Page 11 of The Lie
‘As long asyoubelieve he’s innocent, Romy, and this woman shuts up …’ she paused ‘… saying nothing, doing nothing is probably the best plan.’
But do I believe him?Romy asked herself, as she walked slowly home. Bettina’s momentary doubt had made her realize she wasn’t as completely certain of Michael’s innocence as she kept telling herself she was.
9
Romy had agreed to meet Finch at the station at five. She had dressed up a little – so far Finch had only seen her in jeans or joggers. Although those were her comfort zone, she didn’t feel the black trousers and soft blue linen jacket with the mandarin collar would frighten the horses. Clothes had always been a thorn in Romy’s side: her not very extensive wardrobe ranged with stuff that never seemed quite right on the night. She blamed her mother, who, as far as she could make out, had worn the same jeans and bobbly pink sweater for Romy’s entire childhood.
He was already there when she arrived, pacing up and down the almost empty platform. He looked scrubbed and handsome in his white shirt and dark jacket – and slightly nervous, she thought.
‘Hey,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘This is fun. I haven’t been to a play in ages.’
He grinned back, making no effort to hide his pleasure at seeing her. ‘It’s had pretty good reviews.’
Romy wasn’t really concerned about the merits of the play, but she’d been looking forward to the evening with Finch in a quiet hum of excitement. It was cosy, sitting side by side as the train slid through the beautiful coastal wetlands in the fading light. Just Finch’s proximity, the warm bulk of him, was enough for Romy. They didn’t saymuch – she had never been one for entertaining the entire carriage with her life story – but it was a comfortable silence she didn’t feel the need to fill.
‘Oh …’ Finch stopped beside her, halfway up the steps at the Regent Street exit to Piccadilly Circus, where there was still some shelter. It was not just raining, it was absolutely bucketing down, the streets awash, people pressed against the sides of the buildings, desperate to get out of the downpour. Their planned stroll to the theatre was barely ten minutes, but without an umbrella – and absolutely no chance of a taxi – it would leave them drenched.
‘We’re late already. We’ll have to make a run for it,’ she said dubiously, glancing up at the blackened sky and finding no joy.
‘Here, have my jacket,’ Finch said, beginning to pull it from his shoulders. But she stopped him, pressing her hand to his chest.
‘Thanks, but it’s coming down too hard to make much difference.’
For another moment, they stood there in silence. Then they gave each other a resolute smile as Finch grabbed her hand and they ran, sploshing through the puddles, waiting impatiently for the lights to change and dodging the crowds of tourists – many in emergency waterproof ponchos – as best they could until they arrived breathless at the theatre entrance.
Even in the few minutes it had taken, they had been soaked through and stood – arms held out from their wet clothes – looking at each other in amused dismay. Finch’s hair was plastered to his head, face slick with rain, whiteshirt stuck to his chest, his tan brogues now mahogany from the puddles.
Romy began to laugh. ‘We can squelch through the first half and hope we dry off by the second. It’s probably warm inside.’
Finch didn’t reply. He seemed to be considering something as they stood dripping in the milling foyer. ‘Or …’ he began ‘… radical suggestion …’
Romy heard the urgent clang of the three-minute warning bell.
‘I’m a member of this place around the corner, for when I need to stay in London – two minutes away. It’s definitely warm there.’
‘You mean miss the play? Seems a terrible waste.’ But she was already beginning to shiver, the wet linen of her jacket clinging heavily against her skin. Plus she had been up to the common the previous day, where Phil, the group leader, had introduced her to coppicing. She had thrown herself enthusiastically into the task, but as a result every muscle in her body had stiffened achingly overnight.
Finch held out his hands, palms up. ‘Decision time.’ He raised first his right like a scale. ‘Sit in wet clothes for two hours, get pneumonia and quite possibly die?’ Then he lowered his right and raised his left. ‘Or … get warm and have a large martini and a steaming bowl of chips?’ He was grinning mischievously as the rest of the audience filed past to find their seats.
‘It’s clear where your allegiance lies,’ Romy said, laughing, as he took her hand again and they went back out into the rain.
The martini went straight to her head. They were sitting in the third-floor bar, in the corner of a black button-back banquette. It wasn’t a particularly stylish room, the decor modern but more functional than pretty. Romy didn’t care. It was toasty warm, the alcohol had loosened her tongue – loosened Finch’s too – and the conversation buzzed and flowed between them. She sensed a difference in him tonight – as if he had let something go. It made him more expansive, the light in his eyes sparky and flirtatious.
They had munched their way through a large bowl of crunchy hot, salty potato wedges dipped in garlic mayonnaise and downed a couple of cocktails each, when Finch suddenly picked up her hand and held it lightly in his lap. It seemed like such an intimate gesture. More intimate than if he had reached down and kissed her.
‘You know,’ he said, not looking at her, ‘being alone for a while, you forget how much fun it is, doing things with someone else.’
Romy squeezed his hand, letting out a long breath. She looked up and his eyes met hers. Neither spoke for a moment, then he whispered, ‘I would love to kiss you, Romy. But I can’t. Not here.’
Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Against club rules?’ She felt his finger gently stroking the back of her hand, the small movement almost unbearably seductive.
He gave a quiet groan. ‘I wish I’d never suggested that stupid play. I wanted to impress you, Romy, do something special, something away from the village, so you wouldn’t think me just this bumpkin colonel character. But here we are, stranded in the city, and I can’t even kiss you.’
She began to laugh as he put his arm round her shoulders and they moved close together on the banquette.
‘We mustn’t miss the train,’ he said, bringing his watch up to his face in the half-light. ‘Ten thirty-six, isn’t it?’
Romy automatically did the same. They both stared at each other.
