Page 32 of The Lie
‘Nothing. I’m sorry. Just tired,’ she lied. But she saw from the cloud that flitted across Finch’s face that hedidn’t entirely believe her. She shook herself and got up quickly, reaching for the wooden tray she’d propped against the wall. She wanted a moment to compose herself. ‘I know it’s utterly childish,’ she said, as she folded the remains of the cheese back into the waxed paper, ‘but I feel almost resentful that I have to witness what’s happening to Michael.’ It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was at least true.
Finch, dangling the empty wine bottle in one hand, the pepper mill in the other, gazed at her sympathetically, the doubt clearing from his eyes. ‘I imagine there’s nothing more painful to watch than the slog of rehab, Romy. Don’t beat yourself up for finding it hard.’
But Romy realized it wasn’t really Michael’s rehab she was objecting to – however hard. It was his dragging her back to memories of when they’d been happy together, when things had seemed so unambiguous between them. She worried that even touching on them, just allowing herself to remember, would trap her for ever, the past becoming her living present.
22
Daniel was standing beside Michael, holding him up, when Romy came into the bedroom on Monday morning. Leo had been almost pathetically pleased to see her the night before – disappearing from the flat, like a greyhound out of a trap, almost as soon as she got through the front door.
‘Morning,’ Michael said now. ‘You’re back.’
She nodded. He’d been asleep when she’d got in yesterday evening, and if he’d rung the bell in the night, she hadn’t heard him. There had not been a great deal of sleep going on with Finch the night before and she’d been dead to the world.
‘Yup.’ She moved across the room. ‘Can I help?’
Daniel – looking so fresh and clean and young in contrast to Michael’s grizzled appearance – hesitated. ‘I am going to shower him. But I think his medication is running out. I can go later to the surgery, if you will be here?’
‘No,’ Romy said quickly. ‘I’ll go. I’ll do shopping and stuff while I’m out.’ Any excuse to leave the flat. But she must have seemed too keen, because Michael gave her a quizzical look as Daniel began to walk him towards the bathroom.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said, clearly amused. ‘You seem a bit … skittish this morning, that’s all.’
Romy tried to settle her features, but a sudden recollection of her and Finch on the bed, his fingers inside her, made her almost gasp, her mouth twisting as if she’d just sucked a lemon in her attempts to stop the colour beating a path to her cheeks.
Michael stopped in his tracks.
Blast, he knows me so well, she thought. Her face, she was sure, was now a picture of discomposure.
‘How was the weekend?’ he asked pointedly, the amusement gone from his face.
‘Lovely,’ she said, meeting his eye with determination.
Michael continued to stare at her, then turned and allowed Daniel to help him across the carpeted floor in silence.
That afternoon, Wendy Marsan paid a visit. She was around Romy’s age and had been with Michael’s chambers since the beginning. If asked, she still termed her job as ‘receptionist’, but what Wendy did was way beyond that: she ran the place. And she knew – probably documented in one of her many spreadsheets – where all of the bodies were buried, going back decades. Michael and James adored her. They always claimed chambers would collapse without her.
‘Romy, dear,’ Wendy said, brushing Romy’s cheek with her own and shaking her hand in an awkward greeting, ‘this must be so difficult for you all.’ She was slim with thin dark hair to just above her shoulders and a straight fringe skimming her blue eyes. She wore little make-up, but her clothes were carefully chosen and classic. Today she looked especially smart, and Romy decided she mustbe going on somewhere. Her elegant navy dress with broderie anglaise edging the sleeves and neck was way too formal for tea with an invalid, even if he was still technically her boss.
Like many of Michael’s visitors, she proffered a small bag. ‘Just some little fancies from the patisserie. I know Michael likes them,’ she said, peering round the door to the sitting room.
‘Lovely, thank you,’ Romy said. ‘He’s just getting up from his rest. Come into the kitchen and we’ll get the tea on.’
Wendy leant against the worktop, arms crossed, while Romy filled the kettle. She had always liked Wendy for her efficiency and reserve. She’d never pretended to be Romy’s friend, but was helpful if she wanted Michael corralled or dates synchronized, addresses found. Romy had no idea what she thought of the split in the Claire marriage, and she was sure Wendy would never dream of telling her.
‘How is he?’ Wendy asked, voice lowered.
Romy never knew how to answer that question. ‘He’s sticking in there. Prepare yourself, though. I’m not sure he looks much better than he did in the hospital.’
Wendy’s face clouded. ‘Poor man. It’s so unfair. He always kept himself so fit with all that cycling.’
Michael’s supposed obsession with cycling was old news. It was years since he’d biked to work every morning and spent weekends driving to the South Downs to ride with his friends. But Wendy clearly liked to cling to the myth, so Romy said, ‘Well, hopefully it’ll stand him in good stead now.’
There was silence. She listened out for Daniel and Michael in the corridor, but there was no sound, except for the dull pulsing of a drill somewhere in a neighbouring flat.
‘We miss him,’ Wendy said. ‘Any idea when he might be back?’ She gave an apologetic smile and added quickly, ‘Probably too soon to ask.’
‘Certainly not for a while.’
