The Lie, page 17
Finch found his heart was beginning to soften and he was regretting the accusations he’d hurled at Romy. But then, as he stood by the sink and drained the entire contents of a large glass of water, some of which dribbled down his chin onto his chest, he remembered the way in which she’d so pitilessly questioned Grace’s verbal account. People make stuff up. Finch accepted this was true – but not Grace. Isn’t Michael – clever and so well versed in the lies people tell – the one more likely to be making things up? he asked himself bitterly.
He showered, dressed and came back downstairs. He wanted to cry as he moved to stand in front of the photograph of Nell.
‘Why didn’t you know?’ he demanded, choking back his tears. ‘Why didn’t you see how distressed Gracie was when she came home from London? You’re her mum. You should have known.’ It was the first time since she’d died that Finch had reproached his wife. But Nell just smiled back and, after a minute, he turned disconsolately away. Everything seemed broken and empty to him now: Grace’s peace of mind, his possible future with Romy, even his consoling connection with his dead wife.
He wanted to talk to Romy so badly it made his whole body ache. He kept reaching for his phone, then throwing it back onto the worktop, composing speeches in his head, then quickly discarding them. Because he didn’t see how things could possibly work between them now. How could he be with a woman who – however understandably – refused to accept her husband’s obvious culpability? And how could he betray his stepdaughter, bring this same woman into their family and expect Grace to be comfortable around her?
He closed his eyes and remembered the last time he and Romy had made love. Those hazel eyes had looked at him with such tenderness, her body responding to his with such desire. Would he really never be with her like that again? Never hold her in his arms, laugh with her over chips and a cocktail? He felt close to despair.
32
‘Mr Michael has not had a good day,’ Daniel said, when Romy arrived back at the flat.
She nodded, although she was distracted. At this precise moment, she wished her husband in Hell. Because Michael had categorically lied to her. As Finch pointed out, no one in their right mind would make such a song and dance about an event so many years ago, unless there were at least some truth in it. So Michael must remember exactly who she was and what had happened between them.
Daniel continued: ‘He would not eat his lunch. He has had only a small piece of toast all day. Then the physio came – not Imogen – and he slipped when she was walking with him on the frame.’
‘Slipped?’ The word impinged on Romy’s scattered consciousness and she tried to focus.
‘It was not serious,’ Daniel said quickly. ‘He just slid over and ended up on the floor. We picked him up, but his breathing was very fast and he make this moaning sound. I thought at first he might be badly injured or maybe he have some sort of attack.’
Daniel had her full attention now. ‘Attack? What sort of attack?’
‘I was not sure, but I thought, so soon after a stroke … So I ring the surgery and the locum doctor came out.’
‘Wait – the doctor? Why didn’t you call me, Daniel?’
Daniel gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I did. I left four messages.’
Romy blinked. Then she remembered her phone wasn’t on. She’d waited for a miserable agonizing hour for Finch to get in touch after he’d left. But she couldn’t stop herself checking the bloody thing every two minutes, so eventually she’d turned it off.
‘What did the doctor say?’ she almost snapped, feeling so guilty for missing Daniel’s calls.
‘By the time he get here, Mr Michael was better. But when I describe what had happened, he thought it might be a panic attack,’ the boy replied. ‘He was very careful ‒ he checked him out, but he couldn’t find anything that was wrong, except his pulse was high.’
‘A panic attack?’ Romy said, but she was remembering a couple of evenings ago and her husband suddenly clutching his chest and breaking out in a sweat, his breathing laboured. It had frightened her, too.
‘He said we must keep him as calm as possible for the next twenty-four hours and get Dr Beech to see him,’ Daniel added, his young face searching hers for approval.
‘Did somebody die?’ Michael asked, his eyebrows raised as he noted her expression.
Romy stood in the doorway to his bedroom. Despite her concern for him in the light of what Daniel had told her, she found she couldn’t bear the sight of the man. ‘Not you, obviously,’ she retorted, forcing a smile which probably looked more like a grimace. Her husband, whatever had gone on earlier, looked the picture of serenity as he lay back on his snowy pillows – the most cosseted man on earth.
‘Sorry to disappoint you on that front,’ he said, with mock-seriousness. ‘I did my best. Had them all going this afternoon. But apparently it was just a bit of run-of-the-mill hysteria.’
Romy wasn’t in the mood for Michael’s banter.
He patted the duvet with his good hand. ‘Sit down, tell me all about it.’
‘Nothing to tell,’ she said dully.
‘Good weekend?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Action Man playing up?’ He was joking, and she expected to see a jealous sneer on his face, but all she saw was what looked like genuine concern.
Romy sighed. She hadn’t moved from the doorway and had no intention of doing so.
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘Is there anything I can get you before I go to bed?’
Part of her wanted to blurt out, then and there, what Finch had told her, finally force him to tell her the truth. But she knew she was too wound up, too exhausted to be coherent. Plus Michael needed to be kept calm. She didn’t want him disappearing behind another panic attack just as she was getting to the crux of that evening with Grace. It would wait till tomorrow.
As she slipped into bed, Romy felt as if she’d been put through a mangle and spat out the other side. She still remembered her mother’s mangle and could instantly recall washday and the delicious soapy smell of the laundry powder bubbling away in the steamy water of the twin tub, the clothes churning beneath the surface. Then her mother picking them out with wooden tongs and squeezing them briefly – the spinner bit of the ‘twin’ didn’t work, like much else in the house – and feeding them through the two wooden rollers of the mangle.
Romy, as a small child, was allowed to turn the handle and watch the flattened clothes slide out the other side and plop stiffly into the waiting clothes basket before her mother hung them on the line outside. She felt like those clothes now: squashed flat, lifeless, devoid of her normal shape.
She could understand Finch’s position all too well. If she were him, she would surely have reacted in the same way. But instead of sympathizing with Grace and being as appalled as he – which any decent person would have done – she’d gone on the defensive and virtually blamed the girl for Michael’s behaviour.
That night, sixteen years ago, sat like a stone in Romy’s stomach, as if she had been there too, as if she herself were also to blame: Michael’s sleazy partner in crime. She knew it was ridiculous, but she felt like those mothers of serial killers who stand by their sons and say in all honesty, ‘My Frankie’s a good boy. He’d never do such a terrible thing.’ She had seen it in Finch’s eyes, his shock and bewilderment when she continued to side with Michael.
What did he do that night? she asked herself, as she lay there on the edge of sleep, eyelids drooping from tiredness in the stuffy bedroom.
But, whatever the truth, nothing would mend the chasm that had opened up between her and Finch. Apologizing for blaming Grace would not wipe Romy’s words from his memory or hers. So even if she did say sorry, and she would, and even if he completely forgave her, which, being Finch, he might, Romy couldn’t see him choosing her over his stepdaughter, over Nell’s daughter. And he would have to choose, because Grace was never going to be comfortable having Romy around for weekend visits or jolly family get-togethers.
No, her love affair with Finch – that beautiful, surprising connection they had – was ruined now. In her mangled state, she felt nothing, just completely numb.
She heard a thud from next door. The last thing she wanted right now was to have to face the man responsible for her current nightmare. She held her breath.
There was another thump, a loud groan, then Michael’s voice calling her …
He had fallen out of bed and was lying on the floor, legs out at odd angles, head rammed against the bedside cabinet. He was clutching his reading glasses in his good hand, his eyes glazed as he stared in her direction.
‘Can’t move,’ he muttered, straining to pull himself up. ‘Can’t move, Romy. Can’t bloody move.’ His voice became more and more strident as he writhed around, pulling at the bedclothes, scrabbling at the carpet with his fingers, his glasses flung away and being crushed beneath his body.
‘It’s OK. I’m here, Michael. We’ll get you up. Stop – stop struggling.’
He blinked up at her and she saw the fear in his eyes as she knelt beside him and pulled him round until she could hook her arm through his and haul him up and onto the bed. He was gripping her with such ferocity that she knew she would have bruises by morning.
‘I’ve got you, it’s OK,’ she kept repeating, trying to soothe him. But the way he was catching at her made them both almost topple over. It was a good few minutes before she managed to land him back on the bed, lifting his legs and swivelling him round until he was lying flat out. But he wouldn’t let go of her and she lost her balance and fell down on top of him.
For a moment she lay there, unable to prevent the memory of the many times they had lain like this, naked, making love. Not for a while now, but the sex they had shared in the past – so different from her lovemaking with Finch – had been quick and fierce and hungry, Michael always in a hurry. I enjoyed it, she thought sadly, as she began to pull away – but not before Michael had laid his hand gently to her cheek, his eyes gazing at her with a sort of hopeless longing.
‘Kiss me,’ he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.
Romy instantly removed his hand, her body rigid. She was about to snap, ‘Don’t touch me,’ but he looked so pathetic lying beneath her that the words died on her lips. She just scrambled off, wrapping her silk dressing gown more tightly round her nakedness. She shivered. He had been her husband, yet all she could see was Grace.
Michael turned his head away and she heard, ‘Sorry … sorry.’
Pretending nothing had happened, Romy busied herself plumping his pillows, hoisting him onto them and hauling the duvet back onto the bed. Michael lay, eyes closed, so shrunken and pale. She could see his mouth working anxiously.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said.
Romy nodded, but didn’t reply.
‘I’m all over the place. I’m sorry,’ Michael went on.
‘It’s OK,’ she muttered, not meeting his eye.
There was silence from the bed.
‘You looked disgusted.’
Romy’s breath caught in her throat. ‘I was surprised, that’s all,’ she said eventually, looking directly at him. His dark eyes were unfathomable.
‘I was discombobulated when I fell.’ Michael’s face twisted. ‘And then you were lying on top of me and … it was like the past few years didn’t exist. I thought for a stupid moment we were still together.’
Romy didn’t know whether to believe him or not. It could just be him making up a clever excuse. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.
Michael leant forward. ‘It does matter, Romy. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of your kindness. I got confused. Will you forget it ever happened? Please?’
The desperation in his voice hit home and she sighed. ‘I said, it doesn’t matter, Michael. Really, there’s nothing to forget.’ She gave his duvet a final tug and turned away. ‘Are you OK now?’
‘Yes, yes. I’m fine,’ he said quietly.
She sensed he was waiting for her to give him some sort of sign, some indication that she had forgiven him. But she couldn’t bring herself to offer anything but a brief wave of her hand as she turned away.
Romy pulled the duvet close round her body, holding her cold hands in a ball under her chin, her knees drawn up. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow Michael will tell me the truth. She was aware she could leave Michael in the safe hands of Daniel and Leo, just go home. But she would not leave quite yet, even though she could. Not before she had got the truth out of Michael about that night once and for all.
33
But the following morning, the freedom she’d begun almost to smell was yanked out of her hand, as if she’d been brutally mugged.
Dr Beech stood beside her in the hall. ‘A man like Michael,’ he said, ‘used to being in total control, at the top of his professional tree, he’s going to take this sort of setback hard.’
Romy could almost hear Michael scoffing at the word ‘setback’, but she didn’t interrupt.
‘I’ve put him on paroxetine. I’m afraid he’s showing clear signs of depression. The panic attack was a symptom.’ He handed Romy a prescription slip. ‘It takes a while for it to kick in, so don’t expect any improvement immediately, usually around a couple of weeks. Could be as much as six.’
But this was the third blow of the day. Before breakfast, she’d found Daniel in the kitchen, his eyes red from weeping. His mother, so his father had told him earlier, had suffered an escalation of the renal cancer she’d been fighting, and been told she had only months to live.
‘I will stay until Friday,’ he said, his usual pragmatic self, despite the devastating news. ‘You will have time to get someone else for Mr Michael,’ he said.
Romy hugged him, reeling at the news. ‘For goodness’ sake, Daniel, don’t worry about us. I’m so sorry about your mum. You said she’d been ill, but I thought she was better.’
He gave a sad smile. ‘I thought so too.’
‘We’ll all miss you so much. You’ve done miracles with Michael – I know it hasn’t always been easy.’
Daniel shrugged. ‘I will miss you too.’
‘But it won’t be long before he’s able to manage on his own, with a bit of luck.’
He had smiled encouragingly, but the message she’d read in his light blue eyes told her it would need more than luck.
Then there had been her phone call to Finch. She desperately wanted to apologize for what she’d implied about Grace, in the heat of the moment, which, whatever doubts she still had about Michael, had been so insensitive.
‘Hi, Romy.’ Finch’s voice was subdued, but the hostility from Sunday was no longer apparent. Now she had him on the other end of the phone, though, how to say what she wanted to say?
Before she’d had a chance to speak, it was Finch who was apologizing. ‘I’m sorry for being so aggressive the other day, storming out like that,’ he said, almost formally. But despite the apology, she couldn’t hear any note of affection in his voice and the knowledge twisted her heart.
‘No, please, it’s me who should apologize. That’s why I rang, to say how sorry I am for what I said.’
‘Thank you.’ Finch spoke the words softly. Then he went on, ‘Have you talked to Michael?’
‘Not yet. He had a bad panic attack yesterday …’ Romy ground to a halt, but Finch said nothing, and she hurried on, ‘The doctor said he shouldn’t get wound up. So I plan to talk to him later today. I need him to listen properly to what I have to say.’
Finch did not reply.
‘Finch?’
She heard him sigh. ‘I can’t do this, Romy. It’s no good. You’re so invested in Michael. You obviously care deeply about his welfare, which is fair enough, but I just can’t listen to it any more.’
Romy held her breath, her heart thumping unevenly in her chest. ‘He’s a sick man, Finch. Daniel has to go back to Switzerland and I can’t just abandon him.’ She was close to tears.
‘I’m sorry about Daniel. But this thing with Grace has been such a shock. I can’t see how we can go back to how things were before, even if you do eventually get around to confronting him.’
Romy was offended. ‘Are you implying I’m dragging my feet? That’s not fair. I haven’t done anything wrong here.’ But even as she said the words, she felt a stab of conscience. Although she could in no way be held responsible for Michael’s actions, she must accept some responsibility for remaining silent and passive about the letter all this time. But she was desperate to get her point across to Finch. ‘I knew nothing whatever about any of this until her letter arrived, I promise you.’ She cleared her throat, her voice croaking as she tried to finish what she was saying. ‘But even if Michael did what he’s accused of, Finch, there’s nothing I can do now to make it better for her – short of going to the police, which Grace doesn’t want to happen. You seem to think I can.’
‘If, if,’ Finch said quietly. ‘You’re still wondering if he did it.’
‘Listen to me, will you?’ she said, almost shouting with frustration. ‘I accept something went on that night. But until Michael actually tells me, nobody can say for sure what it was.’
‘Except Grace.’
‘Yes, there’s her version. But there were two people in that room. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’
‘Doesn’t seem to count as far as Grace is concerned. You’re obviously intent on only believing Michael’s version – if you ever find out what that is, of course.’ His voice was edgy with an uncharacteristic sarcasm.
‘I’m sorry about Grace,’ she repeated stiffly.
There was silence at the other end of the line. If Finch, at the beginning of the phone call, had had the slightest desire to mend the gulf that had sprung up between them, her seeming equivocation had just burnt that bridge to the ground. She was furious with him, but in that moment she felt her heart would break. Since the day she’d found the letter, she had felt its scattered contents spilling over her, invading her mind, her heart, even her physical body – always there, like a pernicious virus. She had never in a million years anticipated such a cruel denouement.
