minute Tom. You are doing very well. Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee?’ she asked kindly, and I caught a glimpse of her humanity for a second. Perhaps she wasn’t so bad after all.
‘Yes please, Coffee would be great,’ I replied, just desperate to change the subject for a second. ‘Two sugars.’
Veronica pressed a button on her phone, ordered us some drinks and settled back in her chair; something that seemed to indicate it was time to continue. If that wasn’t a clear enough sign for me the ‘please carry on Tom’ comment certainly cleared it up.
And so I went on. I talked about moving in and how she helped me adjust to living in London. I had always been a little afraid of large cities, but I would have moved to Mars if she’d asked with that smile. After six months I knew, stronger than I had ever felt anything, that she was the one. A ground-shattering, life-affirming truism that was as sure to me as the air I breathed. At this point I realise how pathetic that last sentence sounded but when you have been in love you'll realise it tends to make you do and say stupid things.
As the time passed, I informed Veronica of every intimate detail leading up to me proposing to Emma. In retrospect, the five minute description of our love-making may have been a mistake. Too much information as they say. I even saw Veronica’s otherwise flawless expression crack momentarily as if straining to file that mental image in her brain under ‘D’ for ‘Destroy Immediately’.
As the hour drew to a close we both breathed a sigh of relief and despite everything I wanted to believe, I did feel a bit better.
‘That was very good Tom. We still have so much to talk about. Your engagement, getting married, your jobs, the... incident,’ she finished quietly. ‘Shall we say same time next week?’
I was surprised to hear myself agree quickly and even ask if she had any earlier appointments so desperate was I to keep ‘getting it out’.
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ she said, pretending to leaf through her diary, knowing full well that her schedule was booked up. ‘But it is important that you keep thinking about. I want you to think of anything you can to do with her; how you felt, how you feel now and then write it down so we can discuss it next time. OK? Will you do that for me, Tom?’
I realised part of my unease at talking to her was the fact she kept repeating my name at the end of most sentences, like I was a naughty school boy or something. But I confirmed I would and got up to leave. As I reached the door a thought, a realisation, occurred to me.
‘You know, it’s not that she left or even how. It’s just why. How can things change in one day? I guess I need to find answers. I need to understand what the hell happened. Does that make sense?’
‘Perfectly. We will find those answers, I’m sure of it.’ She smiled kindly. I returned it with one of my own and walked out.
*****
Imagine if you will, being in love. It’s not difficult I’m sure; most people are or have been at some point in their lives. Imagine living together, getting married, decorating the house painstakingly until it resembles something like a home...you get what I mean. Now imagine spending the next three years of your life in total bliss. This is where it gets trickier. I know most of you will say marriage is a lot like hard work and it takes commitment, give and take and sacrifice which I guess it does but with Emma I never noticed any of that. We were happy; I know we were, much though the next few sentences point to the contrary. Right are you with me so far? So, now imagine coming home after a long day at work to two words and a key. That’s what happened to me. I opened the door and called to her, not quite a ‘honey I’m home’ but near enough, expecting to hear a reply. When I didn’t, I entered in inquisitively but my mind assumed the usual. She’s not home yet, she’s nipped out or maybe she’s in the shower and can’t hear me. The most pathetic thing is how long it took me to notice, going on blindly doing my usual routine. I opened the post, checked emails and even planned to cook her favourite meal as a surprise, depending on what ingredients we had in the fridge. Eventually I saw it. On the counter, next to the oven I saw a small piece of paper. It looked so insignificant I almost didn’t take any notice of it. How wrong could I be? I glanced down and saw ‘I’m Sorry’ written in scribbled biro as if in a hurry, and a key, presumably her house-key, resting on top. Bang. My entire world and everything I knew fell down with two simple words. I panicked, knowing my brain couldn’t comprehend it. She must have meant sorry for breaking something or bending the key or something. Surely. ‘Please don’t,’ I whispered out loud, beginning to get that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My mouth went dry and I started questioning whether I was indeed awake. Is this real? God, I hope not.
I raced upstairs to our bedroom where my worst fears were confirmed. All the drawers hung open and I could see clearly from the door that they were empty. I checked through them anyway, but I’m not sure why. Hoping for some clue, I guess. There had to be something to tell me where or why she’d gone. Nothing.
I hurtled down the stairs, clearing the last five in one vast stride and grabbed the phone. I had to speak to her. I could find out why; I could make her change her mind. I changed the setting on my phone to ‘unknown caller’, not knowing why I was doing it. If I could just get her to pick up it would be alright. She could never resist my arguments. I’d convinced her to do loads of things she’d never wanted to do. Like bungee-jumping when we went to South Africa. This would be the same.
I thrashed in the numbers on the phone, even though she was saved as a speed dial contact and waited for the call to connect.
‘Come on, COME ON!!’ I shouted at the phone. Poor inanimate object. The phone call finally connected only to greet me with a further chilling sound.
‘The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please hang up. The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please...’
I hung up, wanting to throw up. What the hell was going on? It’s one thing to leave without saying goodbye but to already have your phone disconnected shows thought and preplanning. She had wanted to do this for a while.
I collapsed to the floor and lay there motionless for some time. I say ‘some’ because I genuinely have no idea how long. It could have been hours. It may well have been days. I just felt numb inside. I knew I would have to tell friends, work out a plan for the future and try to put the pieces back together. But how could I? How could anything be the same again?
Slowly, feeling lower than I ever thought possible, I began to cry.
*****
I walked out of Dr Davies office for the first time feeling something. I felt sick, angry and worn out but I felt something. An emotion. Since discovering the note two weeks ago I had been a zombie, going through the motions but never being alive. I would wake up, shower, go to work, go home and sleep every day I’m sure, but I don’t remember anything from that fortnight. It’s just a blurry, painful memory.
Dr Davies was right, I thought. I then thought how surprised I was to have that thought but
ignored it. I needed to piece it together so I could try and understand it. First things first, get home and write down everything I remember.
Veronica’s office was in the bulls-eye of London, right in the centre. Emma’s flat (well I guess my flat now) was up in North London, not far from Arsenal’s football ground. Being an Arsenal fan this had seemed to swing my decision to move in with Emma. Sadly, despite living there for three and a half years, I’ve seen one game. An FA Cup 3rd Round replay against Leeds with half the reserve squad playing. That was two years ago. I’m not a die-hard fan.
With my emotions still very close to the surface, I decided to take a taxi home. Yes it would cost a fortune and take ages in London traffic, but nobody wants a twenty-five year old man sobbing on the tube. A hour and a half later, thanks to a small collision ahead and some inopportune road works, I arrived home much poorer than when I had left.
I found a pad and pen and sat down in the kitchen, prepared at last to try and face this. Slowly I pieced the events of the last two weeks together. I remembered phoning my friends very early in the morning, desperately hoping one of them had heard from her. I realised suddenly that all of our friends were really my friends and we never really saw anyone she had known before. It didn’t make any sense. She had lived in London her whole life and yet we only ever spent time with people I knew from work, friends of mine from Warwickshire who would sporadically visit us now and then and neighbours. I phoned them all, apologising for the late call and promising it was an emergency. Nobody had heard from her. She was beginning to seem like a ghost, as if she had never existed.
I phoned the police, asking to put in a claim for a missing person. They asked how long she had been gone and when I told them less than a day, they laughed. Actually laughed. Things got worse when I let slip about the note. The officer was physically chuckling.
‘Listen mate, sorry and all that but we can’t go about looking for people who have left you on purpose. I’m sorry you got dumped but move on chap,’ and with that he hung up.