The Lie, page 25
Things went reasonably well during the antipasti, the veal chop and right up until after the coffee semifreddo. Antonio had stuck a candle into Lucy’s, written ‘Happy Birthday’ in piped chocolate around the edge of her plate, the waiters gathering round to sing to her – much to Lucy’s intense embarrassment. Then, almost as if a switch had been thrown, his parents seemed to give up on the whole event.
‘I need to pee,’ his father said, uttering the now familiar refrain.
Which took for ever, as the Gents was down in the basement and Leo – who chaperoned him – was terrified he’d fall on the steep stairs, especially after two glasses of wine.
As his dad was peeing in the single urinal, Leo hovering nearby, Michael turned to look at him, stating baldly, ‘I’ve upset your mother.’
Leo nodded as his father leant against the wall, breathing hard as he struggled to close his flies. ‘I thought there was something up between you.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘So what did you do this time, Dad?’ His father appeared grim-faced but Leo couldn’t imagine, in his current condition, that his offence was too serious. Mum’s probably just had enough, he thought, mindful of the long and arduous months she’d put in, caring for him.
His dad didn’t reply as he picked up his stick and began the slow journey out of the cramped toilet and up the stairs.
Leo, right behind, repeated, ‘What did you do, Dad?’
‘Don’t ask. You really don’t want to know,’ came the caustic reply, as they reached the top of the stairs and were greeted by his mum, clearly impatient, and Lucy.
‘We’ll take you back,’ Leo said to his father, assuming his mum would want to get home. Then he and Lucy planned to have a potter round the shops on Duke of York Square, although most of them were way out of their price range.
‘No,’ his mum said, directing a brittle smile at Lucy. ‘I’ll take him. You two go off and have fun.’
His dad shot him a knowing look and he found himself colouring. Leo was dying to get to the bottom of this row between his parents. His mum was clearly on the edge and he was loath to leave her like that. But he didn’t want to spoil Lucy’s day either. I’ll phone her later, he decided, taking Lucy’s hand and giving it a squeeze. Maybe she’ll open up about the problem when Dad’s not around.
‘If you’re sure?’ he asked.
His mother nodded firmly, shooing them away with a smile. Leo grinned at Lucy. ‘Come on then, birthday girl, let’s hit the shops.’
52
Michael was curled up on top of the duvet, still in his smart trousers and shirt, already dozing when Romy entered the bedroom. For a moment she watched his face, sunken in repose, no trace of the deceit that now marred his waking countenance for her and was making her re-evaluate every one of the thirty years of their relationship.
Michael opened his eyes. ‘I’m not asleep.’
She sat down abruptly in the stained orange armchair. ‘We need to talk about the boys.’
He sighed, turned his face away.
Romy tried to calm her ragged breathing. ‘Leo knows something’s up. And I absolutely loathe lying to him. But I want you to know it won’t be me who tells either him or Rex what happened with Grace. That’s up to you.’
Michael’s eyes widened. ‘Christ! Are you joking?’ he said, his voice suddenly high and weak. ‘Tell the boys? They’re all I’ve got – they’d never speak to me again if they knew.’
Romy couldn’t help feeling a stab of sympathy. What a horrible dilemma he faced. ‘Fine, up to you. But if you don’t, Michael, I’m telling you it will haunt you for the rest of your life. Leo loves you … Maybe he’ll come round.’
‘You haven’t.’
‘You didn’t lie to him.’
He looked away.
She got up. ‘As I said, your call.’
Michael remained silent, his face still turned from her.
Romy stood for a moment, looking down at him. ‘You know you can get back up to strength, Michael, if you choose. Face up to what you’ve done and forgive yourself. Be part of the world again.’ The shadow of a cynical smile came and went on his face, but she ploughed on: ‘Your arm might never be the same, but there are thousands of people out there who still contribute, lead a really good life, who aren’t a hundred per cent fit.’
He finally turned to meet her eye, his own dark and unfathomable, his tone infinitely weary. ‘I hear you, Romy. And I will tell Leo. Someday I will tell my sons what a bastard their father is … But not yet. I can’t do it yet.’
53
As soon as Grace had left after breakfast on Sunday, Finch had contacted a psychotherapist he knew – the wife of an old army mate – and asked her if she had any recommendations in the Manchester area. He was waiting to hear back. Grace had assured Finch, when they’d said goodbye, that she was fine and that she would investigate professional help. But he had reservations on both counts. Her demeanour was too bright, too falsely compliant. He knew he would have to keep a pretty close eye on her, but it was so hard to do, when she was all the way up in Manchester. And this was making him think.
On his evening run around the harbour – avoiding the end where Romy’s cottage stood, although he was sure she would be with that degenerate husband of hers on a Sunday night – an idea began to form. It had first crossed his mind on the plane coming home from Argentina, when he had sat, cramped in his seat – the rest of the cabin asleep – thinking how little there was keeping him in the village any more.
His time away had made it clear to him that he didn’t want to go back to his old life of fundraising marathons and Jenny’s coffee mornings – in fact, he hadn’t contacted Jenny since he’d got back. He knew she would want to come round and see him immediately and he wasn’t in the mood to have her clucking at him, to have his life taken over again. And as the dawn shone rosily across the billowing white floor of clouds outside the plane window, Finch had come to the unexpected realization that he wasn’t, in fact, tied to his current lifestyle. He could change things.
Why can’t I move up to Grace’s neck of the woods? he asked himself now, as he jogged steadily past a couple walking their retriever in the brisk September dusk. Find a little place in the Peak District – near her and Sam, but not too near – so I can keep an eye, be more involved in their lives.
The idea really appealed. He wouldn’t be burning his bridges. He could rent out his house, get somewhere for a year and see if it suited them all. His only real tie to this village had been Nell and, for a while, Romy. And both were gone from his life. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his days keeping his eyes peeled every time he left his house, terrified of bumping into Romy and experiencing that thumping heartbreak all over again. By the time he reached home, he was buzzing.
‘Shouldn’t be a problem, Mr Fincham.’ Haley, from lettings, with her strong Sussex accent, sounded eager. ‘We’re always on the lookout for properties in your location. If you’re in such a hurry, maybe I could pop by later today and take some photos, get some details on the system.’
Finch had taken the bull by the horns first thing the next morning. Hearing Grace’s shriek of excitement when he’d phoned her on her way to work and tentatively outlined his plan had been enough.
For the rest of the day, he was pinned to his screen, clicking forward and back, scrolling through wide-angle photos of sitting rooms, kitchens, bathrooms and bedrooms – some of them probably no bigger than a cupboard – checking maps and transport links and noting broadband speed. It was a tiring business, but he didn’t mind: he was on a roll and probably as excited as his stepdaughter. Now he had begun the process, he felt desperate to get going.
By the middle of the week the To Let sign had been stapled to the brick stanchion supporting the front gate and Finch was packing a spare shirt, boxers and socks in his canvas holdall, ahead of leaving for a few days with Grace and Sam in Manchester – and a slew of viewing appointments in the nearby Peak District.
54
The floodgates were open. As soon as Romy got home after Lucy’s birthday lunch, she threw on her scruffiest jeans and a threadbare jumper and began to rampage around the cottage. She dragged out anything that reminded her of Michael: photographs with his coolly smiling, saturnine face; the pepper mill he’d given her for her birthday; his dressing gown, still hanging hidden behind the spare-room door; his stupid, shiny, designer wellies; his equally redundant Barbour flat cap on the shelf in the coat cupboard; his favourite white Wedgwood cup from which he’d liked to drink Earl Grey, the saucer broken long ago; and Simon Sebag Montefiore’s Stalin, which he’d read to death one summer. She hurled the lot into a black bin bag to take to the charity shop.
As the last item fell into the crammed plastic sack, she collapsed onto the sofa, clutching a cushion to her chest, and listened to her tattered breathing. She was amazed to discover she didn’t feel like crying any more – she was so sick of letting Michael Claire ruin her life.
Sitting there, she remembered her mother: arthritic and emphysemic – from all the cigarettes she and her father had consumed their entire life. Peggy had been dealing with recent memories of waking to find her husband dead beside her from a heart attack, struggling breathlessly to maintain her beloved vegetable garden and existing on a scant government pension. Bony, sweaty and blue-tinged, sitting in her chair with the oxygen mask clamped to her face, her mum still managed to smile. ‘I’m a right old wreck,’ she’d say cheerfully, between gasps. ‘Knackered me in the end, all those fags. But I enjoyed every sodding one. I’d light up right now if this perishing oxygen tank wouldn’t blow us both to smithereens.’
Romy compared Peggy’s stalwart, unflinching attitude to Michael’s … to her own. But both of them had been rendered weak and useless by the legacy of her husband’s lies, while her mother was fulfilled, at peace with herself. And though Michael might choose not to be, Romy fully intended to grab her life by its collar and find her own version of fulfilment.
Tonight, she told herself, I will open a bottle of wine and drink to me, Romy Margaret Turnbull. Her maiden name sounded strange on her tongue after so long, but also comforting. It summoned up her parents’ love, their strengths, their passionate commitment to a better planet and the values they’d instilled so solidly in her and Blake – all of which Michael had cruelly disparaged.
‘To Romy Turnbull and a new start,’ she said later, raising her glass of red in the air and smiling to the universe. Michael had bought the wine, but her anger was spent now, and she drew the line at giving away a very good Rioja, double standards or not.
There was so much to enjoy that didn’t have to involve men. Finch had been someone who understood the life she wanted, who might have been a real soul-mate. But she tried not to think of him. She was sure she would find like-minded friends once she opened herself up to the possibility … once she knew more where she was going and who she was.
I’ll continue up at Ebernoe. I’ll chase a conservation job. I’ll make an effort with people in the village. I’ll try yoga. I’ll paint the walls bright colours and make yoghurt like Mum used to in that jug in the airing cupboard. I’ll take a trip somewhere interesting with Bettina. I might even get a cat. This last thought interrupted her manifesto and made her smile. Cats caused Michael’s eyes to itch and swell up.
On Tuesday morning, Romy met up with Maureen at the harbour café. She wanted to pick her brains.
They sat for an hour or so, drinking tea and looking out across the water while they discussed progress at the common and various possibilities for a job for Romy. Maureen was enthusiastic. She knew everybody in the local conservation world and thought there might be something going in the Arun Wetlands Centre.
Later, as they stood by the till, waiting to pay for their drinks, Maureen commented casually, ‘So sad about your army chap. We’ll miss him.’
Romy started, her heart bouncing out of rhythm as she asked, ‘Is he staying in Argentina, then?’
Maureen gave a surprised frown. ‘No, no. Didn’t you hear? He’s not long back, but now he’s off again, up to the Peak District to live with his stepdaughter, so Jenny tells me. She’s terribly upset, of course, losing her loyal fundraiser.’
Romy made a sort of choked hmm noise that might have been agreement, might have been just her clearing her throat – she was incapable of forming a reply. And Maureen, having shared the latest gossip, said a brisk goodbye and took off on her rusty bike, which she’d propped carelessly against the glass of the café window.
Romy stood alone in the lane, blinking in the bright autumn sunlight. That’s it, then, she told herself. Finch has gone.
55
In the weeks that followed, Romy found the miasma of the last few months gradually beginning to lift. Since leaving the flat, she’d seldom talked to Michael. And he never called her. At first she had checked in regularly with Theresa, who assured her he seemed to be managing, in a chaotic sort of way. Romy didn’t know what that meant in terms of his mental health, but she felt it was no longer her business. The gaps between her calls to Theresa grew longer as she turned her focus to her own life.
This morning she got up early and dressed in her running gear, pulling on her woolly hat and gloves and walking out into the chilly, pre-dawn light. Sunrise was not long away, the sky to the east already softly luminous: it was going to be a beautiful day. The tide was as far out as possible, the autumn air so still across the undulating brown mud that Romy could hear her heart thudding in her ears as she ran.
She stopped to take in the scenery. She made herself do this every morning now. Instead of just running for exercise – making it all about effort and physicality – she tried to give the hour a meditative element, to appreciate the beauty around her and let nature expand her mind. She was determined to develop mental strategies, until eventually they would be habitual and she’d become strong like her mother, calm, and look to the future with enthusiasm.
As she stood and watched a large oystercatcher pecking at the seaweed with its orange-red bill, a figure coming off the back lane onto the harbour road caught her eye, jogging steadily towards her. She blinked hard, narrowed her eyes. Could it be?
He was still a long way off, but she knew his outline so well – that long, easy stride, the set of his head. She heard her breath catch as she froze, unable to do anything but watch, anticipation flaring painfully in her chest.
If he recognized her, he did not show it, his lope remaining regular and consistent as he drew closer. The sun tipped the horizon, blinding rays suddenly throwing the man into bright focus, like a theatrical spotlight. She could see his brown hair floating in the breeze, the triangle of sweat darkening the front of his grey T-shirt, bare arms jackknifing up and down as he ran. She pulled her beanie from her head and immediately regretted it – her hair was a terrible mess, as usual.
She watched as he finally noticed her standing there. He started. He stared. He slowed. Then he was in front of her, breathing hard, his face a mixture of surprise and acute embarrassment.
‘Romy,’ he gasped.
‘I was told you’d left the village.’
Finch blinked, looked away. ‘I’m packing up right now.’
He spoke as if he were in a daze and not really talking to her. She didn’t know how to respond.
‘How’s Michael?’
‘OK, I think. I haven’t seen him for a while.’
Finch nodded. His face was flushed and covered with sweat, his hands hung loose by his side. He looked lost. Then he seemed to pull himself together. ‘Good to see you, then,’ he said, almost mechanically, but didn’t move off.
She nodded, about to reply. But before she had time, he gave her a fleeting smile, turned and was gone. She listened in stunned silence to the slap, slap, slap of his trainers on the tarmac behind her. But she didn’t turn.
After a long moment, she continued with her run, her pounding heart having little to do with the exercise. She was devastated. All these months she’d been worrying about seeing him, dreading it and longing for it in equal measures, and now it had finally happened and it was like … nothing at all.
The hurt lingered all day. Finch had treated her cruelly. She’d seen no sign on his face, as he pulled to a stop beside her, that he felt any more for her than he did for, say, Jenny or Maureen – just another middle-aged village woman with designs on his time. It was unbearable for Romy, as she tried to marry the strength of feeling she still had for the man with his astonishing indifference. He might as well have struck her.
But she had no time to mope; there was so much to do. Downstairs, the house was in chaos. She was halfway through painting the kitchen a vibrant primrose. She needed to put the first coat on today because the new cupboard doors were due on Friday and the paint had to be dry by then. So she climbed into her painting overalls, trapped her wild hair in a knot on the top of her head and turned the radio up loud, determinedly pushing aside the stabbing ache of her encounter with Finch.
She was still at it by early evening, stretched up on tiptoe, arm screaming, back protesting and paint dripping from the roller down her arm. Over the music, she heard a cautious knock at the front door. She sighed. At this hour it could only be Vera, complaining again. Bins or top road? Romy shook her head as she put the roller down in the tray, wiped her hands on her overalls and stepped barefoot to answer it, composing her face into a welcoming smile as she went.
