The Lie, page 10
‘Are you all going to be OK without me, Mum?’ Rex had his backpack ready by the front door. He was just about to leave for Heathrow.
Romy gave a wry smile. It had been so strange, seeing him this time. Both of them had been on edge, neither committing to bonding with each other, as they would have done on a planned trip home. Michael had taken up all of their energy. Now, torn between disappointment at her son’s only fleeting visit – she wanted to blurt out, ‘Like you care!’ – and sadness that it would be months before she saw him again, she felt bereft. Dragging him into her arms, she said, ‘I hope the new job goes well, sweetheart. Let me know.’
Rex hugged her close. ‘I’m really sorry I’m leaving you in the lurch.’ He pulled away and looked intently into her face. ‘You do understand, don’t you? Leo’s livid with me.’
‘He’ll get over it,’ she said, hoping she was right. She didn’t want this wretched situation, which was nobody’s fault, to come between her sons. But recently she’d sensed Leo had grown up, while Rex remained stubbornly teenaged, clinging to a student-like existence, where he wandered from job to job – even though he claimed this one was different ‒ and only worked because he had to.
‘You’ve got Daniel, and I’m sure Dad’ll come on in leaps and bounds once he gets out of that dreary ward,’ Rex went on, his guilty conscience tidying things up neatly so he didn’t have to worry. ‘He’s a tough old bastard, don’t forget.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Romy said, kissing his cheek, her lips remembering the countless times they had performed the same act of love since the day he was born, her heart wanting to hold her boy tightly in her arms and prevent him from leaving her for the other side of the world.
‘Whoa,’ Romy whispered, as Finch entered the lobby. He looked so handsome, like James Bond in his dinner jacket and black tie. The taxi had dropped her only five minutes before and she felt like someone on a late-night illicit assignation, aware of the watchful eyes of the two staff members behind the reception desk. The thought made her smile and her body buzz with anticipation. There seemed something end-of-the-world-ish about tonight.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, as he kissed her cheek, his breath wafting brandy.
‘They probably think I’m a lady of the night, summoned on some dodgy app while your wife snores innocently in your Hampshire vicarage,’ she whispered.
Finch grinned and took her arm. ‘If so, you’re a very classy one.’
The room was warm, the place much more welcoming than Romy remembered from that rainy April night. She sat on the bed and watched Finch take off his jacket and hang it up, stuff his black tie and cufflinks into a pocket.
‘Fun dinner?’
‘It was OK, predictable. The lady next to me was charming, but so deaf I don’t think she heard a single word I said.’
Finch came and stood in front of her, his shirt cuffs dangling loose, and reached forward, stroking his fingers down her cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Romy … I know you’re up against it at the moment.’ He paused, and she sensed he wanted to say something more. But he just continued to gaze down at her, his expression unreadable.
Romy did not want to think about what she was ‘up against’. She just wanted to be normal, to make love to this attractive man who had so quickly managed to invade her heart. She said nothing, hoping he wouldn’t mention Michael’s name, as she began to pull him down towards her, suddenly desperate to hold him in her arms. But Finch resisted and turned away from her embrace, sitting down beside her in silence, his hands clasped in his lap.
‘How’s the invalid?’ he asked.
Romy frowned. Finch had asked after Michael many times since his stroke. But tonight there seemed a faintly sardonic edge to his enquiry. Their relationship was still so new – although it seemed much older than it was – but she had no idea what he really felt about the situation. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Me moving back to help Michael out?’
Finch was slow to answer. ‘Should I?’
She shook her head, turning to him and sliding her hand through the gap where his shirt lay partly unbuttoned, her fingertips grazing his smooth skin. ‘There’d be no need,’ she said. ‘I’m doing this for Leo as much as for Michael. And it’s just a few weeks.’
Finch nodded and put his arm around her shoulders. But he still seemed preoccupied, not completely present as he had on previous occasions. Michael seemed to be hovering over them both, like a sad ghost. It was the first time Romy had been aware of Finch’s unease about the situation. But she felt powerless to brush it away and, as they sat there in silence, she was aware of a small frisson of anxiety building in her own gut.
19
‘I may not be able to move my left side very well,’ Michael complained to Romy and the staff nurse, while they waited for the hospital transport, ‘but I can still comprehend that you’re talking about me as if I’m a halfwit … or not here at all.’
Romy was embarrassed. They were talking about him as if he wasn’t there.
‘I fully intend you to hear everything, Michael,’ Staff Nurse Weeks said, giving him a glacial smile before turning back to her. ‘It’s tempting for family members to pander to stroke patients when they first get them home. But you won’t be doing him any favours, Romy. Michael will just get lazy, won’t you?’ She shot him a severe look. ‘And it’ll take him much, much longer to recover.’ She paused. ‘The physios will be in every day. They’ll tell you what he is and isn’t capable of.’
‘I can bloody well tell her that, myself,’ Michael growled weakly.
The two ambulance care assistants carried the wheelchair, with Michael in it, up the curved staircase. The block had a lift, but it did not stop at the landing where his flat was situated. Getting him out again is going to be a nightmare, thought Romy, glancing back at the additional flight of steps outside the main front door, as if seeing them for the first time, despite having walked up and down them for years.
Leo opened the door and she could see the worry writ large across her son’s face as he glanced at his father in the wheelchair. Daniel stood silently behind Leo, and she took comfort from the Swiss boy’s calm presence. He will know how to handle this, she thought, as one of the ambulance assistants pressed the brake on the wheelchair with her foot and waved a cheery goodbye.
‘This is Daniel.’ Romy introduced the Swiss boy to Michael. ‘He’s going to be helping out till you’re back on your feet.’
Michael seemed dazed. He nodded tiredly but made no move to shake Daniel’s proffered hand. ‘I need to lie down,’ he said, addressing Romy.
This is worse than I thought. Romy stood looking down at the figure on the bed, his eyes closed, head resting on the linen pillowcase. Michael looked to be at death’s door, his skin sweaty and tinged with blue, his breathing laboured – she worried he wouldn’t even last the day. Can he really recover from this? she asked herself, as the three of them crept quietly away.
Romy made Leo and Daniel coffee. As they sat at the kitchen table, she saw Leo glancing at his phone and frowning as he began to type something with impressive speed.
She felt sympathy for him. ‘Work?’
Her son nodded. ‘Thirteen emails already. Fuck,’ he muttered, under his breath, then added, ‘I … sort of told them I’d be in later.’
‘Today? You’re going in today?’
Leo squirmed. ‘I really should, Mum. Dickeson is taking a dim view of me having any more time off.’
Although Romy understood, she felt a spurt of irritation at his boss and at Leo – unfair, she knew – for being so compliant. Daniel, perhaps sensing the tension, got up and rinsed his cup, then left the room, muttering about checking on Michael.
‘Shall I make a sandwich for you to take with you?’ she said to Leo, her voice carefully controlled as she opened the fridge and stared at the contents. ‘I’ve got some ham – the one you like – and cheese. There’s salad …’
Leo looked panicky, running his fingers nervously through his short curls. ‘I’m OK, thanks, Mum,’ he said. ‘In fact I should get going – if you think you can manage, that is. There’s a really important meeting this afternoon.’ He looked at her guiltily. ‘But if you need me, of course I’ll stay …’
Her son knew she would let him go. She’d always managed, as far as Leo was concerned. ‘Go on, then,’ she said, then added, ‘But can you come back over the weekend? Daniel isn’t working Saturdays or Sundays, as you know, until Andreas leaves and he moves in full time, when we can arrange his days off to suit us all. And I don’t want to be on my own with your dad until he’s stronger. I’m not sure if I could hold him if he topples.’
‘Of course, Mum,’ he replied distractedly, as he got up from the table. She could tell he was itching to be off and would probably have agreed to anything in that moment.
‘Lucky old Rex, eh?’ Leo said, as he gave her a quick kiss on her cheek. ‘Bet he’s on his surfboard right now, skimming through those waves on Bondi, soaking up the rays, not a care in the world.’
Romy laughed. ‘Even surfing seems preferable?’ She knew Leo was not a fan of his brother’s passion, admitting at an early age, one summer holiday, that he was frightened of the comparatively tame waves at Newquay. A fear Romy respected and thought immensely sensible, although Michael had seen it as a sign of weakness. ‘I know you’re under pressure, sweetheart, but we need to pull together at the moment. I can’t do this without you.’
‘I know, I know. And I’ll be here, Mum. Promise.’ He was obviously trying to sound reassuring, although she heard only reluctance – but she loved him for making the effort.
‘Great,’ she said, letting out a small sigh. ‘Thank you.’
Romy stood by the window, listening to him thumping down the carpeted stairs, the slam of the outside door and the faint sound of his shoes as he hurried along the covered walkway of glass and wrought iron that led to the pavement. Then she watched his retreating figure disappearing down the street, her mouth dry, her head aching from the morning’s tension.
She heard Daniel approaching from the other end of the L-shaped flat and fled to the loo, where she leant against the locked door, hand towel pressed to her mouth, trying to stifle an overwhelming urge to scream. All she wanted to do in that moment was to sling on her trainers and take off round the harbour, gulping in great draughts of spring sunshine – run and run until her brain was empty of thought and every muscle in her body begged for mercy.
Romy slept in the room next to Michael in case he needed her. That first night back, she was dragged awake by the frantic ringing of the small brass hand-bell – her grandmother’s – she’d placed on his bedside table. She didn’t know what was happening, or where she was, and it took her a few minutes to orient herself before she shot out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown.
When she turned the light on, Michael was half out of bed, slumped on his back on the mattress, his weak leg dangling helplessly over the side. When he saw her he waved his good arm urgently at her.
‘Need to pee,’ he gasped.
The urine bottle was lying on the bed, where Daniel had left it, within easy reach of Michael’s right hand. But he obviously hadn’t seen it in the dark, or remembered it was there.
Romy hurried over and pulled him up against the pillows. She lifted his leg back onto the mattress and handed him the bottle, helping him position it so he could pee. But she saw that his pyjama bottoms were already wet, the sheet too.
Michael let out a relieved groan when he’d finished, and handed the bottle to Romy.
‘That was close.’
‘Got to get you out for a moment,’ she said, not wanting to humiliate her husband by explaining why. But he didn’t query her as she hauled him upright and swung him precariously round to sit in the armchair next to the bed she had brought through from Leo’s room. It was some old thing she’d picked up from a junk shop, decades ago – shades of her father’s penchant for anything secondhand – and the rusty-orange Dralon cover was stained in places, but the foam cushion and high back were perfect for Michael to sit in for short periods.
He smiled up at her. ‘Thank you.’ Then his face clouded. ‘I’m cold, really cold.’
‘I’ll turn the heating up,’ Romy promised.
After she’d settled him back in bed with clean pyjamas and a fresh sheet, Michael grabbed her hand.
‘Sit with me for a while,’ he begged.
She hesitated, then sat on the orange chair, but didn’t know what to say.
Michael was looking at her. ‘Does Anezka know I’m home? I don’t want her going all the way over to the hospital …’
‘Leo told her,’ Romy said.
Michael nodded. ‘Did she say she’d come?’
‘I don’t know. But you can have your mobile tomorrow and call her yourself.’ She remembered the nurses’ advice that they shouldn’t mollycoddle Michael. He was right-handed, thank goodness, and he could surely work a phone now. She hoped Anezka would answer, for a change, and tell Michael the truth, dispel, once and for all, the notion he clung to that she still cared.
He frowned but said nothing as his eyes closed. Romy held her breath, hoping he would fall asleep. It was chilly, sitting there in her thin dressing gown. Her feet were freezing and she was dying to get back to bed. But as she waited, watching her husband’s face, she realized she felt almost wary of the figure lying there. She had not watched Michael asleep in this bed for a long time. Not since he’d decided to move into the spare room in order – she was certain – to avoid seeing the words of the letter printed in her eyes. Now, as she sat on in the semi-darkness, her thoughts started to take an involuntary trawl through those months before she had left, eventually arriving at what had been – in her eyes – the last moment of their marriage.
It was a nervy, unresolved ending. Romy was so frightened of Michael’s superior debating skills, his ability to twist what she said into something ridiculous, that she had made every effort to avoid any discussion about why she had gone, specifically asking him not to come down to the Sussex cottage in the weeks after she’d left.
But before nine one morning, as she walked slowly back from buying a croissant at the village deli – enjoying the warm spring sunshine, the peace and quiet around her – she’d seen his car parked in the lane. She had felt her heart squeeze and her breath trap somewhere high in her throat. No. She just wanted to run.
Michael was sitting calmly on the sofa. ‘Thought I’d surprise you,’ he said cheerily, as if there was nothing untoward between them, as if he’d arrived early for a planned weekend together. When he registered the lack of welcome on her face, however, the mask slipped. She saw hurt in his eyes as he pulled himself to his feet.
She didn’t speak and, for a moment, neither did he. Then he’d said, ‘I’m baffled, Romy. Thirty years of marriage and you just walk away without a single word? What am I supposed to do now?’
She had tried to control her thumping heart. His coiled energy was palpable, almost menacing in its restrained power.
‘What you always do? Work,’ she said eventually, hearing the crack in her voice.
He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘And that’s a bad thing?’ He glanced around. ‘It’s paid for your lifestyle … this cottage.’
She didn’t answer, stung by his jibe. She had been a dedicated mother, an accomplished hostess, a loyal wife and a valuable asset on his arm as he had climbed up through the network of the judiciary. The fact that none of these roles attracted an actual salary was not her fault.
She had done random office work in the early days, but the jobs she had been really interested in – and for which her environmental degree qualified her – involved working in the countryside, studying the natural world. But Michael had wanted to be in London and, as he frequently pointed out, he was the one earning the money to support the family.
Michael had covered his face with his hands – a familiar gesture when he was tense or upset. When he raised his eyes to hers, he said, ‘Be honest, Romy. You owe me that at least.’
Romy had taken a deep breath. ‘OK, well, we never talk. We don’t eat together, or hang out. You work twenty-four/seven … The boys have gone.’
He nodded slowly, although she didn’t know if this signified his agreement, or was just an acknowledgement that he’d heard her.
‘That’s the situation as it stands,’ he said evenly, ‘but I’m still waiting for the reason it became as bad as this between us.’
She felt like a rabbit in the headlights. The letter hung like a flashing neon sign between them. She wasn’t going to be the one to mention it, but could he honestly pretend it wasn’t a valid reason? The valid reason?
Michael turned away, his mouth set in a tight line. He looked strained, tired, Romy thought, as she watched and remained silent. The room seemed to freeze-frame as they faced each other, their bodies rigid with tension, their lives halted on the brink.
‘OK,’ he said, taking a deep breath, his energy apparently restored. ‘I’ll say it, if you won’t.’ He stood, legs apart, in a dominating stance, his arms crossed. He only needs his wig and gown, she thought. ‘You believe the letter that woman sent you. You think I’m a sexual predator. You perhaps even worry that I’ve done it more than once. You no longer trust me.’ He stopped, stared at her. ‘Have I left anything out?’
Romy winced. The coldness in his voice was like a stab to her heart. I want you not to be that man in the letter so badly it hurts, Michael, she longed to say. So why won’t you at least try to make me believe? But she knew, for whatever reason, that he would not.
What she actually said was, ‘What am I supposed to think, when you won’t talk about it?’
He lowered his eyes as she spoke and she couldn’t see his expression. ‘I shouldn’t have to explain anything.’ His eyes met hers again, his gaze level. ‘You should be on my side, Romy, without question.’
