The Pursuit of Emma

By Chris Doherty

One day, everything Tom Sharpe knew was turned upside down when his wife inexplicably disappeared. As he digs a little deeper, more and more secrets emerge and soon he finds himself in a world he knows nothing about. Nothing makes any sense.

With all evidence pointing to their relationship being a lie, Tom puts his faith in the love they shared and pushes himself to his limits in pursuit of Emma. He will stop at nothing, even if the journey will end up changing him forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Doherty
• Release date: May 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310774430

Chris Doherty

I know the trendy thing to do is to write this section in the third person, but I find it cringe-worthy and will just try to let you know a little bit about myself. I was born in Rugby in the summer of 1989. If I’m honest I don’t remember too much of Rugby; I’m sure it was nice and I have fond memories of certain events but when I was eight I moved to Warwick, which I consider to be my hometown. I’ll be twenty-five this year and I’ve still not fallen out of love with the place.My family are hugely important in my life, as I hope is the case with most people. My parents are both loving, supportive and exceedingly generous. Their guidance means the world to me. My sister, Gemma, lives up in Yorkshire now, but still plays a humongous part in making sure this book isn’t full of errors. She would give up her free time to help at a drop of a hat, and I owe her a great deal for that.Writing has always been a passion of mine. There are pictures of me reading books and writing stories when I was so small, holding a pencil seemed like a lot of work. It never became a conscious thought of something I wanted to pursue at school. It was just something I did. A lot.I’ve done every manner of jobs from working in shops, to running tennis clubs and teaching in schools. Each one I have enjoyed and had some success at but there was never any passion there, certainly not in the way that writing offers.

Book preview

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.

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