Page 47 of The Lie
He reached home and closed the front door behind him with a thud, relieved to be alone, relieved that Grace and Sam had gone, so he didn’t have to face them in the state he was in.
There was still mess from brunch that he hadn’t bothered to clear away. He’d been so keen to confrontRomy that he’d raced round to the cottage the minute he’d waved them off to Manchester, hoping against hope that she would convince him she had no knowledge of the attack. Or, if she did, that she’d left Michael the moment she found out. But those hopes were now dashed.
He automatically began scraping the bagel crumbs and smoked salmon bits off the plates, emptying the coffee grounds from the cafetière and putting the remaining half of a lemon into the fridge. It helped to do something practical and mindless. But his body was so pent up, he knew this wouldn’t be enough to soothe him. He’d have to run it off later.
Grace had been pale and quiet when she came downstairs on Saturday morning. Finch wasn’t sure how to treat her.Does she want to talk about it?She’d flicked him a half-smile, but otherwise didn’t meet his eye, flopping down at the kitchen table, still wrapped tightly in her pink dressing gown, sleeves clutched over her hands, like a child. Last night’s tears were not apparent, but her eyes were swollen and over-bright.
He made her a strong cup of coffee in silence, which she took with a sigh, closing both palms around the mug as if to warm them.
‘I’m so sorry, Finch,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’ he exclaimed. ‘For God’s sake, Gracie! You don’t need to be sorry for anything. It’s me who should apologize for bringing up the past like that … although I’m glad you told me.’
She gave him a sardonic smile. ‘Really? Puts you in a bit of a tricky position with Romy, I imagine.’
Finch didn’t want to think about that at the moment. ‘It’s not healthy to keep something so serious bottled up, sweetheart. You should tell Sam – really, you should.’ He saw the immediate distress in her face.
She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’ But Finch didn’t think she sounded as definite as she had the night before.
‘He would understand. And you know he’d do anything to support you.’
Grace didn’t reply at once. Then she said, ‘Maybe. But why put that image in his head? It’s horrible.’ She gave a shaky sigh. ‘Especially when there’s nothing he can do about it.’
‘Still, now you’ve told me …’
She nodded and Finch decided to leave it at that. It was up to her, in the end.
‘French toast?’ he asked, knowing this was his stepdaughter’s favourite.
By the time Sam arrived from Manchester, Grace had showered and dressed. She seemed composed. If the hug she gave her husband was a little tighter than was usual, or her chatter less lively, then Sam didn’t appear to notice. But Finch kept a close eye on her, his heart breaking at the struggle she must have had to live with the secret she’d chosen to keep since she was a teenager.
Later on Sunday evening, as the sun was setting, Finch changed into his running gear and set off around the harbour on his favourite loop. He had waited till this time because he knew Romy would probably have gone back to Michael by now. Michael, who had sexually assaulted his and Nell’s adored Grace. He realized he was clenching hisjaw as his feet squelched through the mounds of summer seaweed on the road, his stride breaking until he was clear of the slippery mass and round the corner on the southern spur of the estuary.
He had not heard from Romy since he had stormed out – and he’d made no attempt to contact her. Using the steady pounding of his feet as a metronome for his thoughts, Finch tried to make sense of what had happened, from Romy’s point of view.
First there was the assault itself, sixteen years ago now. This was a fact, in his mind, whatever Romy chose to believe. Finch was pretty sure she hadn’t known about it at the time, but what were her options when she received the letter?Tell someone?But this, as Romy kept saying, was her husband of thirty years, his record apparently unblemished … as far as she knew, of course.
He ran on, thoughts whirring.So she shows him the letter and he pretends he doesn’t remember Grace. And, of course, Michael would only definitely remember her – given the number of work-experience girls in his chambers and the length of time involved – if hehadassaulted her. When obviously he would lie.
Finch stopped and bent over, getting his breath. He’d been running for half an hour and veered away from the harbour onto the small road leading round the fields and back to the village. It was shadowy now, the sky lit to the west with a fading plum and primrose.Romy didn’t know Grace, he reminded himself. She couldn’t find out who the letter-writer was without implicating her husband – whose career at the Bar would be ruined if there were even a sniff of scandal. And she had two sons to think of. So she hadno idea if Grace was telling the truth … Here, Finch’s thoughts started to run round in circles.
It all boils down, he concluded, by the time he was back at the house,to whether she believes her husband, or some random woman – some randomanonymouswoman. And he knew which one he’d believe, if it had been between Nell and a man making similar accusations.
Finch found his heart was beginning to soften and he was regretting the accusations he’d hurled at Romy. But then, as he stood by the sink and drained the entire contents of a large glass of water, some of which dribbled down his chin onto his chest, he remembered the way in which she’d so pitilessly questioned Grace’s verbal account.People make stuff up. Finch accepted this was true – but not Grace.Isn’t Michael – clever and so well versed in the lies people tell – the one more likely to be making things up?he asked himself bitterly.
He showered, dressed and came back downstairs. He wanted to cry as he moved to stand in front of the photograph of Nell.
‘Why didn’t you know?’ he demanded, choking back his tears. ‘Why didn’t you see how distressed Gracie was when she came home from London? You’re her mum. You should have known.’ It was the first time since she’d died that Finch had reproached his wife. But Nell just smiled back and, after a minute, he turned disconsolately away. Everything seemed broken and empty to him now: Grace’s peace of mind, his possible future with Romy, even his consoling connection with his dead wife.
He wanted to talk to Romy so badly it made his whole body ache. He kept reaching for his phone, then throwingit back onto the worktop, composing speeches in his head, then quickly discarding them. Because he didn’t see how things could possibly work between them now. How could he be with a woman who – however understandably – refused to accept her husband’s obvious culpability? And how could he betray his stepdaughter, bring this same woman into their family and expect Grace to be comfortable around her?
He closed his eyes and remembered the last time he and Romy had made love. Those hazel eyes had looked at him with such tenderness, her body responding to his with such desire. Would he really never be with her like that again? Never hold her in his arms, laugh with her over chips and a cocktail? He felt close to despair.
32
‘Mr Michael has not had a good day,’ Daniel said, when Romy arrived back at the flat.
She nodded, although she was distracted. At this precise moment, she wished her husband in Hell. Because Michael had categorically lied to her. As Finch pointed out, no one in their right mind would make such a song and dance about an event so many years ago, unless there were at least some truth in it. So Michaelmustremember exactly who she was and what had happened between them.
