Page 2 of The Lie
‘Can I help?’ asked a breathless male voice.
She looked up, pushing back her hood and her damp, unruly curls to see who had spoken. The eyes she met were brown and kind and she held his gaze for a second before replying. ‘Thanks, but I think we’re OK. They’re sending someone.’
‘Morning, Finch.’ The older runner’s face was set in a pained grimace.
The man called Finch laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not really the weather for sitting about in your vest, Terry, my friend,’ he said affectionately. ‘What have you gone and done to yourself?’ He looked at Romy again. ‘I can take him down, if you like. Better than waiting in the freezing rain for help to arrive.’
Romy hesitated. ‘I’d come with you, but I’m not supposed to leave my post.’
He grinned, his eyes lighting in amusement. ‘Best not, or they’ll all go the wrong way and end up in Hull. He’s not heavy … are you, Terence? I can manage.’
And Romy thought that he probably could. He was broad-shouldered, muscled and clearly fit. Terry seemed to think so too. He seemed reassured by Finch’s suggestion and grasped the outstretched hand, which dragged him gently to his feet.
‘Robert Fincham, by the way – although I prefer Finch,’ the runner said, nodding to her as he practically lifted Terry off the ground, his arm clamped firmly round the older man’s skinny waist.
‘Romy,’ she replied, reluctant, for some reason, to tell him her surname.
‘See you in the Bell?’ Finch threw out, as he turned down the lane to the village hall.
He was gone before Romy could reply. She knew who Robert Fincham was by reputation. A few years back the retired soldier – her neighbour had proudly told her this fact as if Finch were her own son – had taken on almost saintly status with the older women in the village as he cared for his wife while she died a painful and untimely death from recurring breast cancer. Since then, Romy had seen him about occasionally, running around the harbour or striding through the village. She had wondered about him; he cut a lonely figure.
Maybe I will go to the pub after the race, she thought later, as she packed up the drinks station, her feet and hands numb with cold. She felt a tiny flutter of anticipation at the prospect.
The low-ceilinged pub was rammed and booming with the hyped-up chatter of people coming down from a successful physical challenge. Romy gazed over the heads of the crowd.
‘What are you having?’ The chief marshal suddenly had his arm around her shoulders, his deep voice rumbling in her ear above the hubbub.
‘Very kind of you, Stuart, but I should get my own,’ Romy said. She barely knew the retired mountaineer.
‘Don’t be daft. Least I can do. You rescued the indomitable Terence. Silly old sod would probably have run onregardless, if you and Finch hadn’t been on hand to stop him.’
Cradling the glass of red wine Stuart insisted on buying her, Romy hovered by the bar. There was no sign of Finch – as everyone seemed to call him. She decided he must have already left and felt a small, ridiculous stab of disappointment.
But she found she was enjoying being out. The runners were a friendly bunch and seemed to welcome her into their group as they stood dissecting the race. She knew none of them and they wouldn’t be aware of her recent circumstances, for which she was grateful. Being part of a couple for decades and then not being was an ongoing adjustment for Romy.
It wasn’t till a while later, when the pub had thinned out somewhat, that Romy caught sight of Robert Fincham, sitting in a corner with a much younger man she didn’t recognize. As she watched, he glanced up and caught her eye. She gave a brief smile and looked away quickly. But a moment later he was by her side. ‘Come and join us?’
Romy peered over at his companion. ‘I don’t want to interrupt.’
Dropping his voice, Finch said, ‘Oh, please … Jason’s been bending my ear about his exploits in Nepal last summer and there’s only so much I can hear about the queue of blonde Australians he lured to his tent at Base Camp.’
Romy couldn’t help laughing as she accompanied him to the corner table.
‘I’ve just filled Romy in about your adventures,’ Finch said, straight-faced.
She saw Jason’s eyes widen in alarm. Barely out of his teens, he flushed, looking as if he wished the earth would swallow him. Shifting uncomfortably on his stool, he picked up his phone and studied it intently. ‘Think I’ll be heading home,’ he said, nodding to Romy and giving Finch’s shoulder a reproving cuff in parting.
When he was safely out of earshot, Romy and Finch laughed. Then a silence fell. Romy searched around for something to say, unused to her sudden awkwardness. She, who had entertained the great and the good – from judges to politicians and media notables – during the thirty years of her marriage and never been short of conversation. And this was despite not really feeling part of the inner circle, as Michael – star that he was – had become.
‘I’ve seen you around,’ Romy said, bold now. ‘You have a bit of a reputation in the village.’
Finch raised his eyebrows. ‘A “ reputation ”? Sounds sinister.’
‘Depends … My neighbour calls you saintly.’
‘Oh.’ His smile fell away.
Romy cringed, wishing she could take back her glib remark. ‘I’m sorry, that was so crass …’
