Page 14 of The Lie
By tacit consent, they stopped entertaining – even for networking purposes – and he moved into the spare room: ‘I don’t want to wake you when I’m home late,’ he said, although he’d never cared in the past. Romy, in turn, began to make social arrangements with her friends, leaving her husband out of the equation altogether. They became like polite strangers, gliding past each other with only the briefest of acknowledgement.
On the rare occasions when they sat round the table together as a family, Romy would search Michael’s face, check how this uneasy domestic arrangement was affecting him. But all she saw was a guarded acceptance, and a titanic effort not to meet her eye –Just in case I mention the unmentionable, she thought sadly.
But it seemed as if there were light years between Romy’s first thought that she might leave her husband and deciding actually to do so. The prospect – which daily tormented her – made her feel physically sick. It wasn’t until six weeks after the incident with the Mulberry bag, on an icy January morning, that she finally plucked up the courage and confronted Michael.
The moment had been planned for – over and over – in the preceding weeks. She would lie in bed, stomach churning, telling herself,Today’s the day, then for somereason – Michael would leave early, she would oversleep or simply lose her nerve – he would be gone and she still hadn’t said a word. Which proved both a temporary relief and a cause of weary frustration with her own cowardice.
The Wednesday in question she had no plan. She’d been up early, working on the mission statement for a friend’s charity, which was raising money to save a large area of wasteland in East London that had been colonized by rare birds. When she heard Michael moving around, she had known this had to be the moment – it was days since they had spoken, she realized, even to say hello – but the tension remained. The shilly-shallying had to stop. She positioned herself in the hall, by the entrance to the kitchen and waited, holding her breath, her whole body rigid.
Normally he would speed through from his bedroom to swallow a cup of coffee, eat a slice of toast and marmalade – although since she’d stopped making it for him, he’d stuck to just coffee – before heading off for another long day. But that morning, almost as if he knew something was up, he had forgone even coffee and immediately grabbed his coat from the hook, keen to be away.
‘I’m going to stay at the cottage for a while,’ she began, hearing her voice tremble.
Michael stopped as he straightened his coat collar and frowned at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I love it down there,’ was all she managed to reply, even though she had spent the previous six weeks preparing an elaborate speech for this moment.
‘In January? Seriously? It’ll be freezing … and fucking miserable.’ Her husband turned away and picked up his bulging briefcase, as if that were the end of the conversation.
‘I know, but I’m going anyway.’ She heard her voice take on a resoluteness that had not been there before. And Michael heard it too.
‘What are you on about, Romy?’
She took a breath, feeling her belly fluttering with anxiety. ‘I think it’s best we have a break, live separately for a while.’ Michael’s dark eyes narrowed, never leaving her face. ‘We haven’t spoken for days. It’s not as if we spend any time together any more,’ Romy added.
Her husband did a double-take. ‘Wait … You’re leaving me? Is that what you’re trying to say?’ He shook his head in apparent incomprehension. ‘Listen, I’m late. Not the best time to drop a bombshell like this.’ Opening the front door, he turned, a frown on his face. She didn’t know if he was shocked, or puzzled, or simply annoyed. ‘See you later,’ Michael stated, as if she hadn’t spoken.
And she found herself replying, ‘OK,’ because suddenly she felt ridiculous and small.
As soon as the door slammed behind him, she burst into tears. But as the day wore on and she began to anticipate how she would explain to Michael what she felt, she realized she wouldn’t be able to. He would twist her words, make her feel she was overreacting, probably talk her out of her plan without making any concessions on his part – or even, she thought, properly acknowledging how bad things had become.
So after lunch she packed her clothes and drove down to the cottage by the sea. Once there, she didn’t rest until she had unpacked her stuff, gone to the supermarket, made supper and opened a bottle of wine – settled in, in a very deliberate manner. But her eye was always on the clock as she waited for the time when Michael might come home and find her gone. The evening ticked by, her stomach churning, and there was no call.
It wasn’t until early the following morning that he phoned.
‘Where are you?’ he demanded.
‘In Sussex,’ she said.
‘Without any discussion?’
‘I didn’t see the point.’
There was silence at the other end.
‘Romy,’ Michael’s voice, for the first time in months, sounded uncertain, ‘this is silly. You can’t just up sticks and leave like that, without even telling me why. I know we haven’t been connecting much recently but … what’s this really about?’
She didn’t reply for a moment. Where to start, without disparaging the whole thirty years they’d been together – without blaming Michael? She wasn’t even sure she was doing the right thing. All she knew was that she needed to get away from the stalemate, the deadness that shadowed the flat, the blank, disengaged stare of her husband.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
She wondered why he didn’t.Is he being deliberately obtuse?Or was he simply blind to what had been going on between them?
She heard him sigh. ‘Well, I’m not going to beg.’ More silence. Then, ‘I’ve got to go, I’m due in court. But I’ll come down at the weekend and we can talk properly. Sort things out.’ When she didn’t reply at once, he added, ‘OK?’
Romy took a deep breath. ‘Please don’t come, Michael.’ The line went dead.
11
