Page 27 of The Lie
Romy laughed. ‘Even surfing seems preferable?’ She knew Leo was not a fan of his brother’s passion, admitting at an early age, one summer holiday, that he was frightened of the comparatively tame waves at Newquay. A fear Romy respected and thought immensely sensible, although Michael had seen it as a sign of weakness. ‘I know you’re under pressure, sweetheart, but we need to pull together at the moment. I can’t do this without you.’
‘I know, I know. And I’ll be here, Mum. Promise.’ He was obviously trying to sound reassuring, although she heard only reluctance – but she loved him for making the effort.
‘Great,’ she said, letting out a small sigh. ‘Thank you.’
Romy stood by the window, listening to him thumping down the carpeted stairs, the slam of the outside door and the faint sound of his shoes as he hurried along the covered walkway of glass and wrought iron that led to the pavement. Then she watched his retreating figure disappearing down the street, her mouth dry, her head aching from the morning’s tension.
She heard Daniel approaching from the other end of the L-shaped flat and fled to the loo, where she leant against the locked door, hand towel pressed to her mouth, trying to stifle an overwhelming urge to scream. All she wanted to do in that moment was to sling on her trainers and take off round the harbour, gulping in great draughts of spring sunshine – run and run until her brain was empty of thought and every muscle in her body begged for mercy.
Romy slept in the room next to Michael in case he needed her. That first night back, she was dragged awake by the frantic ringing of the small brass hand-bell – her grandmother’s – she’d placed on his bedside table. She didn’t know what was happening, or where she was, and it took her a few minutes to orient herself before she shot out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown.
When she turned the light on, Michael was half out of bed, slumped on his back on the mattress, his weak leg dangling helplessly over the side. When he saw her he waved his good arm urgently at her.
‘Need to pee,’ he gasped.
The urine bottle was lying on the bed, where Daniel had left it, within easy reach of Michael’s right hand. But he obviously hadn’t seen it in the dark, or remembered it was there.
Romy hurried over and pulled him up against the pillows. She lifted his leg back onto the mattress and handed him the bottle, helping him position it so he could pee. But she saw that his pyjama bottoms were already wet, the sheet too.
Michael let out a relieved groan when he’d finished, and handed the bottle to Romy.
‘That was close.’
‘Got to get you out for a moment,’ she said, not wanting to humiliate her husband by explaining why. But he didn’t query her as she hauled him upright and swung him precariously round to sit in the armchair next to the bed she had brought through from Leo’s room. It was some old thing she’d picked up from a junk shop, decades ago – shades of her father’s penchant for anythingsecondhand – and the rusty-orange Dralon cover was stained in places, but the foam cushion and high back were perfect for Michael to sit in for short periods.
He smiled up at her. ‘Thank you.’ Then his face clouded. ‘I’m cold, really cold.’
‘I’ll turn the heating up,’ Romy promised.
After she’d settled him back in bed with clean pyjamas and a fresh sheet, Michael grabbed her hand.
‘Sit with me for a while,’ he begged.
She hesitated, then sat on the orange chair, but didn’t know what to say.
Michael was looking at her. ‘Does Anezka know I’m home? I don’t want her going all the way over to the hospital …’
‘Leo told her,’ Romy said.
Michael nodded. ‘Did she say she’d come?’
‘I don’t know. But you can have your mobile tomorrow and call her yourself.’ She remembered the nurses’ advice that they shouldn’t mollycoddle Michael. He was right-handed, thank goodness, and he could surely work a phone now. She hoped Anezka would answer, for a change, and tell Michael the truth, dispel, once and for all, the notion he clung to that she still cared.
He frowned but said nothing as his eyes closed. Romy held her breath, hoping he would fall asleep. It was chilly, sitting there in her thin dressing gown. Her feet were freezing and she was dying to get back to bed. But as she waited, watching her husband’s face, she realized she felt almost wary of the figure lying there. She had not watched Michael asleep in this bed for a long time. Not since he’d decided to move into the spare room inorder – she was certain – to avoid seeing the words of the letter printed in her eyes. Now, as she sat on in the semi-darkness, her thoughts started to take an involuntary trawl through those months before she had left, eventually arriving at what had been – in her eyes – the last moment of their marriage.
It was a nervy, unresolved ending. Romy was so frightened of Michael’s superior debating skills, his ability to twist what she said into something ridiculous, that she had made every effort to avoid any discussion about why she had gone, specifically asking him not to come down to the Sussex cottage in the weeks after she’d left.
But before nine one morning, as she walked slowly back from buying a croissant at the village deli – enjoying the warm spring sunshine, the peace and quiet around her – she’d seen his car parked in the lane. She had felt her heart squeeze and her breath trap somewhere high in her throat.No. She just wanted to run.
Michael was sitting calmly on the sofa. ‘Thought I’d surprise you,’ he said cheerily, as if there was nothing untoward between them, as if he’d arrived early for a planned weekend together. When he registered the lack of welcome on her face, however, the mask slipped. She saw hurt in his eyes as he pulled himself to his feet.
She didn’t speak and, for a moment, neither did he. Then he’d said, ‘I’m baffled, Romy. Thirty years of marriage and you just walk away without a single word? What am I supposed to do now?’
She had tried to control her thumping heart. His coiled energy was palpable, almost menacing in its restrained power.
‘What you always do? Work,’ she said eventually, hearing the crack in her voice.
He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘And that’s a bad thing?’ He glanced around. ‘It’s paid for your lifestyle … this cottage.’
