The Lie, page 23
He could hear the television in the background as Grace said, ‘Hold on a minute. I’ll go into the other room.’
‘How are things?’ he asked.
There was a pause. Then Grace replied, her voice lowered, ‘Oh, I don’t know. This thing … telling you … it’s sort of churned me up. I can’t stop thinking about it now.’
Finch wasn’t sure what to say, but Grace went on, ‘Don’t tell me to get help, Finch. I’d feel like such a fucking loser, whingeing about something that happened when I was sixteen. It’s just ‒’ She stopped.
‘Gracie, listen, I know about this. I had men in my unit traumatized by stuff and refusing to admit they were getting flashbacks, not sleeping, whatever, because they didn’t think it was important enough, didn’t want to appear cowardly or weak. They didn’t get better on their own.’ There was no response so he went on, hoping to drive home his advantage. ‘What happened to you was real. It’ll only get worse if you don’t deal with it.’
‘Yeah, well, telling you already made it worse.’
‘That’s probably the hardest part, opening up for the first time.’
He heard her sigh. ‘I wish you were here, Finch.’ She sounded on the verge of tears.
‘Oh, Gracie. You should have said. I thought you were OK with me being away.’
‘I was. I am. I’m totally OK. I just … Hearing your voice …’
He heard the crack in her words, and stifled sobs. ‘Gracie, sweetheart …’
She cleared her throat. ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘I want the latest on the roasted cow balls.’
Finch laughed. ‘No latest, thank goodness. Listen, I was ringing to say I’m coming back. It’s amazing here, but it’s not real life.’
He heard Grace snort. ‘Nothing so great about real life.’ Silence, then she added, ‘So you’re really coming home?’
The cautious hope in her voice was too much for him and he coughed to get rid of the lump in his throat. ‘I don’t want to let Luis and Jocelyn down, they’ve been so good to me, but the current guests leave soon and I’ll get a flight out after that.’
Grace gave a long sigh. ‘That’s great, Finch. Let me know when.’
Finch pulled up beside Marty on the bluff. The slopes of the distant hills were shaded purple, the pampas, stretching away down the valley, bleached sand-grey and shimmering, like a piece of silk, in the winter sunset. The emptiness, the sheer vastness and beauty of the landscape still awed him, even after the weeks at Luis’s estancia.
‘Thought I’d lost you.’ Marty grinned, eyebrows raised smugly.
‘Ha-ha.’ Finch laughed. The American was so bloody competitive on a horse. And he’d found himself – against his better instincts – trying his best to match him, to beat him. But it was pointless: Marty was at one with the Paso.
For a while they sat there, the chomp, chomp of the horses as they lowered their heads to the grass the only sound. Finch breathed in the stillness, the silence. This grand wilderness seemed not to allow for petty concerns – which was probably why he loved it.
‘I’m sad you’re leaving,’ Marty began, as they tightened their reins and turned their mounts back the way they’d come. ‘Next time you want to take off, you should visit Wisconsin. Spend some time at the ranch. Daddy would love you and there’s always a ton of work with the horses.’
‘Thanks, I’ll remember that,’ Finch said. He smiled across at his friend. ‘It’s your fault I’m going.’
‘How so?’
‘Oh, you just reminded me of stuff I was trying to forget.’
‘How thoughtless of me,’ Marty joked. Then his expression became serious. ‘But, trust me, it’ll be a relief to stop running.’
47
When she returned to the flat after the trial weekend, Michael made his position quite clear.
‘You see?’ He waved his good hand, like an actor taking a bow. ‘Still in one piece.’ Looking triumphant he added, rather formally, ‘So you can leave me with a clear conscience, Romy, and knowing you’ve done a spectacular job, getting me thus far. I can’t thank you enough.’
Romy had heard from Leo, however, what a state Michael and the kitchen had been in that Sunday morning, how worried he and Lucy were.
‘Honestly, Mum, the kitchen looked like the police had got a search warrant and popped by for a dawn raid. There was mess everywhere,’ Leo said, when he phoned her on her journey back to London. ‘Lucy wanted to clear it up, but I stopped her because you said not to do stuff for him this weekend.’
Romy had groaned silently. ‘How did your father seem?’
‘Oh, he was cheerful enough. He looked a wreck – hadn’t shaved and had food down his T-shirt – but he seemed perfectly happy on his own.’
By the time Romy arrived at the flat, though – steeling herself to deal with the chaos – the place was relatively tidy. Michael had shaved and dressed in clean clothes. A ready-meal supper of fish pie for them both stood poised for nuking.
‘It’s great you feel you can manage,’ she said now, watching as Michael balanced on the crutch and slung the pie confidently into the microwave, adjusting his reading glasses to peer down at the settings.
Romy was oddly discombobulated as she sat down at the table. The trial had worked. I really can leave, she thought. It was what she’d longed for, but she felt almost dithery, now the moment had finally come and she was no longer needed.
The following day Michael was subdued as he watched her gather her things together. Romy felt the wrench of leaving him, too. But there were people coming in: Theresa, Imogen, Leo on alert – Wendy, for Sunday tea. He will be fine, she told herself. She found she couldn’t think about her own plans yet, as she wheeled her case down the corridor towards the front door. They were hovering on the horizon, just out of reach, like good weather after a storm. She would enjoy the sunshine later.
They stood together in the hall. He looks so drawn and tired, Romy thought, watching Michael manoeuvre himself until he was leaning against the wall. Stop worrying, she told herself firmly as she pulled on her jacket. But this felt like a huge moment, almost more significant than the first time she’d left him. Then, she had slunk off, not knowing what lay ahead, not even sure she was doing the right thing. But now she knew. Now she was quite sure.
‘I’m really going to miss you,’ he said, giving her a tender smile. His parting kiss lingered on her cheek for just a second longer than usual. She heard the nervousness in his voice as he added, ‘You will keep in touch?’
‘Of course I will,’ Romy said, giving him a quick hug. But as she opened the front door her feelings were powerfully uncomplicated: she was free.
When she arrived back at the cottage, though, just as the sun was going down in a spectacular light show of pinks, purples and gold over the estuary, instead of celebrating her freedom she found herself giving in to the strong desire to cry – which had hovered like an itch she dared not scratch over the tedious journey in the hot, packed train carriage.
Romy had anticipated this moment for months – the moment when she no longer had to worry about Michael, or his prevarications, his frailty, the pressure of his unrequited feelings for her. She had thought she would be relieved, liberated to follow her own path. But there was no sense of freedom as she made her way up to bed that night, after too many shots of vodka from the bottle in the freezer. All she felt was drunk and exhausted … and overwhelmingly lonely.
Romy spent her first days at home mooching about, trying to summon the energy to begin again. But now, early on Saturday evening, she was hurrying along the lane to the village car park to meet the man who was going to fit a new windscreen in the Audi: she’d found a ten-pence-sized chip, sitting spider-like in the centre of the glass when she went to the car that lunchtime.
She no longer looked out for Finch, these days, knowing he was on the other side of the world, but the place felt empty and monochrome without him.
A white Transit, sporting the windscreen-repair-company logo, appeared at the edge of the car park and she waved him over.
‘How long will it take?’ she asked.
Darren, in overalls, examined the damage closely, narrowing his eyes. ‘Forty-five for the screen. Can’t drive it for another twenty or so, not till the sealant’s gone off.’ He pinged one of the wipers. ‘These look a bit knackered. You want to replace them?’
Romy handed him her keys. ‘OK, yes. Text me when you’ve finished.’
It was a warm, beautiful evening. Reluctant to go home, Romy decided to sit on the wall outside the waterside café and watch the world go by. As she rounded the bend from the car park, turning left down the slope that led to the harbour, she noticed a woman standing alone, to the left of the yellow ice-cream van – still plying its trade, although it was gone six thirty.
She had her back to Romy and was gazing out towards the sea, dressed in a white T-shirt and denim shorts, her blonde waves clamped under a navy cap, bare legs strong and tanned. But even from the back, even with the cap on, Romy recognized her instantly.
She stopped, almost not daring to breathe. She could turn and flee, hurry down the lane opposite and hide in her house until Darren texted her. Or she could finally speak to Grace, meet the woman who had, with that fateful letter, turned Romy’s world inside out.
She hesitated, watching as Grace glanced around, then began to walk slowly along the shore, scuffing her flip-flops through the puddles left in the pitted tarmac by the outgoing tide, like a kid.
The sea was far out, the estuary a landscape of sandy-brown mud and vivid green seaweed, rivulets and pools catching the light of the descending sun, the boats – moored further out – stationary in the glassy channel of seawater. But as Grace disappeared behind the stone wall of the corner house, Romy found herself galvanized. She couldn’t let this opportunity slip away – although she had no idea what she would actually say when she came face to face with the woman.
Quickening her pace, she caught up with the retreating figure, drew level, drew ahead and turned. Grace raised her head as she approached, but her glance was casual: she didn’t know Romy.
‘Grace?’ Romy said, hearing the quiver in her voice. Her heart was thumping so hard she wanted to clamp her hands over her chest to prevent it bursting free.
Grace frowned, nodded.
Romy held her hand out. ‘Romy. Romy Claire.’
The woman’s face went still, then visibly paled, her beautiful grey eyes filling with apprehension. She ignored Romy’s hand, crossing her arms firmly across her body and glancing around the harbour, as if in need of rescue. She seemed lost for words.
‘I recognized you,’ Romy went on, her voice wavering. ‘Finch showed me your photograph. I thought … I wondered if we might talk for a minute. I don’t mean any trouble.’
Grace stared at her, arms still pulled in tight, shoulders raised defensively. But she didn’t speak and Romy begged, ‘Please,’ then held her breath.
‘A minute, then,’ Grace eventually replied. ‘Sam’s meeting me.’
Romy nodded. By tacit agreement the two women began to walk east along the road, the setting sun to their right, the ice-cream van and the remaining tourists behind them. But now Grace had agreed to talk to her, Romy did not know where to begin. It was Grace who spoke first.
‘Sam doesn’t know.’
‘OK … I understand. Listen, I really don’t want to upset you … I just wanted to say that I’m so sorry for what happened to you.’
Grace was silent. Romy could feel the tension coming in waves off the woman walking stiffly beside her.
‘Have you asked him about it?’ she said eventually, in a very small voice.
Romy hesitated. ‘Yes.’
The woman stopped and turned to her, eyes defiant, but her voice faltering. ‘I suppose he denied it?’
‘No.’ She took a long breath. ‘But he remembers it differently.’
Grace shook her head, sucking her lips between her teeth as if to stop herself crying. Romy couldn’t ignore the anguish in her eyes.
‘I believe you, Grace.’ Romy heard the words – sounding so purposeful as they spilt from her mouth – with a strange relief. Because she knew in that moment, witnessing her clear distress, that Michael – whatever expedient interpretation he’d placed on his actions – had done what the girl said he had done.
Her grey eyes brimmed over now. ‘You do?’
She nodded.
Tears slid down her pale cheeks but she brushed them away. ‘That means a lot,’ Grace said, then turned her face away from Romy as she said the next words. ‘I was scared. He really hurt me … He …’ She didn’t go on.
‘I’m so sorry.’ It seemed an inadequate response, but Romy was too shocked by Grace’s words to find better. Spoken like that, with such a chilling lack of emphasis, they could not have been misinterpreted.
Grace shook herself as she dug out a tissue from her shorts’ pocket and blew her nose. Looking at Romy intently, she said, ‘You shouldn’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I did. I took Michael’s side.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘I didn’t want to believe he was capable of such a thing.’ But I do now, she thought grimly.
Grace blinked rapidly. She seemed agitated, her gaze flicking to and fro. ‘Sam will be here in a minute. Please, can you go?’
Romy – selfishly, she realized – didn’t want to. She wanted to talk to Grace, to cling to this link with Finch for as long as she possibly could. But before she had time to speak, her phone rang.
‘Tried texting you,’ Darren said.
‘I’ll be right there.’
When she looked up, Grace was walking briskly back along the shore. She hadn’t said goodbye and Romy was too choked to call out. She hurried round the corner to the car park, devastated for Grace, of course, but also furious with herself. The honesty in the girl’s face had been painful to witness.
Romy listened with half an ear to Darren drone on earnestly about scuttle panels and primers. But her mind was elsewhere. Michael is guilty. It made her feel sick. All these months and years of wanting to believe him, her passionate defence of her husband in the face of Finch’s testimony, the way she’d pointed the finger at poor Grace. There was only one liar.
48
James was already at the table when she went in, a breadstick in one hand – which he was chewing absentmindedly – his sleek, big-screen iPhone in the other. The exclusive Italian restaurant on Aldwych was one he and Michael frequented. She had been there herself, in happier times, to meet her husband for lunch.
‘Romy, my dear.’ James threw breadstick and phone onto the starched white tablecloth and rose to give her his usual tentative cheek brush in greeting – he was not a man comfortable with hugs. ‘This is a rare pleasure.’
Not when I tell you why I asked you to come, she thought, but smiled at him nonetheless as she returned his kiss and sat down, the maître d’ pushing her chair in for her and shaking out her starched napkin, then laying it across her lap with a flourish.
‘So how’s the old rascal, then?’ James asked cheerily, but he was clearly awkward with her. Not least because he had told Michael now that he was looking to take on a permanent replacement.
He probably thinks I’m here to plead Michael’s cause, Romy thought wryly. ‘I’m back home in Sussex now,’ she said. ‘But I hear he’s doing well. Small improvements.’
James nodded, clicking his fingers to get the waiter’s attention. ‘They have a very serviceable Verdicchio here. You happy with white?’
Romy nodded, desperate for a large glug of alcohol – any would do – to calm her nerves. She was cold, although it was warm and muggy outside and the restaurant had no air-conditioning. They chatted about the summer – James had been to his house in Tuscany, then a wedding in Majorca – until the wine and bottled water arrived. Then Romy took a deep breath. But before she could speak, James held his hand up.
‘I know why you invited me, Romy.’ His fair, round face looked pained. ‘And I understand why you’re upset with me. But I honestly don’t have a choice. Michael seems so … well, let’s be honest,’ he faltered, ‘not himself. And we’re inundated, as usual, working ourselves black and blue to deal with the caseload.’
Romy let his words hang in the air. She felt for him. ‘I’m not here about that, James.’
His expression cleared. ‘Oh, right. OK.’
She took a large mouthful of the chilled white, deliciously fortifying as it slid down her throat. ‘I wanted to talk about Grace Fleetwood.’
James’s eyes narrowed. But he said nothing.
‘I’d like the truth. I’d like to know exactly what Michael told you that night when he came round to your house.’ When the man still didn’t answer, she added, ‘Please, James. I saw you hesitate, when we last spoke about it, the day of Michael’s tea. I heard what you said. I know you’re hiding something.’
There was silence while James waved away the waiter who’d come to take their order and took what appeared to be a strategic sip from his glass. ‘What’s this all about, Romy?’ He sounded nonchalant, but she knew he was not.
‘Something isn’t ringing true. And I think, as Michael’s closest friend, you know what it is.’
James shook his head as if he were really puzzled. ‘Why, though? Why do you want to know? It’s decades ago.’ He paused. ‘Is the girl wanting to make trouble?’
His tone was chilly now and Romy could see how his bland, chummy exterior hid a very different persona. Michael had always told her, ‘Don’t be fooled by Bregman. He’s a clever bastard. You wouldn’t want to cross him in court.’
‘She’s a woman, James. And she’s not going to “ make trouble ”, as you put it. This is me who wants to know.’
James sighed. ‘Romy, listen.’ He reached across and grabbed her hand in his large, soft one. ‘Don’t do this. Don’t torture yourself. Michael’s a sick man. What good will it do to drag up the past now?’ His look was entreating.
‘How are things?’ he asked.
There was a pause. Then Grace replied, her voice lowered, ‘Oh, I don’t know. This thing … telling you … it’s sort of churned me up. I can’t stop thinking about it now.’
Finch wasn’t sure what to say, but Grace went on, ‘Don’t tell me to get help, Finch. I’d feel like such a fucking loser, whingeing about something that happened when I was sixteen. It’s just ‒’ She stopped.
‘Gracie, listen, I know about this. I had men in my unit traumatized by stuff and refusing to admit they were getting flashbacks, not sleeping, whatever, because they didn’t think it was important enough, didn’t want to appear cowardly or weak. They didn’t get better on their own.’ There was no response so he went on, hoping to drive home his advantage. ‘What happened to you was real. It’ll only get worse if you don’t deal with it.’
‘Yeah, well, telling you already made it worse.’
‘That’s probably the hardest part, opening up for the first time.’
He heard her sigh. ‘I wish you were here, Finch.’ She sounded on the verge of tears.
‘Oh, Gracie. You should have said. I thought you were OK with me being away.’
‘I was. I am. I’m totally OK. I just … Hearing your voice …’
He heard the crack in her words, and stifled sobs. ‘Gracie, sweetheart …’
She cleared her throat. ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘I want the latest on the roasted cow balls.’
Finch laughed. ‘No latest, thank goodness. Listen, I was ringing to say I’m coming back. It’s amazing here, but it’s not real life.’
He heard Grace snort. ‘Nothing so great about real life.’ Silence, then she added, ‘So you’re really coming home?’
The cautious hope in her voice was too much for him and he coughed to get rid of the lump in his throat. ‘I don’t want to let Luis and Jocelyn down, they’ve been so good to me, but the current guests leave soon and I’ll get a flight out after that.’
Grace gave a long sigh. ‘That’s great, Finch. Let me know when.’
Finch pulled up beside Marty on the bluff. The slopes of the distant hills were shaded purple, the pampas, stretching away down the valley, bleached sand-grey and shimmering, like a piece of silk, in the winter sunset. The emptiness, the sheer vastness and beauty of the landscape still awed him, even after the weeks at Luis’s estancia.
‘Thought I’d lost you.’ Marty grinned, eyebrows raised smugly.
‘Ha-ha.’ Finch laughed. The American was so bloody competitive on a horse. And he’d found himself – against his better instincts – trying his best to match him, to beat him. But it was pointless: Marty was at one with the Paso.
For a while they sat there, the chomp, chomp of the horses as they lowered their heads to the grass the only sound. Finch breathed in the stillness, the silence. This grand wilderness seemed not to allow for petty concerns – which was probably why he loved it.
‘I’m sad you’re leaving,’ Marty began, as they tightened their reins and turned their mounts back the way they’d come. ‘Next time you want to take off, you should visit Wisconsin. Spend some time at the ranch. Daddy would love you and there’s always a ton of work with the horses.’
‘Thanks, I’ll remember that,’ Finch said. He smiled across at his friend. ‘It’s your fault I’m going.’
‘How so?’
‘Oh, you just reminded me of stuff I was trying to forget.’
‘How thoughtless of me,’ Marty joked. Then his expression became serious. ‘But, trust me, it’ll be a relief to stop running.’
47
When she returned to the flat after the trial weekend, Michael made his position quite clear.
‘You see?’ He waved his good hand, like an actor taking a bow. ‘Still in one piece.’ Looking triumphant he added, rather formally, ‘So you can leave me with a clear conscience, Romy, and knowing you’ve done a spectacular job, getting me thus far. I can’t thank you enough.’
Romy had heard from Leo, however, what a state Michael and the kitchen had been in that Sunday morning, how worried he and Lucy were.
‘Honestly, Mum, the kitchen looked like the police had got a search warrant and popped by for a dawn raid. There was mess everywhere,’ Leo said, when he phoned her on her journey back to London. ‘Lucy wanted to clear it up, but I stopped her because you said not to do stuff for him this weekend.’
Romy had groaned silently. ‘How did your father seem?’
‘Oh, he was cheerful enough. He looked a wreck – hadn’t shaved and had food down his T-shirt – but he seemed perfectly happy on his own.’
By the time Romy arrived at the flat, though – steeling herself to deal with the chaos – the place was relatively tidy. Michael had shaved and dressed in clean clothes. A ready-meal supper of fish pie for them both stood poised for nuking.
‘It’s great you feel you can manage,’ she said now, watching as Michael balanced on the crutch and slung the pie confidently into the microwave, adjusting his reading glasses to peer down at the settings.
Romy was oddly discombobulated as she sat down at the table. The trial had worked. I really can leave, she thought. It was what she’d longed for, but she felt almost dithery, now the moment had finally come and she was no longer needed.
The following day Michael was subdued as he watched her gather her things together. Romy felt the wrench of leaving him, too. But there were people coming in: Theresa, Imogen, Leo on alert – Wendy, for Sunday tea. He will be fine, she told herself. She found she couldn’t think about her own plans yet, as she wheeled her case down the corridor towards the front door. They were hovering on the horizon, just out of reach, like good weather after a storm. She would enjoy the sunshine later.
They stood together in the hall. He looks so drawn and tired, Romy thought, watching Michael manoeuvre himself until he was leaning against the wall. Stop worrying, she told herself firmly as she pulled on her jacket. But this felt like a huge moment, almost more significant than the first time she’d left him. Then, she had slunk off, not knowing what lay ahead, not even sure she was doing the right thing. But now she knew. Now she was quite sure.
‘I’m really going to miss you,’ he said, giving her a tender smile. His parting kiss lingered on her cheek for just a second longer than usual. She heard the nervousness in his voice as he added, ‘You will keep in touch?’
‘Of course I will,’ Romy said, giving him a quick hug. But as she opened the front door her feelings were powerfully uncomplicated: she was free.
When she arrived back at the cottage, though, just as the sun was going down in a spectacular light show of pinks, purples and gold over the estuary, instead of celebrating her freedom she found herself giving in to the strong desire to cry – which had hovered like an itch she dared not scratch over the tedious journey in the hot, packed train carriage.
Romy had anticipated this moment for months – the moment when she no longer had to worry about Michael, or his prevarications, his frailty, the pressure of his unrequited feelings for her. She had thought she would be relieved, liberated to follow her own path. But there was no sense of freedom as she made her way up to bed that night, after too many shots of vodka from the bottle in the freezer. All she felt was drunk and exhausted … and overwhelmingly lonely.
Romy spent her first days at home mooching about, trying to summon the energy to begin again. But now, early on Saturday evening, she was hurrying along the lane to the village car park to meet the man who was going to fit a new windscreen in the Audi: she’d found a ten-pence-sized chip, sitting spider-like in the centre of the glass when she went to the car that lunchtime.
She no longer looked out for Finch, these days, knowing he was on the other side of the world, but the place felt empty and monochrome without him.
A white Transit, sporting the windscreen-repair-company logo, appeared at the edge of the car park and she waved him over.
‘How long will it take?’ she asked.
Darren, in overalls, examined the damage closely, narrowing his eyes. ‘Forty-five for the screen. Can’t drive it for another twenty or so, not till the sealant’s gone off.’ He pinged one of the wipers. ‘These look a bit knackered. You want to replace them?’
Romy handed him her keys. ‘OK, yes. Text me when you’ve finished.’
It was a warm, beautiful evening. Reluctant to go home, Romy decided to sit on the wall outside the waterside café and watch the world go by. As she rounded the bend from the car park, turning left down the slope that led to the harbour, she noticed a woman standing alone, to the left of the yellow ice-cream van – still plying its trade, although it was gone six thirty.
She had her back to Romy and was gazing out towards the sea, dressed in a white T-shirt and denim shorts, her blonde waves clamped under a navy cap, bare legs strong and tanned. But even from the back, even with the cap on, Romy recognized her instantly.
She stopped, almost not daring to breathe. She could turn and flee, hurry down the lane opposite and hide in her house until Darren texted her. Or she could finally speak to Grace, meet the woman who had, with that fateful letter, turned Romy’s world inside out.
She hesitated, watching as Grace glanced around, then began to walk slowly along the shore, scuffing her flip-flops through the puddles left in the pitted tarmac by the outgoing tide, like a kid.
The sea was far out, the estuary a landscape of sandy-brown mud and vivid green seaweed, rivulets and pools catching the light of the descending sun, the boats – moored further out – stationary in the glassy channel of seawater. But as Grace disappeared behind the stone wall of the corner house, Romy found herself galvanized. She couldn’t let this opportunity slip away – although she had no idea what she would actually say when she came face to face with the woman.
Quickening her pace, she caught up with the retreating figure, drew level, drew ahead and turned. Grace raised her head as she approached, but her glance was casual: she didn’t know Romy.
‘Grace?’ Romy said, hearing the quiver in her voice. Her heart was thumping so hard she wanted to clamp her hands over her chest to prevent it bursting free.
Grace frowned, nodded.
Romy held her hand out. ‘Romy. Romy Claire.’
The woman’s face went still, then visibly paled, her beautiful grey eyes filling with apprehension. She ignored Romy’s hand, crossing her arms firmly across her body and glancing around the harbour, as if in need of rescue. She seemed lost for words.
‘I recognized you,’ Romy went on, her voice wavering. ‘Finch showed me your photograph. I thought … I wondered if we might talk for a minute. I don’t mean any trouble.’
Grace stared at her, arms still pulled in tight, shoulders raised defensively. But she didn’t speak and Romy begged, ‘Please,’ then held her breath.
‘A minute, then,’ Grace eventually replied. ‘Sam’s meeting me.’
Romy nodded. By tacit agreement the two women began to walk east along the road, the setting sun to their right, the ice-cream van and the remaining tourists behind them. But now Grace had agreed to talk to her, Romy did not know where to begin. It was Grace who spoke first.
‘Sam doesn’t know.’
‘OK … I understand. Listen, I really don’t want to upset you … I just wanted to say that I’m so sorry for what happened to you.’
Grace was silent. Romy could feel the tension coming in waves off the woman walking stiffly beside her.
‘Have you asked him about it?’ she said eventually, in a very small voice.
Romy hesitated. ‘Yes.’
The woman stopped and turned to her, eyes defiant, but her voice faltering. ‘I suppose he denied it?’
‘No.’ She took a long breath. ‘But he remembers it differently.’
Grace shook her head, sucking her lips between her teeth as if to stop herself crying. Romy couldn’t ignore the anguish in her eyes.
‘I believe you, Grace.’ Romy heard the words – sounding so purposeful as they spilt from her mouth – with a strange relief. Because she knew in that moment, witnessing her clear distress, that Michael – whatever expedient interpretation he’d placed on his actions – had done what the girl said he had done.
Her grey eyes brimmed over now. ‘You do?’
She nodded.
Tears slid down her pale cheeks but she brushed them away. ‘That means a lot,’ Grace said, then turned her face away from Romy as she said the next words. ‘I was scared. He really hurt me … He …’ She didn’t go on.
‘I’m so sorry.’ It seemed an inadequate response, but Romy was too shocked by Grace’s words to find better. Spoken like that, with such a chilling lack of emphasis, they could not have been misinterpreted.
Grace shook herself as she dug out a tissue from her shorts’ pocket and blew her nose. Looking at Romy intently, she said, ‘You shouldn’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I did. I took Michael’s side.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘I didn’t want to believe he was capable of such a thing.’ But I do now, she thought grimly.
Grace blinked rapidly. She seemed agitated, her gaze flicking to and fro. ‘Sam will be here in a minute. Please, can you go?’
Romy – selfishly, she realized – didn’t want to. She wanted to talk to Grace, to cling to this link with Finch for as long as she possibly could. But before she had time to speak, her phone rang.
‘Tried texting you,’ Darren said.
‘I’ll be right there.’
When she looked up, Grace was walking briskly back along the shore. She hadn’t said goodbye and Romy was too choked to call out. She hurried round the corner to the car park, devastated for Grace, of course, but also furious with herself. The honesty in the girl’s face had been painful to witness.
Romy listened with half an ear to Darren drone on earnestly about scuttle panels and primers. But her mind was elsewhere. Michael is guilty. It made her feel sick. All these months and years of wanting to believe him, her passionate defence of her husband in the face of Finch’s testimony, the way she’d pointed the finger at poor Grace. There was only one liar.
48
James was already at the table when she went in, a breadstick in one hand – which he was chewing absentmindedly – his sleek, big-screen iPhone in the other. The exclusive Italian restaurant on Aldwych was one he and Michael frequented. She had been there herself, in happier times, to meet her husband for lunch.
‘Romy, my dear.’ James threw breadstick and phone onto the starched white tablecloth and rose to give her his usual tentative cheek brush in greeting – he was not a man comfortable with hugs. ‘This is a rare pleasure.’
Not when I tell you why I asked you to come, she thought, but smiled at him nonetheless as she returned his kiss and sat down, the maître d’ pushing her chair in for her and shaking out her starched napkin, then laying it across her lap with a flourish.
‘So how’s the old rascal, then?’ James asked cheerily, but he was clearly awkward with her. Not least because he had told Michael now that he was looking to take on a permanent replacement.
He probably thinks I’m here to plead Michael’s cause, Romy thought wryly. ‘I’m back home in Sussex now,’ she said. ‘But I hear he’s doing well. Small improvements.’
James nodded, clicking his fingers to get the waiter’s attention. ‘They have a very serviceable Verdicchio here. You happy with white?’
Romy nodded, desperate for a large glug of alcohol – any would do – to calm her nerves. She was cold, although it was warm and muggy outside and the restaurant had no air-conditioning. They chatted about the summer – James had been to his house in Tuscany, then a wedding in Majorca – until the wine and bottled water arrived. Then Romy took a deep breath. But before she could speak, James held his hand up.
‘I know why you invited me, Romy.’ His fair, round face looked pained. ‘And I understand why you’re upset with me. But I honestly don’t have a choice. Michael seems so … well, let’s be honest,’ he faltered, ‘not himself. And we’re inundated, as usual, working ourselves black and blue to deal with the caseload.’
Romy let his words hang in the air. She felt for him. ‘I’m not here about that, James.’
His expression cleared. ‘Oh, right. OK.’
She took a large mouthful of the chilled white, deliciously fortifying as it slid down her throat. ‘I wanted to talk about Grace Fleetwood.’
James’s eyes narrowed. But he said nothing.
‘I’d like the truth. I’d like to know exactly what Michael told you that night when he came round to your house.’ When the man still didn’t answer, she added, ‘Please, James. I saw you hesitate, when we last spoke about it, the day of Michael’s tea. I heard what you said. I know you’re hiding something.’
There was silence while James waved away the waiter who’d come to take their order and took what appeared to be a strategic sip from his glass. ‘What’s this all about, Romy?’ He sounded nonchalant, but she knew he was not.
‘Something isn’t ringing true. And I think, as Michael’s closest friend, you know what it is.’
James shook his head as if he were really puzzled. ‘Why, though? Why do you want to know? It’s decades ago.’ He paused. ‘Is the girl wanting to make trouble?’
His tone was chilly now and Romy could see how his bland, chummy exterior hid a very different persona. Michael had always told her, ‘Don’t be fooled by Bregman. He’s a clever bastard. You wouldn’t want to cross him in court.’
‘She’s a woman, James. And she’s not going to “ make trouble ”, as you put it. This is me who wants to know.’
James sighed. ‘Romy, listen.’ He reached across and grabbed her hand in his large, soft one. ‘Don’t do this. Don’t torture yourself. Michael’s a sick man. What good will it do to drag up the past now?’ His look was entreating.
